Bloodlines.

The Inward Journey: Indeed, this would appear to constitute the essence of the Gospel of Mary. That the teachings of the Christ are not to be read as a promise of victory over Death; but as an invitation to explore ever more fearlessly the manifold mysteries of Life.

THE EASTER STORY is central to the Christian faith. From Jesus’s crucifixion and resurrection Christians draw the central tenets of their faith: the remission of sins and the promise of eternal life. In twenty-first century ears, it is received as a supernatural tale: one that takes place outside the “real” world; in what the mid-century television producer, Rod Serling, called the Twilight Zone.

Thanks to the patient work of archaeologists and biblical scholars, however, those who eschew supernatural plot devices, have been given the opportunity to construct a very different narrative.

In the Gospel of Mary, for example (unearthed outside Cairo in 1896) it is made clear that Jesus loved Mary Magdalene more than any of the other disciples who accompanied him on his travels through Galilee and Judea. This Gospel is but one of a great many “heretical” documents rigorously excluded from the Christian canon in later centuries. In one of these suppressed scrolls, a male disciple even testifies to observing Jesus kissing Mary on her mouth.

Even in the New Testament, Mary plays a critical role. She is, after all, the first person to see Jesus after his resurrection. And, it is Mary who breathlessly informs the other disciples: “He is risen!”

In Martin Scorsese’s film The Last Temptation of Christ, the obvious implications of this radically heterodox Christian narrative are explicitly explored. He dares us to ask the obvious question: “Were Jesus and Mary lovers?”

Naturally, that question gives rise to an even more unsettling query: “Did Mary become pregnant by Jesus?”

The American novelist, Dan Brown, became a very wealthy man by answering that question affirmatively in his best-selling thriller The Da Vinci Code. The idea of a sacred lineage, descending from Jesus and Mary Magdalene, also constituted the central theme of The Holy Blood and The Holy Grail by Henry Lincoln, Michael Baigent and Richard Leigh – from which Brown drew so much inspiration for his novel.

Lincoln, Baigent and Leigh speculated that the mythical “Sangreal” – or Holy Grail – is a corruption of the medieval French sang real – royal blood – the bloodline of Jesus.

According to Arthurian tradition, the Holy Grail was the cup used by Jesus at the Last Supper, in which Mary Magdalene’s friend and benefactor, Joseph of Arimathea, later collected Jesus's blood after his body was taken down from the cross. For Lincoln, Baigent and Leigh, however, the Holy Grail was also Mary’s metaphorical womb.

By following this heretical line of reasoning, the Resurrection itself takes on a very different aspect. Rather than Jesus reanimating in an earth-shaking surge of divine energy, he lives on, as do all parents, in the bodies and minds of his children: the inheritors not only of his genes, but his inspired insights into the meaning of human existence.

Indeed, this would appear to constitute the essence of the Gospel of Mary. That the teachings of the Christ are not to be read as a promise of victory over Death; but as an invitation to explore ever more fearlessly the manifold mysteries of Life.

Heresy? Of course. Blasphemy? Perhaps. But just consider what might have happened to the Christian religion if the relationship between Jesus and Mary Magdalene had not been suppressed. (And Mary shrewdly identified by the misogynistic Church fathers with the wanton woman taken in adultery. John 8: 1-11) Christianity may well have anticipated the split that still divides Islam. On the one hand, the Sunni: who believe that religious leadership is best bestowed upon those who faithfully reflect the Prophet’s teachings. On the other, the Shia: who believe that only members of the Prophet’s lineage can lay claim to a proper understanding of the Prophet’s words.

The ever practical Romans, having adopted Christianity as the Empire’s official religion, were not about to acknowledge any flesh-and-blood inheritors of that first Easter – steeped as it was in all-too-Roman blood, gore and cruelty. A Jesus that stood at the right hand of the all-powerful Emperor of Heaven, was one thing. A Jesus that lived on through his descendants, and whose emancipatory teachings the ever-expanding family of Jesus and Mary Magdalene struggled ceaselessly to differentiate from the designs and purposes of the mighty, was something else altogether.

Far better a safely Crucified and Risen Christ, than a Jesus whose blood still flows through the beating heart of the World.

This essay was originally published in The Otago Daily Times and The Greymouth Star of Thursday, 1 April 2021.

Eye-Witness Testimony: A Short Story For Easter 2018.

"I knew his voice right away, but it was only when he spoke my name, ‘Mary’, that I was sure."

“SHE WILL SEE you now. Follow me.”

There could be no doubting the Hebrew origin of the middle-aged woman who led me into the central courtyard of the villa. Her dark hair, dark eyes and olive skin were the common inheritance of all the peoples living around the Middle Sea, but her curiously accented Latin was unmistakable. To hear its like I had merely to open my own mouth. Clearly, the graceful figure in front of me was one of my own stiff-necked race.

And there weren’t many Hebrews in this part of Rome’s empire. Southern Gaul is a long way from Palestine, and the city of Massalia isn’t the least bit like Jerusalem. But, here she dwells: a thousand leagues from her homeland; Mary, the companion of Yeshua Ben Joseph; the man Rome crucified 40 years ago but who stubbornly refuses to die. The man called Jesus by his growing band of Roman followers. The god-man about whom the Emperor Vespasian wishes to know more – much more.

“Titus Flavius Josephus – you are as far away from Judea as I am. Or, do you now call Rome your home?”

No, Lady, I was born a Jew – and will die one. I am prepared to admit, however, that Rome is now a good deal safer than Jerusalem for people like ourselves.”

“Oh Jerusalem, the time will come when not one stone will be left on another; every one of them will be thrown down.”

The old woman’s voice had taken on a different timbre; her eyes were fixed on things I could not see. Shaking-off her reverie, she turned towards me and smiled.

“That’s what he said. About the fate of the Temple. He foresaw its utter destruction.”

“You are speaking of your friend? The rabbi, Yeshua Ben Joseph?

“Yes, Josephus, I am.”

“I have been told, Lady, that you were among the last people to see him alive.”

“That is true, Josephus. Although, you could also say that I was the first person to see him dead.”

Sixty years and more she may have lived upon this earth, but her eyes could still twinkle mischievously. She knew why I had come.

“Tell me about that encounter, Lady. For the events of that day, the third after his crucifixion, are spoken of – by the members of the religious sect I have been tasked with explaining to the Emperor – with a mixture of reverence and awe.”

“And rightly so.” It was the first time the younger woman had spoken. “It is the heart of the mystery. The whole point of the story.”

“Resurrection? The whole point of the Orpheus myth – and the myth of Osiris. He that was dead shall live again.”

“Did you know Orpheus personally? Were you acquainted with Osiris before his unfortunate demise?”

The older woman was teasing me.

“Yeshua Ben Joseph was not a character from a fireside tale, or a temple play, Josephus. He was a carpenter from Nazareth. A flesh and blood man, with callouses on his hands and the word of God on his lips. Your friends, the Romans, nailed him up on a cross for the unforgiveable crime of speaking to large numbers of people in a way that made them want to listen. Oh, how that man could talk! The stories that he told. Small and homely they were: filled with all sorts of everyday things; and yet, somehow, also containing the whole of God’s wisdom – and his purpose.”

“Are you hungry, Titus Flavius Josephus?” The younger woman set down a platter of bread and a jug of wine.

“Thank you, not yet. Tell me about that morning in the garden.

“He was there. What more can I say?”

“He spoke to you?”

“It was as well that he did, for until he spoke I wasn’t certain it was him.”

“What did he say?”

“He said: ‘Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?’ I knew his voice right away, but it was only when he spoke my name, ‘Mary’, that I was sure.”

The two women sat in silence, their dark eyes upon me. Only then did it strike me that I was looking at a mother and her daughter. As I broke the bread and poured the wine, I couldn’t help wondering who the father might be.

This short story was written for publication during Easter 2018.