Bright Dark Madonna. Elizabeth Cunningham

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ