Evening of the First Day
“Where have you been?” she asked. Magdala looked back at her in sullen silence.
She repeated: “Where have you been, Magda? We have been worried that something had happened to you.”
Still no answer. Magdala silently looked about the inner courtyard where the other two were also keeping their vigil of sorrow and hope. Magdala too was full of sorrow and hope, but it was a malignant sorrow and her hope was an ugly, twisted thing. She nursed her hope from a deep wellspring of hatred. She hoped for death. Hope that the Romans would die; hope that the high priests and their lackeys would die. Hope that his friends—so-called friends—would die, and that their deaths would be slow and painful. But mostly she hoped for her own death. Fast or slow, she didn’t really care and didn’t dwell too much on the mechanics of the dying, as long as it just got done. But if her own dying was too much to ask, then the death of everyone else would suffice.
Magdala gestured toward Mary, the dead man’s mother, who was sitting near the hearth and finally spoke: “Did she tell you how he died? Did she describe it for you?”
“Magda, please, stop this.”
“Stop what? Stop seeing those images in my mind? Stop seeing that look of betrayal on his face? Stop smelling the reek of blood and sweat and excrement? Stop hearing him groan in pain? Stop wondering how such a gentle soul could be treated like that? What exactly, Miriam, do you want me to stop? I would rip out my eyes and cut off my ears if I could unsee and unhear these things!”
Miriam knew not to confront her too directly at times like this. There was no point in trying to reason with her. Her pain was too deep; her fury too all-consuming.
“Magda, just don’t leave us again without letting us know where you are going.” But even that oblique and deferential plea triggered a further salvo.
“How, Miriam, how can I tell you something I do not know? I just go. Where, I don’t know. I’m lost.” Magdala looked right through Miriam. “We are all lost,” she continued. “We have lost our teacher and our way. Our friend is dead and we will never find our way back to anywhere ever again.”
“Magda, stop!” pleaded Miriam. “No need for such drama. Life goes on… we will go on… his teachings will go on.”
Listless a moment earlier, Magdala turns on Miriam angrily: “What do you know of the future? What do you know of life and death? You weren’t there. You didn’t watch him die. Only his mother and I stayed, along with that halfwit John.
“Don’t be so cruel. John is not a halfwit.”
“No?” Magdala paused, then bitterly: “You’re right. Not a halfwit; just a halfman!” Miriam stopped her, “Our friend is dead only a few hours and you already betray his teachings? He loved John and accepted John as he is. He accepted us all as we are.”
Magdala’s words hissed through clenched teeth: “And look at all the good that did him? Where are all those others he so lovingly accepted as they are? They all ran away. Did he know he was accepting their cowardice? Big, gruff Peter, and clever Matthew, and brave, fearless Simon, always so ready for a fight? And what about that pious, sanctimonious Judas? I thought for sure he would at least stick by our Lord. They couldn’t run fast enough or far enough. Cowards. All filthy cowards! They thought themselves men, but they acted like old women, cowering in the shadows and denying they even knew him.”
Night shrouded the usually bustling village of Bethany in silence. All was quiet along the alleyways and around the inn, but in Miriam’s large house the roaring fires kept the rooms bright and the voices raged on in the courtyard.
“Magda, most of them were just poor fishermen. This is not what they ever expected to happen.”
“Yes, I suppose that is as good an excuse for cowardice and betraying a friend as I have ever heard,” Magdala said mockingly, feigning sympathy. It was cold for this time of year, but Magdala did not feel the cold any more than she felt anything. She was impervious to the weather as she was to those around her. Miriam wrapped a blanket tighter around herself. She loved Magdala and wished she could say anything that might comfort her, but her next words were not what she intended.
“You are being too harsh, Magda, you are always too hard on people. You use your sarcasm to shield your heart. I know you are in great pain, but you cannot hurt others to soothe yourself.” Miriam’s hand reached out to gently touch Magdala’s cheek. Magda smacked her hand away and turned toward the fire. “Why,” she hesitated, “why were you not there? You should have been there with us, Miriam. I saw it in his eyes. He was searching for you in the crowd. How could you forsake him too? You were so special to him.”
Miriam gasped as if punched in the belly. His dying was not how she ever imagined things would end this day. Earlier in the morning James had rushed to her house and told her that Yeshu’a had been arrested the night before, but she did not take it too seriously. James was blubbering almost incoherently about his younger half-brother being taken away by Temple guards. But misunderstandings happen all the time and she was sure that Yeshu’a would be released in a day or two. He wasn’t a criminal; she did not think he had done anything to offend or threaten anyone. Why, she had wondered, was James so distraught?
Still, something in James’ anxiety lingered in her mind so she had decided to go up to Jerusalem this same day. But first she had some things to do. Her sister Martha was always complaining that Miriam neglected practical matters and so Miriam was determined this time to make sure everything was in proper order before she left. After all, Jerusalem was hardly an hour walk from Bethany; it was far more urgent that she keep peace with her sister. She had grown weary of Martha’s constant complaining and her finding fault with everything she did. Martha’s incessant protestations that no one appreciated her were really too much. Miriam ruefully reflected that if you asked Martha, not even Yeshu’a appreciated her enough.
No, Miriam was not going to again cause friction by dropping everything to go to Jerusalem with James. Martha must first be appeased and assuaged. So Miriam delayed her departure a few hours and cleaned the house and did some needed shopping before the Sabbath.
She now regretted being so practical. She failed to be there when he needed her the most. He was her dearest friend, the only man who ever really understood her. He had once whispered to her that she had a special message for the world: that she above all others understood the dangers of being too practical and that she had found heaven already in her daily living. She did not really understand what he meant, but she was so happy that he thought her special that it didn’t matter that she could not comprehend.
Lost in her thoughts she did not answer for a long time, and Magdala became agitated waiting for an answer. “Well, why weren’t you there?” And the question was an accusation. Miriam knew Magda was right to be angry. How could she not have been there? She was stricken with guilt, and yet if she were completely honest, she was also relieved that she had not been there—what after all could she do to stop it? But that sense of relief only made her feel guiltier that she was busily shopping in the Bethany market at the very hour they were nailing him to a cross.
Miriam looked at Magdala and saw her brush tears from her eyes. Magdala cursed the tears. She would not succumb to female wallowing. He had cured her of all that. He had taken her fears and lifted her from that dark depression that weighed her down nearly all her life.
When Yeshu’a first caught a glimpse of Magdala, she had given up on life and living. She had been barely able to get out of bed in the morning and she rarely slept restfully at night. She hated living and yearned for it all to end. But the demons that beset her mind had disappeared that day, that very day Yesu first looked into her eyes and gently smiled. He was the only man who ever loved her and never judged her and somehow always appreciated her words and opinions. He even enjoyed her laugh and that made her want to laugh more and more—something she had not done for many years before he came into her life.
He had that way with everyone, even those that hated and feared him sensed that he understood them better than anyone else ever had. Perhaps that was why, Magdala mused, they hated and feared him. Everyone, she believed, always expected too much from him. Some hoped too much; others feared too much. They didn’t understand him at all. Most wanted—or feared—that he would change the social order. But that was never his intent.
Magdala looked gloomily into the dark night and quietly cursed the coolness of the breeze. She didn’t want anything to soothe her; she resented the breeze for cooling her skin.
But the breeze did remind her of an argument she had once with Simon months earlier. Simon was always talking about the stormy winds of change that Yeshu’a was bringing. Like so many others, Simon tried to make Yeshu’a in his own image—a revolutionary, a social reformer. But Yeshu’a did not seek a social revolution; he sought a revolution of the heart.
For Yeshu’a it was always the individual that mattered, not the community of laws and traditions. While some social structures might be better than others, she had argued, all were subject to corruption and distortion if individuals chose to misuse them. Simon scoffed, dismissed her opinion as the rantings of a mere female, and went off in a huff convinced that he understood the man Yeshu’a better than any woman ever could. But now it didn’t matter at all which of them had been right. It was all over now. He was gone—beaten and mocked and stripped and nailed to that Roman cross.
Miriam watched Magdala and was overwhelmed with love for her. At that very moment she felt Yeshu’a was right there near her, beside her, surrounding her. She tried imagining him gasping for air on the cross, but now all she could remember was his smile. She hated herself for that. She felt as if she were cheating him, betraying him, by forgetting already the horror of his dying.
Mary, the mother of the crucified, had not spoken since his dying. She was not yet 50 years old, but she looked decades deep in sorrow. Near the hearth she sat on a rough wooden bench, warming her hands and staring blankly into the fire. “Mary, you’re shivering. Can I bring a wool blanket to warm you?” Mary turns her head and looks vacantly at Miriam, then shakes her head gently and turns back to the fire. Miriam tries again: “Is there anything I can do for you? Get for you? Help with?” Mary looks up at her with a smile that hides no pain. Miriam reflexively grabs her tightly, wrapping her arms around her. She means it to assuage Mary and bring her comfort, but Miriam is the one who starts to shake violently and erupts in a torrent of tears. Mary now must console her. “Miriam, sweet girl, Yeshu’a loved you so. Hold on to that truth and let it soothe your breaking heart.”
“Mary, I am so sorry, so ashamed. I should be comforting you. To lose such a darling child… I… I… I am so sorry, Mary. I must be stronger.”
Mary wraps her arms around Miriam. She speaks softly and firmly, “Miriam, you need not be stronger. You are strong enough. You are strong enough to never worry about what each day might bring; you are strong enough to always just focus on those you love rather than on what needs to be done. This is what my son loved about you, I think. He saw in you a little glimpse of what heaven must be like.” Miriam now smiles and it seems genuine; somehow her pain washes away in the memory of Yeshu’a gently admonishing her older sister for always busying herself about the house, while Miriam sat at his feet, listening to his words.
“That was so scandalous, wasn’t it?” laughs Miriam. And Mary knows exactly what she is referring to: “Indeed, it was! My son, allowing a mere woman to sit near him, listening to his words, engaging in conversation, as if you were as much his student as any of the others surrounding him!” Miriam laughs: “The priests were appalled— although I think Peter and Judas were even more scandalized!” Magdala, who had been listening quietly in the shadows at the far end of the courtyard, joins them near the fire, placing a hand gently around Mary’s shoulder as she sits alongside her on the bench.
“Your son changed everything, Mary,” Magdala whispered, “and that means you changed everything. You were his first follower. Without you there would be no word, no message at all. You are without equal among women and men.” Mary looked at her quietly with eyes that conveyed little beyond warmth. She would normally have blushed at such effusive praise, but she could not summon up enough shame or discomfort to do so now. She was too lost in her sorrow.
Magdala continued talking, intent on pushing thoughts of Yeshu’a’s death far from her mind. “Look how he treated us. He never said women were as good as men, but that is how he behaved. When did any man ever stop to listen to our opinion about anything? When was any woman ever allowed to sit at the feet of a teacher and be his student? They were so offended. So outraged.” Magdala laughed loudly, that boisterous, uninhibited laugh that Yeshu’a loved so much and most others found unnerving. “But that is how he did things. No grand political pronouncements; no declaration of rebellion. He just quietly went about his life, sowing love and reaping a fruitful harvest of disciplined chaos everywhere he went.”
His mother smiled: “He changed everything by refusing to get caught up in trying to change anything. Neither male nor female, neither slave nor freeman. All were the same to him, all were created to love and be loved. The men around him never quite understood that.”
“Except perhaps John,” Miriam adds, smiling impishly. “Yes, perhaps John, perhaps,” Magdala concedes. “Do you remember what that one Pharisee said when he saw me sitting at Yesu’s feet as Yesu explained to all of us the scriptures?” And before either of the other two could answer, Miriam answers her own question in a mock voice of strident male indignation: “Better for the Torah to be burned than that it should be handed over to a woman!” And Magdala rejoins: “Better to let dogs gnaw on it than to let a woman touch it!” And all three women laugh merrily at the vanity of men. But the merriment only lasts a moment; Magdala is in too much pain and her anger pours out: “Such pompous, arrogant fools! Of course they had to kill him. Of course they could not tolerate how he treated us, how he treated children, how he treated the poor and the diseased. Only fools like Peter and Judas would ever think that he could escape punishment!”
Mary’s response was both soothing and scolding: “Magda, let go of your hatred. My son would not want this. He does not want us to hate even those who harm us.” Magdala bit her tongue. She was about to launch into another tirade about the wealthy and the ruling class and the men who run the world, but even in her fury she realized her pain was smaller than Mary’s and she relented. “You are right, of course,” Magdala replied, “I need to find a way to move on or my anger will consume me. But… but I can’t!” she screams and her wail of pain shatters the tenuous calm they were all struggling to build.
The Evening of the Second Day
The vigil continued through the next day into the next evening with the three women involved in a seemingly endless conversation of sweet memories and bitter oaths, but a furtive knocking at the outer door brought them all back to a dead silence. They looked worryingly at each other. Mary and Miriam hesitated to answer the door, while Magdala moved quickly to grab the knife kept in the cupboard above the bench. The other two are shocked and frightened that Magdala would grab for a knife. Mary takes the knife gently from Magdala’s hand, as the knocking on the door resumes a little louder and more urgently. It is Miriam who finally moves toward the door to open it; it is her house after all. She takes a deep breath as she opens the door slowly, but as soon as the door opens a hair’s breadth, it is pushed open sharply and in steps Peter, shaken and breathless. At the sight of the Rock quivering like a small child, Magdala moves toward him quickly, grabbing him by his beard and starts to pound him violently with her fists. “You coward. You damn coward! How could you leave him? How? How!!?” Her voice, unhinged and unforgiving, pushes Peter to the brink of madness. He doesn’t try to fight back; he doesn’t even try to shield his face from her fury, but Mary and Miriam both grab at Magdala and pull her away. Peter, blood now dripping from his left eye and both nostrils, looks at the three women abjectly with his arms at his sides and begins to shake and weep. Mary is the first to his side, her arms around him, soothing him as he trembles in shame and fear. Miriam follows, placing her hands on him and using her own sleeves to mop up the blood oozing from his nose and eye.
Magdala is having none of it. She looks at him sternly and in disgust. She is more subdued now, but her anger is unabated: “You are a coward,” she hisses softly and the words stab like a dagger. He looks up at her and the tears welling in his eyes only make her angrier. She finds him disgusting: “You weak, sniveling dog. You are so pathetic. How did he ever love you? How could he ever have thought you a leader of men?”
“Magda, please, can’t you see how much he suffers? Be gentle, be kind,” Mary gently admonishes her. “No, I don’t see how he suffers. But I did see how your son suffered!” Magdala is in a frenzy of pain and righteousness as she turns toward Peter: “Do you want to hear, Peter? Shall I tell you what you missed?” And her voice again rises and she breaks down in tears. Peter rushes toward her, but Magdala flings one arm toward him and he knows to get no closer: “Don’t ever touch me. Your touch defiles me. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Peter just looks at her, struggling to find the right words. Finally: “I am ashamed. I am a coward. I am worthless and what I did is unforgiveable. And yet… I believe he has forgiven me.”
“No, no, he did not forgive you! He would never forgive you!”
“Magda! I know my son better than you. I know he does forgive Peter,” Mary interjects, and Magdala hears in Mary’s voice a sternness she did not think Mary capable of. “You dare not speak for my son on this matter, Magda. My son forgives Peter; and I forgive Peter.”
“Well, I don’t! I never will!” Magdala looks directly at Peter and shakes her head in disbelief: “He was your friend. He was your teacher. He would never have deserted you. Never.”
“And he is not deserting Peter now either,” Miriam interrupts. “If Yeshu’a were here, he would embrace Peter and comfort him. That is what we must do to honor him.”
“Fine, comfort Peter. Fine, honor Yesu. Go on. But don’t expect me to join in this farce. Yesu is dead and Peter is dead to me.” Magdala turns from them and walks slowly toward the courtyard door, opens it, and inhales the warm, dry air pungent with the smell of animal dung and human urine. Magdala thinks to herself: This stench is less loathsome than the insipid atmosphere of love and forgiveness inside these walls. She inhales the rancid, stifling air as if it were a fresh, cool breeze off the Sea of Galilee. She feels free, no longer suffocating under the dead weight of Yeshu’a’s commandment. She feels as dead as that other great sea south of Galilee and she embraces that death as an indifferent lover who allows her to forget her pain.
“What are you doing out so late?” Magdala turns abruptly to see two Roman soldiers only a few paces from her. She stares at them and stays silent. Julian, the higher ranking one, smiles broadly and asks if she is open for business. He understandably assumes that any woman out this late at night unaccompanied must be a prostitute. Both soldiers are struck by her beauty, but are unnerved by her glare. They are used to the fake smiles and eager eyes of the women they usually meet along the streets at night; this one is different and their hands instinctively move toward the hilt of their swords. “I am not open for business; I am not open to anything,” she replies, disgusted that she is compelled to speak at all to these two boorish heathens. “Just leave me alone and go about your business.”
“Perhaps you are our business,” Julian responds and his comrade laughs more loudly than the feeble joke warrants. But Magdala just sighs dully and shakes her head. Men, all men—except Yesu—bore her. No matter where a conversation begins, it always ends with them trying to find their way into her body. “Go away. Or else.”
“Or else what?” It is the second soldier, eager to prove himself to his older comrade. The imperious tone irritates Magdala, more so because she can sense it is contrived, and she moves toward the soldiers, thrusting her face within inches of the younger man’s face. He grabs the hilt of his sword harder, but keeps it sheathed. He breathes faster and the stench reminds Magdala of every other man who has ever tried to take her. “Listen little man, and listen well. I know your commanding officer and I know that he doesn’t want any trouble. I also know that Romans don’t have many virtues, but they do know how to obey orders. And your orders are to keep the peace and not to cause trouble. So I will tell you just once more, leave me alone.”
There are no other people on the streets. It is after all the Sabbath and Passover, as well. Magdala’s keen understanding of men and the dark made her hesitate for just a moment. She knew what they were both thinking: that she needs to be taught a lesson. That she needs to learn respect for them. That it would be fun to use her and then toss her aside, a weepy, broken thing without any more pride, but plenty of shame. Julian reaches out a hand to grab her shoulder, but she smacks it aside with such force that he is startled. He is even more startled that she doesn’t try to run. That would have been a mistake; they would have enjoyed the chase. Instead she turns toward him and he feels her dead eyes look into his: “Your commanding officer once told me an interesting story about Roman discipline.” She looks deeper into him, just as Yeshu’a could do, but she has no compassion for these two. She sees how confused and angry they both are and she enjoys it. She waits another moment and then asks: “Do you want to know what he said?” This puts the two soldiers in a quandary. Can they really say they don’t want to know what their commander said? But can they really ask this common whore to recount a story, as if she were their equal in this engagement? They are Romans, they are soldiers, how dare she engage with them like this! But Julian knows better than to cause trouble with someone who may be his commander’s client or friend or more.
“What story did he tell you? I suspect we have already heard it, but go on.”
“I don’t think you heard this one. It was about your commander’s older brother.”
“I didn’t know he had a brother,” Julian replied before he realized it put him at a disadvantage. Magdala smirked and nodded her head knowingly: “I didn’t think you would know he had a brother. A brother he loved and whom he idolized. It is not the sort of thing he would talk about with just anyone.” Julian grimaced, but said nothing. This woman is infuriating, he thought, I wouldn’t bed her even if she begged me! But he knew that is exactly what he was increasingly hoping for.
“Shall I continue?” Magdala asked and without waiting for a reply, did so. “Your commander’s older brother, Decius, was the senior centurion, the primus pilus, of the XII legion. Because of the incompetence of the commanding legate the entire legion was surrounded by an enemy force of Gallic tribes, completely cut off from their fortified camp. The general panicked and called for a full retreat, and urged his centurions to break through the surrounding enemy however they could. Decius realized that such a plan would be disastrous and that the entire legion would be annihilated. Instead of following such a stupid order, Decius directed the other centurions to follow his command. He spoke to the troops, calming their fears he re-positioned the cohorts and ensured a well-coordinated attack on the weakest section of the enemy force. The enemy was taken by surprise at the ferocity of the counter-attack and fled in disarray. He saved the lives of thousands of soldiers. Right there on the battlefield the soldiers of the legion presented him a grass crown, that rarest and greatest of Roman military honors.” At this point Magdala abruptly stopped her narrative, indicating the story was at an end.
“So? I don’t understand the point of the story. He had an ass for a commander and he saved a legion. Yes, that showed great discipline, but what is the point you’re trying to make?”
“The point,” Magdala answered quietly, “is that the next day he was executed for having failed to obey the lawful order of his commander. Now, that is real Roman discipline.” She looked in turn at one and then the other: “So think carefully what will happen to you two if you ignore that famous Roman discipline. You are not saving any legion here. You are not confronting a mortal threat. You are here alone on a dark street in Bethany, assailed by a mere female who hasn’t even a weapon. She is no threat to you, but you both find her threatening. She has not encircled you, but somehow you feel outmaneuvered and overwhelmed. You can stand here all night to protect your manhood, but all you really want to do is retreat. To get the hell out of this miserable situation. So, do so. Go. Leave me be and I will not mention this matter to your commanding officer.”
“By the gods, you are a nasty sow! I should gut you right here and leave your carcass for a rat feast.”
Magdala moves closer to Julian. “Do you see any fear in these eyes? Do you not see even now that I would welcome death? Go on. Kill me. You would be the first man to ever satisfy me. Go on, do it. Do it!” Her voice trembles with anger and pain, and the soldiers back off and melt away into a dark alleyway. Alone finally, she lets her tears flow unabated. She cannot shake the image of the one man whom she admired and who appreciated her, gasping his final breath on that cross. She had been literally out of her mind before meeting him and she fears she is again going out of her mind now that he is dead.
Magdala walks a little further down the narrow street, the dust and dung somehow reassuring. She finds something familiar and soothing in the earthy smells and feel of the dark. It is now long past midnight and she resolves to go back to Miriam’s house and tell Peter that if she ever sees him again, she will slit his belly and strangle him with his own entrails. Let the others forgive and soothe that coward, but she would not, could not. Peter had denied the only person who ever loved her and she saw no difference between that denial and Judas’ betrayal. If anything, in her mind, Peter’s denial was more cowardly, less manly than Judas’ more forthright betrayal.
But as she approaches Miriam’s house she sees a figure furtively hiding in the shadows of the alleyway adjacent to the house. She is frightened and immediately realized the absurdity of her fear: she had been all too eager for the Roman soldiers to kill her just a few minutes ago, and now she was frightened by the specter hovering in the dark. As she moves closer she hears a low murmuring, a restrained, desolate wail, like a lost pup makes when it has given up all hope of ever being found by its master.
Magdala took a cautious step forward, then jumped back in horror. She had thought she might find a street dog thrashing about the garbage and excrement, but she met the eyes of a wolf: cold, frightened, other worldly. It was Judas. The sound from his throat was a lamentation and a plea, but the eyes were the same old eyes that Magdala always knew and feared. Her hand moved reflexively to her hip, where she hid a small dagger under the folds of her garment. She sensed that he was no threat to her, but her hand stayed firmly on the hilt of the knife. As she met his eyes and saw him trembling in shame and terror, a deep anger welled inside her. A deep slashing from his groin to his belly, she imagined, might put them both out of their misery.
“Go on, Magda, do it!” Judas growled. The words, echoing those she spoke only minutes earlier to the Roman soldiers, made her pause and she took her hand from the dagger and instead used her hand to strike Judas hard across the face. “You pig, you traitor! I won’t do it for you.”
“I want to die.”
“Good, Judas, because you deserve to die, but I won’t help you. Find a sharp knife or a slow poison or a low hanging branch and do it yourself.” She pauses just a moment, searching his face for an explanation. “Why, Judas? Why did you do this?” He looks at her defiantly and she now probes his eyes hoping to understand. “Were you jealous of him? Because of how people flocked to him? Because of his power?”
“No.”
Were you angry with him? Had he offended you? Or perhaps because he preferred Peter or one of the others to you?”
“No. He didn’t prefer any of them to me! He knew he could always count on me.” And the hint of pride and defensiveness when he said this surprised Magdala.
“And yet you betrayed him. Or are you saying he wanted you to betray him?”
“No, dammit, of course not, no!” She hesitates a moment and then a thought so evil and trite occurs to her that she assumes it might be true. “How much, Judas? How much did they pay you to betray our friend?” she asks through clenched teeth.
“It wasn’t the money. It was never the money.” She is disgusted; now she knows for sure: “How much, damn you? A hundred silver shekels? Perhaps a bag of gold?” Judas looks at her with anger, but answers quietly. “No gold. They offered me 30 silver pieces. It angered me… at first, but they said I could do so much good with the silver. I have always wanted to do good. It made sense to take the money. It is what Yeshu’a would have wanted me to do. To, to, to take care of the poor.” She is on him in an instant, beating him about the head and kicking his body. He doesn’t fight back any more than Peter had; he hardly makes an effort to protect his face from her blows. “How dare you! How dare you twist this to make it seem that Yesu would approve!”
Judas sullenly answers, “You think you knew him. You think you were closer to him because you wanted him to be close to you. But he loved me more. Not you!” Magdala is speechless. What the hell is going through his muddled mind? How could he now speak of love? He was acting like a jealous child who thinks his mother pays more attention to a sibling. “You confused, disgusting little worm. What are you talking about?”
Judas was finding it hard to breathe and the dank smell of the alleyway seems to make the air even harder to inhale. He sits limply against the wall of the alleyway silently and then looks up again: “Magda, I loved him. I loved him more than my own life.” Magdala, unrelenting, answers calmly: “If you loved him more than life, then you owe him yours. Stop whining like the coward you are and just get it over with.”
“I loved him!” Judas screams louder and the confession sounds more like a curse. “My God, Magda, I loved him as you loved him, more than anything, more than anyone.”
“What are you saying? That you betrayed him because you loved him?”
Judas shakes his head dejectedly and laughs bitterly. “No, Magda, not because I loved him. I betrayed him because he loved me. I couldn’t escape his love. He kept looking at me, smiling at me, expecting more and more from me! Each smile a command; each embrace another demand. I could not get him out of my mind and out of my heart. I was suffocating from his love!” His voice lowers, it was almost a whisper, like the murmuring of a forlorn lover, full of anguish and self-pity. “I needed to break free. I needed to get away. Don’t you see? The only way to overcome such love is to rebel against it, to betray it.” He looks up at Magdala and shakes his head, “I knew he wasn’t going to stop loving me no matter what. I could berate that fool Miriam for squandering oil to wash his feet and he would still love me. I could steal from our common purse and he would forgive me immediately. I betrayed him to the Sanhedrin and….” His voice begins to crack, and a low, deep moan rises up from his lungs. “Magdala, in the Garden, when I brought the soldiers to arrest him, I started to shake. I, I don’t know what came over me, but when I saw him so vulnerable and alone, I grabbed him and kissed him. He knew what was going on, but he put his arms out to me and enfolded me. He stroked my hair and kissed me. He kissed me! Magdala, he was being arrested and he kissed me! He kissed me!! My God, even my betrayal could not stop him. His love is relentless, remorseless! Damn him! Damn me! Damn all of us!”
Magdala looked at him confused and astonished. She couldn’t comprehend what gibberish he was speaking. “What do you mean? Don’t you see? It was his love that freed us all! It was his acceptance of each of us as we are that made this miserable life worth living. Finally, Judas, finally after meeting Yesu I could breathe! For the first time in my life I could breathe, and feel the sun’s warmth, and enjoy the cool air of the evening. His love did not suffocate; his love could liberate us all.”
Judas looked up at her dumbly. Her words were equally incomprehensible gibberish to him. How could she not see how Yeshu’a had ensnared them all with his love; that they all were trapped and needed to break away to be free. “You’re so wrong, Magda. He never accepted us as we are! He only accepted us where we were. Don’t you see the difference? Yes, yes, sure, he loved us, but he was never satisfied with any of us. When he saved that whore from being stoned, did he tell her that he accepted her as she was? No, he told her to go and sin no more! He never accepted any of us as we are! That is the great lie. He only loved us where we are and then pushed us along his path to be something else.” Judas stopped. He even stopped breathing for a moment and looked at her as if she were his last chance: “You don’t understand me. You don’t understand at all.”
At this Magdala laughed a loud, bitter laugh. “I don’t understand you? You fool. I do understand you. I understand you all too well. But you don’t understand yourself. Can’t you see, Judas? Don’t you yet understand?” He stared at her silently, so she continued: “Yes, you are right he loved us, and he always expected more from us. But what was it he expected? What path did he push us forward on? Was it not the path to ourselves, Judas? Tell me, Judas, do you feel more—or less—yourself now that you have betrayed him? Do you feel free now, Judas?”
“I am not sure I feel anything anymore” he moaned, but she cut him off sharply. “What nonsense! Just another self-delusion, you fool. You feel too much now; not too little. But you feel less yourself now. You feel more trapped inside yourself than ever before in your life. Betraying him has not freed you, has it? Killing him has not made it easier to breathe has it?”
“I am free! I am! Now I don’t have to feel him looking inside me and judging me and loving me! I am free now!” he screamed and then started to wail a loud, animal sound of anguish. The darkness seemed to deepen as his wailing softly echoed down the alleyway. Magdala felt a shiver of some uncertain fear and reflexively wrapped her cloak tighter about her. The village was deserted. Only the two of them and that low guttural wail filled the air and the emptiness.
“Poor Judas,” she said and for once there was no mocking bitterness in her voice. “You poor, broken thing,” she spoke gently and then smacked him again hard across the face. Blood oozed from the left corner of his lip, but he hardly winced. “Look at you, Judas, look what you have done to yourself?”
“I am a man. A free man! Better than all you slaves who doted on him and craved his affection and approval! I’m free. Finally!”
“If that is so,” Magdala spoke matter-of-factly, “then why are you weeping? If you have escaped, then why cry at all?” She looked at the blood dripping from his mouth and felt nothing; she looked at the fear in his eyes and at last felt pity for him: “Judas, you foolish man, you still love him and he still loves you. You are still trapped in his love.”
Judas said nothing. He lowered his body to the ground and lay there, covering his face with his cloak. His body shook and trembled. Magdala looked down on him and said a quiet prayer for him. She turned away slowly, there was nothing more she could do or say. She returned to Miriam’s house, strangely comforted.
The house was still brightly lit with oil lamps and torches although it was now well past midnight. Peter was still there. Mary had given him a soft blanket of Egyptian cotton to wrap around his shoulders, and was now busily warming some broth for a late-night meal. Miriam was sitting at Peter’s feet, as she once sat at Yeshu’a’s. But she was not there to learn from him, nor to wash the coward’s feet, thought Magdala. She was doing what she always did: she was just being there, calming the chaos around them by sitting quietly and refusing to do anything useful.
No one greeted her when she entered the room. They didn’t allow their eyes to meet hers. They weren’t angry with her. They just knew it was best to leave her be until she was ready to be with them. Magdala decided not to tell them about her talk with Judas; she didn’t want to cause Mary any further heartbreak, and she certainly didn’t want to allow Peter any opportunity to lighten his own guilt by reminding him that there was another who was even more treacherous, more despicable than himself.
Finally, Magdala asks, “Have you heard from any of the others?” Peter explains that after the arrest all the disciples scattered, except John who stayed behind and Judas who seemed to be part of the group that arrested Yeshu’a. This news shocks Mary and Miriam. Magdala looks on stonily as Peter recites how Judas may have played a role in his own teacher’s arrest and death. Miriam, after a moment of silence, nods her head and explains that it should not be a surprise to anyone: “Remember how angry Judas was when I used the nard from India to wash Yeshu’a’s feet and hair?”
“How can we ever forget that?” asks Peter. “Judas looked at the shattered alabaster jar as if you had broken something that belonged to him, rather than something that was your own. The greedy bastard.” Even in her sorrow, Mary won’t countenance such talk: “Judas was not a greedy man. He was genuinely concerned for the poor and for that he cannot be faulted.” Magdala looks at her in wonder. What kind of woman is this that can be so understanding even to her child’s killer? What kind of woman is this that even in her great sorrow can see clearly enough to know that greed would never motivate someone like Judas?
“Of course he was concerned for the poor, especially his poor self!” Peter growls. “I think,” explains Mary, “when my son rebuked him he was deeply hurt.” This is too much for Magdala: “You will even make excuses for the one who betrayed your child?” she asks, incredulous.
“I am not making excuses, Magda. I’m only speaking the truth as best I can see it. Judas was a good man. He had weaknesses like all men, good or bad. But he loved my son more than he loved gold.”
“Then why did he betray him?” Peter asks dumbfounded.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure even Judas knows why he did it. All I know is that Yeshu’a forgives him and I hope Judas realizes that.”
“Perhaps,” Magdala interjects, “perhaps it is worse for Judas knowing that Yesu forgives him.” Mary meets Magdala’s eyes and they look quietly at each other. Mary closes her eyes, a single tear runs down her cheek as she nods her head, “Yes, yes, I can see that. To be forgiven would crush Judas more.”
Finding the conversation unbearable, Miriam changes the subject. “Magda, we should go to the tomb in the morning and bathe the body with ointments.” Peter looks down at Miriam and the fear in his voice is obvious to all three women: “No! The Romans are guarding the tomb. There is no reason to be reckless. We should stay away for a few days.” He quickly turns to Mary and apologizes, “Mary, I am so sorry. We all love him and miss him, but he would not want us to risk our lives for this. What good can come of going to his tomb while the soldiers are still there?”
Magdala laughs uproariously. “Ah, Peter, I can see why Yesu chose you to be our leader. Always so concerned for our lives, always so sensible and pragmatic.” Mary moves away from the fire and approaches Magdala. “Magda, sweet child, please don’t be so hard on Peter. He is right that my son would not want us to needlessly risk our lives.”
“Mary, I love you as my own mother, but doing what is needless, being sometimes reckless, in the name of love is exactly what your son would expect of us.” She looks at them, each in turn, and then sighs. “But it is foolish for all of us to go. I cannot sleep anyway and I suspect that one woman alone will not be seen by the soldiers as a threat. Miriam, get me a jar of your finest nard. And some of the finest linen cloth you have. I will go alone. I would welcome the time alone with my master and teacher.”
The Morning of the Third Day
It was still dark, but the dawn hinted toward the horizon. The slimmest of light bent along the distant ridge and glistened along its ragged edges. The moon had already set and there was not enough light for Magdala to make her way without stumbling. The road from Bethany to Jerusalem would have been difficult enough to discern, but the path she needed to take to the outskirts of the great city was narrow, rocky and hard. As she walked along it, her cloak being caught constantly in thorny brambles as she moved along listlessly, she remembered one of her friend’s favorite stories about the seeds that were prodigiously scattered by the farmer, falling here and there, among the rocks and thickets and fertile ground. She had puzzled over this parable for many nights and finally gave up ever understanding fully, but she always suspected that the practical minded had missed the real point by thinking that only the seed planted in the fertile soil was valuable. She could not help thinking, as she walked along this ragged path, her ankles scraping against the rocks and her clothing now full of bramble thorns, that Yesu had come for all those “seeds” that God bothered to scatter here and there and everywhere. The God that Yesu spoke of was prodigal in dispensing life and in dispensing love. It was an insight that most never grasped. Life, and love, were everywhere. No wonder Judas felt besieged, she sighed. There really was no escaping God. And she felt a pang of sorrow and a deeper pang of regret that she had not tried harder to console Judas in his torment.
She walked along for another hour lost in her thoughts but certain of her path, until she reached a low summit from where she could spy in the distance an outcropping of stones only a few stadia away. The sun, a small sliver of flame now, was bulging from the horizon like a mustard seed breaking through the earth, and her rays were already scattering haphazardly here and there with reckless abandon. She was sure that outcropping was the site where her master had been lain to rest. A few minutes later, the sight of Roman armor scattered near the entryway to a cave seemed to confirm she had the right place. But why on earth would Roman soldiers ever leave their post? And without all their equipment? she wondered. This made no sense at all, and she trembled, fearing that the soldiers had been killed and her master’s body stolen and desecrated.
How could anyone do this? Why would anyone do this? She was horrified and thought she might lose all control, but it was only her footing she lost as she started too rapidly down the escarpment. The sudden need to focus to control her descent helped her keep control of her emotions as she now more steadily approached the outcropping and tomb. She was struck by the silence all about her as she moved to the very threshold of the tomb, but she dared not enter. The rock that had been placed against the opening had been shattered and now lay as scattered rubble all about her. Two heavy Roman shields and one helmet lay among the rubble and she worried that the soldiers who left in obvious haste might be back soon to retrieve their equipment to avoid punishment.
Magdala felt an urgency to do something before the soldiers returned or someone else showed up. She hesitated, she moved nearer the opening and then again backed away. She wavered in indecision. A rare situation indeed for her! A flurry of contradictory feelings swept over her: fury that someone might have taken the body, fear that the Romans might soon return, confusion that the tomb had been desecrated. Now, adding to this mix of emotions: surprise and wonder. Magdala opened her mouth but no words came forth. She opened her eyes ever wider and yet she was sure she was not seeing what she saw. Now she was frozen as joy overwhelmed her and she brimmed with tears and her body shook with fear and delight. There standing before her was who appeared to be her friend, her love, her teacher, her master, and her way. She fell to the ground, but she kept her head tilted upwards. She dared not tear her eyes from the vision, fearing it might disappear if she lost sight of it for even a moment. She started to heave and weep and even laugh as she bit hard her own hand to stop the prodigious flow of emotions. Yesu smiled at that. Magdala’s inclination toward self-destruction and her many self-inflicted wounds made many think her possessed by demons, but this was different. She was happy, ecstatic, overwhelmed with surprise and awe.
Yeshu’a commanded her to get to her feet, but she stayed on her knees, her arms now wrapped tightly about His knees. All the power of the universe—that could restore life to a man and hope to the world—could not cajole her to her feet. He bent low to rustle the hair of her head and tried again: “Magdala, please rise. I wish to greet you properly.” But she just shook her head violently, her eyes now tightly shut, and her arms even tighter about his legs as her body heaved in paroxysms of joy and shock. He gently raised her face toward his, her iron grip loosening, and He slowly bent himself downward, meeting her at her level, His knees now also settling in the dust and rock. Magdala now grabbed Him about his neck and sobbed loudly as He rocked her in his arms. She thought she would die from joy.
Eventually He coaxed her to a standing position and smiled at her as she tried to find the right words. She gave up trying. “My Lord, I have been missing you. I have been so lost without you. But how can this be?” She cradled his face with her trembling hands; he took her hands in His own and He gently kissed each hand in turn. Yesu looked at her again with that same affection that erased all her afflictions so long ago, and she thought she would collapse, but she willed herself to steadiness and silence as he spoke. “Magda, it is enough that it has been done according to God’s will. How can it be is not as important as why it must be. My dying is a ransom for many, a gift of love from my Father to all mankind.” Magdala looked at Him as if He were speaking a different language, and just shook her head in confusion. “I don’t understand.” He smiled, kissed her forehead, and said, “You will. It will all become clear to you and the others as time passes. For now, please go directly and inform Peter and John and all the others of what you have seen. I am sending them forth as apostles to preach the good news that I Am.”
“But why, Master? They deserted you. They are all cowards!” He tried to interrupt, but in her rage she pushed His words aside: “They deserve death. If I had the courage, I would slit their throats for deserting you!” He took a deep sigh and tried again, admonishing her gently: “Magda, your devotion has always been your great virtue, but your thirst for hard justice is still your deadliest sin. Go and do as I have asked. I have chosen you above all others to be the first to witness my resurrection, and now I send you forth to those I will send forth to spread my word.” He looked at her lovingly and she felt ashamed for her hardness toward his chosen Twelve. But that very thought reminded her of Judas, yet before she could ask, Yesu answered: “There are now Eleven.” Her fear for Judas surprised her; perhaps she was finally learning of a greater good than mere justice. “And what of Judas, my Lord?” and tears of pity welled in her eyes. Yesu spoke softly, but there was no sorrow nor judgement in his voice: “Judas, our beloved, is lost in the darkness.” Remembering the anguished look on Judas’ face, Magdala’s heart ached and she begged Yesu to rescue him. Yesu again smiled wryly and nodded approvingly: “Already, Magda the Unforgiving becomes Magda the Openhearted. Already, your hardness begins to crumble.” He hesitated a moment more and continued, “This is all in his own hands now. He must choose to stay in the dark or struggle to find the light. It will not be easy for him; he is on a path that leads into an uncharted wilderness.” Magda felt a wave of despair engulfing her as she pondered His words. Yeshu’a understood her thoughts and added, “Judas will always be loved, but that is not always enough. In truth, that very love that alone can save him, he recoils from. He fears that love and that love, he believes, now suffocates him. He is like a fish that fears water and yet needs that water to live. He is drowning in darkness, but I promise you this: we will never give up on him.”
Time was passing and Magdala sensed that Yeshu’a wanted her to find the Eleven immediately and convey His message to them. She felt an overwhelming sense of contentment, and yet she hesitated. “My Lord,” she spoke slowly, deliberately, searching for the right words. None came, so she just burst out, “My Lord, I am only a woman! No one will believe that I saw you! Why did you not first appear to Peter or John or one of the others?” For the briefest of moments Yeshu’a’s face hardened, then softened again. The momentary sternness was almost undetectable. “Those men must necessarily be the primary channel for conveying the good news to the world as the world now is, but you are my messenger to those messengers and that is a message the world cannot forever ignore.” She marveled at the implications of this seemingly inconsequential act. Yesu chose her to be the first witness deliberately! Despite—or more exactly, because of—hundreds of years of tradition and false faith that discarded the value of women and dismissed as unreliable their witness, He chose her. It would take many lifetimes, but Yesu was sending a clear message of love, forgiveness, and— moral equality—to the world.
But Magdala still hesitated to leave. She was eager to tell the others and she was brimming with confidence and joy, but leaving Yeshu’a was almost unbearable. He understood her reluctance and sighed, touched her cheek, and gently urged her to hurry. She bit her lower lip, a bad habit from her childhood that she reflexively engaged in whenever her parents told her to do something she knew she needed to do, but just didn’t want to. “Magda,” He laughingly scolded her, “you are not much of a messenger just standing here!” She gasped, reddened, hugged Him desperately, and turned away running as fast as she could go, slipping but never falling on the rocky path as she made her way back to Bethany.
She should have been out of breath by the time she got back to Miriam’s house, but her body felt transformed and invigorated. The courtyard was empty, but as she burst through the front door she found Peter all alone, sitting in a dark corner, his arms wrapped about his knees as he rocked absently back and forth, muttering words of anguish. The slamming of the door startled him enough to look up, but upon seeing Magdala he quickly lowered his eyes and froze, his arms still tightly around his bent legs.
She almost laughed. Such a little boy, she thought. Then she did laugh: “How could Yeshu’a have ever chosen you as the leader?” But there was no anger or bitterness anymore in her voice; only wonder and amusement. Even in his broken state Peter was able to see the change in Magdala’s voice and he looked up at her again in confusion. “Get up, get up, up, do you hear me? Up!!” and with a mighty yanking of his left arm she pulled him upright. Her strength startled him, but her eyes, full of light and laughter, made him wonder if she had gone mad. “Peter, Peter, He lives! He is alive!” He stared at her blankly, wondering what the hell and who the hell she could possibly be talking about.
“Magda, I don’t understand? I…” But she cut him off, saying, “I don’t understand either! And I don’t care to understand how or even why! But He lives. Our Lord. Yeshu’a. I saw Him. He talked with me. He touched me. He told me to come find you and the others.” A flash of anger passed over his face, but Peter had no strength or even desire to be angry with her. He could see how distraught she had been and how much she loved Yeshu’a. He would not add to her pain by getting angry with her. Instead, he took hold of both her arms and spoke to her with all the gentle condescension that she was used to from men. “Magda, He is gone. He is dead. We all loved Him, we all miss Him, but we must accept the fact that He is gone forever.” That tone normally would have put Magdala into a tailspin of fury and outrage, but not today. It seemed to her somehow sacrilegious and improper to be anything but kind and joyful this day.
She removed his burly arms from her own arms and gently held both his hands in hers, an intimate gesture that would have shocked most of their fellow Jews, if any had seen it. She looked into his eyes and smiled: “I am not crazy. I have not lost my mind. And my eyes have not fooled me. I saw Yeshu’a. Right outside of the cave where they had buried Him. He is alive, Peter.”
Peter was exasperated. Why are women always so weak? he wondered. Why can’t they just accept the facts? But he loved Magdala and admired her courage. She did not, he ruefully recalled, run away like he had and she never gave a damn what anyone thought about her… except Yeshu’a. “Magda, please, please, don’t do this.” She shook her head and firmly shook his hands, squeezing them until he winced in pain. “Listen carefully, Peter. You do not have to believe me. I can see that is too much for you. Just amuse me. Just help me gather the others together and wait with me. Yesu will be with us this very day.”
It was the least he owed her. “Fine, fine, John is nearby and maybe one or two others. We will bring them here and we will… wait.” He felt immense sorrow knowing how heartbroken she would be when Yeshu’a did not show up later today. She would then insist they wait again tomorrow. And then the next day and the next. Eventually, he could see, she would go mad and be lost again as she was before, before Yeshu’a showed her the way back to sanity. Magdala understood his thoughts and just rolled her eyes. Tolerating men, she lamented, is always such a damn challenge. We would still be in the Garden, she concluded, had God seen the wisdom of only creating women.
Within two hours Peter had brought John and two others to the house. In the meantime, Miriam and Mary had returned. They all sat around the fire now raging in the courtyard as the sun was rising higher in the sky and all their hopes were fading. All the men were already certain that this was a foolish endeavor, but one that their love of Magdala and respect for Mary required them to endure. After another hour, as a cool wind blew in from the desert and Miriam went inside to get blankets for her guests, Peter had had enough: “He is dead, Magda.” “Yes, Peter, He was dead. Now He lives. Be patient.” Peter threw a furtive glance toward Mary; he did not want to hurt or offend her. “Magda, Yeshu’a was my friend too. I loved Him more than life itself.” And having said those words he immediately felt a pang of guilt and steadied himself, expecting Magdala’s reminder that actually he loved life far more than he loved his friend. His threefold denial proved that beyond any doubt. Dammit, why did he say that! But his statement was only met by silence. Magdala was not going to accuse him again of cowardice and betrayal. He was surprised, but relieved. But a greater shock soon overwhelmed him. Magdala tugged playfully at his long, filthy hair and assured him: “Peter, I know that is true. You do love Him more than life itself. We all falter now and then, Peter. It doesn’t matter. He does not condemn you for running away, and neither do I.” He was bewildered, as were all the others, even Mary. What, they all wondered, had come over Magdala?
Thomas entered the courtyard, with that aura of aloofness that sometimes grated on his friends. Clearly irritated, he asked if the rumors were true, had Magdala actually spread this silly lie about Yeshu’a being alive. “How can you believe this nonsense?” Magdala smiled impishly: “It is not nonsense, Thomas. It just doesn’t make much sense to those who rely too much on their senses.” Thomas turned toward her disdainfully. “You. You? You are just a woman. Why would Yeshu’a appear to you first? Why appear to you at all? We were His closest friends, not you. And your witness is worthless. No one will believe a woman!” Peter, who believed every word Thomas was saying, nonetheless strode toward him for mocking Magdala.
Mary, in the shadows still, started to speak. Peter heard Mary’s voice and that was enough to stop him. It is unlikely he even heard what she had said; just her voice was enough to soothe and calm him. His glare turned into a sullen stare and he found himself lost somewhere in that vast wasteland between violence and restraint. He kept staring at Thomas, but could no longer summon up the fury to hit him. Thomas, unaffected by Mary’s voice, went on the offensive. “Brave Peter. You raised a sword in the Garden, and then ran faster than the rest of us when you saw Him arrested.” Peter looked down and could not lift his eyes from the ground as Thomas heaped one insult upon another.
“Stop it! What is wrong with you, Thomas? Miriam asked. “If you don’t believe Magda that is your choice. If you want to think us all fools and Peter a coward that also is your choice. Just go. No one is making you stay. Go on. Go!” From anyone else such words would sound tame, but hearing them from Miriam struck the others as unusually harsh. Thomas winced. Had anyone, he wondered, ever been so scolded by Miriam in all her life? “Then I will go. I will not dishonor His memory with these children stories.” He turned to Mary, realizing how deeply his words must cut, “I’m sorry Mary. I loved your son as much as any of these others. I will never get over His death. But neither will I ever soothe my pain with lies and fables. I love Him too much to deny the truth. He is dead. He is gone forever.”
Peter spoke. “Come with me, Thomas. Come to the tomb right now. Let’s see for ourselves.” Thomas looked at Peter with something close to affection and closer to pity, shook his head silently, and walked out of the courtyard into the noonday sun and his darkness.
All the others were upset, except Mary. She walked up to Magdala and embraced her. She took her hand and brushed her hair from her eyes. Mary loved Magdala greatly, but found the way her hair dangled over her eyes as unbecoming. Mary smiled and embraced her again. Magdala understood the smile was a form of gentle admonishment for her unkempt hair and started to laugh. “You are so different for all of us, Magda. I am not surprised that my son chose to appear to you first.” Magdala looked at her confused as Mary continued: “God chose me to be His mother. His first follower and in a sense His first disciple. But now God has chosen you to be the first to see Yeshu’a at His resurrection. You, Magda. Not rock-headed Peter, not loving and beloved John. None of the men. No, He chose you. Do you not see the irony? Can you comprehend what this means? A mere woman—who cannot even be a witness in court, who cannot give testimony before the priests—has been chosen to be first among all others. You were there when he took His last breath; and you were there to witness that He still breathes. To testify to all of us. And preach to us. And reassure all of us, Magda.”
Miriam stood quietly at the edge of the other two and her silence was deafening. Magda drew her into the circle of women, and for the first time really saw her as she was and loved her beyond reckoning. Something was happening to them all as they stood about in the courtyard. They were changing; they were all becoming more themselves. “Miriam, you know He liked you best. He once told me that you were what heaven must be like. I didn’t understand what He meant until now. You are so detached from the pettiness of this earth and this life.” Miriam smiled and hushed her, “He did not appear to me. He was right to choose you. I am happy He chose you.” Magdala laughed and interrupted, “Exactly! You see? You are the only one who doesn’t care that He chose someone else to appear to first! And in not choosing you, He chooses you! He knows you are beyond that need for reassurance, for affirmation.” Mary nodded her head and finished Magdala’s thought: “You were not the first nor the strongest nor the brightest nor the leader of the rest. You care not. You loved my son unconditionally. You loved Him as you breathe, without even thinking about it; without the slightest hint of decorum or propriety or care. Without regard to his status in the world, nor your own. You are a message to all of us, Miriam, on how we should be, on who we should be.”
Peter looked intently at the three women and his doubts evaporated. Their love for one another and their love for him crushed his doubts and shattered his fears. He believed. He felt infused with a spirit of certainty and elation and he could barely constrain himself another moment. “I believe you, Magda. I believe you!” and he ran out the door, nearly knocking John to the floor as he exited. Turning his head toward John as he ran off, he screamed, “John, John! He is risen. Our Lord is alive!” John’s heart leapt with love and together they ran toward the tomb. Peter, the elder, the heavier, the lesser loved and the greater burdened, outran John and wept uncontrollably as they approached the empty tomb.
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The featured image is “Sorrow of Mary Magdalene at the Body of Christ” (1867) by Arnold Böcklin and is in the public domain, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
