THE GOSPEL OF TRAVIS - Chapter One

A chosen few among the believers have endeavored to set down in writing those most wondrous events surrounding the life and death of our Messiah and the names of those great men involved, including such minor notes as who spoke when and with whom. Thus, we know what meals some among them ate and where and even what they thought of the food, be it bitter or unpleasant or overcooked or barely passable.

And so it is that the most pious among us can fervently quote verbatim, including chapter and verse, every word ever recorded, as though recounting and construing the most mundane of details may unlock the secrets behind all of creation.

This is, of course, all perfectly right and good.

However, dear Theophilus, I count one notable witness as missing from most of these so-called records of the life of our dear Lord and Savior.

I would never stoop to accuse Matthew or Mark or Luke of willfully refusing this man his due, though John, I feel, has always been such a wild card that I truly believe him capable of nearly anything.

But we must take care that we record the truth, and by this I mean the full truth, and that we include the stories of all those who had a part to play in the matter. May shame forever fall upon us should we pass down an incomplete account to our children and our children’s children.

I shall hold back from offering a guess as to why exactly this particular witness, who had such truly unique knowledge of the Lord, might have been forgotten by the other chroniclers. I could offer a guess and some damning accusations, but perhaps you, dear Theophilus, can be the judge when all has been said.

So shall I begin my testimony. And if Matthew and Luke can achieve everlasting renown from their incomplete and, honestly, at times quite boring accounts, then perhaps I can pray to our Father in heaven that my humble version of events may yet fall upon some sympathetic ears.

JESUS THE NAZOREAN

Let all who have ears see and all who have eyes bear witness that in those days a man ministered among the Galileans.

His name was Jesus the son of Joseph, though son in name only for in truth he was begat of no less than God the Father himself. Joseph was in turn the son of Heli, son of Matthat, son of Levi and on and on through David and Abraham and finally to Adam. It was a lot of sons and a lot of begetting.

Today we call this man the Christ, the son of God, the son of Man, who has taken away the sins of the world that we may live eternally. You may have heard of him.

But for all of the fame and influence and notoriety he would later gain, at the start he was but an itinerant preacher who performed miracles and healed the sick, acts which caused quite the stir around the village wells of Galilee, let me tell you.

TRAVIS OF TIBERIAS

At the same time, on the opposite shore of the sea of Galilee in the city of Tiberias, there lived one named Travis.

Travis was son of either Joel or of James, both sons of Oral, son of many other sons besides. Presumably, that line would have ended with Adam too. Again there was much begetting, though the record keeping of who begat whom was much murkier.

Although he was born out of wedlock and could be called many creative and devastating names, few people dared note Travis’s bastardy aloud. And certainly never to his face.

For indeed, Travis had become somewhat of a wealthy man.

Along the Cardo on the south side of the town, near to the city gate, he had opened a shop for the purposes of practicing the craft of merchandising. Through shrewd decision making, capable salesmanship and an instinct for exploitation, Travis built for himself a decent business selling plaster commemorative statuettes of such celebrated persons as King Herod Antipas or whoever the latest Caesar may be.

One of his best selling items was a small bust of Shmuley the goat, the region’s most popular livestock celebrity. Among goats, Shmuley was most beloved for his cuteness. Travis’s work played no small part in popularizing the caprine phenom, so much so that his sales remained high even after Shmuley had plummeted off a cliff to his death.

Indeed, a customer was in the very act of coveting one such statuette of Shmuley when Travis returned from his midday meal to the showroom. After wiping away the grease of smoked fish from his lips, Travis assessed the man and knew right away that he was a father, likely shopping for a suitable gift to give to one of his children.

Travis had seen many such fathers before and knew best from experience how to wring the most amount of money from his purse. And were this another day, Travis might well have enjoyed doing exactly that. And yet his heart simply wasn’t in it.

For, even with all the success he had achieved, Travis felt a deep dissatisfaction in the pit of his soul. He’d tried purchasing expensive meals and fine goods, anything he could think to throw into that gaping pit in the hopes that it might fill it. And yet, while those items could bring him brief moments joy, the feelings of deep emptiness always returned.

Somewhere Travis knew there must be more to be had, although more of what he could not exactly say for sure.

It then came time to negotiate the sale. The customer begged Travis to come down on the price of a medium sized Shmuley bust, uttering many lamentations about his lack of coin and the needs of his daughter. “Have a heart,” begged the customer, “for my poor dear Esther is leprous and in need of cheer.”

Though Travis refused to budge on the price he did offer to throw in a free bracelet, a gesture that cost him very little for the trinkets were made very cheaply and likely to break after the first wear.

In days past, Travis might have felt a rush from fleecing yet another poor dupe through the powers of his mercantile brilliance. Occasionally, he might even experience a quick but intense stirring in his loins. And yet, on this day his loins felt very little.

As he walked his customer to the door of the shop he overheard some men at the nearby drinking well, which was a very popular place to eavesdrop on others having conversations with their friends and family. There, a fisherman spoke to a tax collector about a preacher wandering the hills of the Galilee, a relative of the recently deceased John the Baptist.

“You there, fishman!” called out Travis. “I know this John the Baptist of which you speak and sold several headless busts of him to a local noblewoman for use as party favors. Of whom do you speak when you talk of this new preacher?”

“First of all,” began the man, “I’m a ‘fisherman’ and not a ‘fishman.’ ‘Fishman’ makes it sound like you think I am a man sized fish.” However, after Travis tendered a few flattering apologies and soothed his hurt pride, the fisherman soon told Travis about none other than Jesus the Nazorean.

Over the years, Travis had heard tales of the myriad mystics and faith healers and apocalyptic preachers wandering the hills and mountains around the Galilee. Never before had he taken much note, for he was always suspicious of them. He knew them to be wild and uncouth men, dour and judgemental in behavior, who wore musty animal pelts for clothes and generally smelled quite unsavory. Many held reputations as falsifiers and grifters. Indeed, whenever he had occasion to come across one such mystic Travis would duck his head, hold his money purse a little tighter, and walk quickly in the opposite direction, for these men seemed always to be looking for some sort of a handout.

However, something about the fervor surrounding Jesus intrigued him. The fisherman and the tax collector both seemed absolutely astonished by this seemingly simple man.

Travis’s instincts became aroused. He sensed an opportunity. For what he knew not, but he believed in his soul that God helps those who help themselves.

And Travis was well accustomed to helping himself whenever possible.

Thank you for reading The Gospel of Travis. If you’ve enjoyed what you’ve read and know someone who might like it too, please share it with them! 

If you’re new here and would like to receive email notifications when a new chapter is posted, please consider subscribing - it’s free unless you’d like to pay for it (you saint, you).

If you’d like to support my writing without signing up for a subscription, please consider donating. Money will go to site maintenance and then probably childcare and coffee.