A few days after he was taken down, and several witnesses had seen the god who had been buried, the belief began to run amok, restlessly, because it had no face. The belief never thought for a moment of committing suicide, and therefore resurrected the divine corpus. Now the meeting between the finger and the body was unavoidable.
The body spread its lips in confusion. Thomas's finger rose slightly, preparing itself for penetration, trying to maintain a scientific coolness of mood. A slight mist covered its eye when it touched the hair of the chest. It started singing its song powerfully, but its voice trembled when it sensed the fleshy touch of the lips on its skin.
I am thrust forward
Come to me, says the hole between the ribs,
and I, a streamlined optic fiber
penetrate through a narrow tunnel,
a trusty spear quarried it,
the surgeon's scalpel of a divine post mortem,
to my right is supposed to be a beating
heart - the eternal source.
That was the song of the scientific finger, the doubting finger of Thomas.
The deeper it went in its investigation, the finger sensed the delight that was flooding it. A thick fluid began to penetrate into its control systems and paralyze them one by one.
Lacking any alternatives, Thomas turned an accusing finger upon his finger.
Caravaggio understood that Thomas couldn't love what he didn't know, but he too was a partner in the conspiracy against the finger.
The direction of the finger, as we can learn from the painting, attests to movement away from the area of the heart, and in clear opposition to the spear.
Was the finger happy in its fall? Did the finger sense the burning pain of the defeat? At any rate, the last message received from it was transmitted through the mouth of Thomas: You are my lord, You are my god.
Chorus: Thomas, Thomas missed his time. His name and doubt itself were poured into the one mold. The moment of penetration was frozen, the water you poured into the wine you cannot pour back again (Brecht).