Читать книгу Bright Dark Madonna - Elizabeth Cunningham - Страница 17

CHAPTER SIX

IN WHICH MA AND I ARE INTRODUCED TO THE ECCLESIA

“THIS IS OUR LORD Jesus’s mother, Miriam, and our Lord’s wife, Mary,” Mary B said over and over as she towed Miriam and me around the crowded room. (Yes, Miriam had come, too. Martha had made it clear to Mary B that Ma and I were a package deal.)

Some forty or so people had gathered in the courtyard of a spacious though modest house on the outskirts of the fashionable upper city, one of several owned by the Jerusalem ecclesia. I was a little surprised that I didn’t recognize anyone. Since the twelve came bursting out of the upper room talking in tongues, the community had grown. And it was becoming organized. People knew where to go in the evening for the communal meal. In the morning they went as a group to pray in the Temple. Now as they waited for evening prayers to begin, some people talked in small groups, while others (yes, mostly women) set forth simple but ample food.

“Our Master’s mother and wife,” Mary said again.

“His what?” An old woman with a sharp face finally said what the other more polite people appeared to be thinking. “I didn’t know the Master had relations.” She said the word relations with pronounced distaste, and it was not clear if she meant relatives or the other kind of relations. “Nobody ever mentioned that before.”

“Mother, you know he had a family,” said a young man with a sparse beard that could not hide bad skin; he had better look to Leviticus to clear that up. “Surely you remember James the brother of Jesus leading us in prayer the other night.”

“Brother? I thought we were all brothers and sisters in Christ? Besides, half the men around here are named James. You can’t expect me to keep them straight.”

“Hush, mother, be polite,” said her son. “I’m sorry. My mother is a little—”

Miriam waved his apology away and favored the old woman with a dreamy smile.

“And that one,” his mother dropped her voice to a whisper, her concession to politeness. “Gentile by the look of her and a bun in the oven.”

An awkward silence had fallen over the room; conversations stalled, and no one wanted to start them up again for fear of being overheard. People were trying hard not to stare, but of course they were curious, and perhaps some were appalled at the idea of Jesus having something as ordinary and human as a wife and mother. Trust me, it had not yet occurred to anyone to venerate Miriam, though a couple of women recovered themselves and escorted Miriam to one of the only couches in the room. Two other women, who looked as though they might be sisters, approached me, trying not to eye my belly, and invited me to sit down while Mary B went to talk to someone about arranging a place for us to sleep that night.

“When do we eat?” was my opening conversational gambit, I’m afraid. “The food looks wonderful.”

“After the prayers,” explained the older of the two. “We’re waiting for Brother Peter and some of the others.”

“Were you really his wife?” the younger burst out suddenly.

“Shh, Serena, that is rude,” said the older one.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” I said. “Yes, I…I was.” It still felt funny to speak of him in the past tense.

“Don’t scold, Hannah. What was it like? What was he like?” the younger woman said breathlessly.

“Serena, you must not trouble our guest with personal questions. That is not for us to know. We know the Master by faith, not by flesh.”

I don’t think she meant it unkindly, but I felt relegated to a lower status.

“Tell me,” I decided to change the subject. “Do you all live here together in this house?”

“Some of us do, some of us don’t,” the older woman said. “But we all gather to pray and break bread together in Jesus’s name, and we all give what we own or earn to the ecclesia. We are one in His Spirit.”

“So I gather,” I said, suspecting I was going to hear a lot of that phrase.

Before I got to ask any more questions, there was a stir of excitement in the room, like a breeze turning all the leaves, and everyone turned as Peter, James (the brother of Jesus) and John of the Thunder Brothers (so nicknamed by Jesus for their boisterousness) strode into the room with a man and a woman I did not recognize. The pair looked well heeled and, if not Roman, they dressed in the Roman style.

“Greetings, beloved brothers and sisters, in the name of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. His grace and peace be with you.”

“And also with you,” everyone answered back.

There followed some foot washing, the men vying with each other for who would wash the most feet. I smiled (a bit tearfully) remembering our last night together when Jesus had washed everyone’s feet. Peter, always one for the grand gesture, had offered his whole body when Jesus rebuked him for resisting. I was touched that Peter had taken this particular teaching to heart, though I did wish he’d get on with it. It seemed to have become a long and solemn procedure, and I was beginning to feel faint with hunger.

When the apostolic feet were clean, the prayers began. As well as the prescribed Hebrew prayers that I knew from Jesus, there were extemporaneous prayers that seemed more like sermons. Peter gave one; James gave one; John, goddess bless him, passed. Then Mary B, unsolicited, offered one. (I hope you don’t expect me to reproduce these prayers, because to tell you the truth after a while I wasn’t paying attention). I did catch on pretty fast that the word Amen didn’t mean a prayer was over. It was an expression of fervor, a way for the rest of us to participate. I started shouting “Amen!” with the best of them in order to distract myself from the scent of the fresh bread and the lentil stew going cold. Finally in the middle of one of Mary B’s more complicated, theological sentences Peter uttered a loud, definitive “A-men.” Mary B’s eyebrows bristled fiercely, and she doggedly completed her sentence, but she brought her prayer to a close. Before anyone else could jump in, Peter motioned for everyone to be seated.

“Praise Jesus!” I said out loud, but I was premature in my rejoicing.

“I have an announcement to make before we eat,” said Peter still standing.

(The Early Christians may not have invented announcements, but they had a penchant for them, and their timing left a lot to be desired. Between the main course and dessert would have been my preference.)

“Rejoice, brothers and sisters, for by the Grace of our Lord and Savior, we welcome two new believers to our community. Two more lost sheep have repented and come to his fold….”

Sheep, I free-associated, feed.

“Peter, feed my sheep.” I shouted out, quoting my beloved. I couldn’t help myself; the Spirit had definitely come upon me.

Poor old Peter turned and registered my presence. From the look on his face, you would have thought I was the one who had died and been resurrected—except that he wasn’t exactly leaping out of the boat in joy and rapture the way he had greeted our mutual friend. I shot a glance at Mary B: Didn’t you tell him we were coming? She shook her head, managing to look defiant and sheepish (pun intended) all at once.

“Mary of Magdala,” he managed to get the words out. “What—”

“Forgive me for interrupting you, Peter,” I said. “I was just remembering when he said that to you. You know, Jesus. Feed my sheep, he said. Remember?”

“I remember,” he said, and his eyes filled with tears, and he looked completely lost for a moment. Bereft. I wanted to get up and throw my arms around him, but I knew he would hate it if I did. “So, where was I?” Peter recovered himself. “Oh, yes. Here are Ananais and Sapphira who have received the grace and forgiveness of our Lord and Savior. Please welcome them into our midst as you would welcome him, for we know that when two or three are gathered in his name, he is there with us in our midst.”

“Welcome, Ananais. Welcome, Sapphira,” the assembled chorused.

And my heart—and stomach—leapt in hope; for Peter seated the newcomers and began to sit down himself. I eyed the bread, wondering when the signal would come to break it. Then Mary B, who had never had a proper appreciation for food, in my opinion, got to her feet again. I thought I would weep.

“My brothers and sisters, please also welcome Miriam of Nazareth, mother of Jesus, and Mary of Magdala, who was his wife. Let us give thanks to the Spirit that these women, who were closest to him in life, have joined our community and our cause.”

If I had been less hungry, I might have felt more alarmed by Mary B’s announcement, but goddamn it, I was pregnant.

“Have they repented of their sins?” the cantankerous old woman inquired.

No one answered, but Miriam started humming; I could hear her from where she sat on the other side of the room.

“Well, have they?” The old woman insisted. “The rest of us did, and I don’t see why they should be let off, just because of family connections.”

Mary B looked thoughtful, which worried me. Now was no time for a philosophical debate.

“James,” said Peter in a loud whisper. “They’re your relatives. Do something.”

“My dear sister in the Lord,” James got to his feet and addressed the old woman. “I believe we can safely assume that the mother of the Chosen One and wife of his bosom have had ample opportunity to repent and be forgiven and restored fully to the house of Israel, that is, should they have strayed, which undoubtedly they have from time to time, as we all, like sheep—”

“Must be fed!” I stood up swaying a little with dizziness. “Listen everybody, I’m here to tell you, Jesus loved to party. Whenever you get together to eat and drink, remember me, he said, I’ll be there. That’s why we’re gathered here with all this food in front of us. So for the love of Jesus, dig in.” I sat down, reached for a loaf, turned to a woman next to me whose mouth was hanging open, and broke the bread with her.

“Amen!” someone shouted.

So ended my first official grace. If you’d like to use it at your table, you’re welcome.

When it was time to go to bed, after more praying, preaching, and singing, Miriam and I were given sleeping pallets and a place on the floor in the women’s dormitory. I did not know if there was a wing where couples or families slept or if those people went home to their own households. Our roommates appeared to be mostly widows and virgins, though there were a couple of women with young children who were not wearing widow’s weeds, so perhaps they had husbands somewhere. I was too tired to ask questions that first night, and not even the old woman’s (whose name turned out to be Dorothea) long sawing snores could keep me awake.

We were all up at dawn, with Mary B leading us all in chanting Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echod. (Hear O Israel the Lord thy God, the Lord is One). Her voice was strong and deep and more musical than I remembered. I could hear her happiness or maybe happiness is the wrong word, even beside the point. She was where she was meant to be, doing what she was born to do. Her face had always been thin and on the sallow side, but now, as she faced east and caught the dawn light she looked luminous.

When we had washed and dressed ourselves, the next order of the day was to gather to go to the Temple to pray—before breakfast, much to my dismay.

“Mary,” I grabbed hold of her arm and her attention. “I think I’ll just stay here. Help out in the kitchen or something.”

“We all go together as a group. You’ll be assigned a work position later. Don’t worry. This is more important.”

“But aren’t I unclean, or something?” I said hopefully.

“You’re not bleeding,” Mary B stated.

“But I’m with child. Listen, Mary, I’m not kidding. No food, no prayers.”

“You are impossible. All right. Go to the kitchens; get something you can eat quickly and quietly. But you have to come to the Temple. I’ve taken a big risk bringing you right into the heart of the community after what happened in the porticoes. So please don’t draw attention to yourself. Just do what everyone else does. You’ll catch on. Hurry. It’s time to go.”

She was busy, and I decided not to argue with her, as long as she didn’t come between me and the demands of my pregnant body. So I grabbed some fig cakes and munched discreetly as we walked along in the early morning light, singing Hosannas to the son of David, who as far as I could tell was still nowhere in sight.

Mary B and I had both forgotten something: The sign in three languages, Latin, Greek, and Aramaic, that stated bluntly outside the gates of the Court of Women: No pagan may proceed beyond this point. Anyone who is taken shall be killed, and he alone shall be answerable for his death. Or her death, as it were, which is to say, mine.

(In case there is any doubt on this point, no, I never converted to my beloved’s religion; I wasn’t even a God Fearer, as gentiles who kept Jewish Law were called. Not that I wasn’t afraid of YHWH sometimes. Who wouldn’t be, considering his reputation? I had even prayed to him on a couple of desperate occasions, but we generally steered clear of each other. I am the daughter of warrior witches and a priestess of Isis. You can’t get more pagan than that. Though I have been known to trespass in sacred precincts forbidden to me, I needed a stronger motivation than worshipping an invisible god who insists—a little too vehemently—that he’s the only game in town.)

I quietly dropped behind the others. With the several Jerusalem households walking en masse, our group was so large I did not think I would be missed at prayers. So I began to wander around the Court of the Gentiles where all the teaching and commerce took place. Despite the riot my beloved had started almost a year ago now, business was as brisk as ever. Why weren’t the apostles and co. out here upsetting tables, if they wanted to continue his work? A stupid, bitter question, I knew. Because actions like that had eventually gotten him crucified, that’s why. Now here I was a year later, and peasants were still being ripped off, forced to buy sacrificial animals from the Temple at inflated prices instead of offering their own.

I found myself wandering up and down the aisles of the dove vendors—the sacrifice of the poor. Miriam herself had come from Galilee to offer two doves in thanks for Jesus’s birth when her time of uncleanness had passed. Anna had once said to Jesus, “Don’t scorn the doves, Yeshua, they have given their blood for you and for many.” On the day of the riot, Anna had materialized mysteriously and urged me to open the cages and set the birds free. But if I tried anything today, I would only cause trouble, draw attention to myself (my besetting sin) and I had promised Mary B I wouldn’t. So I just stopped and stood before the cages, trying to make that low whirring sound in a useless gesture of solidarity.

“We can buy some.” I turned and there was Miriam standing beside me.

“Are the prayers over already?” I asked, surprised.

“I didn’t go in; I followed you. It doesn’t matter which side of a wall I’m on, the angels know where to find me.”

That was true enough. I didn’t see them or hear them, but there was a certain quality to the air when they were around her, breezes that lifted the hem of her garment and the tendrils of her hair when everything else was still.

“Let’s buy some doves,” Miriam prompted. “In Anna’s memory.”

“I don’t think Anna would like us to sacrifice them,” I objected.

“Did I say anything about burnt offerings? No, we’ll free them, of course. That’s what Anna used to do. She was quite mad, you know.”

Miriam’s matter-of-fact pronouncement on Anna’s sanity struck me as hugely funny, but I managed not to laugh out loud.

“I’d love to free some doves,” I said. “But I have no coins.”

The realization hit me. Not only did I have no money to buy a dove, I had no means at all. I was completely dependent on the community.

“Here.” Miriam reached into her pocket and displayed a palm full of shekels.

“Where did you get that money?” I was curious and a little alarmed.

“I found it,” Ma said vaguely, shrugging as if it were not important.

“Found it? What do you mean?”

“I couldn’t sleep last night, so I went to the kitchen to find something to eat. I was opening jars, looking to see what there was, and I found money.”

“And you took it?”

You are probably more shocked than I was. For me, she was just my crazy mother-in-law, which was bad enough, but not the Ever Blessed Virgin Mary, the only other mortal besides her son born without the taint of original sin. Well, Queen of Heaven or not, she had just told me she’d had her hand in the cookie jar.

“Why not?” she said. “If I had found figs or almonds I would have taken them.”

Ma was serene in her logic, but I was nonplused. I came from a country of cattle raiders, who regarded stealing each other’s herds as sport, but she was one of the children of Moses. As I recalled, there was a commandment that expressly said: Thou shalt not steal. What was she thinking?

“How much did you take?”

“Just what would fit in my palm,” she said righteously. “I’m not greedy, Mary of Magdala. Now are we going to buy some doves or not?”

I threw up my hands, by which I meant, I am not going to make this decision; in no way do I want to be implicated in stealing ecclesia funds. Miriam interpreted the gesture to suit herself.

“Vendor,” she said. “I want as many doves as I can buy with these.”

When the others emerged from their prayers, they found Ma and me with our four newly purchased doves, a pair each in small wicker cages, headed for the gardens where Anna used to sit.

“See!” shrilled Dorothea. “I told you they were not at prayers. That one,” she pointed at me. “She’s a gentile, I can smell it, and no better than she should be. Look at that flaming heathen hair. She’s a pagan in sheep’s clothing, she’s a wolf among the lambs, she’s….”

“Hush, Dorothea,” commanded Mary B. “She was the wife of our Rabbi; she’s going to have his child. She and his mother are no doubt making a thank offering.”

“We’d better open the cages now,” said Miriam.

And so we did. For a moment the disoriented doves perched on our hands, and then we tossed them into the sky.