“But you are worthy,” Maureen assured him emphatically. “You were chosen for this. Look at how much divine intervention was required to bring us all together, to this place and time, to tell this story.”
“But what story do we tell?” Peter looked tormented, and for the first time Maureen saw that he was wrestling with some very strong inner demons. “What story do I tell? If these gospels are authentic…”
Maureen stopped in her tracks and looked at him, incredulous. “How can you doubt it? After everything it took to get us here, to this place?” Maureen touched the back of her head where the huge gash was healing.
“It’s now a question of faith for me, Maureen. The scrolls are perfectly preserved, not a flaw on them, not a word missing. The jars didn’t even have dirt on them. How is that possible? It’s one of two things — either it’s a modern forgery or it’s an act of divine will.”
“What do you truly believe?”
“I’ve spent twenty straight hours translating the most astounding document. And much of what I’m reading is…essentially heretical, yet it also provides a vision of Jesus that is beautiful in an extraordinary and human way. But what I think won’t matter. The scrolls will still have to be authenticated through rigorous processes for the world at large to accept them.”
He paused, taking time to come to terms with it all in his own head. “If they can be proven to be authentic, this challenges the belief system of a large part of the human race for the last two thousand years. It challenges everything I’ve ever been taught, everything I ever believed.”
Maureen looked at the man, her cousin and best friend, for a long moment. She had always known him to be a rock, a pillar of strength and absolute integrity. He was also a man of intense faith and loyalty to his Church.
She asked simply, “What will you do?”
“I haven’t had time to think that far. I need to see what the rest of these scrolls say to see how much they contradict, or hopefully confirm, the gospel accounts as we know them. I haven’t reached Mary’s description of the crucifixion — or the resurrection.”
Maureen understood suddenly why Peter was so reluctant to leave the scrolls before finishing the translations. Mary Magdalene’s authenticated account of the events following the crucifixion could be critical to the belief system of one-third of the earth’s population. Christianity was based on the understanding that Jesus rose from the dead on the third day. And as Mary Magdalene was the first witness of his resurrection, according to Gospel accounts, her first-person version of those events would be vital.
Maureen learned during her research that theorists who had written about Mary Magdalene as Jesus’ wife had also overwhelmingly taken the position that Jesus was not the son of God and did not rise from the dead. Various hypotheses existed regarding Jesus surviving the crucifixion; another common theory was that his physical body had simply been moved by his followers. No one had ever theorized that Jesus had been married and had been the son of God. For some reason, those two circumstances had always been viewed as mutually exclusive. Perhaps that’s why Mary’s existence as the first apostle had been so threatening to the Church throughout history.
No doubt all of these things had been running through Peter’s mind in the last, intense hours. He responded to Maureen’s question.
“It will depend on what official position the Church takes.”
“And what if they deny them? Then what? Do you choose the institution of the Church, or do you choose what you know in your heart to be the truth?”
“I hope those things are not mutually exclusive,” Peter said with a wry smile. “Perhaps that is overly optimistic. But if that happens, well, then the time will come.”
“The time for what?”
“Eligere magistrum. To choose a master.”
They had finished their walk and returned to the château, Maureen convincing Peter to at least take a shower to refresh himself before returning to his task. She went back to her own room to wash her face and gather her thoughts. Exhaustion was creeping in, but she couldn’t surrender to it, not yet. Not until she knew what was in the scrolls.
As Maureen dried her face on an elegant red towel, there was a knock on her door.
Tammy bounced into her room. “Good morning. Did I miss anything?”
“Not yet. Peter is going to read to us from the first book as soon as he feels the translation is ready. He says it’s stunning, but that’s all I know.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s in his room taking a little break. Didn’t want to leave the scrolls, but we insisted on it. He’s having a hard time even though he won’t admit it publicly. This is a huge responsibility for him. Maybe even a huge liability.”
Tammy perched on the edge of Maureen’s bed. “You know what I don’t understand? Why does it bother people so much, this idea that Jesus was married and had children? How does that diminish him or his message? Why would Christians be threatened by any of this?”
Tammy continued passionately; this was obviously something she had been thinking about seriously.
“What about that famous passage from Mark’s Gospel, the one they read in the marriage ceremonies? ‘At the beginning God made them male and female and for this shall a man leave his mother and father and cleave to his wife. And the two shall become one flesh, so they are no more two but one.’ ”
Maureen watched her with surprise. “I would not have expected you to be one to quote the Gospels quite so accurately.”
Tammy winked at her. “Mark, chapter ten, verses six through eight. People use the Gospel against us all the time to try and diminish Mary’s importance, so I dedicated myself to finding the verses that support our beliefs. And that’s what Jesus preaches right there in the Gospel. Find a wife and stay with her. So why would he preach something that would then be wrong for him personally?”
Maureen listened and considered Tammy’s question carefully. “Good question. For me, the idea of Jesus married makes him seem more accessible.”
Tammy wasn’t finished. “And God is referred to as the father so why shouldn’t Christ, as the son of God made in his image, father children? How does that impact his divinity? I just don’t see it.”
Maureen shook her head; she certainly didn’t have the answer to such a huge question.
“I suppose that’s ultimately a question for the Church, and for individuals according to their faith.”
By early evening, Peter announced that he had completed the initial translation of the first book.
Sinclair rose from the table. “Are you ready to translate for us, Father? If so, I’d like to summon Roland and Tamara. They’re very much a part of this.”
Peter nodded at Sinclair. “Yes, call them.” Then he looked directly at Maureen, his eyes an unreadable combination of shadow and light. “Because it’s time.”
Tammy and Roland hurried down, joining the others in Sinclair’s study. When they were all gathered around Peter, he explained that there were still a number of rough patches within the translation that would take time and several other expert opinions. But overall, he had a solid translation and an understanding of who Mary truly was, and what her role was in the life of Jesus Christ.
“She refers to this as the Book of the Great Time.”
Picking up the stack of yellow notepads, Father Healy began to read softly to his audience.
“ ‘I am Mary, called Magdalene, a princess of the royal tribe of Benjamin and a daughter of the Nazarenes. I am the lawful wife of Jesus, the messiah of The Way, who was a royal son of the house of David and descended from the priestly caste of Aaron.
Much has been written of us and more will be written in time to come. Many who write of us have no knowledge of the truth and were not present during the Great Time. The words I will commit to these pages are the truth before God. This is what occurred during my life, during the Great Time, the Time of Darkness, and all that came after.
I leave these words for
the children of the future, so that when the time is come they may find them and know the truth of those who led The Way.’ ”
The story of Mary Magdalene’s life unfolded before them in all of its unexpected, stunning detail.
Chapter Seventeen
Galilee
26 A.D.
The dirt was soft and cool between Mary’s toes. She looked down at her feet, fully aware that her bare legs were absolutely filthy. She didn’t care, not a bit. Besides, it was only one of the many unseemly elements of her appearance today. Her glossy auburn hair hung to her waist unbound and in wild tangles; her shift was loose and without a belt.
Earlier, as she attempted to slip unnoticed from the house, she was discovered by a disapproving Martha.
“And where do you think you’re going looking like that?”
Mary laughed lightly, undisturbed that she had been spotted in her escape.
“I’m just going out to the garden. And it’s walled in. No one will see me.”
Martha looked unconvinced. “It is unseemly for a woman of your rank and stature to run loose in the dirt like a barefoot serving girl.”
Martha’s disapproval was more routine than sincere. She was used to her young sister-in-law’s free-spirited ways. Mary was a uniquely exquisite creation of God, and Martha doted on her. Besides, the girl had little enough opportunity to be self-indulgent. Hers was a life shadowed by responsibility, and most of the time she shouldered that fact with grace and courage. On the rare day when Mary had a free moment to wander the gardens, it would be unfair to deny her that small pleasure.
“Your brother will be back before the sun sets,” Martha reminded Mary with emphasis.
“I know. Don’t worry, he won’t see me. And I’ll be back in time to help you with the meal.”
The younger woman gave her brother’s wife a quick kiss on the cheek, and scurried out to enjoy the privacy of her garden. Martha watched her go with a sad little smile. Mary was so petite and fine-boned, it was easy to treat her like a child. But she was not a child, Martha reminded herself. She was now a young woman of marriageable age, a woman with a strong sense of her profound and serious destiny.
Mary had no thoughts of destiny as she entered the garden. There would be enough of that tomorrow. She lifted her head as the spicy scent of October, mixed with the breeze from the Sea of Galilee, filled her nostrils. Mount Arbel stood to the northwest, strong and reassuring in the afternoon sun. She always thought of it as her own personal mountain, a rocky pile of rich, red soil that rose up beside her birthplace. And she had missed it so much. Recently the family had been spending more time in their other home in Bethany, as the proximity to Jerusalem was important for her brother’s work. But Mary loved the wild beauty of Galilee and was delighted when her brother announced they would spend the autumn here.
This was her cherished time, these moments alone surrounded by wildflowers and olive trees. Solitude was becoming increasingly rare, and she savored every second of these stolen opportunities. Here she was able to fully enjoy God’s beauty in peace, unbound by the strict rules of wardrobe and tradition that were an integral part of her station in life.
Her brother once caught her out here and asked what she had been doing during the hours she had been “missing.”
“Nothing! Absolutely nothing!”
Lazarus had looked sternly at his little sister, but then softened. He had been furious when she did not appear for their afternoon meal, an anger that had grown out of fear. It was more than mere sibling concern. He cared deeply for his beautiful, intelligent little sister, but he was also her guardian. Her health and well-being were his first priority. She must be protected at all costs as that was his sacred duty: to his family, to his people, to his God.
When he came upon her lying in the grass her eyes were closed and she was very still, causing him a moment of raw terror. But Mary had stirred, as if sensing his panic. Shading her sleepy eyes from the sun, she looked up into the glowering face of her brother. He looked positively murderous.
Lazarus’ anger abated as she spoke to him. He began to understand for the first time how desperately she needed to take advantage of such rare opportunities for solitude. The only daughter in the lineage of Benjamin, her future had been carved out since infancy. Hers was the privileged destiny of royal blood and prophecy. His little sister was destined for a dynastic marriage, one that had been foretold by the great prophets of Israel — a marriage that many believed was no less than the absolute will of God.
Such tiny shoulders for so great a weight, Lazarus had thought as he listened to her. Mary spoke in a manner that she did not usually allow herself, open and with emotion. It made her brother realize with a pang of guilt that she felt real fear about her predestined role in history. It was strange, but he rarely allowed himself to think of her as entirely human. She was a precious commodity, to be protected and cared for. He had seen to all of these tasks with absolute diligence and accomplished them admirably. But he also loved her — although it was not until he met his wife, Martha, that he allowed himself to fully realize that, or emotion of any kind.
Lazarus had been a very young man when his father died. Too young, perhaps, to take on his family’s huge dynastic responsibilities in addition to his obligations as a landowner. But the young man had vowed to his father during those final days that he would not fail the house of Benjamin. He would not fail his people and he would not fail the God of Israel.
With an intensity of determination, Lazarus attacked his myriad responsibilities, chief among them the care of his sister, Mary. His was a life of duty and obligation. Lazarus arranged his sister’s education and upbringing to befit her noble birthright, but never did he allow himself to feel anything. Emotion was a luxury, and often a dangerous one.
But then, blessedly, God brought Martha to him.
She was the eldest of three sisters from Bethany who had been born to one of Israel’s noble families. It had been essentially an arranged marriage, although Lazarus was given the opportunity to choose from the three girls. He had chosen Martha for practical reasons initially. As the eldest, she was level-headed and responsible, with more experience in the running of a household. The younger girls were too frivolous and were slightly spoiled; he was concerned that they would negatively influence his sister in that manner. All of the girls were lovely, but Martha’s beauty was more serene. She had an unusually calming effect on him.
The practical match turned into a great love, and Martha opened Lazarus’ heart. When his mother died suddenly, leaving the child Mary without a maternal influence, Martha stepped into that role effortlessly.
Mary was thinking of Martha when she stopped to rest beneath her favorite shade tree. Tomorrow, the high priest Jonathan Annas would come and the wedding preparations would begin. There would not be any more opportunities to slip away unescorted for a very long time, so Mary chose to make the most of this. Indeed, the time would come, as they all knew it would, when she would be forced to leave her beloved home to travel south with her future husband. Her husband!
Easa.
The very thought of the man who was her betrothed filled Mary with a warm glow. Any woman would envy her position as future queen to their dynastic king. But it was more than his position that filled Mary with joy; it was the man himself. The people called him Yeshua, this eldest son and heir to the house of David. But Mary called him by a childhood nickname, Easa, much to the chagrin of her brother and Martha.
“It is not fit to call our future king and the chosen leader of the people by a child’s nickname, Mary,” Lazarus had scolded her during Easa’s last visit.
“It is for her,” responded the deep, gentle voice that commanded attention without effort.
Lazarus had stopped short at this. He looked behind him to see the Son of the Lion himself, Yeshua, standing there.
“Mary has known me since she was a small child, and she has always called me Easa. I would not have her change it for anything.
”
Mary’s brother looked positively mortified until Easa rescued the moment with his smile. There was magic in that single expression, a transformational warmth that was impossible to resist. The rest of that evening had been wonderful, filled with the people Mary loved most, gathered around Easa and listening to his wisdom.
Lying beneath the greater of two olive trees, Mary drifted to sleep in the afternoon sun, images of her future husband playing in her head.
When Mary first felt the shadow cross her face, she panicked, thinking she had overslept. It was getting dark! Lazarus would be furious.
But as she shook her head to clear it, she realized that it was still full midday, the sun shining brightly over Mount Arbel. Mary looked up sharply to see what object had caused the shadow to cross her dreaming face. She gasped, immobilized with surprise, before launching herself, with all the exuberance of a young girl in love, at the figure before her.
“Easa!” she shrieked with joy.
He opened his arms and wrapped her in a huge embrace for a moment before stepping back to look down at her exquisite face.
“My little dove,” he said, using the nickname he had given her as a child. “Is it possible that you grow more beautiful every day?”
“Easa! I didn’t know that you were coming. Nobody told me…”
“They didn’t know. I will be as much of a surprise to them. But I could not allow the preparations for my marriage to happen without me.” He turned the full force of that smile on her again. Mary scanned his features for a moment, the intensely dark eyes set off by sharp cheekbones. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, the most beautiful man in the world.
“But my brother says it is not safe for you to be here now.”
“Your brother is a great man who worries too much,” Easa reassured her. “God will provide and protect.”
As Easa spoke to her, Mary looked down and realized with horror how absolutely disheveled she was. Her waist-length hair was tangled and filled with bits of grass and a stray leaf, a suitable frame for her bare, dirt-dusted limbs. At this moment she did not even remotely resemble a future queen. She began to stammer an apology about her appearance, but Easa stopped her with a full, ringing laugh.
The Expected One Page 28
