From the Margins: Mary Magdalene

Soul Thirst

They hammered in my head day and night, year upon year, until I did not know waking from nightmare. They screamed at me to destroy myself and gnawed me until I tore at my hair to rid myself of their teeth.

Then, in a flash of rational thought, I’d know the demons had me, that they played sordid games with my mind, and that I could not stop them. Those rare moments of sanity were nearly as bad as the demon times, so enraged did I become at my powerlessness against my attackers. A fit was on me when I first heard his voice; like soothing balm, it bathed my ravaged mind.

He laid calm hands upon my matted, sweaty hair. Again I heard his voice and looked up into his eyes. I read in them sorrow; I’d seen that look and knew what would follow, what always followed—first the shock of horror and then the embarrassed dismissal.

Not so this time. His eyes sharpened and focused, a piercing power. I was now the fearful one, the one who wanted to turn away.

“If I let him, he may heal me; but if I yield, I could die.”

“Then die,” I told myself. “For what life is this.

I relaxed my will against his ministrations. A screaming began—one voice, then another, another, another…

Was I screaming? I never knew.

I woke to a reasoning mind. For the first time, my eyes looked on a world both sharp and clear. For the first time, I knew who I was, free of the voices that ate at my mind. So I followed the one who gave me life; I listened to his wisdom, watched him heal others, served as I could. Though Peter first named him the Christ, I had known from the beginning the kingly potency of his eyes and voice. He had come for some great purpose, that I knew. I could not wait to see his power unleashed against the Romans as it had been against the demons of my mind.

But now he is arrested. Tried. Sentenced. Crucified. He is gone, forever gone. Tomorrow is beyond bearing; I live for today alone. I remain with him in this hour though my heart aches with grief. My presence is a small gift, for I can change nothing. I cannot rescue him from his tormenters as he delivered me from mine.

I lift my eyes to the cross, its bulk creaking wildly in the wind. I can barely see his face, disfigured by blood, sweat, and pain. Life pours down the naked wood, pooling red at its base. I bear the horror of it only out of a love that takes me past myself.

The sky goes black; he screams against the darkness. Terror sends my heart racing. What now? Will the world—will my world—return to madness? Yes, for we are surely mad already. We are killing my Lord.

In the darkness, his voice rings with wild power: “It is finished!”

He is dead.

I stand there, forgotten, as they disentangle his limbs from the nails, as they wrap his body and bear it away. Far behind the sorrowing procession, I follow, lost in solitary grief. At Sabbath’s end I will come to his tomb—a final tribute—and do what I can. It will not be enough. But in a world gone mad, it will be, at least, something.

~excerpted from my book, When God Walks Away: A Dark Night Companion

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