Mary Magdalene

Quiet.  It is so quiet.

There are crowds of people all around me.  I can see them, hear them, but their noise does not bother me now.  Their voices are no longer angry and scornful.  They are filled with awe and wonder.  The faces that looked at me in horror and disgust are curious now.

I lie on the ground, feeling at ease.  I am in the dirt, but feel as if all is well.  In the midst of the voices around me, I hear one, kinder and more alluring than the others.  It is calling my name with such love and tenderness; my eyes fill with tears as they search for the speaker.

“Mary…Mary Magdalene.”  I found the source of my stillness.  As my vision cleared when my tears flowed through the filth on my cheek, I found the face filled with the tenderness that had vanished from my life when my grandfather died.  He was the only one who ever tried to understand that the violent, hate-filled beings that had tormented me for so long were not really me.  The anger and vile things that I said and did had been triggered by the attack on our village, that awful night.  He protected me fiercely afterward, regretting that he had not been there to save me from the violence that destroyed the woman my family thought I would become.

My father could not stand to look at, or be around me.  I was damaged, tainted, no longer worthy of his name of protection.  Even though what happened was against all of our people, I had the audacity to not die.  If I had died, he could have mourned my loss with dignity.

This memory caused more tears to flow, running down my face, dripping from my chin onto my torn and dusty garments.

“Woman, why are you crying?  Who is it you are looking for?” (John 20:15a)    I wiped my face with a dusty hand, smearing my cheeks as I struggled to find words.  It had been so long since I had reason or the ability to speak as myself.  I closed my eyes, and whispered, “You.”  Not knowing why I had said this, I opened my eyes quickly, to see this man who was more than a man, smiling at me. 

He helped me to my feet, something that men did not do for a strange woman.  I was unsteady, so he stood quietly, waiting for my trembling to stop.  I was unsure of what to do, so I kept my head down, trying to see him through my veil of tangled hair.  He nodded to someone I could not see, and two women, who smelled of clean oil and spices, gathered me between them and led me through the crowd.

They led me into a courtyard near the edge of the city.  There was serenity about them, and a reverent peace came over me as soon as we entered.  One of them said, “This is where Rabboni is staying tonight.  We must hurry and get you bathed and dressed before He returns.” 

They helped me bathe in a small stream that ran through a small, enclosed area behind the house. Then they dressed me in clean, sweet-smelling garments.  The fabric was rougher than the rags that I had worn, but I was grateful to them just the same.  Then they fed me fruit and bread with honey, and left me to sleep on a mat in the corner of the main room. 

I do not know how much time passed while I slept. I had not slept so well in a long time.  When I woke up, sounds of laughter filled the air.  For a moment, I thought that I was a child again, waking to the sounds of my parents and their friends sharing a meal.  But these were men’s voices, teasing one another like brothers.  It had been a long time since I was in a room filled with love.  Tears came again, as I held myself still, afraid that once I was discovered to be awake, I would be sent back into the street.

So I cried silently, pouring out the years that had been lost to the voices that shouted inside me, making me do and say things that I frightened me with the depth of true evil and wickedness.  My body slowly felt as if the invisible chains that had kept me from trying to reach out for help were crumbling into dust; leaving an outline around the void that I was left with.

“Mary.”  The voice that soothed, called my name.  My eyes fluttered open, looking directly into His warm, loving face.  His eyes reached deep inside of me, as I slowly raised myself to a sitting position.  I felt myself filling up with so many wonderful things.  Like perfumed oil being poured into a precious alabaster vessel.  The void in me was dispersed as he continued to look deep inside my very being.

He held out his hand.  It was a strong hand, with old scars from work they no longer did.  But this hand helped me stand up easily.  It was warm and clean and comforting.

“Mary, we are about to share a meal. Won’t you join us? 

 ^“Follow God’s example, therefore, 

as dearly loved children and walk in the way of love, 

just as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us 

as a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.”   

Ephesians 5:1-2

Written by 

Lynda Kinnard