Mary of Magdala tells her story (imagined by Pam, my wife)

Mary of Magdala: Apostle to the Apostles: by Pam Thorn Yesterday, Easter Day, the daily eMailing during the Covid 19 crisis to our three parishes to the East of Cambridge included this reflection on Mary’s story which we know was much appreciated by several of our parishioners. I feel it deserves a wider audience. Pam writes Some of you may know that I have spent time during the past few years painting icons. I hasten to assure you, I am no artist, but with the help of teachers much more competent than I am, I now have a small collection of completed icons. My latest, and she gazes at me as I sit in my chair, is Mary Magdalene. When I am painting an icon, I have hours of contemplation of my work, and at times, of the subject of my work. Mary Magdalene has long held a special place in my heart, and as I have learned more of her, I have come to appreciate her more and more. So perhaps you would like to come with me, this Easter Day, and hear from Mary Magdalene herself, as I imagine what that very first Easter Day might have been like according to the Gospel of John: I had not slept since that dreadful night when after our Passover Meal, Jesus was arrested in the garden. Oh yes, I was there, at the meal, and in the garden, and throughout the terrible, terrible hours of torture and torment that Jesus endured, until, at last, his pain was ended. ‘It is finished’, he cried in anguish. That was one of the most amazing things about Jesus, that I and the other women still treasure. We were always included. He often told all his friends that men and women would be equal in His kingdom, so were equal as friends during those years of His teaching us all.  Of course, some of the men grumbled, especially the ones who were more strict in their religious understanding. Peter was sometimes extremely grumpy that we were there. So, on that morning, when the Sabbath was over, I was exhausted, but also so distraught that I just had to go and be near Him, be near His body, even if he was locked away in his tomb for ever.

I crept through the streets, before dawn, afraid to disturb anyone. The others were all terrified that we would be next, now that they had succeeded in killing Jesus, which is why the rest of the friends locked themselves away. I didn’t care, what more could they do to me, they had killed my Lord, my Master, my friend, my everything. Death would have been welcome. When I got to the garden, the sun was just beginning to rise, and huge shadows were cast by the rocks. I clung to the shadows, afraid that I might be turned away – I so needed to be near Him. When I reached the tomb, I could not work out what had happened. The huge stone, which had sealed the cave had been rolled to one side. That was extraordinary, it had taken a lot of men and some ropes to put it into place. I didn’t dare look in to start with, you can imagine how scary it all was. But, when I did, there was just nothing there, just the empty linen cloths! How could that be! I had seen Him wrapped up, and laid in there. I must admit, I panicked then! You all know the rest of that story. I ran all the way to find Peter and John, and they came running back. I followed more slowly, I was quite out of breath by then. And, then they were off again, to tell the others. What happened next remains in my mind and heart, and will until the day I die. From behind me, I heard a voice. I turned round, and I couldn’t see who it was standing there, my eyes were so full of tears. ‘Mary’, he said. Just like that. ‘Mary’, and I knew, I just knew He was there, with me. I tried to touch him,  but he moved backwards, out of my grasp. ‘Do not hold onto me’. Oh, he said some more, but I will forever hear him say just my name, just as he used to. Some people do not believe that I was the first person to see Jesus alive, after all that had happened. As if it could possibly have been a woman!  When gazing at my icon, here in my living room, I can almost hear those first words that Jesus said to her. No wonder Pope Francis declared that she is to be remembered as the Apostle to the Apostles! Happy Easter, however you are spending it!

Paschale

Lamb of God Zurbaran

Unreported moments from First Century Jerusalem - Easter Day

Paschale.

Whoever heard of a sacrificial lamb fighting back?

Normally they just bled and died.

But this one, this Paschal Lamb

transformed the Temple's butchery block

into a field of glorious conquest,

conquering the sin, the hate,

and the devilification

that had been laid upon him.

For, on a cheerless Sabbath night,

flayed, pierced, pinioned;

unquestionably dead 

from a shameful spit hanging,

laid upon a slab of stone:

he triumphantly, gloriously

broke free of every natural constraint,

whilst earth trembled with awe

as it was touched by heaven.

Death and sin, he demonstrated

to a sick and troubled world

could not hold him.

Death and sin he demonstrated

to a sick and troubled world

could not hold us!

From his eternal throne,

‘Arise, my friends’, he cries, ‘Arise!’

‘You who have been faithful,

like the women who watched,

waited and discovered my empty tomb, arise’

‘I have fought death, I have fought sin

I have conquered.’

‘And my beloved flock, the triumph is for you.

Arise!’

You will find other Lent, Holy Week and Easter poems, songs and meditations HERE

Bleak Sabbath

Unreported moments from First Century Jerusalem (8)
Bleak Sabbath

Empty as an inverted pitcher,
every hope, every bright hour,
every wonderment at a miracle
quashed by three vicious nails and an alien spear
thrust deep into the side of my most precious love.

Friends? I know not where they are. 
Hiding like me?
Full of fear?
Fled from the city
for the safety of home
and work they understand?

Oh where, oh where might they be?
I weep as I have never wept before – for the death of him
who filled us with hope and joy;
at the remembrance of horror
I thought I would never have to bear;
at the thought of his once beautiful body 
lifeless in a stone-cold tomb.
And with gut-wrenching anxiety
for my own pitiable life.
There is nothing to live for,
I am utterly undone.
Let the mountains fall on me.
I feel I cannot bear another day.
Yet I will cry out to the Father
to whom he taught us to pray ...

Listen to the poem read by the author

This audio file is stored in a Dropbox account and if you follow the link, you may be invited to sign in or create an account in Dropbox. If that happens, it should be possible to use the exit button (top right) and be let in to listen to the reading without signing in.

This is part of a Lent and Easter collection which includes a Palm Sunday re-imagination, and other ‘unreported moments from fist century Judea. These can be accessed HERE

Detailed for Friday’s Crucifixions/ The Cross of the Creator

Two poems for this most holy of days

Unreported moments from First Century Jerusalem (6)
Detailed for Friday’s Crucifixions
See; a Centurion, a man under orders:

consider his duties, what they might have been.

To drive the prisoners to their vile execution,

whip up anger against them, until it’s obscene.

Prevent any rescue, or forfeit your own life;

rubbish all hints of the prisoners’ good,

defile them, destroy any dignity left them;

stir up the crowd, make them lust after blood.

Ensure crucifixions, without mercy and deadly;

let your men revel in the shedding of blood:

make sure that death is the end of the scumbags:

then -

traumatically realise - 

one was – ‘Son of God’.

The Cross of The Creator

Is this the ultimate paradox?

The Co-Creator of the Cosmos,

The Lord of Eternity,

The High King of Heaven,

is bloodied, humiliated, defiled;

then heaved and nailed

onto crossed beams of wood,

whose grain had woven itself

in patterns He had imagined

down the aeons of evolution

of this, His precious planet.

Gethsemane: The Healing

Credit ignatianspirituality.com

Unreported moments from First Century Jerusalem (5)
Gethsemane: The Healing 
The utter silence of the Universe
Is settled here, upon these hills
Where Jesus prays,
And we, unheeding, sleep.

E’en as he bids that sleep go on,
a murmur breaks from down below,
Which rises to a din
Of tainted oaths and strident steel
As anxious men
Come forth with Judas at their head.
Led by his familiarity, temptation
And our sin,
He stoops and in the jagged lantern light
Looks as one dead;
Yet gives the God of all
That fatal kiss
Which sets the seal
Of that most unjust night.

Upon the instant, tumult breaks,
Hands belabour Christ
And heave him off the ground
Then force him to his knees.
Profanities burst forth
in several tongues.
Terror and confusion,
Twin kith of Satan, reign:
Yet Christ shakes free.

Silence shamefully descends
And in a clear and fearless tone
The captive asks
“Whom seek ye”

“Jesus, Nazarene”, they cry.
Sullied epithets abound.
“I am he” he quietly says
and then from all around
shouts and renewed confusion abound.
Peter, blind with rage and fear
Grapples for a sword,
Lunges out to kill
But strikes a glancing blow
Which severs Malchus’ ear.
Christ hears the scream of pain,
Then turning, for a moment free again
touches him
And instantly, the ear regrows.

This poem has a 'sequel' in O Dare I Gaze Upon The Cross

To find other poems, meditations and hymns for LENT, HOLY WEEK and EASTER, Click Here

Foot Washing: Grime

Credit Noizeology.wordpress.com

Unreported Moments From First Century Jerusalem (4)
Foot Washing: Grime

Grime from rough-hewn, dusty paths

settles relentlessly between the toes

of calloused, sandalled feet,

grown sticky with the sweat of effort

of scrambling up a bank,

slithering round puddles

or hastening on the way,

close-knit friends, to meet.

Grubby, gritted, the feet of the baffled twelve, 

before whom Jesus substitutes his garments for a towel,

takes a bowl:

and then – 

- and then,

the Creator of the Cosmos

falls upon his knees,

casts away the last vestiges of power

and washes every fetid toenail,

hardpad heel and ankle raw,

with a  tenderness, surpassing any servant’s,

as the ‘punishment of slaves’ lurks outside the door.

Listen to this poem read by the author: Click Here

Other poems, hymns and meditations for Lent, Holy Week and Easter can be accessed here

A Temple Trader’s Glee

Unreported Moments From First Century Jerusalem (3)
A Temple Trader’s Glee

He lashed me with a rope of knots

And wrecked a whole day’s trade,

But I’ve just seen him flayed alive,

It’s been a great, great day!

For generations we have served

The people of this land,

By always having Temple coin

Kept readily to hand.

Exchanging it for Roman dross

Or valued artefacts,

Of course, we have made profits,

Even after sky-high tax.

The priestly leaders love us,

Our business keeps them clean

From handling ‘filthy lucre’,

which to them is quite obscene.

So when this Galilean

Disturbed the Festal flow,

When profit margins always peak,

He simply had to go.

The priests were quite ecstatic,

We’d drawn the Rabbi’s wrath,

And given them a reason just,

At least to have him flogged.

A Temple Traders’s Rant

Credit: Image found on 'Word On Fire' website

Unreported Moments From First Century Jerusalem (2)
A Temple Trader’s Rant.

'I've always loathed those Galileans:

Rough lot from up north.

Uncouth, stroppy. Ought to stay in their own territory.

And this one: well, he came from Nazareth.

Nazareth! I ask you. Anything good ever come out of there?

You could tell by his accent.

Not pure like those brung up in Jerusalem.

Yes! Even us temple traders talk nicer than that.'

'It was trouble from the moment he appeared.

He sort of strode in

With a glint in his eye and his jaw set.

Came determined to make trouble if you ask me.'

'Now, the family have been Jerusalem Temple traders for generations.

Father, his father and his father before him

And maybe even before that.

Each of us handing on the pitch from father to son

And each of us building up the contacts with the animal breeders 

So we knew, and still know, we sell the very purest 

Of animals for sacrifice.

Not a single blemish on our animals!

A bit pricey but as perfect as you'd find

anywhere in the Temple courtyards.

So we've built up our reputation over the years - ain't we?

And so - got a right to be there, we have

And I’d fight anyone who says we ‘aven’t.'

'So there we are, me and my brother

On one of the best-likely trading days of the year.

Passover only days away and the wealthy ones 

streaming in anxious to buy the best possible sacrifice.

Well, yes! Granted we had pushed the prices up a bit:

Ok, maybe - a big bit

But who wouldn't. Common sense ain't it?

'Cos it's not like this all year round

So we have to make the money to provide against leaner times.

And here we were, looking forward to a really profitable day.'

'Then, as I said, in he strides

With a whip in his hands. Rough sort of weapon really

Looked as if he'd made it himself.

And blow me

He starts to thrash the cattle and the sheep - 

All our beautiful stock.

Can you imagine the chaos?

The bleating, the bellowing - and the muck. 

Terrified animals everywhere. 

In no time, the floor as slippery as you can imagine

The cows slithered, the sheep crashed into each other.

I got in the way of an enraged cow

and that damnable Nazarene's whip.

Just kept laying about the animals - and us if we got in the way.'

'Bit of a nutter, I reckon - and he certainly made us mad

And the din. Shouting all round; obscenities, oaths -

Not quite the language of the temple.

Then above the racket

His strange Galilean voice rang out

'You have dared to make my Father's house a den of thieves’.'

'The very idea. Us. Thieves.

I’d have liked to have smashed his head

against one of the Temple pillars.

But he was wild, wild, wild

So I wasn't going to tangle with him

And anyway, I needed to get out and find the animals he'd driven away.'

'Personally, I blame the temple authorities, we pay ‘em enough.

Should have their guards at the porches

More alert to spotting troublemakers

Although in truth, I'm not sure anyone could have held him down.

Manic!'

'Lost four beautiful lambs

And two totally unblemished calves that day.

It'll take weeks to recover that money.

Just thinking about it makes me mad again.

That blaspheming so-and-so. Deserves to be damned-well crucified.' 

First Day of The Week: Palm Sunday

Credit: southernerneye.co.zw

Unreported Moments From First Century Jerusalem (1)
First Day of The Week: Palm Sunday

It was the strangest of First Days

I had ever known.

In the Temple, on the Sabbath,

the day before,

there had been whispers,

lots of rumours

that the long awaited Messiah

was coming.

The strongest and strangest rumour

was that it was Jesus,

carpenter-turned-Rabbi from Nazareth.

That felt improbable on both counts – 

a carpenter – from Nazareth?

But it was being said he had healed people

and given food to huge crowds up in Galilee.

He was, they said,

coming with a band of followers,

both men and women.

Coming from Bethany, they said.

So there I was,

waiting by the City gate

in the midst of an expectant, excited crowd.

If this was the moment 

The accursed Romans were to be swept away

I wanted to be part of it.

I had paused at the door before leaving

wondering about taking a dagger.

But if it all went wrong

and I was found by a soldier with a dagger;

that would mean prison at best

or more likely, crucifixion.

So I contented myself with the stout stick

I use when walking distances.

Heavy enough to break a sword arm

or do serious damage to a Roman skull,

and easy to toss away if pursued.

When I arrived, I noticed 

There were a lot of similar ‘walking sticks’ around;

the soldiers eyed them

and put hands meaningfully 

on vicious swords.

We waited.

People were growing restless,

then from the hill below came a

bubbling excited sound 

with the word ‘Hosanna’ being often repeated.

It grew louder,

and I stood on a boulder

to see what was happening.

That was a noisy, noisy group,

surrounding a man

who was obviously their Leader –

head high above the rest.

It was difficult to see

how he was that height – 

not high enough to be on a horse

which would have been logical

if he was going to lead a coup.

So perhaps on a portable platform,

maybe incorporating a throne:

that would make sense.

When they got closer, 

I could hear more of the chanting

‘Blessed is he who is coming

in the name of the Lord;

Hosanna, Hosanna’.

The crowd around the gate

were getting more and more excited

and taking up the cry

‘Hosanna, Hosanna’

and I admit I found myself shouting too -

even despite the presence 

of those accursed Roman soldiers.

It became more difficult to see,

Not easier!

People jumping up to get a view

and barging in front of me.

The shouting got louder and louder

and the soldiers grew more and more tense

as did the occasional Temple priest I saw

trying to look inconspicuous for once.

But me. I was adding my voice

To those of the hundreds – 

or was it thousands of restless,

jubilant people who clearly thought

they had found the Messiah.

Then the procession had to narrow

To get through the gate

so I could gradually see

some throwing coats down for him

with others tearing down palm branches

like a carpet.

Then suddenly I could see the Leader,

The one 

who was going to make Israel great again.

Hosanna!

Then, then, 

I could hardly believe my eyes.

This man, this great Leader,

This Messiah

Was riding 

A donkey!

A donkey, I ask you

What was that all about?

It stopped my ‘Hosannas’ dead in their tracks.

This is NOT someone 

who is about to send the Romans packing!

Oh! The disappointment of it!

Oh! The anti climax – the let-down.

How could I have been so beguiled?

I’m so angry with myself,

With the crowd-

But most of all with HIM.

HIM on a donkey – a donkey – a donkey

That’s what he has made of me.

I hate him

Even if others are going along with him:

I can’t imagine why.

I got away just as soon as I could.