Bright Dark Madonna. Elizabeth Cunningham

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      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 СКАЧАТЬ