According to Mary Magdalene (14 page)

A
utumn descended on Capernaum and the winter rains were soon washing over the houses and lashing up the waters of the Gennesaret.

Leonidas was home and had long talks with Mary, as well as with Simon Peter, who was uneasy about the threats to the Master, the obscure words he had spoken on his suffering, though also about his exhaustion.

Leonidas had a friend who owned a house by the river not far from Bethsaida, a Syrian still serving in the Roman cohort in Caesarea. Leonidas sent a message to him and was given permission to borrow the house.

So it came about that the two of them had some time to themselves.

They slept a lot and laughed a great deal in the Roman bed in which the ample bolsters made it difficult for them to find each other.

She told Jesus about her dreams.

“I often dream about the sea,” she said. “I go down to the shore and look over the great expanse of water and feel cleansed.”

“It's the same in the desert,” he said. “Human beings become natural there, too.”

He smiled at her, and she knew he enjoyed the silence of this isolated house.

It rained, the water drifting in gusts across the garden and house and clattering on the roof. Sometimes it stopped and a pale sun glittered in the drenched garden. Jesus sat in the doorway, watching the thirsty soil drinking and the rainbow arching across the sky.

But then one night Mary was devastated by her first nightmare. She saw him abandoned, mistreated, and humiliated, nailed to the trunk of a tall tree. She woke in a cold sweat and in unbearable anguish.

He was asleep, thank heavens.

But the next night her screams in her sleep woke him and he took her in his arms. “Tell me what you saw,” he said.

“Darkness, a strange darkness over a large town. It's an earthquake. You. You have at last been allowed to die, freed from your tormentors and the torture.”

Slowly, he roused her into the ordinary daylight of the peaceful house.

Weeping, she told him her dreams, the humiliations, his insufferable pain, and her own despair.

He has to console me, she thought. He must say that dreams are of no importance.

But he said, “Your dreams know more than you do.”

She turned silent and very cold. He wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and put his arms around her, then a little later said: “It's difficult for me to understand. Why do people live outside their own nature?”

She could only just manage a whisper. “How could we do anything else?”

At their morning meal a while later, he talked of his mother. Her power over him and his mind had been the greatest temptation. How easy, so easy it would have been to be a good son, become a carpenter as the intention had been, and to please her, free her from her anxiety.

“The power mothers have over their children is great,” he said.

They sat in silence, listening to the patter of the rain on the
roof as it gradually slowed to a few individual drops, and the winds rustled through the wet treetops.

He opened a shutter and smiled at the sun. “Come and look, Mary.”

They walked hand in hand through the garden and for few short moments she could be present, like him. But only in glimpses, then the hideous anxiety over the future took over.

After she had cleared and washed the dishes, she realized why he had spoken about his mother as a great temptation. It was not only the devouring mother threatening him—it was her, too, the woman who loved him.

The next night she was able to sleep without nightmares. When she told him in the morning, he smiled and said the dreams were no longer necessary, the message had been received.

She dared to ask. “What did you mean when you said that people lived outside their own nature?”

“But you know that. Man's real nature, the innermost core, is of God. From there speaks what I call the voice of God.”

“To everyone?”

“Yes. But they have isolated themselves, and don't listen.”

“They daren't,” said Mary. “Their security lies in the conviction that they can control life.”

“I've realized that.”

Then, almost despairingly, he said, “Mary, I had no inkling man was so evil.”

The heat increased each day, the land greening and the first anemones opening their red perianths in the new grass. The time had come to leave.

The disciples gathered around him.

They headed toward Tyrus, he perhaps influenced by her longing for the sea. A man was sowing corn in a field and Jesus looked at Mary.

“Verily,” he said. “Verily I say unto you, except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.”

She understood, but his words were no comfort to her. He noticed. “My soul is also full of unease,” he said.

Then after a long silence: “You must all take up your cross and follow me.”

At that moment, Mary realized why her dream had shown him nailed to a tree. He had chosen the worst of all deaths, crucifixion.

Levi looked at Mary. “You're pale and tired,” he said. “Let us take a rest.”

They found a stream on the hillside. The always compassionate Salome gave Mary a drink and massaged her arms. She was cold, as white as a sheet and Jesus looked at her with eyes dark with sorrow.

The rumor that Jesus was again out on his wanderings had spread and everywhere people gathered around them. Once again the unhappy, the sick and the despairing crowded around the Master and as usual, he went straight out among the tormented, relieved them of their guilt and cured their illnesses. Mary watched his acts of faith healing as if seeing them for the first time.

His immense presence is what achieves the miracles, she thought. He meets them all individually, sees their suffering, senses their question: “Why does life treat me so badly?” The moment he gives his hand to the sick, they are in total fellowship.

Presence is perhaps the innermost form of love.

As the crowds grew, Jesus spoke. His words go right into the listeners, to their very nature, Mary thought, and she at last understood why he always told stories. God's speech cannot be shut into formulations, for it has various meanings and has to go along the road of images. Jesus painted, sometimes amusing, sometimes sad, but always astonishing images. And every painting was given a life of its own in the minds of the listeners. He goes past the listeners' heads and directly to their hearts, Mary thought. We learn that what seems meaningless is the only thing that is meaningful.

On their wanderings, they usually slept in a borrowed house belonging to a follower of the new prophet. The first night of the Tyrus journey, they slept in two large rooms in a house belonging to a friend of Levi's. The men spread out their sleeping mats in the larger room, the women in the smaller.

This meant Jesus and Mary Magdalene could not sleep together, so as always in those circumstances, they both woke early and went for a walk together in the surroundings.

“I thought a great deal last night,” Mary said that morning. “Perhaps the God you speak of has not yet been born in our hearts. That you are far ahead of the rest of us…?”

He shook his head. “In every man and woman I see into, God is in the core, clearest of all in the wretched, the sick.”

“But if we don't know where God is, it becomes so difficult to seek him.”

“That's so sad, Mary, but he grows slowly in every human being. And one day He will be ready for redemption.”

“Which will be difficult.”

“Yes, all the old must be cast out.”

Mary's flow of memories ceased as she sat in her bed in Antioch. Did they ever get to Tyrus? She didn't know. Had she been able to see the sea? She couldn't remember.

All her images from their wanderings had disappeared into the black despair eclipsing her mind.

W
hile Mary was writing down her memories of ill that winter in Bethsaida and the wandering to Tyrus, she thought carefully over what she should say to the three apostles. And what she should leave out.

Not a word about the Syrian's house, only that Jesus was able to rest during the winter rains. And she had looked after him, cooked his food, and washed and mended his clothes.

She smiled at the memory of how she had struggled with mending his mantle that was always being torn by people who clutched at it to receive some of his strength. Oh well, she thought as she cobbled the rips together. But when they returned to Capernaum, Susanna had taken it over, shaken her head, and had done the mending again.

They were sitting in the pergola as usual. It was a cool day and they almost enjoyed feeling slightly cold.

“According to all testimonies we have collected,” said Paul, “you and he were often together on your own. There must be words he said to you others do not know.”

She told them about the nightmares she had had that winter and about her terrible fear.

“In the morning I went to him with the dream, hoping he would say that dreams are nothing but soap bubbles that evaporate in the clear light of day. But he didn't. He said the
dream was a message from my innermost essence and they knew more than I did. But that I, like most people, isolated myself from the core in which God has his abode within us.”

Paul signed to Marcus to write this down; it was important.

“Later on the wandering to Tyrus, I asked him whether it could be that the essence he spoke of had still not been born in human beings. That he was perhaps the first on earth who possessed knowledge of God's presence in his own heart. He replied that he could see it in every person. And clearest of all in the sick and those weighed down by guilt.”

There was a long silence while Marcus wrote, then Paul spoke again. “You didn't ask why he thought that the sick and the tormented had a better knowledge of their…real essence?”

“No, it never struck me to.”

Peter came to her aid. “It's hard to explain why we didn't ask more. It wasn't that we were afraid to, but rather that every answer we were given was so surprising, we had to have time to digest it.”

“Yes, that's what it was,” said Mary.

Then turning to Paul, she said: “All the same, I think I can answer your question about why he saw the light of God so clearly in the sick and the tormented. That's connected with something else he said.”

She paused to think.

“He said that for us to be aware of the presence of God within us, we had to discard a great deal. All the ideas we build our lives on, all dogmas. All our feeble pride and, perhaps hardest of all, our guilt and our shortcomings.

“He said that the birth of God in our hearts occurs during great pain.”

Paul nodded. Marcus wrote.

Barnabas asked a question. “How are we to manage that?”

“But he's said that himself—‘I am with you always….’”

“You're right,” said Paul, who was deeply moved. “I no longer live without Jesus in me now.”

Mary thought for a moment, then turned to Simon Peter. “Simon Peter, you ought to know whether Aramaic has a word or two for faith.”

“Only one.”

“Greek has two. Faith and trust. Perhaps it was trust Jesus was speaking about when he said, ‘your trust has helped you.’”

“Is there any difference?” asked Paul.

Mary laughed briefly before answering. “I imagine so.”

After a long silence, Mary went on.

“I don't remember much about our wandering to the coast. I was numbed with unease. But what I did observe acquired a new clarity. I actually seemed to understand how his miracles were performed. He made time cease.”

“But my dear Mary,” said Barnabas. “No one can make time stand still.”

Mary smiled. “Yes, he could, Barnabas,” she said. “He met a tormented person, looked into his essence which is of eternity. There the two met, in complete presence. And the miracle could occur. Do you understand?”

She went on after another long silence. “I remember thinking that it is this presence that is love.”

“Do you mean that what distinguished him from all others was his ability to stop time?”

“Oh, Barnabas, how you do take everything literally. What distinguished him from us was that he was aware that he was in God and God in him. Peter, you must remember how he talked about light, that he who has the light does not submit it to the grain weigher. He meant that it is what we do, we have the insight, but we hide it, we give it no chance to shine through.”

“You've said that he spoke about hearing the voice of God. Now you're talking about the light.”

“But he was always looking for new images to get us to understand. I don't believe he literally spoke about a voice that said ordinary words. I remember asking him once at the beginning how he could be sure that his inner voice was God's. He answered quite simply: ‘I know.’”

T
erentius and Cipa had gone to a meeting of the Gnostic congregation, so Leonidas and Mary had a simple evening meal in the kitchen. Mary had little appetite and Leonidas was worried when he saw how pale and tired she was.

“I'm worn out,” she said.

It was unlike Mary to complain. Like everyone else in Antioch, he was afraid that after a long hot summer like this one, the plague might strike the town with disease and death.

“Have you a fever?”

“No, I'm just tired.”

She went to bed early and Leonidas sat with her until he was sure she was asleep.

It's too much for her, he thought uneasily, and he decided to stay at home the next day when the apostles were due to come again.

Mary was pleased. She took a long rest in the morning and did nothing but take a stroll in the garden.

“My mind is blank today,” she said. “ It's one of those blessed moments when whims and strange thoughts are silent.”

But her unease took hold the hour before the apostles were due to return. As they sat down in the pergola, Mary had to restrain her inclination to hold Leonidas' hand.

The atmosphere was not as usual. The Greek's presence caused the apostles to put on their masks of pride and dignity. They talked about their difficulties in bringing together all the new things in Jesus' teaching and giving it some kind of definite shape.

Leonidas smiled at Mary. “I can see your brothers here want you to be more specific. They want facts.”

“But you know Jesus' message can't be stuffed into facts.”

“But that doesn't stop the apostles needing just that.”

Mary could almost hear Jesus laughing. She was now in the same situation he had been in, but she did not have his ability to put indisputable, exciting, and important images into words.

But Paul wanted her to be specific. “They say that during his wanderings all around Tyrus, to a Canaan women seeking a cure for her daughter, Jesus said that he had not been sent to anyone except the lost sheep of the people of Israel. And that he couldn't take the bread from the children and give it to the dogs.”

Mary's cheeks flared with indignation. “That's not true,” she cried. “I was there. I know. It was the woman who spoke those words. She was desperate and probably thought that if she humbled herself with her talk of dogs begging for crumbs at the rich man's table, she would persuade him. But he was filled with compassion and said what he usually said: ‘0 woman, great is your faith.’”

Mary looked at the men sitting around her and she stopped at Peter. “You know he could never have said such a thing! He spoke to the Samaritan woman at the well for a long time and paid her great attention, He received the Greek Leonidas like a brother. He didn't hesitate for a moment to go into the Roman officer's house in Capernaum to cure a sick servant. It was the Roman who stopped him. ‘Speak the word only, my servant shall be healed.’”

Simon Peter said nothing, so Mary went on, slapping her hand on the table. “You know perfectly well he never differentiated between women and men, heathens and Jews.”

Barnabas came to Simon's rescue. “Mary, you can't deny that Israel was predestined to become the cradle of Christ.”

“And to become his executioner, according to what is increasingly often said now.”

That was Rabbi Amasya, his voice icy.

“I have also heard that Pilate was himself guided by a crowd of Jews,” said Leonidas. “But that's so stupid, no one will believe it. Do you think a Roman governor would let himself be influenced by a screaming mob? Jesus was condemned as an agitator after a Roman trial and sentenced to crucifixion, a punishment only the Romans use.”

Simon Peter spoke up. “It is said that Pilate washed his hands.”

“By all the gods!” cried Leonidas. “I know Pontius Pilate. He's cruel, cold, and ruthless. A Roman of the worst kind. He loathes the Jews. Would he have appealed to a Jewish mob to spare the life of a mad Jew? That's insane,” he went on, banging on the table. “Can you imagine a Roman consul washing his hands because he had sentenced a Jew to death? Anyhow, that hand-washing is a Jewish custom that Pilate had scarcely even heard of.”

The silence in the pergola was now thunderous, almost impenetrable.

After a long pause, Leonidas spoke again. “I realize there is bound to be lively myth making around Jesus. But sometimes it seems to be taking on distasteful expressions. Like the virgin birth.”

“I never speak of it,” said Paul. “But I know the legend flourishes in many circles.”

Barnabas took over. “Mary, did you ever hear him speak of his origins?”

“No. He once said his father, Joseph, was a good and right-minded man. But he also said he didn't know him.”

She thought for a moment, then went on, her voice hesitant.

“But something else happened, something that…when I was talking to his mother, she told me she was only fifteen
when Jesus was born…then she looked away, remembering something, I'm sure. But she closed in on herself again and then went on to say that she had never understood her son.”

“Maybe a man walked past her house,” said Leonidas.

The apostles looked frightened.

“How would you summarize his moral message?” Barnabas said to Leonidas.

“His teaching was largely based on ancient wisdom. But he conveyed his message in such an astounding way, he opened up a new reality.”

“What do you mean by ancient wisdom?”

“Moses' message, which has many similarities to the laws of Hammurabi. Not to mention the ancient Egyptians. Do you know what the dead man was to say to Osiris when he met his god in the kingdom of the dead? Mary, you have such a good memory, you can quote….”

She hesitated for a moment, then said: “I can probably remember it in broad outline: ‘Lord of Truth, before Thee I convey the truth…I have annihilated the evil within me…I have never killed, nor caused any tears. I have not let any go hungry, nor made any afraid, nor spoken in a haughty voice to call attention to my name. And I have never turned away God in his revelation.’”

“Mary,” said Barnabas. “Are you a Jew or a heathen?”

Mary met his gaze quite calmly. “I am Christian. Christened by the Master himself.”

Rabbi Amasya and Leonidas smiled. Mary turned to Simon Peter. “Why must it be a dream in which God said to you that there were no unclean animals in his creation, for you to bring yourself to go to Cornelius, the Roman, who needed to hear about Jesus?”

Peter did not understand the question. “But you had Jesus' command, didn't you? ‘Go you therefore, teach all nations….’”

Peter hesitated, then said: “It's a difficult step to take for a Jew. But I obey now. I go around the world and take his word to the heathens.”

“Do you never think about the fact that you're the only people in the world to divide people into believers and heathens?” said Leonidas.

As they said nothing, Leonidas persisted. “Naturally everyone is imprinted like a coin with the ideas they were brought up with. But you are the only ones to maintain that you alone have the truth. That's hard to understand.”

“We have God's word for it. And we are chosen by him,” said Barnabas.

Leonidas sighed.

Up to then Paul had signaled to Marcus to take down every word that had been said, but now he stiffened and turned to Mary.

“At our very first meeting, you blamed Peter for shutting out those you call Jesus' women disciples. But Simon Peter's task would have been impossible if he had sent women out to convey Jesus' message.”

“Why?” said Mary.

“You know perfectly well the laws say that a woman may only receive instruction in stillness and always submit herself. I shall never allow a woman to convey our teachings.”

“Why not?”

“Because God created Adam first. And because it was woman who was tempted by the serpent and beguiled the man.”

Leonidas and Mary were speechless. They looked at each other.

Rabbi Amasya was upset. “Somewhere else in the scriptures,” he said, “it says that God created man in his own image. ‘Male and female created he them.’”

He turned to Leonidas, who replied: “There's a Jewish philosophical theology and in that, philosophy is a female being. The Book of Proverbs contains the story of Sophia, the daughter of God, who was created long before Man, and who visits the earth to persuade us to listen, and learn.”

He drew a deep breath before going on.

“It has often struck me that her message bears a great resemblance to what Jesus said.”

Paul's reply was short and curt. “You're quoting from the holy scriptures about which I know but little.”

“But you are learned in the scriptures, a Pharisee,” said Leonidas in astonishment. “Anyhow, you've decided to follow the message of the Master and go out among all nations.”

Then he went on. “I know a great deal about your achievements, Paul, more than you think. As far as I can make out, you often form your successful congregations with the aid of free and independent women. We have Lydia in Philippi, Damaris in Athens, and Priscilla the cornerstone of the congregation in Corinth. We have another Priscilla in Rome and yet another Lydia in Thyatira. And that's just a few.”

“One has to take what is there wherever one goes,” said Paul, but he had been cut to the quick.

“I also know,” Leonidas went on, “that you have had trouble with the congregation in Corinth. There are women there who think they are envoys of philosophy, and the life and acts of Jesus are seen there as a continuation of Sophia's teaching.”

Paul's face was quite closed and it was clear he had no intention of answering, so Leonidas went on. “Even more important should be that Jesus himself did not regard women as lower beings. Peter, do you remember what he once preached?”

“You mean when he said men should be like women and women like men?” said Peter reluctantly.

He was silent for a while, as if thinking it over, then he sighed and went on. “I didn't understand it then, nor do I now.”

“And yet it isn't difficult,” said Leonidas sarcastically. “But I'll stop talking now. No one can argue with prejudices.”

Barnabas paled with anger and answered with a question. “And which prejudices do you have, adherent that you are of Zeus and all his horrible idols?”

Leonidas laughed. “I have never joined the cult of Zeus. Anyhow, you've misunderstood the Greek world of gods, which is much more symbolic that you Jews think. I am like Mary now, Christian, and very critical if you allow yourselves to be caught in old dogmas.”

Mary filled her guests' goblets. They drank despite the dispute, and they parted in a friendly atmosphere. It occurred to Leonidas that Jews loved discussion and splitting hairs, one of their more admirable traits, he thought with some reluctance.

As Paul parted from Mary at the gate, he said: “One day you must tell us what you saw on Ascension Day. And about his death.”

Mary closed her eyes.

“Do you still mourn him? After all these years?”

“Yes.”

On their way back to the synagogue, Barnabas said, “She's wants us to renounce.”

Rabbi Amasya replied, “As far as I understand it, that is just what the Master wanted.”

Paul took no part in the conversation, absorbed as he was in the question of how Leonidas could know so much about his congregations in the Greco-Roman world. And first and foremost, how could the Greek know about the internal antagonisms in Corinth?

One day I'll ask him and he will answer me.