According to Mary Magdalene (13 page)

F
ar earlier than had been agreed, at the fourth hour on Sunday, Paul was knocking on Mary's gate. He apologized for disturbing her so early and said he ha come to postpone the afternoon's meeting. One of his closest collaborators had just arrived from Cyprus, a man called Barnabas, a clear thinker and a man of action.

“He's going to help us organize the Christian congregation in Antioch. At the moment, he's reading the notes Marcus made of our talks with you.”

“Are there many here being baptized?”

“Yes, Antioch already has the largest congregation outside Jerusalem,” said Paul with one of his rare smiles.

Then he said he wanted to take up the question that had been worrying him since their previous meeting. “It's rather personal,” he said.

She was surprised, but did not show it. She asked him to go and sit in the pergola and went to fetch cool drinks.

It was a hot day.

“I had a difficult and antagonistic relationship with my father,” he said. “Now you say that Jesus encouraged us to oppose our parents.”

“Not oppose, but make ourselves free.”

“Isn't that the same thing?” Mary could hear the bitterness in his voice.

“I don't know,” she said finally, “whether freedom has to entail a break and all the misery which that brings with it. But I'm probably not the right person to understand how difficult it can be.”

She gazed into the distance, as if trying to capture evasive memories.

“I yearned for my mother,” she said. “But she was dead. So I directed my longing into a dream in which she was strong and perfect. Nothing bad could have happened to me if she had been allowed to live.”

She smiled before going on.

“A long time went by before I understood that nearly everyone had the same dream. People with living parents also had childish fantasies about their father or mother being omnipotent. Like God himself. Sometimes, when Jesus talked about us having to be free to be able to grow, I've thought perhaps it has been useful for me not to have any parents.”

Paul looked frightened. “But those who break free have to pay a high price,” he said.

“Guilt?”

“Yes.”

“I think Jesus meant that instead of being paralyzed by guilt, we could reconcile ourselves to it. Forgive ourselves and thus our fellow human beings.”

She was suddenly eager. “You know the blessings in the Sermon on the Mount. ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.' I understood that to mean that people who could see their own guilt could open themselves to the kingdom of heaven.”

She looked straight into Paul's eyes and saw they were full of doubt.

“I need time to think about what you've said,” he said and he took his leave. They would meet again the next day to talk, and he would bring Barnabas with him.

Mary went with him to the gate, and before they parted, he said: “What you're saying is hard to understand. We can't take such teaching out to the people.”

Mary smiled. “Even I realize that,” she said.

She watched the bowed figure disappearing down the street, and just as she had thought the first time they had met, she reckoned he must be suffering from some painful illness.

She made a detour through the garden before going into the house, and on the top terrace saw Terentius going around with the big watering can.

That was good. She tried waving a thank-you to him, but he pretended not to notice. She sighed, thinking as she had so often that she would never learn how to behave toward servants.

She finally went into her writing room to make notes on her conversation with Paul. But once there in the shady room, she just sat there with her images of the day when she had first met Jesus' mother.

D
awn in Capernaum, light mists rising from the lake and enveloping houses and harbor in a gentle gray light, and despite the early hour, people were already gathering in the courtyard.

Jesus was still asleep. Mary slipped quietly down to the kitchen to prepare his breakfast. She could hear the expectant murmur from the crowd already assembled in the courtyard. They would soon be calling out for him, but she had learned now to refuse them, even refuse the Master.

When she took the food up, he was already up and washing.

“It's going to be a long day,” he said.

“Yes. And you're not to go out until you've eaten—two eggs, bread, and cheese.”

He smiled at her. “May I not have anything to drink?”

“Oh yes. Salome has made some apricot juice.”

But he did not eat it all, his appetite poor at the time, but she coaxed him and he obediently drank the juice.

She heard him talking to the people while she was washing his clothes by the well. She found a tear in his mantle and was about to find Susanna, the best of them all with the needle, when she heard voices calling—“Behold, your mother and brethren stand without, desiring to speak with you.”

And then she heard him answer: “Who is my mother and
who are my brethren…? For whosoever shall do the will of God, the same is my brother and my sister and my mother.”

Mary Magdalene's blood froze. Those were terrible words.

But she went over to the women, the torn mantle over her shoulder, to look for Susanna. The women had also heard those fearful words and were sitting as if paralyzed. Mary, Clopa's wife, went to find Mary of Nazareth, for they were related, and they all knew what Jesus' mother would be feeling. Mary Magdalene showed Susanna the tear and Susanna took the mantle, relieved to have something to do.

Clopa's wife, Mary, finally found Mary of Nazareth on the edge of the crowd. She was difficult to persuade, for she had already decided to go back home.

“But you must be tired and hungry after walking all the way across the mountains last night. Come with me and you can rest. And eat.”

She allowed herself to be persuaded and went with the women to the shore to wash her feet and face, and brush her graying brown hair, largely out of habit, for she was not a woman to take an interest in her appearance. Yet she was beautiful, not as was so often said of older women that traces of a vanished beauty could be seen, but no, she was more beautiful now than ever, thought Mary Magdalene.

Mary of Nazareth gazed from woman to woman, as if seeking someone. Then her eyes fell on Mary Magdalene, who was thinking how alike mother and son were, the same grey transparent eyes and the same upright stature. “Are you the whore my son lives with?”

“Yes, but I'm no whore.”

Despite her exhaustion, Mary of Nazareth could sense the resentment of the women now gathered around Mary Magdalene. “I would like to talk to you in private,” she said.

“We have a room upstairs in the house. You're welcome to come there after you've eaten.”

Mary Magdalene's heart was beating fast, but she walked calmly to the well to hang the washing out to dry, then just as
calmly she went up to the room, put away the dishes and rolled up her sleeping mat. On a sudden impulse, she took off her headcloth and combed out her challenging fair hair. When she heard the other woman's footsteps on the stairs, she remembered Jesus' words: “Love thine enemies: turn the other cheek.”

Now I have to see whether what he has preached has had any effect on me.

She was angry, full of scarlet rage.

She placed the cushions on the floor and asked the other woman to be seated. They sat down opposite each other and Mary Magdalene's gaze did not waver from the other woman's face.

“I know a little about you. You were the concubine of the Roman tribune in Tiberias before you met my son and seduced him. Do you deny it?”

Mary Magdalene was suddenly quite calm, almost cold, choosing her words carefully before answering.

“The tribune was over eighty and half-paralyzed. He had heard that I spoke classical Latin, so every day I sat at his bedside reading the poems from the
Aeneid.
I bathed his forehead and changed his pillows. I held his hand when his pains were severe. Then malicious rumors began to fly across town, to the despair of my stepmother.”

Mary of Nazareth had a scornful reply on her tongue, but swallowed it. Something in the girl's gaze told her she was telling the truth. Yet she had to say, “But you helped a heathen and an enemy.”

“I gave comfort to an old person for whom life was difficult.”

“You mean you did it out of pity?” Her voice was scornful, but Mary Magdalene went on just as calmly.

“It wasn't that simple. You must know that almost no one in this country dares say no to a Roman officer. I was afraid at first, but after a while I just felt…compassion.”

Silence fell, then Mary Magdalene spoke again. “When you say I seduced your son, I have to assume you don't know him
well. Jesus does not allow himself to be seduced, persuaded, or deceived by anyone.”

Mary of Nazareth hid her face in a corner of her cloak and Mary Magdalene saw she was crying. “You're right,” Mary of Nazareth went on. “I've never known him, not even when he was a child. It's a frightening feeling, always, not being able to understand your own child.”

Mary Magdalene said nothing and let time pass. Then the other woman unexpectedly spoke again.

“Do you understand him?”

“No, no one can. He is too great for us. And I accept that.”

“It's hard for a mother to think like that.”

“I realize that.”

“Children are a part of their mother, her body, her dreams and…her mind. I had given birth to a stranger.”

Mary Magdalene leaned forward and took the other woman's hands in hers, then said in a voice that was unexpectedly solemn, “You were born to a great task, Mary of Nazareth. You must have been chosen.”

Mary's face changed, her gaze going long back in time. She's remembering, thought Mary Magdalene. But Mary's eyes closed. She was not going to tell her story. All she said was, “I was fifteen.”

Then they heard that Jesus had fallen silent out in the courtyard and Mary Magdalene said, “Come, come with me and you can see what he does for the sick and the wretched.”

They were both quite close to Jesus as he made a blind man see, a lame man walk, and cured a woman with a skin disease. Mary of Nazareth saw it all happen, her face white and lips pressed close together. As if holding back a scream, thought Mary Magdalene.

The day grew hotter and it was approaching the sixth hour when the crowd dispersed and out of the crowd appeared both his brothers, weighed down with wonder.

But Jesus went first to greet his mother. “I see you have become friends,” he said to the two women.

“We have come to understand one another,” his mother said. “And I have learned a great deal.”

They had a light meal together, the mother, her sons, and Mary Magdalene. Little was said at table, as if they were all absorbed in their own thoughts on what had happened that morning. Finally Mary broke the silence, rose and said: “The sun is already high in the sky. It is time we all went to take a midday rest.”

The mother turned to look at her eldest son and saw what Mary Magdalene had seen. He was very tired.

In the afternoon, they had another talk, this time with Mary, Clopa's wife; Salome; and Johanna, the wife of Cusa the administrator.

Mary of Nazareth told them that the rumors about Jesus had become more and more malicious in the town. One day the old rabbi had come to see her in the village, and they had sat in the workshop, her sons interrupting their work to come and listen.

They were told that the Sanhedrin, the Jewish council in Jerusalem, had sent learned men to Galilee to test Jesus.

The rabbi had said that this had happened on the orders of Herod Agrippa himself, the king responsible for exposing every suspect rebellion against the Romans.

Clopa's wife cried out aloud. “But a child could see that Jesus is no rebel.”

“As you know, the king has had John the Baptist executed. Rumor has it that he and my son together baptized the rebels in Jordan. And that some of John's disciples have now joined Jesus in Galilee.”

The woman sighed. It was true. They found John the Baptist's disciples difficult, hard men with burning eyes. It was also true that more and more learned men were joining them and often came into dispute with Jesus.

“Did your rabbi know the envoys had to report back to Agrippa and the priests of Jerusalem?” It was Mary Magdalene whispering.

Mary of Nazareth closed her eyes tight, as if trying to hide the fear in them.

“Yes,” she said. “They say my son is mad, possessed by demons. That he carries out his miracles with forces from Beelzebub. That he sets son against father, daughter against mother. That he breaks the laws, does not keep the Sabbath, and constantly talks about the new kingdom that is to come. His list of sins seems endless”

“What do you yourself think?” said Salome.

“I don't know. I have always feared for his sanity. But then I have seen that what he does is good. When I left home, it was to warn him. Today I have realized that I do not reach him, that I never have. My hope rests in Mary Magdalene.”

Mary Magdalene nodded, but said nothing about Jesus already knowing, that there was no one whose thoughts and opinions he did not know. He was going with open eyes straight into the fate that was his.

Salome came to her aid. “No one can influence him.”

“Nevertheless I can try.”

Then Jesus returned. He had been wandering in the mountains with some of his disciples. The women went to prepare the evening meal and Mary Magdalene went to meet Jesus, who took her in his arms and kissed her.

“Have you some time for me?”

They were unusual words coming from her, and he smiled in surprise, saying he always had time for her. Together they went to their room and she told him what his mother had said.

As she had expected, he was not surprised, but when he saw the fear in her eyes, he asked her: “What do you think I should do? I must obey God.”

They sat, saying nothing for a long while; then he said, “I, too, am afraid, Mary.”

M
ary immediately liked Barnabas. There was a mocking glint in his eyes that reminded her of Leonidas.

He has a sense of humor, she thought.

Tall and gangling he was, too, his face handsome and very Jewish, a finely-curved nose and warm brown eyes.

He said he was a Levite, born and raised in Cyprus, and his real name was Joseph.

“So you became a consoler and were given the name Barnabas,” she said.

His eyes glinted when he replied that Barnabas also meant exhorter.

Mary laughed.

“Go on, go ahead and start exhorting,” she said. “You've read Marcus' notes about what I've said, and I presume you have some objections.”

He said what Paul had said. “Your interpretations of the teachings of Jesus are interesting, but difficult to understand. People need simple rules and promises they can understand.”

“New laws, you mean?”

Mary flushed as always when she was upset, and her voice rose as she went on, emphasizing every word. “‘Woe unto you, also you lawyers, for you lade men with burdens grievous to be borne. Woe unto you, lawyers, for you have taken
away the key of knowledge: you entered not in yourselves, and them that were entering in you hindered.’”

Banabas also went red in the face. “What in the name of heaven are you saying now?” he cried.

“I'm quoting word for word what Jesus said to the scribes. Simon, you were there. You can't have forgotten!”

“I don't remember as well as you do. But that was largely what he said. I remember because I was frightened.”

“I can quite understand that,” said Paul.

Barnabas, the preacher, sighed deeply. Only Rabbi Amasya looked pleased. “I can quite imagine becoming Christian just because of those words,” he said.

There was a long silence before Mary said in a calmer voice: “I also understand the new teaching has to have stability and structure. But it mustn't become one of those religions whose task it is to keep people in order. I presume you've kept records of all his parables, as Simon Peter and the others remember them?”

They nodded.

“In my opinion, they all amount to one and the same thing, that people are self-sufficient and have a responsibility. And that there are no guarantees of reaching God by following all the rules and laws. That it can be the other way around. Think of the prodigal son, of the servants who were paid equally although some worked for an hour or two while others worked all day.”

Barnabas leaned over toward her. “Do you think,” he said eagerly, “that you could write down his parables as you remember them?”

“I'll try.”

They mixed their wine with water and drank. It was hot despite the shade in the pergola.

Then Paul spoke. “In your opinion, what was most important in his teaching?”

“Reconciliation and forgiveness, what we talked about yesterday. You have to start with yourself, admit your fear and your
selfishness. Regret what has happened and forgive yourself. When you can do that, you have no need to blame others.”

“You've talked about this before and I think you're right,” said Paul. “But it's difficult, almost impossible. How can we ever be reconciled with the evil we have committed?”

“With God's help,” said Barnabas.

“Yes. And by believing in yourself, in the kingdom of heaven within you,” said Mary.

Simon Peter shook his head. “The kingdom of heaven is within you. He often said that, but I never understood it.”

Mary leaned eagerly over toward him. “Do you remember that time when one of you, I think it was Andrew, asked Jesus where the new kingdom was and when would it come. And he answered that it was already there among us. That was true, Simon. I've thought so much about it, about the love that was there among all of us who followed him.”

Then Leonidas appeared back from the merchant house and interrupted their conversation. “Am I disturbing you?”

“No, not at all,” said Paul. “On the contrary, perhaps you can help us sort out the concepts.”

Leonidas greeted Barnabas, who rapidly repeated what they had been talking about. “I presume you know what Mary thinks. But a church can't be built without definite rules and sure messages.”

Leonidas shook his head. “It's difficult,” he said. “I followed Jesus for various periods, and I listened with my whole being to everything he said. It was astounding. It turned my world upside down. On my journeys back to Antioch, I tried to bring him down to earth. I remember thinking it was his authority that obscured my clear Greek thinking.”

Leonidas laughed. “Naturally I didn't succeed,” he said. “His words grew in me, like the mustard tree he spoke of. It was a process. I don't think you can acquire his teaching through instruction.”

“So what do we do?” said Barnabas, the glint in his eyes becoming an ironic smile.

“Do as you have to,” said Leonidas, smiling too.

He thought for a moment before going on. “You have an almost impossible task. The trouble is we human beings can't think unless we have a model, a pattern. We glide mercilessly into old ideas and then feel relieved because we think we've understood.”

“Do you think you can think in new ways as well as the old way?” said Barnabas.

“Jesus did. He made the world new and so he was a subverter of society. I can understand the priesthood in Jerusalem and their horror. Jesus is dangerous to the Jewish community. The balance between the Sanhedrin and the Romans is fragile and they could not risk it.”

The Jewish men around the table in the pergola held their breath, but Leonidas went on untiringly. “Then we have the spirit of the day, and there we all have a weighty inheritance. You Jews with all your laws, we Greeks with our naive faith in logic and reason. And last but not least, the Romans who live in their blind faith in Roman order and discipline.”

He sat pensively for a moment before going on. “In this world of rules, reason, and discipline, people's longing for miracles increases. It's quite natural that more and more people seek out the mystical religions of the East.”

They sat in silence until Leonidas finally threw out his hands in a gesture of abandon. “Sometimes I've thought Jesus came too early into the world, that the world is nowhere near mature enough to understand him. The gods we worship are distant, cool. But Jesus' god is concealed in every heart. He exists in life, almost never admitted.”

That rare smile of Paul's appeared. “Now you've forgotten what you yourself said about the mustard tree.”

As usual, Mary went with her guests through the garden out to the gate. Paul stopped for a moment under the great fig tree. “Those words he said about his mother and brothers,” he said to Mary. “They must have hurt you, too, you who were his…chosen person.”

“Yes, it hurt, for a long time. Not until the rains came did I understand and accept that he couldn't have any chosen person.”

Mary slept soundly that night, the longed-for cool come at last to Antioch. But, as usual, she woke before dawn and once again went back to her memories.