by Krishna Rose
The women, expert in the arts of seduction, moistened their lips with balm, sighing when in the company of men. Their perfectly timed movements attracted praise and compliments from the men, who gazed at them, desirous of their company. They were educated in all manner of subjects such as reading, writing, music, art, singing, dancing, weaving, astronomy, history, and politics, the latter being only so that men might have women who understood them—not so as to make women intelligent in their own right.
Women were well respected if born into aristocratic or wealthy families. But if unfortunately born poor, they were often sold as sex slaves for the Roman man’s unceasing desire for pleasure. Girls were sent to tend the gladiators who had won their fights, to soothe them with intercourse, so that the god-like men might forget the tragedy of the day—and what was to come in the next.
The men of Rome were easily agitated. Sweating profusely, they adopted defensive tones of voice when explaining themselves or making excuses for their behavior. I was amused by them, for they seemed so expert at holding stony expressions in order to assert their authority, speaking in loud deep voices—as if that is what gives a man power. They liked to stand with their legs parted wide, like they were infallible, cracking their knuckles loudly for all to hear—signaling that people should be fearful of crossing them.
These men believed themselves to be as powerful as gods not to be reckoned with. Those with the most authority however, slouched in oversized chairs with brooding dark expressions on their chiseled faces, tapping their fingers, feigning boredom. All these were considered to be signs of their masculine prowess. It was utterly hilarious.
As the wealthy leaders strode down the streets with a legion of centurion soldiers behind them, the people moved out of the way—out of fear, not respect. I was aghast to see people bend their knee to these men, who in my eyes were more like devils than gods.
Racing and fights were a politically cunning means of distracting the poor. It gave them just enough pleasure to be contented, whilst working like slaves, so that the shrewd leaders could live like kings on the back of their hard work. Along with that, the grandiose buildings, temple performances, and rituals, all gave the poor an interest in productivity—for the greater good of their belief in a Roman civilization.
Like sheep they followed, turning their minds from repetitive thoughts which plagued them . . . thoughts that reminded them each day, that they were not part of Rome—but slaves of it.
There was no other way. This was the way of Rome. So the city’s hard-laboring citizens succumbed, with the promise of a better life if they worked hard in healthy submission to their leaders who waged wars and killed at will. This was acceptable to them, for everyone kept their eyes down, compelled to herd their neighbors and family members, like sheep, into a life like theirs. Life for them was that of hard graft and denial.
All the while, these simple souls believed themselves free because they were part of some giant scheme which was making the world Roman . . . and better for it. The slave girls, gladiators, and servants, were nothing of consequence to the Roman leaders who saw them as mere pawns to be played with and discarded without regard. I worried for their souls.
“People’s wings were clipped many moons ago,” Susanna, our host, explained. “There are so many rules which separate the rich from poor. But as the years creep by, I see the people of Rome choking on their tears. Many live in constant physical pain and disappointment,” she said drowning her sorrows in a pitcher of cheap red wine.
“Susanna, have faith Sister. If you can grow flowers, then surely you can grow wings and be as angels on earth,” I said, offering her hope.
I was invited to sup with Rome’s Emperor Tiberius, who was curious to hear more about the risen Lord, who he had heard so much about. He wished to question me about the resurrection of my husband, so I picked up an egg from his table, telling him, “He is risen, just as the chick comes forth from an egg.”
I was painfully aware of his burning eyes upon me, but I shrugged his advances away as one throws a fireball back to its owner. Tiberius responded, “No man can rise from the dead, any more than the egg you hold in your hand can turn red,” he said making fun of me, turning to jest with his concubines who looked on amused.
I felt exposed around this brutish man. He was gross in spite of all his so-called learning, wealth and culture.
“But the egg is red . . .” I declared, as miraculously, the egg turned red in my palm—a testimony of what had been said.
The Emperor and his concubines were amazed. So was I.
CHAPTER 29
STEADINESS
When one is steadfast, one is unwavering. Determined in constant undeviating application of faith, one reaches steadily for a goal.
There are seven deadly sins said to whisper in our ear which catch us unbeknownst, striking in the dark whilst we are not watchful. Seized by the scruff of our necks we find ourselves trapped, decisively contracted to inexpressible strife. The cause of our yoke is pride, lust, envy, wrath, greed, gluttony, and idleness.
To heal pride—find humility through submissive prayer.
To cure lust—be chaste and seek out sisterly and brotherly love.
To remedy envy—show kindness and compassion unto others.
To reconcile wrath—seek prayer and meditation which stills the mind
toward patience and peacefulness.
To calm the disease of greed—give in charity.
To remedy gluttony—find strength and self-control.
To resolve sloth or idleness—persist, find the strength to go on.
When we have conquered these, we are said to have had all seven virtues placed upon the seven vices.
These seven sins are said to be deadly, due to their devastating effect on our soul’s advancement and passage to the eternal. As whatever we fix our minds upon, increases. If we fasten the mind upon sin, then sin is increased. If we secure the mind upon the things of the spirit—virtue is increased. But when the mind is anchored in the Lord, then, by that merit, all vice is destroyed at its root. Seek first the Kingdom, fix the mind upon it, and it shall be yours.
Jesu and I had been steadfast in our monthly letters, which were more like journal entries, for therein we recorded things which we were unable to say in person. Within one such letter, he broke news of The Mary’s passing. Though she had been unwell for some time, her loss was nevertheless a terrible blow. Our virtuous and devout mother had left us. We were orphans.
Jesu, John, and Jude buried their mother according to our customs. The local townspeople came every day to bring flowers to her gravesite, revering her as their own Saint—believing that God had blessed their village by her presence there. Strange lights were often seen hovering around her tomb at night, and some claimed to have been privileged with sightings of The Mary—so much so, that the locals called the town “Mari” in her honor.
Jesu had been declared as the Avatar predicted within the ancient Veda, and as a consequence the people called him “Kristos” heralding him as the son of Krishna. Multitudes of faithful souls flocked to him, travelling far and wide, hoping for a miracle. Bringing with them their sick, they were all eager for solutions to the age-old problem of why people suffer. Perplexed they asked him, “Kristos, why do you not heal your own wounds?”
He replied, “My wounds are like bosom friends unto me, as they insist on reminding me that I am not of this world—nor does this world belong to me.”
Once, a great King watched as two women argued over a boy—both claiming him to be their only begotten son. The King asked his Queen, who acted as his minister, to settle the argument and pass judgement. The Queen called the general, commanding him dispassionately, “Take your sword and cut t
his boy in two pieces. Then give half to each of the women.”
To which the general replied, “But this is not proper my Queen, he is but a child!”
“Soldier, cut this boy in half!” the Queen ordered.
“But the child has not done any wrong my Lady. Why are you giving me a command to kill him?” the general asked.
The Queen took a sword and went towards the child herself with it, ready to kill him. One of the women did not resist the Queen’s action. However, the other one immediately fell at the feet of the Queen, weeping and pleading, “Please don’t kill my son! Give him to the other woman! I would rather my son live separately from me than not at all.”
The Queen then asked the King “My Lord, what is your judgement?”
The King thought to himself, ‘There are many cruel people surrounding us.’ He naturally gave the boy to the woman who was ready to give him to the other in order to spare his life, understanding that a real mother would not be able to tolerate seeing her child killed for the sake of an argument. The mother had deep love for her child—the imposter did not.
Parents have love for their children, so too is it with the Lord, who has created us. He yearns in separation, longing to be reunited with us. And our own deep sadness within—is our search for that reunion. We are His children and His love spreads over us like fragrance from a blossoming rose. Therefore, go to the Kingdom of the heart, for there you shall find this love everywhere—pervasive like the perfume of flowers in a garden.
I had long since wished for my husband’s company, yet I understood that he was not mine to have and to hold. He belonged to the people. We had both travelled throughout the lands spreading love of the Kingdom unto all. For the aching souls on earth, we had relinquished our own desires, to pursue the mission and goals of our Lord.
When Jesu and I last parted, we had presumed that we would reunite three years hence, upon our restitution. However, as a result of our steadfast service to those in need, more moons had passed since, and I had for that reason resolved myself to living a half-life. Though I was the wife of the Messiah, he belonged first to the Lord and second to those who sought refuge from their struggle.
My fate had been to raise three seedlings, that they might go forth and multiply. Once Josephes was of an age to study, my Uncle Joseph came personally to take him to Britannia, where he had been accepted into the famed Druid School of Priest-Kings. Uncle Joseph and Anna had settled there in Ynys Witrin, having built a small community upon the lands gifted to our family by King Lud, of that region. Together they thrived, living among the Celts and Druids, who, my uncle said, were reminiscent of the Vedic Brahmins.
He and Anna had been gifted with two beautiful daughters, and though they many times had promised to visit—time passed by. Uncle invited me to stay with them until Josephes had completed his studies, but I was contented to remain among my brethren in Gallia. I had long since pined for the inner worlds, which entreated me. My time had come.
Our son Jesus Justus had stayed in Caesarea with the Nazarite priests. He now had a high-ranking position within their church and was fast becoming popular with the people. Brother James and he were spiritual allies, in addition to being uncle and nephew.
Sarah-Tamar and her husband were crowned King and Queen of Compostela. Yet, dissatisfied with a life of courtly pleasures, she was oft found amongst the poor, giving alms and food to the needy. She gave birth to two daughters and one male heir, and was adored by her husband, as well as the people.
Mary-Salome and Lazarus stayed in the village raising their two sons. My brother had become a renowned teacher and healer, while Mary-Salome was grateful and content to be a mother and wife.
All three of our children were almost fully independent. I had decided upon a life of quiet solitude—withdrawn from society, to live without distraction. My own Messianic assignment called me. And for a time at least, I would lay the needs of others aside, to avoid further delay. My heart was set upon my soul’s waiting inheritance.
In this world, people are quick to make mistakes and poor choices. So easily are we robbed of kindness and goodwill. And for these fallen souls, the Saints come to this world by the Lord’s merciful order, to save and liberate them from their lower nature. They see beyond human imperfection and failings, thinking them to be like children, perceiving that at least one time—they repented and wept, crying out to the Lord for relief.
Time and time again, such Saints descend into this world to liberate our suffering by showing us the way. Concerned, the responsibility falls upon them to help each soul, with patience, turn from the sins which have tethered them.
It is in mortals’ darkest hour, where, steeped in weakness and shame, they cry out for mercy. It is then that the Saints reach for them. Never do they punish them for their faults, nor do they judge them by their sin. And by showing forgiveness and offering chances, again and again, they return to relish the ray of love which once shone upon them.
Kindness is our sacrifice and austerity, for it pleases the Lord. And His pleasure is the final exam and test for us all.
The veil was palpably thin. Every thought seemed to ring out through the valley. I was on display, open to the elements. Among the dead I ventured one night, this time chaperoned by the High-Priest who led me beyond the third door—the door in the West. I was anxious to return after my last visit many moons before, for it had brought about such an apparent change in me. I would welcome all exposure if it meant I could refine, correct, and transform myself.
I am not sure if I had ever been so inspired in my life. As a Woman in Red, honor demanded every driving force to be overturned. Generations may come and go, but the grand play of the Lord and His messengers never sanction duplicity, conflict, or injustice. Our duty is to shine a light where goodness is absent, for the sake of our world which is living in darkness—misled and afflicted. To that end, I was committed and motivated in my resolve.
“Hail and welcome to the Door in the West. This is the door through which many pass away, but from which none return,” a voice said as we crossed its threshold.
“Follow me,” the High-Priest said, setting off at a fast pace. It was as if he knew his destination and was sparing no moment for reflection in his endeavor to reach it. The sloping path was deep and the light was at times indiscernible. Straggling behind, it was merciless trying to keep up with his ever quickening pace. I followed him between two canyons, my nerves pricked like the stem of a rose. As we passed beneath a narrow stone arch at the bottom of the steep hill, three visible side passages came into view. The High-Priest, at speed, coursed the left path without hesitation.
Making our way through a realm of unearthly evil, we at last came to an opening.
An enormous barrow lay gravely set within the center of an earthly mound, beneath the twisted roots of a giant tree. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I could see that the barrow’s mouth seemed to offer entrance to the nether regions. I recoiled, praying that this was not our destination, for a deathly odor came from it. Instinctively, I recounted the route we had taken to get here, should I have a need to suddenly flee. ‘The right path, beneath the arches, between the two gorges, up the hill—to the door in the West.’
Carved between the rocks guarding its opening, there sat, still as statues, two baronial black ravens whose opaque feathers shone in the concealed light. Their presence proclaimed loud and clear, a sense of foreboding, which hung suggestively in the air.
“The indignities here are bleak Mary, so much so, that the angels choose not to tread upon this ground. Before you enter these mysteries, you will be required to bathe in the River of Remembrance,” he said, guiding me down to the river behind a forest of ghoulish looking trees.
“The true of heart have no cause to cross these waters.
You are not here to save or even console those who you see, for their transformation is incomplete without an evaluation of their crimes,” he said gravely. “The inner worlds have a divine system of justice, which on earth, seemingly failed to dispense to those who chose a damnable path for themselves, Mary.”
The river, lit by a thousand flames resting upon its surface, called my name as I approached “Mary Magdalene, we hail thee and welcome.”
Dropping my clothing to the ground, I stepped into the milky river. A solemn vibration, like a well-rehearsed sacrament, came up from its watery depths, its soothing pulse carrying me upon its current, washed over my spirit. I sensed that I was about to witness something magnificent, as a surge of energy held me suspended in its safekeeping. Shielding me defensively. The outpouring, provided me with a gratifying protection, which, like a mantle of light, robed me—as if carved by the gods, it had been sent forth to offer me safe passage.
“You are entering the realm of the spirit. The body you wear has been a cloak for your soul and its heavy load here leaves you free of its wounds,” the High-Priest said intently.
Cradled in contentment, the waters tide delivered me like infant Moses unto the far side of the river, where I was found by a woman of years, who approached me.
“What brings you here to our shores little one?” she asked curiously.
“I have been sent here to witness the inner worlds and see the truth of death,” I replied as if in a daze.
“Daughter, you are welcome here,” she said smiling, offering me her aged spindly hand. Embarrassed by my nakedness, I covered my body with my long limp hair, taking her hand in mine. Tenderly, she placed a blood-red gown around my shoulders, tying a rope at my waist to cover me. “You are a pilgrim of eternity . . .” she said walking ahead of me a little, her luminous wings hanging heavily upon her back.