Today is the Feast of St. Mary Magdalene. Years ago I wrote a novel about Jesus from Nicodemus's point of view; here's an excerpt from it featuring our saint of the day. Disclaimer: I know next to nothing about 1st century Judea, so I can only imagine this is ridiculously anachronistic.
I can sense, when I come back to Joseph's circle, that some think I am taking this too seriously. "It's fine if others want to meet Jesus," they say, but I can see in their faces they don't mean it. Only the crazy ones, the ones who have no lives of their own, would seek out the preacher instead of just mulling over his words.
I bring it up to Gamaliel, of all people--not because I think he'd be sympathetic, but he's the wisest man I know. "I don't want to just follow Jesus around from a distance. That tells me nothing about what he and his followers are really like. I wish there was some way I could spend some time among them, but they seem to be a closed circle." Plus, as a member of the Sanhedrin I have to be careful about my associations, but I don't need to mention this to Gamaliel.
He doesn't look up from his scroll. He just says casually, "Do you know who's with them? Your friend from Magdala."
"Mary's son?"
"No."
It can't be. "Mary?"
"She has found a new charity."
"But...what about her...?"
"Maybe you should try to see her yourself."
I had met Mary Magdalene years ago. She was one of the most generous patrons of the school where I taught. She'd come from a rich family and had been married to a wealthy aromatic oils merchant; after he died their son took over the business. What he earned, and what she already owned, kept her well provided for. She went with her son every year to Jerusalem for Passover. While in the city one year she discovered our school. She learned we wanted to seek out and teach poor students with an aptitude for becoming scribes. Without any advance notice she began sending us whatever we needed for their room and board and supplies. Every time she came back to Jerusalem she visited the school and thus got to know the teachers.
I was fond of her. The first time we met was a day I was late getting to the school. I came in my room and this voice, harsh as a raven's claw, challenged me: "Your students wish to learn from someone. They deserve a teacher who will be here on time."
I had been told a generous benefactress would be making a visit, so this strange woman's presence was not a shock. I looked at her lined face and in her sharp eyes and saw a hint of a smile. I said, "What teacher they deserve matters little; I am the teacher they have. Let us begin with Leviticus today, class."
From then on she greeted me with insults. She was fond of me too.
Mary Magdalene possessed a strange spirit; restless, intense. Though she came faithfully to crowded Jerusalem for the biggest festival of the year, she disliked being around so many people at once (she was there to humor her son, who used the occasion of a religious holiday to make business contacts). She spent much of the time in our quiet classrooms. She'd be foul-tempered on arrival and as demure as a kitten on departure--or the other way around. There was no way to predict it.
I spoke with her son about her sometimes when he came looking for her. "My father's death did this to her, I think," he whispered to me when she was busy terrorizing a student. "She used to enjoy life so much more. Now she sleeps for days or walks the house for hours. When she is active, she's furiously active, as if she's making up for lost time. I wonder if she isn't ruled by contrary forces."
The last time I saw Mary was the time she couldn't recognize me. She was standing in the street, staring up at the sky with her jaw slack and her frame trembling. I said "Mary!" She turned her face toward the sound of her name, but her eyes were dead blank.
"I'm so scared of it," she said. "I'm so scared. I'm so scared." Her voice was high and thin, a wind through reeds, nothing like her usual throaty tone. And still she shook so hard I wished I had a dozen blankets to wrap her in.
"Look at me," I begged, the hairs on my neck rising without my knowing why. "It's me. It's Nicodemus."
"I'm so scared."
When I tried to grab her by the shoulders (desperate for any way to help), she pulled back as if from fire, then turned and ran. I ran after her. I caught up with her on an unfamiliar street. She sank to the ground, alternately gulping air and wailing.
When her breath was back she knew me again. "I saw the Angel of Death in the sky," she confessed, head down and held in her hands. "It was huge and black. Its shadow covered everything. It wanted to swallow me up."
I couldn't think of what to say. We found our way back to where she and her son were staying. He pulled at my arm as I was leaving. "The priest has told me seven devils--why would any woman have seven devils, Nicodemus? Why would my mother? And what can I do?"
I couldn't think of anything to say to him either. They stopped visiting the school and I stopped hearing anything about how she was doing.
And now, it seems, I can find her with Jesus.
The preacher, I determine through careful inquiry, has a base of operations in Capernaum near all the fishing boats. I set off for the town with the stated intention of recruiting new students. I visit the market several days before I see her. She is at the head of a small army of women, arms laden with loaves.
"Mary!" I call. Her head turns. She gasps and walks over quickly, first handing her bread to her companions and issuing some kind of orders.
"Nicodemus! What are you doing here?"
I smile. "Looking for you."
She looks just as I remember, which is strange as she should look much older. Her eyes are still sharp but the lines around them curve differently; she is smiling more.
We walk the length of the market and back, almost shouting our catching-up stories to be heard over the criers at the stalls. I keep getting distracted by the smells of the fruit--I haven't eaten--and finally buy some grapes to feast on with my old friend.
She must know what I really want to ask. "I'm cured, Nicodemus. Jesus cured me."
"What did he do?"
"I don't know," she admits with a laugh. (It is so good to hear her laugh.) "But the devils are gone. I no longer see terrors in the sky or hear things other people can't. Even my rest is better. I don't sleep a full day anymore."
"And now you are a disciple?"
"I take care of them. I organized a group of women--mostly widows like me, women of means. We travel with Jesus and the apostles making sure they have enough to eat; we arrange places for everyone to stay as they go from town to town. They are not themselves practical, we've found. Oh, Jesus is very practical, but all the rest have been taken care of by their women all their lives. They don't know the first thing about providing for their survival."
"But you say Jesus does?"
"Oh yes," she says with another laugh. "Jesus knows the first thing. He knows who to ask for help!"
She takes another grape, chewing it slowly, watching the crowds as they jostle past. I realize suddenly what I am seeing. "Crowds don't bother you anymore?"
She shakes her head. "I am determined that nothing will bother me anymore. It's hard work but that's what I want.
"You know what I remember about being cured? Hearing Jesus' voice saying, 'You're free.' I remember thinking, 'I don't know what that word means.' It's what I intend to find out. I will not live like a captive. I will live a deliberate life, now that I've been given the chance." She gives me a challenge with her eyes just like she used to. Many a time I've withered under that glare. "So what about you, Nicodemus? You're not here to see an old woman, with or without devils."
"You're not an old woman."
"I'm older than you, and you're not young."
"Not as young as your current travelling companions."
"Oh!" She shrieks in mock rage. "I see what you think of me!"
I lower my voice. "I want to know more about them, Mary."
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