Mary the Magdalene: Her Story

By TLR Adams

Mary the Magdalene lived in Judea during the Roman Empire. Little was known about her then, yet 2,000 years later, people still talk and write about her. What is it about Mary the Magdalene that causes so many people to be drawn to her? Is it the ways in which she was so deeply human and yet just as deeply spiritual?

Mary had circumstances in her life that could have caused anyone to give up, yet after her first encounter with Jesus, her life was changed. Some even say that she became a spiritual leader and had a great influence in those early days of Christianity. But what was the human side of Mary the Magdalene like? Did she have family, children, and career? Did she ever fall in love?

In Mary the Magdalene: Her Story, Mary tells us in the first person the answers to the many questions we have been asking for all these centuries.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984538161

TLR Adams

TLR Adams grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area and spent most of her adult life in the Sierra foothills while raising children. She attended church much of her life and has studied the life and times of Mary the Magdalene extensively. Mary the Magdalene; Her Story is a revision as well as longer version of her first book Mary Magdalene; My Story.

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Prologue

I was born in a time of both turbulence and greatness. The world was awhirl with knowledge and the pursuit of it. The times were rich with poetry and art, philosophy, and religion. When I was born, the empire was still feeling the influence of Virgil and Horace, Cicero, and Ovid. Pax Romana was the political state of the day although I can’t recall any real time of peace during my lifetime. The Romans had forced their so-called peace onto all of us smaller nations, but we were always hearing of a Roman war going on somewhere in the empire. I suppose they were deemed necessary in order to maintain the kind of peace their emperors wanted for the citizens of Rome, no matter what the cost to the rest of the provincials.

The age was decadent, the aristocracy corrupt. There was a dissatisfaction of the soul. Epicureanism with its accompanying narcissism, and stoicism with its lack of human compassion, had left a longing in men’s hearts for truth as well as for a Messiah to come and teach it to them. Some people worshipped gods from Greek mythology, some gods from Egypt or gods from the East—too many gods to mention. Many even worshipped the emperor as if he was a messiah himself and eventually this practice became a law of the empire.

In most provinces, after a few decades and a generation or two, the conquered people had assimilated into their new Roman world with its new laws and ideologies. They even began to enjoy the learning of new languages and the intersection of cultures and philosophies. They all eventually became Romanized—all except the Jew, that is. The Jews believed they were a special people—God’s chosen people—and because of that, they were determined, no matter what the cost, not only to resist assimilation, but to do everything in their power to remain distinct and different, making every effort to keep their distance from the rest of the world and its inhabitants, both politically and religiously.

It had been several decades since Rome had invaded us and had maintained a presence here in Judea. The emperor liked to think we were a conquered nation, but the fact that his General Pompey had marched in and set up his Roman pseudo-government didn’t mean we were conquered. Oh no, it would take far more than that to conquer us Jews. After all, we are a stiff-necked people, and all of the officials Rome sent here to try to keep us under control knew that and walked a fine line trying to both keep us placated and keep Caesar happy at the same time. No soldier ever wanted to be stationed in Judea for long. We had a reputation, and we lived up to it!

Yet since we were an old people, with much history and an old, established religion whose deeply-rooted spiritual beliefs left no room for emperor worship or worship of anything or anyone other than the god of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, Rome for the most part chalked up our sometimes rebellious activities to spiritual eccentricity and allowed us to retain our distinction in that area. So although we were expected to cooperate with most of the laws of the empire, emperor worship was not enforced in our corner of the world—so long as we were peaceful.

Peaceful – now that was quite a tall order for a people who were known historically for being rebellious and stubborn. There were always factions whose goal it was to overthrow our Roman rulers, as if that could be done by a small nation such as ours. Consequently, Rome always had its soldiers nearby and within our cities to put down any uprising that might occur. On the inside, our own political and religious leaders were often in cahoots with the Roman politicians who maintained a presence there. Kingships and kingdoms were doled out as favors from Rome. One didn’t know from one year to the next who would really be in charge of our way of life. So most of us tried to live quiet, unassuming lives, to obey the rules and to keep our distance from the soldiers whose presence was tainting our town.

There was, however, the occasional mismatch, the unfortunate, misguided union between a Roman soldier and a young, naïve local girl, which led to the creation of descendants whose mix of ethnic backgrounds tended to cause confusion about their personhood and their loyalties. My father was one such descendant. My grandfather had been born the year after our country was conquered by General Pompey. Very little information was passed down about his parents, although it was said that his mother was a good Jewish girl gone wrong. As a man, he worked hard to overcome this handicap and ended up doing well for himself in the business world, although there were still some of the more prominent leaders in the community who didn’t totally accept him. He ended up marrying a well-to-do Jewish girl, who bore my father a few years later. My father grew up to be an assertive young man who went to great lengths to make sure he was well connected in both of the worlds he was a product of. So while he claimed his Jewish heritage and had friends in both the ruling Sanhedrin and in the Jewish business community, he also made friends with many of the Roman soldiers who had been stationed in the Judean province for enough years to call it home.

My mother was an emotionally weak, submissive woman—not your typical Jewish mother. Her grandparents had been pious, God-fearing people, but because both of their personalities were timid, they managed to pass on to their children, including my mother, not only their Jewish beliefs — which of course everyone in our nation held fastly to — but also their desire to not offend anyone, which in turn meant that they could be more easily swayed by someone with a stronger, manipulative type of personality, such as my father’s.

Why my mother would marry a man like my father I don’t know, except perhaps because he could be so charming. However, when they met, he was a married man—with two children even. Yet because he was from another town several miles away from where my mother lived, by the time my grandparents found this out he had already convinced them to let my mother marry him without all of the customary waiting time. They had agreed to it because, as they put it, It would have been foolish for us to refuse our daughter to marry such a man of wealth and influence.

They were poor, and this man was not. He was Jewish (at least he claimed to be) and that was good enough for them. But when they learned that my father had recently divorced his wife and left her and his children behind and soon after that found out that he did not go to the synagogue or even try to keep all of our laws and customs they were terribly ashamed of their decision, but it was too late. They just shook their heads in regret when they heard the stories that went around about him and there were plenty of those.

*     *     *

That was my heritage and that was the world I was born into. Now, I will tell you the story of my life, how I came to be the way I was, the choices I made, the people that influenced them. It is a story of good and evil, a story of consequences, a story of triumph, a story of hope, a story of love.

1

A NEW BEGINNING

I remember that day like it was yesterday. A few words from one man changed my whole world. Just moments before, everything in it had been dark and gray. In fact, my entire life had been dark as far back as I could remember.

I’ve heard it said that if you have a bad childhood, somehow your mind doesn’t allow you to remember it. Well, I guess there are exceptions to every rule and I was the exception to that one. I remembered all of it and only too well. It started early, so naturally I thought every father must treat his daughter like that, though as I got older I began to wonder.

Let me back up a bit and tell you my story from the beginning, as told to me by the town midwife.

*     *     *

It’s a girl! The midwife was beaming at the newborn babe as she placed the child on its mother’s breast.

It’s a girl the mother said without the enthusiasm the midwife had expressed, as she accepted the baby into her arms and looked down at it with a weak smile.

In the hallway the child’s father had been pacing back and forth, accompanied by one or two of his friends, eagerly awaiting the birth of his child.

A girl! He shook his head and rolled his eyes. Of course it’s a girl. He walked away down the hallway, mumbling At least my first wife was able to produce a male child for me before producing a girl! The mother was still within earshot and her countenance dropped considerably when she heard this.

The other women in the room noticed this and spoke up.

She is a lovely baby. What will you name her?

The mother looked up sheepishly.

Well, we hadn’t exactly chosen a name for a girl child – only one for a boy.

Well, you’ve definitely got a girl here, so it’s time to choose again. What do you think about Elizabeth? Or Rachel? Rachel’s a good name. Or how about Sarah? They looked at the babe’s mother, waiting for a response. She looked down at her new baby girl.

I think I will name her Mary. The two women smirked.

Now, that’s original! No, you don’t want to name her Mary. There are too many Marys of one sort or another already in this world and…

My mother stopped her short.

That’s what I like about it. It is a well-accepted name. No one can criticize it. Many great people possess some form of the name Mary these days and it is thought to be a good name. We do want our daughters to have a good name, don’t we? She looked around at each of their faces. One never knows who might be chosen to bear the Messiah from her womb. It could be my own little Mary." She smiled.

*     *     *

My father had come from a wealthy family and had been given everything he ever wanted. Consequently, that is how he looked at life, — and at both my mother and me — as possessions to be used for his own purposes. And Father liked his liquor. His guests usually thought him to be quite entertaining after he had imbibed a few drinks. My mother often became embarrassed and went to bed early, especially if his guests were of the Roman ilk. Their presence always reminded her of how foolish both she and her parents had been to fall for my father’s charm and allow her to marry him without taking the time to know his true character.

On my ninth birthday, my father and mother had a party. I suppose it was for me, but the guests were mostly their — or rather my father’s — friends. Father had been enjoying a little too much to drink that night. My best friend Joana and her parents were there for a short while, but they had left shortly after dinner.

My mother went to bed early that night and so did I. After a while, I could tell by the silence in the house that all of his friends had left. Good, I thought to myself, I can finally get to sleep now that my father’s noisy friends are all gone. I had just turned over and pulled the covers up under my chin when I heard his footsteps coming into my room.

Mary. Wake up, Mary. I have a question for you.

I turned around and looked at him through my sleepy eyes. Huh? I answered him.

Mary, do you know why your mother gave you that name, Mary?

No. I had never wondered about that—it was just my name—and at that moment I really didn’t care either; I was too tired.

It was because there’s an old wives’ tale that says the Messiah is about to be born. Every good Jewish woman wants their daughter to grow up to be this Messiah’s mother, so they think they have to give their daughter a good name. That’s why she named you Mary. People think it’s a good name. I remember feeling happy at that prospect and managed a sleepy smile. But she forgets one other thing. She also has to be a virgin. Then he roared with an evil laugh and his face became so contorted that I hardly recognized him. And that’s one thing you will not be. Then he grabbed for me and did unmentionable things before he finally left my room. I think I was in shock and I hoped that it had just been a bad nightmare.

When I came to the breakfast table the next morning, my father did not look up at me, but my mother did.

Mary, what’s the matter with you? Can’t you handle having birthday parties? You don’t have to have them if it’s too much for you, you know.

I…I had a very bad dream last night. My father looked up at me, sternly. Mother continued.

Well, dreams are just dreams, dear. You have to just ignore them and get on. I sat there, looking down at my plate, not knowing how to respond to her.

Mary, answer your mother! His voice startled me. I looked up at him and then quickly looked back down.

Oh, I’m sorry, Mother. Yes, I’ll just get on.

That’s better, dear. Now, a little smile?

I tried to smile, but wasn’t very successful.

Well, you’re going to have to work on that one a bit, I’m afraid, or someone will think it was more than just a bad dream. I slowly raised my eyes to meet my father’s and saw them glaring at me, so I quickly looked back at my mother. Her eyes looked carefully into mine, then into my father’s and then back to mine, still demanding an answer.

Yes, mother. My father got up and walked out of the room.

That was just the beginning of many years of such occurrences with him, and later on with some of his soldier friends when he was feeling generous or inebriated, or both.

Naturally, I lost all trust in men. In fact, I began hating all men and began to try to hurt them when they would come near me. This just seemed to amuse them, and sometimes they would laugh and become more determined. I started thinking of ways to try to kill them. I tried killing insects first and then the lizards crawling in the fields. Next it was rodents. My father laughed. He thought it was funny and joked that I might make a good hunter some day, not knowing my true intentions, until one day I decided to try it out on one of his friends. As he reached for me I grabbed a stick I had sharpened and hidden under my bed. I didn’t kill him, but he stayed away from me after that. Oh yes, I got a beating from my father. But it was worth it, I thought, if it kept men away from me.

One by one, I managed to scare off my attackers, but each time I was met with a more severe beating from my father and each time I felt the grip of a strange evil on my soul which gained power with each attack and with each beating. My friends and family wondered why I was withdrawn and irritable. My father told them that it was because of my womanly way. His threatening glances kept me quiet. Finally, when I felt I couldn’t live that way any longer, I decided to run away. But where was I to go? By now everyone thought of me as the wild child—unpredictable and dangerous—because my behavior in general had become rather erratic and they wouldn’t think of letting me stay at any of their homes. So I went out into a cave on the outskirts of town and did the only thing I knew how to do to get money; I began finding my own men. There weren’t many who were either daring enough to solicit my affection or who didn’t know of my reputation and that they should steer clear of me. As for the latter, it didn’t take them long to find out; I still had my hatred of men and my not-so-subtle ways of showing it, so they rarely returned.

It wasn’t long before I was living in a cave out in the desert, eating whatever small animals I could manage to catch, like mice and squirrels, sometimes birds if was lucky. I guess in a way father was right; I did become a good hunter. I rarely slept. My clothes became dirty rags. I often had what people called fits, which would sometimes cause me to fall into the fire I had made to keep warm, or into the sewer sludge. Fortunately, the sludge helped to protect me from the heat of the fire while I managed to regain my balance. Sometimes I would go on a rampage, screaming at the top of my lungs at most anything—or nothing.

At first my father tried to get me to come back home, promising clothes, food, money, parties. But I’d already been there, done that, and knew the life that awaited me and wanted no part of it. At least now I only had to deal with my own demons and no one else’s. So I refused his offers, and eventually, he left me alone. And I mean alone. No one wanted anything to do with me. Both my mother and my father eventually denied that they even knew me. Any friends I had ever had had left me long ago, only expressing pity or disgust, or both, when they happened to pass by me on those rare occasions when I ventured into town to the marketplace for a bit of real food, which, more often than not, I had to steal. At least, where I lived no one wanted to pursue me to get their payment. Or maybe they felt sorry for me or were afraid of my father’s retribution if they did.

What a life! I was pitiful. Life had betrayed me. My hopes and dreams for a life of love and beauty had barely begun to surface in my conscious mind before they were struck down violently, with no apparent hope of ever being revived. I felt like I was a member of the walking dead.

But that day, I was on the outskirts of town, wandering around with no real intention other than to try to ease my hunger by collecting a few morsels of food which the buzzards had left behind. I spotted the buzzards not far away, eating the remains of a small fox. I waited a while, but they didn’t leave. Frustrated and hungry, I raced toward them, waving my arms. I scared them at first, but they were hungry, too, and came back at me and chased me away. I was as determined as they were, so I ran at them again, yelling at the top of my lungs.

That’s when I saw him—a man standing not far from me, wearing a white robe, looking very much like I imagined an angel to look. I had heard of a man much like him who was a traveling rabbi; a teacher of new ideas, who had been attracting quite a following. I wondered what he was doing there. Why would anyone who was dressed like that come out into the wilderness with all its dirt and wild animals? More importantly, how long had he been watching me, and why?

I looked at him looking at me. I expected scorn or contempt or pity or some other kind of disapproval. I was already planning my rebuttal. But no, the look in his eyes was neither one of pity nor of contempt. At first, I couldn’t figure out what it was; it was unfamiliar to me. I looked away in embarrassment, but he stayed there. I could feel his eyes watching me, so I looked at him again. He still had that look on his face. It made me uncomfortable, so I spat at him and told him to go away, yet something inside of me did not really want him to leave. It was that look. I wanted to see it again and yet I didn’t. It scared me, but I was drawn to it. I didn’t know what to do, so again I yelled at him to go away and leave me alone. I began whirling around in circles, yelling all the while and telling him to go away.

Then he spoke ever so gently. Mary. I stopped. How did he know my name? And why did he say it like that? No one had spoken my name so kindly since, well, maybe never. I looked up at him. He still had that unfamiliar look, which was slowly becoming more familiar. I finally was able to put a name on it; it was a look of compassion. Yes, that was what it was, I thought—compassion. But why toward me? What did he want from me? It couldn’t be good, I thought. I twirled and yelled some more, working myself into a frenzy again. Surely that would get him to leave.

Just as I felt myself about to lose control, his voice became firm as he said, Who are you? I stopped suddenly. Then I began to hear strange, unhuman voices coming from deep inside of me saying One, two, three four, five, six, seven.

Come out of her, all of you. Now!

Ohh. Oh. Ooh. Oooh. Oohh. Ohhh. Ooohh! I heard unearthly sounds coming from my own throat and felt strange sensations throughout my body as unknown entities seemed to be struggling to exit my being, causing me acute pains in my chest and abdomen as they went. Then I fell to the ground, limp like a rag doll.

I don’t know how long I lay there, but when I opened my eyes, he was still there, kneeling over me, his eyes staring into mine with that look of compassion again, only this time I didn’t mind it at all. I didn’t want to look away; I could have held his gaze forever. I felt love there, like I’d never felt before - and it was wonderful.

It suddenly dawned on me that for the first time in my life I felt free, truly free! No chains around my wrists or my heart, imaginary or otherwise. No voices in my head telling me things I wouldn’t dare repeat. No irresistible urge to throw myself against the mountainside or to scream at the top of my lungs at nothing. No wishing I were dead. No fear. I actually felt calm and at peace.

I looked around. There was such beauty everywhere: wild flowers in every color, trees in so many shades of green on shining golden hills. I noticed that a stream was lightly playing nature’s music. A butterfly passed near to me. What exquisite colors and design it had. Even the buildings in the distance catching the midday sunlight looked like an artist’s painting. I knew I was still in Galilee, but it felt and even looked to me like a world I had never seen before, yet vaguely familiar because the mountains, buildings, and trees were still in their appropriate places. I was just seeing it all with new eyes.

I had never felt so alive in all my life. But how? Why? Who was this man? Why would he do this for me? Or a better question yet was What did he just do? I wondered what had just come out of me. Then, oh no. What if it comes back? What will I do? I don’t want that again—ever! I want to always feel free like I feel now. I wanted to ask all of these questions out loud to this man, but all I could do was look up at him, then bow my head and say Thank you, Sir.

Again, he said my name Mary oh, so kindly. Then he added Come with me. I was astonished. Me? Come with him? Why would he want me to come with him? If he was who I thought he was, then he was a man of some repute. Why would he want to tarnish his reputation by being seen with me of all people? I looked at him in wonder, but he just looked back at me with those kind eyes and smiled. I didn’t hesitate another moment. I didn’t want to take any chance on him changing his mind, realizing how foolish his offer was and take it back. I would have lost what seemed to be my only chance at sanity. I was on my feet and at his side in a split second.

Where are we going? I asked shyly. It had been a long, long while since I had let anyone make any decisions for me, let alone a man. But I could tell even from our brief encounter that this man was trustworthy.

Does it matter? he asked, with a knowing grin on his face. He seemed to have some idea of what was supposed to happen next and where we were supposed to go, whereas I was obviously clueless. One thing was for sure; anywhere we were going was better than where I had come from. He was right; it didn’t matter.

Not at all, I said matter-of-factly and with a laugh of abandon that I hardly recognized as my own. It had been a long time since I had let myself laugh, much less had any real reason to. I laughed and laughed until I felt a little embarrassed. But then he started laughing right along with me. Soon, we were almost hysterical with laughter. I heard our voices echoing off the hillside. I felt like a butterfly that had just emerged from its cocoon, stretched its wings and taken its first flight.

I stopped suddenly. What if someone hears us? They’ll look over and see us. They’ll see you—with me! You don’t want to be seen with me. You know what they’ll think!

He put his hands gently on my shoulders, peered into my eyes and said, Mary, I don’t really care what ‘they’ think right now. But I care about you. How do you feel?

Me? Oh, I feel better than I’ve ever felt, thanks to you. But, and I hesitated, why did you do this for me? I am a bad woman. I don’t deserve your help, or your company.

I did it because I love you, Mary. Maybe I was right; maybe it was love that I had seen in his eyes, but it didn’t make any sense to me. I became defensive again and took a step back.

What do you mean you ‘love me’? You don’t even know me, and, if you did, you certainly wouldn’t love me! I hurled the question at him in a rather self-protective, self-pitying manner.

Oh, but I do know you, Mary. (I loved the way he said my name.) I knew you before you were born.

That was too much for me. Pardon me, but you are just not that much older than I am. How could you have known me then? And do you know my parents?

I am before you were, and yes, I knew you and your parents before any of you were born.

I was stunned and silent as I let those words sink in. I wondered if it could be true, that old wives’ tale my father had told me about as the reason for my mother giving me a good name? Was this man that I was speaking to actually be the long-awaited Messiah? But wasn’t the Messiah supposed to be a political leader? Maybe he just hadn’t raised his army yet, but he surely didn’t look or act like a military man. Maybe he was a prophet. No, a prophet doesn’t claim to be older than, well, than he is.

He interrupted my thoughts with I came to find and save lost souls—like yours, Mary. He was right about that; my soul had been lost for quite some time. He got that look on his face