“Not everyone can make that choice,” Jen snaps.
Sarai raises an eyebrow and replies evenly, “Having the support of relatives and a keen would-be-husband helps, but beyond that Mary chose to trust the power she believed in. Some would say God used rape as the ultimate triumph over evil.”
“But, but you asked us to consider the prospect of Mary saying no to Gabriel. And now you are saying that never happened!” Jen is angry.
“I encourage my students to keep their minds open. The mythic genre has an important place in spiritual development. No one should discount the potential of Divine Mystery or the possibility of Supernatural Intervention.”
Sarai swings her gaze to Kat. “You are very quiet today.”
“Well …” starts Kat, but nothing follows.
“Pregnancy always changes things,” says Sarai, then appears drained of conversation. The younger women say quick goodbyes. Sarai makes no attempt to acknowledge their departure.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
“I’m sorry, Kat, I had no idea Sarai would go on about … what she did go on about,” she finishes lamely.
“It’s OK,” mutters Kat, then noting Jen’s stricken look she makes an effort. “I’m not going to claim I’m a virgin.” She gives Jen an affectionate shove.
“I wonder what got Sarai upset?”
“She sure wasn’t upset for me. She was upset for herself. Perhaps this special mission she thinks we’re marked for doesn’t fit with pregnancy.”
“If you’re right, it doesn’t make sense. Sarai knows I want a baby.”
“You’re married. Perhaps Sarai is not as liberal as she makes out.”
“She has a son of her own,” reminds Jen.
“She is one crazy crone,” Kat summarises.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen goes to her afternoon gym but cannot get the morning lecture out of her head. The fascinating females all conceived in non normal circumstances, and, if Holy Writ is to be believed, God-approved — or if not exactly approved, used what had happened. During her exercycle stint Jen’s eyes roam the personal trainers moving among the clients. Her own trainer is a particularly attractive man; physically near perfect, she decides, just a tiny bit short. But what appeals most is his manner, the epitome of open charm. Dave catches her eye and approaches to check the dials on her cycle. Jen is glad she is already red with exertion. It’s the first time the thought of an affair has seriously crossed her consciousness. She dismisses it, knowing she is too old for him, and is shocked by the regret this registers. Sex with Wilkin has sunk lower than monthly chore level.
He has been strange, and a stranger, for months now. She pedals with stoic determination and replays Wilkin’s unfathomable mood swings. She had expected him to be furious after the Ashera incident, but when he finally arrived home he appeared possessed by some strange elation. This had frightened her more than the honest anger displayed on discovering his Christian wife had fashioned a pagan shrine.
About a month ago Wilkin had been gripped by another unstable incident. Her peddling is on cruise mode as she mulls overhearing Wilkin’s phone indicate a text message, him reading it in the garden and then hurling stones over the bank. He had hurled stones for an unnerving five minutes before getting into his car and disappearing for over an hour. On his return he’d looked strangely smug and hadn’t insisted on sex that night, even though it was prime conception time. Since then, she reflects grimly, he’s been pretty much off sex all together.
Work worries are consuming him — that is why he can’t offer her love. Does she still love him? The thought is articulated with stark clarity. She is being ill-used. No. Work has got on top of her husband. The country is in the middle of a recession. Wilkin is depressed. She must make allowances.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
After dinner, Beef Wellington, his favourite, Wilkin stands abruptly, saying he must put in an hour or so at the office. He drops an absent-minded kiss on Jen’s hair and heads for the door. Jen stacks the dishwasher, makes another coffee, and looks up Genesis 38.
Tamar had it tough all right. No say in her marriage, living arrangements or clothing, wore widow’s weeds for years. But despite all this she was a woman of spirit, with her ear to the ground, so to speak, who laid her plans well. She understood Judah sufficiently to know this widowed male was likely to seek comfort from a prostitute. Tamar was marginalised already. She had nothing to lose by marginalising herself further. Interestingly symbolic that she chose the margin of a town to play the harlot. Why wasn’t Tamar recognised? It has always amazed Jen that Jacob failed on his wedding night to notice Leah was not her sister until it was too late. How unknowing can a man be! Tamar covered her face with a veil, presumably Leah did as well, but the text says it was the veil that indicated to Judah the woman was a prostitute. Widow-wear would have been very different to prostitute garb and Judah probably hadn’t spoken to her in years, supposes Jen. But surely Jacob knew the sound of Leah’s voice. Did Leah keep silent?
Her feeble attempt at seducing Wilkin hadn’t worked. Should she do a Ruth and curl up at his feet when he is drunk? If ‘feet’ was a euphemism for genitals she had been doing the Ruth thing for quite a while. Was Wilkin bored with her? Did he need shock treatment to lift his depression? Could she be as creatively daring as Tamar?
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
“I’d like to have a coffee with the Wiccan women,” says Jen to Kat at the conclusion of Thursday’s lecture. I feel bad about snubbing them on Tuesday.”
“Saint Jennifer, the patron saint of politeness. I knew you would get the guilts for that — you don’t owe those old girls anything.”
“They were welcoming to us at Pauline’s. We should do our bit to help them feel at home here.” Memories of her first day on campus still have power to unnerve Jen. “I wish I could remember their names.”
“All old ducks look the same to me.”
“We could ask them if they’d like to join us in the Union café. It would be interesting to know why they’re here.”
The three ladies express pleasure in joining Jen and Kat for coffee. “I’m here because of Sarai,” is the candid comment from the thinnest member of the trio. “I think she is amazing but she’s also a bit of a mystery woman.”
“I have to agree, Joy,” says the dark haired woman with the hand-knitted scarf. The thin one is Joy, notes Jen. Dark-hair continues. “Sarai is an absolute fount of information but she keeps it to herself most of the time. When she said this was going to be her last term of lecturing I felt I just must experience her in teaching mode. You felt the same didn’t you, Dot?”
The grey-brown perm nods. “Yes. I’ve been attending hobby lectures for years. I don’t know what took me so long to enrol for one of hers. I guess I just thought she’ll always be here. Wasn’t it fascinating today the way she showed Jesus to be a man of his times as prejudiced as any, a misogynist and racist.”
“No, Dot. I don’t think Sarai implied Jesus was anti-women,” Joy cuts in. “Just anti-non Jews, that business about taking food from the table and throwing it to the dogs was pretty harsh but I don’t think gender was an issue, other than that it took a woman to point out that even gentiles are entitled to have what the Jew’s don’t need.”
Dark-hair stands. “That Syro-Phoenician woman had a quick mind and a quick tongue,” she remarks, unzipping her jacket. “I’d like her on my debating team.”
“Do you mind if I join you?” asks a tall, middle-aged man sitting at the next table.
“Sure,” says Jen, recognising him. “You’re in our class, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m Keith,” he says showing a row of good teeth.
“I’m Jen, the rest can introduce themselves.”
The women name themselves around the table. Jen picks up that Joan is the name belonging to the dark curls. Joan’s multi-coloured scarf is of varying widths. Knitted by a grandchild, Jen surmises. Even so, you would have to be a bit of a character to actually wear such an article.
“I hope you don’t mind me intruding. I couldn’t help but overhear what you were saying,” says Keith. “I’m enjoying the lectures too. I just felt you were being a bit hard on Jesus. How could he not be a man of his times? I think the main message of the incident is that Jesus was in the wrong and he was man enough to admit it.”
“Jesus being in the wrong is a rather startling concept,” Jen responds. “But I like your take on it. Sarai didn’t bring out that aspect.”
“If it hadn’t been for the woman having an ill child she wouldn’t have dared take on the teacher,” says Joan. “Mother-love was the motivating force. Mother-love is probably the strongest force in the world.”
“I don’t know much about mother-love,” admits Keith, “but I’m grateful that this woman challenged Jesus. We non-Jews may never have heard of Jesus had the Syro-Phoenician woman not caused him to reassess his ministry.”
“And that matters?” says Kat.
“Well, it matters to me. I’m a theological student. I’m training to be a Methodist minister.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
“I’ve got the names sorted out,” Jen explains to Kat as they take their customary walk toward the car park.
“I’m surprised you paid such attention. I thought you were totally absorbed in Keith. He’s quite dishy for an old guy.”
“He’s not old. I reckon he’s not much over forty.”
“Yeah, and forty’s not old!”
Jen gives her a good-natured shove. “I’ve got a couple of years to go before I reach your idea of old.”
“He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, did you notice?” Jen had noticed but didn’t care to admit it. “Not that that means anything,” says Kat, speaking from experience.
Jen sits at her dining-room table surrounded by notes from today’s lecture and ponders the women of Luke’s birth narratives. Sarai presented Elizabeth as a woman who, although advanced in years and barren — in Hebrew eyes a punishment from God — is described as being a good woman living blamelessly according to all the commandments. And when six months’ pregnant she was given the role of prophetess, filled with the Holy Spirit she blesses Mary. Obviously Elizabeth was a woman of insight, and, according to the notes, the only female in Luke’s Gospel to make a Christological confession.
How old was Elizabeth when she conceived? Jen recalls a book of her mother’s that made an impression on her as a child. The grandmother of the ‘cave twins’ had skin like wrinkled leather and missing teeth, she was old, old as forty maybe. Perhaps 40 was still ‘old as’ for women of Jesus’ time. Jen personally knows several women who have conceived after turning 40. Age is such a subjective concept.
Jen turns back to her notes and reflects on the friendship that developed between the mature Elizabeth and her much younger kinswoman Mary. They must have been friends before they got pregnant or Mary wouldn’t have wanted to share her news with Elizabeth, it wasn’t as if she lived next door: 65 miles on foot! Their pregnancies united them in a very special bond. Being pregnant would make her and Kat even closer, Jen reflected.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Saturday, 18 July
Wilkin is irritated when Jen tells him she will need him to pick her up after the Mothers’ Union function. Her car is in the garage for its WOF and the Union is holding a fundraising social for the annual Bible Society appeal. “It’s an open night for the parish — men included, but I knew you wouldn’t be interested. Well, you’ve been so busy lately,” she soothes, in response to his frown. “Liz is giving me a lift down but she can’t bring me home. We’re going dressed as Bible characters.”
Wilkin wants to refuse, but can think of no credible excuse. He vents his annoyance by sneering, “Fancy dress. How childish can they get?”
“It’s a worthy cause, we pay for the privilege of dressing up. A bit like mufti-days at school. Nothing wrong with releasing the child within! Those who dress up have the opportunity to mime part of their character’s story. We guess who they represent and there’s a prize for best performance. The vote is done by coins.”
“And you fancy yourself as the Virgin Mary I suppose?”
“No, Tamar, actually,” Wilkin looks blank. “She was an Old Testament widow, she wore black for years. I’ll text you when I’m ready to leave.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Wilkin hurtles across St Fiacre’s car park and swings away from the steep hill that rises from its edge. By backing into a gap on the far side he has a clear view across the yard. He’s not going into the hall; Jen can find him. Wilkin watches figures emerge, some with tea-towels on their heads, others with headscarves or veils, most draped in long skirts. “Ridiculous,” he mutters out loud, annoyed that the infantile crowd are in such good spirits, calling cheery goodbyes as they balance props and empty plates. Where is that dratted woman? He hasn’t seen anyone wearing black. A group of young women catch his eye. They are chatting animatedly and dressed as harem women. Their draped pantaloons, soft scarves, and sparkling tops look quite alluring under the outside light. This is more like it, a bit of eye-candy. One of the women wears a veil over her face. He appraises the long dark hair and hourglass figure and wonders who she is. He recognises a couple of the others, women Jen does lunch with. Suddenly the group begin swaying and slowly moving their pelvises. The incident is so brief Wilkin wonders if it really happened. There is a burst of laughter and the women dissolve into cars.
Where is Jen? The lights are still on. Is she cleaning up or something? The young woman in the veil is an attractive diversion. She waits in the light of the hall porch. As he watches she grasps a pole that supports the roof and leans out, shading her eyes with the other hand. As she scans the near-empty car park Wilkin receives a vivid vision of a pole dancer. His groin twitches. She is coming toward him. She is one hot chick. He lowers his window. The woman traces an X on his cheek. His testosterone responds. She lowers her veil. “Going my way, handsome?”
Wilkin feels his libido plunge. How dare his wife make such a spectacle of herself! Jen plants a butterfly kiss on the invisible X and his half-mast tool wobbles. His eyes circuit the yard. There is no one in the car park but themselves. Jen springs in beside him, nimble as a cat. “We’ve been taking belly dancing classes. It’s a lot of fun, all girls together. Apparently belly dancing was devised in the harems as a way for the women to enjoy themselves while keeping fit. You don’t feel so guilty tucking into a few extra calories if you’ve spent 40 minutes dancing beforehand. If you’re very good I’ll show you the full routine when we get home.”
He should slap her, but his traitor penis, ever with a mind of its own, signals he likes her talking like this. He turns the ignition key and gives her a sidelong glance.
“Why the wig?”
“Eastern women wore their hair long.”
“You said your character wore widow’s clothes.”
“Her story had a surprise ending.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
23 — Martha
Tuesday, 28 July
“Patriarchal Christendom has relentlessly misrepresented the women of the Second Testament,” says Sarai with passion in her voice. “Mary the Mother of Christ is portrayed as mother and virgin, and Mary Magdalene, Christ’s closest female companion, is portrayed as a sensual sinner. With the Bethany sisters, Mary is upheld as a model of passive piety, and her sister Martha, a bossy housewife with no time for matters spiritual. These opposing pairs serve to fulfil male fantasies and impose impossible role-models for spiritual women.” Sarai pauses to let this sink in. Her eyes probe the rows. “Mr Jones, what can you tell us about the name Mary?”
“Mary is the New Testament equivalent of the Old Testament Miriam. The name was made popular by Herod’s first wife, Mary. There are six or seven different Maries identifiable in the New Testament.”
“Exemplary Mr Jones. Anything to add … Mr Morely?”
“The main Maries have been badly stereotyped for centuries. In recent times this misrepresentation ha
s attracted comment and debate and been partially righted.”
“True. No less injustice was done to Martha and this remains largely unchallenged. What do we know about Martha, Mr Aribas?”
“She lived in Bethany with her sister Mary and brother Lazarus. Martha was the busy one and Mary the sensitive one.”
“Take care with value judgements, Mr Aribas.”
“Service has its place,” pipes up Rochelle. “There is a rhyme my father likes to quote to my mother: Mary and Martha in one life, make up the perfect vicar’s wife.”
“Poor woman,” mutters Jen to Kat.
“No wonder Rochelle is so repressed,” returns Kat.
“Martha is the patron saint of cooks and housewives,” contributes Darlene.
Sarai nods, “And is thus officially relegated to the kitchen, her mature role in the first-century church forgotten and her rightful place in Church history denied. There are only two Gospel stories concerning Martha. In Luke’s story she is the head of the household, serving the needs of family and guests. She would like her sister to assist with these necessities. In John’s story we see a different Martha, still a person who serves, but also one who goes out to meet Jesus and plead for her brother. Like St Peter, Martha understands and confesses the nature of the Christ. Had the society of the early Church been matriarchal and not patriarchal, the basilica that now stands on Vatican Hill may have been named St Martha’s.” Sarai looks directly at two young women in the back row who she knows are active Catholics. Their initial scandalised looks are moving to what she reads hopefully as open to boundary-pushing possibility.
“Peter’s perceptions tended to come through impetuous response. Martha thinks about her faith. Her confession of faith goes further than Peter’s; she dares challenge Jesus. In the Lazarus incident Martha suggests new ways of relating to the natural forces of life and death. Martha is the rock of the Bethany household. It has been suggested that as the elder sister she would have had authority over her younger sister, until her younger sister was ‘owned’ by a man through betrothal or marriage. So then, why wasn’t Mary helping with the meal preparations? It is an interesting thought! As is the thorny question, ‘Who was Mary of Bethany?’ Scholarship has never been able to agree as to exactly which Mary her sister is. Some have believed Mary was a prostitute. This has been firmly discounted, there is no evidence to support any woman named Mary being a prostitute, but,” Sarai pauses for effect, “it is likely that Mary of Bethany is one and the same as Mary Magdalene.”
League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul Page 28