Woman in Red: Magdalene Speaks

by Krishna Rose

  It seemed as if the Heavens had come to earth to collect the soul of their fallen soldier, for never had I seen such a storm. The soldiers moved quickly, as if they too sensed an impending doom. The taller of them took a spear in hand and climbed upon a ladder which leaned eerily against Jesu’s cross. Reaching over, he thrust the sword forcibly into my husband’s side. Uncle Joseph cried out, and within seconds the sun was no longer visible in the sky. We were engulfed in a blanket of heavy darkness, darker than the darkest night. I shuddered with dread. I regarded my uncle’s astonishment, as he buried his face in his hands, through which trickled despairing tears. “Get him down!” he thundered.

  Quickly, for fear of the gods, the soldiers began urgently cutting at the base of the wooden cross, bringing Jesu’s lifeless body tumbling to the ground. Startled, we shrieked, slipping in the mud as we ran to him.

  The downpour intensified, and in its deluge, any exhaustion I felt, washed away. Slicing the ropes with their sharpened knives, the men drew the dense iron nails from Jesu’s feet and wrists. Blood oozed from his wounds—blood and water. I didn’t think of it then, but years later I pondered on that one thing. If he were dead, how could blood and water still drain from him? Thank the Lord no one else had that same thought.

  The Mary and I reached for his slightly warm corpse, touching him, despite the soldiers’ obligatory shoves as they attempted to keep us away. We were consumed with an intense concentration and a singular need to see if he still lived. Jesu’s head fell to one side as they lifted him onto a stretcher. He was without sign of life.

  Just as if the sun had disappeared from the sky, so too had Jesu left with it. ‘No more shall I watch his chest rise and fall,’ I thought. Such is the prostrating power of death. How a simple thing like breathing in and out, meant so much, yet had been relatively left unnoticed and under-appreciated. Now it mattered more than anything, and in that moment, I knew grief would come to be my constant companion.

  Some would claim Jesu was not so handsome to behold, but in my eyes, and the eyes of those who knew him, he was so much more than that. I had spent many moments scanning every inch of his nature, collecting memories of his limitless dignity and grace, knowing that one day I would likely have need to recall and retain him in some way. I had measured and maintained the tribute of every moment I was given with him, which I judiciously recorded.

  The Mary’s younger son John, surreptitiously covered his brother’s distinctive face with a cloth to avoid any further humiliation. Disheartened, we escaped through the thickening storm, seeking a prepared burial chamber not far from this place of loathsomeness where countless lives had been destroyed by crucifixion. A small procession of us trailed behind in silence.

  The tenuous path was demonstratively sunless, making it difficult to see where we trod, but my uncle’s self-assured footsteps guided us by the light of his devotion. The Mary and I followed closely behind.

  Jesu’s body lay disastrously still on the canvas stretcher held between two long wooden poles. With shawls pulled tight over our heads, the wind and rain whipped at us from all sides. The ground, pulverized by the sudden change in weather, quickly became muddy, making it difficult to keep up. With each step I lost my footing on the slippery path, as we made our way, entirely compelled by our joined grief.

  The wailing women could still be heard up on the hill. They had stayed, despite the profuse trembling and quaking of the elements which they endured for our sake. Their doleful prayers were soothing to my soul in a way that only a grieving widow would understand, for they perfectly expressed my torment and struggle. Never again would such a poignant moment as this be recorded in the stars, and their bitter cries seemed in some way to herald the significance of it.

  Funeral rites would instantly, and in haste, have to be completed before our holy night began at sundown. Shabbat, like a valiant friend, seemed to have come sooner than expected. ‘Praise the Lord for the Sabbath,’ I thought to myself—for without it, we would not have been granted permission to bring Jesu down early. In fact they would have left his tragic life-ending there upon the cross, garishly displayed for all to see, for at least three days hence.

  I thought of the wicked and miserly men of my faith, who, out of cowardliness and predisposed sinister deceptions, had demanded Jesu’s execution by Roman hands. To them, he was nothing more than another deftly set aside false prophet.

  Mindful of the time restraint, we rushed gingerly through the storm. Death is the inevitable fate of us all, yet despite a lifetime of spiritual learning, nothing could have prepared me for a moment such as this. Grief crept in like a melancholy nightmare. I shivered, chilled by the violent upheaval of my sudden loss. The cold wind bit at my saturated dress, as I wearily clung to the hand of The Mary, who was determinedly eager to bury her son before sundown.

  A sudden break in the weather beamed a majestic light from behind the blackest of clouds, curiously interrupting the darkness just long enough for us to pass a steep narrow path down into the cavernous mouth of the crypt.

  In that moment I considered myself to be a most unfortunate woman. A cock crowed. Funny how something that seemingly insignificant would later haunt me. Our child stirred in my womb, and shock, like a great malady, overcame me with weak-kneed heaviness. I gripped The Mary’s arm to stop myself from falling. Frozen, we stood there a moment, silently reflecting on our uneasy assignment. Like the mouth of a giant serpent, the sepulcher would now take Jesu from us forever.

  “Mariam, Providence demands that you rise above your mournful misfortune,” she said, clutching me urgently. “Your duty as his wife is to prepare my son for burial. So be strong for him, and for us all. Promise me” she said insistently, “promise me that as you lay him to rest, you will remind him of his mother who bathed and nurtured him when he was a child.” I nodded in agreement, anxious, and uncertain.

  Acknowledging my harrowed expression, she led me to the tomb, while I, like a most unwilling prisoner of fate, obliged, nervously bustling past the guards, leaving behind a small crowd of gathered mourners. The wailers’ distant pitiful howls clung to me, strengthening my resolve. The Mary turned away, rushing home before the Lord’s day began. Our family and faithful friends would no doubt be there to sing prayers, weeping for her deceased son—our dead leader.

  I was sick to my stomach.

  In the hope that a glimmer of life would yet remain, I, with a broken heart, pensively approached, until I came upon Jesu’s side. There on the cold burial slab, stained with blood, mud, and water, he lay. I reached for him, hopeful that I might feel his strong affirming fingers wrap themselves around mine reassuringly, as they had done so many times in the past. Anything to let me know he still lived. But nothing. Cold unfeeling nothing.

  The vault’s torches were lit, illuminating the otherwise soulless, dark, forbidding subterranean cave. Jesu’s pallid corpse lay on the bloodstained stretcher. Hastily my uncle withdrew the poles, which made a sharp grating sound as they moved through the wet cloth. Something crept up on me in slow, certain degrees. The vault had an oppressive atmosphere which was dank and disproportionately sinister. Handing me a sponge and bowl of floral water, my uncle said, “I’m going outside to speak with Nicodemus. Mariam, you know what to do.”

  I nodded nervously, watching as he walked away, leaving me quivering in terror.

  Unfortunately, yes, I knew what had to be done. I grimaced. Like a bitter pill, this was a trial I did not wish to swallow. I could hear their voices outside. Alone, I stood rooted to the floor, staring at Jesu’s ashen inanimate remains. The torches flames flickered restlessly in the extreme darkness, producing frightening shadows on the limestone walls which heaved and quivered in silent reverie. I knew undoubtedly in that moment that I was not alone.

  From behind my grim reality, a quiet strength flow
ed into my bones, like water to a dried-up flower. I loathed the power invested in me, for it would force me to do the unthinkable—bury my husband. The guards rolled the immense stone door closed after depositing four ceremonial jars at my feet, one by one, with a loud thud, rubbing salt into the wound of my mournful disorientation.

  “Heal him Maria!” Uncle Joseph said urgently, his voice surprisingly full of hope.

  “What do you mean—heal him? He is dead!” I stated uneasily, as a fluttering of nerves moved through the pit of my stomach. “The jars are of frankincense, aloes, and myrrh,” he said breathlessly, moving to sit in the corner of the brooding chamber. Pausing to catch a breath, he said dejectedly “We failed to keep him safe.” The stiff tone of his voice sent a cool shiver down my spine. “I tried, but it was futile. I am so sorry Mariam! The opposition was too strong,” he said, slumping his shoulders, seemingly much aggrieved.

  “I am faint with faithless grief,” I admitted, “I am completely unsure of myself! These past few days have been too much to bear” I said broken-heartedly, as icy-cold tears trickled down my withered face. My heart beat so hard in my chest that I was breathless with trepidation. “I have faith in you Mariam,” he said confidently. “You are strong. It is your sacred duty to minister to him in his hour of need, and since Shabbat is soon upon us, be swift, and do what must be done,” he said nervously shifting his feet in the dirt.

  I nodded, wiping the bounteous tears from my cheeks with my shawl, painfully aware of the uneasiness which now had dominion over me. Nervously, I peeled back the blood-soaked cloth from Jesu’s body. Startled, my hands shook, as methodically I removed the vines, twigs, and thorns, which had in jest been made into a crown and wrapped tight around his head. I tugged at them, prizing them from flesh.

  Taunting him just a few hours before, the soldiers had made heedless mockery of Jesu, caring nothing for the pain they inflicted on him. “A King must wear a crown, must he not?” they teased, in their drunken cheer. These same thorns had cut deep into my husband’s sun-kissed skin, leaving him covered in a horrifying amount of blood, which by law, I was forbidden to wipe from his body. Scripture dictated that a man’s blood must be buried with him, therefore, legally I could not bathe him as a wife ordinarily would. Yet Jesu’s body was so plentifully bestrewn with blood, such that I could scarcely see skin beneath the stains of his death. I knew not what to do.

  With my cold, wet clothes clinging to my limbs, I felt uncomfortably chilled to my bones. Shivering, teary-eyed, I handed the thorny crown to my uncle, asking “What am I to do? There is too much blood!” “Wash him Mariam. We make our own laws now,” he said righteously. I nodded in agreement, for what he said was true. It did not seem appropriate to bury a great man such as him, in this pitiful state—especially since his blood harbored the cruelty of the Roman regime.

  The whips had cut his flesh in countless places. My fingertips, with profound care, removed the last of the bloody shrouds from his disfigured body. I shuddered, seeing Jesu this broken. His body was a silent testimony of incomprehensible human barbarity. Nevertheless, I was grateful to fill my mind with practical things which needed to be done, and soon I sensed a profound inner fearlessness.

  Rebelliously, I wiped him clean, breaking with all protocol and Judaic law. Concentrating on being, rather than doing, my whole body vibrated mysteriously, and as I loosened the shields which protectively guarded my consciousness, I fell into the silence of compassion. Putting my own needs aside, I tended Jesu’s hands and feet, even though his injuries intimidated me—the uncivilized signs of persecution.

  I shook, recalling the derision of the soldiers who knew not what they did. They were numb to it. To them, Jesu was just another victim of Judaic-Roman rule. Another fall-guy to poke fun at—to make light of their own pathetic bondage to Roman orders. Jesting had become their assumed means of coping with the parody of torture and murder to which they were privy. Morning, noon, and night, the orders came in, day after day, week after week, year after year. Jesu was just another man, of many, to be crucified. By making light of what they did, was to show off how unaffected they were—how ‘Roman’ they were. As long as they were well compensated, they kept the appearance of strength, while their false pretenses gave them the reassurance that everything was fine. Again, theirs too was a fools’ paradise.

  Those hours were for me, devoid of hope in humanity. Endeavoring hard to rouse myself from my pitiable condition, awed and sickened by just how damaged Jesu’s body was, I bathed him despairingly. It was shocking—his illustrious heroic life, now desolate and ruined, taken from him in just a few moments of unnecessary brutality. With his death, went all my bravery, for Jesu was the source of my soul’s respite, as well as its inspiration. He was my rock and my best friend.

  An irrepressible panic suddenly overcame me, deftly pushing aside my newfound composure. Truthfully, I feared life without him. I speculated that I might live a half-life. I was now a widow. The mother of a child without a father . . . a disciple without a living master.

  Obediently, I poured water and oil over his head, as I had done when we were first married, combing through his knotted hair with my fingers. Fortunately he looked peaceful, not anguished like a man who had been ridiculed, crucified, and scorned by his own people. This would be the last time I would with these hands touch him. I quivered at the thought. My hairs stood on end, as yet another wave of intense darkness harkened at the thought of ever breaking from him. It was more than I could bear. He was too young to die, and I was too young to be widowed again. I wondered if this would make a coward, or a bitter monster of me? A tremor ran through my body. Every fiber of me ached with rigid exhaustion.

  For the sake of Jesu’s good name, fate would necessitate that I become the hero of my own story. Moreover, I would be obligated to overcome all thoughts for myself, as our child would soon be born to me. Concentrating on the gentle hum of the ancestral prayers my uncle recited fraught with emotion, I felt comforted and strengthened. Their low definite presence relieved me. Following the lead of each ancient word, I refocused, washing every inch of blood from him methodically until he was spotless. Yet still his wounds oozed, so again I cleaned them, until the blood slowed and eventually stopped. Then, with the fragrant charms of curative oils upon my fingers, I anointed him to the doleful crooning of last rites.

  Despite being born of a stalwart Jewish aristocratic family, I did not believe, nor behave as the others did. The temples, built as displays of wealth and power, were to me bricks of lies. Outwardly the priests and leaders spoke as the authority on all matters of faith, whilst privately they sinned. Not much was holy about them, for their extravagant shows of opulence had all but been acquired on the backs of others’ hard work. Their demonstrations of learning meant that they were respected in society, yet secretly they were beyond doubt pleasure-seekers. This had become the standard of the rich and powerful, whilst the common man had only the fantasy of one day living like them. Like an itch burning to be scratched, ambition and coin was the eagerness they pursued, while God and righteous living was replaced by want of riches.

  This was no longer my faith. I knew it now more than ever. I felt like a stranger in my own lands. My faith had assuredly been hijacked by criticism, animosity, and control. The old ways were fast becoming lost, and with it, the simple life of Godly devotion had been covered with prim faultfinding and the veneer of respectability. Reputation and honor mattered more than purity, truth, and devotion. Jesu had opened the people’s eyes to such things. Therefore he had endangered their positions, as well as his own. The enchantment which was upon the people who faithfully, albeit blindly, followed, had fallen heavily over them. With eyes fixated on their false masters, they feared any who might lift the veil of illusion which had held them beholden to untruth. They were ready to do battle, to stay secure in the discernible lies which they believed.
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  I would carve for us a new path upon which all could walk—taking with me only the essence of our true faith. For money had fast become the new god, and position and power were more important than honesty and goodness. Jesu had been a heroic threat to their balance. He preached the evils of false leadership and taught his followers to live pure, simple lives—refraining from luxury and self-indulgence.

  In a society which was fast becoming a moral sinking ship, people like sheep, herded one another, to keep the norm of false existence firm at any cost. And Jesu, a Prince amongst men, by blood, title, and birthright, was a paramount thorn in their illusory bubble.

  To dare to defy the norm, in any way, meant potentially ostracizing one’s self and one’s family from an entire community. Often imprisonment, or even death, was a very real possibility for any brave soul daring to rebel against society. It was not for the faint of heart to be gallant, as Jesu and John had been. For they had stood up fearlessly to the cultish mentalities which had infected our populace like a disease. By their bravery, the false spiritualists were left exposed. Jesu’s assured disposition and authority had struck fear into the hearts of many, for by him, these things had become glaringly apparent for all to see. He had smeared the people’s eyes with the healing balm of truth and now many leaders’ honor was suddenly in question.

  The priests and politicians were the pillars of our society, and Jesu had disturbed them. As a consequence, they had played a desperate game to hold the illusion firm over the sway of public opinion, calling Jesu a dangerous rebel not to be trusted—an enemy of the faith. The truth was, God had become big business. Faith was a powerful means of income and a guaranteed good lifestyle. It was not something they were easily willing to let go of—not even for their expected Messiah! In fact they feared Jesu’s expected arrival so much, that they executed any and all who claimed to be the one whom God had anointed and sent to help them.