Woman in Red: Magdalene Speaks

by Krishna Rose

  To be dutiful to the spiritless mass agenda, meant that one would have to give up freedom of forthright speech and even free thought, which were considered heretical by the brainwashed multitudes. To doubt or question the temple leaders, politicians, aristocrats, or the well-placed business men in power . . . was a crime punishable by death.

  “Mariam,” my uncle whispered, pulling me from my thoughts, “you have the power to heal him. I implore you—bring him back to us!” he said desperately. “I arranged to have him brought down from the cross early so that we might revive him,” he said confidently. “It usually takes a man two full days to die by crucifixion! Only in rare cases does a man die after a day on the cross, and then only from dehydration on an extremely hot day. Therefore, I fed Jesu a powerful sleeping draft on a sponge when he said he thirsted. Instantly, he seemingly died, and under the guise of needing to prepare him for burial before sundown, I called for him to be brought down, believing that we would have a chance of reviving him.”

  My heart skipped a beat as he spoke. I stared at my bloodstained hands, asking grimly “Is it appropriate for me to bring back from the Kingdom that which the Lord has taken from us?” “Mariam, have you forgotten how Jesu returned Lazarus? He did not consider it wrong or inappropriate. In fact he did not hesitate for a moment, to try and save him—even though Lazarus had passed over days before! Remember?” he recalled. “Listen child. The baby stirring in your womb needs a father, you need a husband, and the world needs their King to rise and fulfill prophecy . . .” he said, suddenly animated, an air of anticipation in his voice.

  The problem was that I doubted whether I could do it.

  I thought of my mother and father, and wondered if their spirits were here with me now, watching over me. What would they say? I had always liked to imagine my mother offering me advice—since she had died giving birth to me. While I, never having known a mother, felt that I had a relationship with her which was forged of the spirit. I thought about it, unsure of how to explain the impossibility of what my uncle was asking of me. It would take enormous courage and faith to undertake such a feat, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure if I had either left in me. I was a beaten-down, worn woman. My thoughts reeled, as I gazed longingly at the stony rigidity of my husband’s body. I let out a low moaning cry, considering the import of my uncle’s words.

  “I can’t . . . I can’t do it,” I cried.

  “Mariam, you of all people should know that we cannot allow our fears to overtake us. Especially at a poignant moment such as this! Jesu would want this! He was born to fulfill the prophecy and now he needs our help. So hurry! Move quickly, before he crosses beyond the ninth wave . . .” Sensing my inner struggle, he said “Do you wish for Jesu to die in a show of humiliation and failure, where the wagging tongues of local gossip vines shall forever speak of him as an imposter? He must rise again and show the world he is our Messiah! The Lord can have him in due course, now is not the time for his death—it is time for his resurrection!” he said assuredly, his eyes suddenly serious and determined. He was so faithful and confident.

  I had indeed seen Jesu return life to a dead body on more than one occasion, and now, I wished more than anything, to recall step by step what he had done to make the impossible possible. I struggled to find the right words, as they would have to be spoken with unflinching intention and belief. Yet grief and exhaustion overwhelmed my ability to think straight. I wished my uncle would try. “Can’t you do it Uncle?” I pleaded.

  “Child, you are his wife! None but you could be more qualified to call his spirit from that place which he spent a lifetime laboring to penetrate!” My uncle’s countenance was firm, and of course I knew he was right. It was me who Jesu loved over all others, save God Himself. My pleas and petitions would be the strongest reminder of our need for his company—for his unborn child, and more importantly, his true mission. He had lived and died for this moment. I could try, for most surely it was better to try and fail, than not to try at all. This might be my final chance of ever seeing him alive again!

  Sensing my thoughts, my uncle encouraged me. “You have the gift Mariam. Trust yourself—use it to heal him!” he said, seemingly relieved that I was at least willing to try. “The soldier who speared Jesu’s side was never a part of the plan,” he added gravely. “The plan?” I asked. “What do you mean the plan?”

  “Forgive me Mariam, I didn’t want to give you hope,” he said, suppressing the swelling grief which I sensed clutching at his throat. “Caiaphas must have paid that soldier a large sum to ensure Jesu’s death. In his shrewd mind, he knew we might try to revive him, and he wasn’t taking any chances.”

  “The plan?” I probed him again, turning to meet his eyes.

  “Yes Mariam, you don’t really suppose I was going to let them kill him do you? God’s blood, your husband is the most important man walking the earth! Our entire faith rests on his survival! Antipas and Pilate are no friends of the Annas priests. They did not want Jesu’s blood on their hands—knowing full well his legal right to rule. His birth was predicted in the stars! The blood in his veins runs royal in every way. He is our heir! Both to the thrones of Herod and David. And that is what makes him the biggest threat to those in power,” he said thoughtfully.

  “It was Caiaphas, not the Romans, who wanted Jesu arrested and crucified, right from the start. Luckily for us, Pilate never trusted Caiaphas, for we all know how much Caiaphas secretly hates Rome. He looks down on anyone not born of a Jewish mother,” he said, indignantly cracking his knuckles. “So Pilate, and I struck a deal to have Jesu released early. And he willingly agreed, since King Herod the Great, God rest his soul, and the threat of his bloodline, is something which no one any longer fears. But Antipas’s nephew was fearful Jesu might usurp the throne from him—and rightfully so!” he said, clenching his teeth.

  “Pilate knew Jesu is Prince Antipater’s child. It is obvious to those who are privy to such understanding. Believe me, Pilate was extremely willing to make an agreement, for all of Rome wishes to see Agrippa fall,” he said matter-of-factly. “So we arranged for Jesu to bear the cross for a few hours, to fulfill the hunger of Caiaphas and his retinue, feigning an execution. The plan was, that we would rescue him before Shabbat and escape Judea . . .” he explained, rubbing his eyes sleepily. “Well . . . that was the plot Mariam—but we hadn’t counted on the soldier’s spear. Now it will take more than just herbs and aloes to bring him back. It will take a miracle! If only that damned soldier hadn’t stabbed him, for certain we could have saved him. Now it will be the will of God alone. So do not doubt yourself Mariam—or your abilities. Remember who you are!”

  My uncle had devised a plan which neither I, nor my husband had known of. Now Jesu had not even the faintest hint of life within him. He lay limp as a tree which had been cut down at its root long before its time.

  “Do it Mariam, and don’t ever doubt your power!” he urged me.

  CHAPTER 2

  SECRETS

  A secret is something which has been kept hidden from others. Manipulated, secrets are sometimes used as a means of control, for they are misunderstood . . . and remaining unseen, they benefit no one.

  Uncle Joseph gingerly pried Jesu’s parched mouth open. Feeding a long tube into his throat, fixing a funnel to its end, he began systematically pouring aloes into it in a slow steady stream. I held the syphon firm, and thought it remarkable, wondering how my uncle had knowledge of such an exceptional healing method. “Aloes are a purgative, Mariam. It will remove any poison from within him,” he said assuredly. Unwaveringly the medicine drained until the jar was empty. Still Jesu did not stir. No coughing and no gasping for air did we see. I grew sober, wishing with all my might for him to return.

  My uncle strode hurriedly to the other jars, seizing my arm as he did so, “Mariam tend to him now!”
he urged. “Yes Uncle,” I said obediently, watching him transfer the oils into bowls, laying them one by one on the stone slab for me. Removing the tube, setting it aside, I closed Jesu’s mouth, which was fortunately still soft and pliable.

  Realizing that sundown must fast be approaching, impulsively, and driven by a heightened need to see my husband restored, in the faint light, I began disinfecting his wounds with myrrh and frankincense, the fragrances of which filled the crypt with their mystical essence. Immediately their power set my will aflame, possessing me with newfound strength. Myrrh has the power to take away even the greatest of pains, while frankincense heals the deepest of wounds. Enraptured, I beckoned the energy of the sacred plants into my hands with a familiar confidence, tears welling up in my eyes. Only this time I let them fall on him, as I had done when we were first wed.

  “I appeal to you Jesu, my spouse, that your spirit descend upon the stair of Jacob, where from the gates of Heaven, you may reach for me and walk once more amongst the living. Accompany me—as you were so appointed. Forget not that you have been acclaimed as the defender of the faith and the savior of the fallen. Therefore consider my words well and use them as your soul’s guide. The Mary, your mother, weeps for you. She is exalted by your birth, as I am exalted by your marriage unto me. You have imposed on us a great sadness by your absence, therefore my love, be mindful of your obligation to overcome eternal rest, lest you be captured by the angels, forgetful of your promises,” I said tearfully, hopeful that my words might be carried upon the wings of divine generosity.

  Placing the flat of my hands upon his wounds, a cool breeze blew through them like a luminous river, giving rise to the hairs on my body. I knew in that moment, that I had to give it my all. For I could not bear to live without him. Our child fluttered in my womb, signaling for me to get on with it. ‘Remember who you are Mariam,’ a voice whispered. ‘You are the watcher over the flock—the healer of the sick—the grail who bears a Messianic dynasty within your womb. You are not without power, for your name is sung in the Heavens.’

  My uncle came quietly beside me, laying a needle and thread alongside Jesu’s broken body. I understood that I must keep an open heart and not consume myself with thoughts of my own self-importance. I needed to be fluid and let whatever needed to happen, happen. So I reached down into my body, feeling my feet firmly planted on the ground, rooting myself to it. ‘Remember . . . have no mind Mariam.’

  The silence of the sacred inner light filled me, aligning me with heavenly awareness. My body trembled in its subtle vibration. The fabric of Jesu’s physical body was desperately torn. My charge would be to stitch his wounds, sewing them together—to bring wholeness to that which had been destroyed. Masterfully, like a basket weaver who had spent a lifetime weaving with twine, I took the needle and thread between my trembling fingers, threading it in spite of the darkness. Tending him, as if darning a shirt, Jesu’s blood still flushed, but I assumed the position of control, determinedly mending his lacerated flesh.

  Allowing the vast energy of God to fall upon me, I followed the lead of my spirit, searching for a tangible way to heal him. I was calm, suffused with faith and conviction in the essentiality of my cause. The heady fragrance of the oils heightened my sense of purpose, flooding me in layer upon layer of absolute power over the elements.

  “Bend to my will,” I muttered quietly, as I compelled his torn flesh to yield to my purpose. “Forget ye the salvation of the world?” I asked him gravely. Instinctively, I prayed, first in a somber holy way, and then more pleadingly as the energy breezed through me like a river. Unaffectedly, I acquired a more commanding tone to my voice.

  “Husband, the world has much need of your reverent guidance, for it is filled with such wicked darkness,” I said clearly. “Sunk in their carelessness, humankind knows not where to seek relief, nor how to attain eternal happiness. Therefore you were sent to earth, to give charity unto those who have need of it. Be guided by my determination to have you here with us once more . . . and by it, find fulfillment in your pledge to God.

  “Be not idle in Heaven my love, for Heaven needs you not. Seek my hands and dispel the gloom which envelops the eyes of those who love you. The world shall be blessed by your restoration, so be obedient to thy covenant. Give up your refuge in paradise . . . for your spirit is bound to endure in magnificent works here on earth! Abandon the sublime mysteries which you have found in death, and by the Lord’s measureless grace and will, descend and make holy the hearts of men,” I urged him.

  I had seen many miracles . . . for Jesu had healed the sick, cured the blind, and returned my brother to life when he had died. I remembered his knowing confidence as he had ministered to them, as I also now expectantly beseeched his spirit to reappear. My own ancient lineage called to mind. As if those grail bearers who had walked the earth in days of yore, were suddenly with me, connecting me to my ancestors . . . lending me my inheritance when I most required it. My royal birth connected me to spiritual leaders and notable Kings whose blood bonded me to them. I revered them in my heart, bowing my head, as if they stood before me, for so near did I perceive them to be.

  Jesu had sacrificed his honor for the greater good of mankind. He did this to protect the gospel of the Lord’s Kingdom. To offer it as salvation unto all, without any need of qualification, other than that of desiring clemency. Jesu’s missive could not succumb—for we knew that depravity would soon force knowledge of the Kingdom’s whereabouts into isolation. The truth would become a secret, hidden forever behind the tarnished reputations of sinister leaders who liked to keep the wealth of knowledge ungenerously for themselves. Jesu had taught us that it was of vital importance to protect spiritual truth from being choked by religious dogma and secular-mindedness.

  “Hakana-ninhar-nuhrakun-qedam-bneynasha-d’nehzun-abadeykun-taba waneshbahun-l’abwukun-bashmayam,” I prayed.

  “Let the sacred light of the Lord shine within your body once more. Feel my hands—return to them,” I called out authoritatively, as my fingers nimbly finished sewing together what was torn. Massaging oils into his wounds, I prayed, “No space is too wide and no narrowness can cause the Lord restraint, for when His work is at hand, all things are made possible. Therefore, recover yourself and illuminate your people. Show the glory and miracle of God’s infinite power who dwells in you. Jesu . . .”

  Bowing my head until my brow met his, I implored, “As God is my witness, your life is not over—surely it has only just begun! You are the chosen one—the prophesied Messiah of our people. My liege, my most reverent holy master, my friend . . . swim the length and breadth of the Heavens to embark upon the wings of fate which navigate you to your appointment with destiny,” I wailed, dissolving into tears. My emotions flowed through me unabashed, unleashed, and untethered.

  “Kana! Tubwaykhon aileyn d’kaphneyn hasha d’tesha’on,” I prayed.

  “Forsake me not, husband! Come to me by my bidding and fill the empty space inside this body of flesh and bone, that the wheel of destiny may turn and you might live here among us once more. Return Jesu! Forget death and comprehend what life is before you. I urge your spirit, in loyalty, to heed my call. Your responsibility is to reclaim your life and watch over us. Or would you have me weep over an empty bed?”

  The torches flickered curiously in the stillness, rousing my profound state of optimism.

  “Ana el-na-refa-na-la, mil-al-har chorev,” I continued.

  “Allow your benevolent heart to beat by following the fire of my love which carries you to the shore of earthly life. O Lord my God, You are divinely resplendent and full of all-knowing power and mercy. I beg You, please glance upon me now and forgive me my imperfections. Offer unto me, Your grace. As imbued with love and desperate grief, I stand before You with a fully saturated heart. My husband gave himself entirely to Your cause, therefore I pray Thee to conv
ey upon him Your dependence on him—align him to Your will. I shall no more desire the fleeting things of this world, I vow it before all! Heed me Lord, for by my spouse, many shall come to know of Thy eternal Kingdom, and out of great love come to seek it out.”

  Searching Jesu’s face with hope of consolation, a delirium consumed me. Throwing my arms up high, outstretched toward the Heavens, I pleaded for infinite mercy. The torches brightened, then all at once snuffed out. We were thrust into a profound darkness.

  “Watch over me Lord, and be with me as I offer You supplications. From the pure spring of Your love, shine down on Your son’s body and breathe life into him once more,” I continued boldly. “For by the miracle of his restoration, the world will know You as most merciful. Multitudes of sinners will turn their hearts and be faithful unto You, for he has a natural grace to communicate Your message of righteousness. The fire of people’s misdeeds diminish by the fount of wisdom he possesses, for Your son is overwhelmed with gifts and perfections without measure. Like an impetuous stream from Your mouth to his, he echoes Your exaltation by which no heart is left unturned. Endowed with the predestination of divine word, he is ordained in You and is therefore filled with example, of an ideal, for others to follow.”

  Tears flowed from my eyes, my sorrow urging me to continue.

  “Ana-el-na-refa-na-la, mil-al-har-chorev,” I prayed. “Lord, fill me with Your power.”

  Pausing for a moment to take deep breaths, I sensed a change of energy. My uncle moved about in the darkness, relighting the torches which had unexplainably snuffed out. Faith had overtaken me, and with it came an exhilarating power which now coursed through me. A subtle yet discernible cocoon of light vibrated around Jesu’s body, hovering evocatively—stimulating in me a recollection of our wedding. The memory of it prompted me to reach for my oil, safely tucked into my belt. Opening the jar, its heady fragrance offered me solace, as remembrances leapt to mind. Spikenard, the same oil with which I had anointed him just weeks before. I hoped the familiar scent might draw him forth.