The world was on fire. Nowhere to go. Only way to keep from burning
was to jump into a pit that kept growing wider and wider, threatening to
swallow anything it touched. Mary stared into the blackness, feeling
flames singe at her back. Then, with a sickening feeling, she saw two eyes
emerge from the abyss. Following the two eyes was a set of familiar
features. The abyss was her life, her death, her terror and security. The
abyss blackened her, surrounded her, ingested her. The abyss WAS her.
"Mary? Mary! Wake up, fool! Wake up!" Shrill words. Mary dragged herself out of a sluggish, exhausted dreamworld. She couldn't decide whether the pounding in her ears was from the wine she had consumed last night or from the hard knocking at the door. The soft blankets clung to her sweaty arms as she tried to push them back. The knocking was growing louder. Mary shreiked an obscenity in Aramaic, her native language, and the pounding subsided. She sat up unsteadily, then jumped, startled, as a heavy weight hit her hip, then clattered to the floor. Another raw phrase, this time in greek, rattled the jars on the shelves. What had that box been doing in her robes? Why had she gone to bed with it? Hadn't she realized what could have happened to it? Since the day she had come here from Magdalene, it had remained safely tucked inside a cedarwood chest. Its contents were worth more than anything else she owned. Even the comfortable living she earned in her not-so-comfortable profession had not been able to purchase her another thing quite so valuable. Then again, that was how it was meant to be. The box contained her dowry, a distillation of the land's most precious spices into two cups of perfume, sealed in a box of white alabaster to symbolize purity. Mary couldn't help but snort as she stumbled her way to the door, dropping the box in her robe pocket for safekeeping. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt pure, no matter how convinced her parents were that she was perfect. Till the day of their death she remained an angel in their eyes.
So maybe angels fall from grace too. All Mary knew was that if there were any grace left in Yaweh, the God of her ancestors, she had used it up a long time ago. All that mattered now was that she was surviving, though even that didn't seem too important any more.
Mary pulled the door open, then reached out and pushed the scarlet woolen curtain, a symbol of her vocation, back from the opening. A thick bush of curly black hair greeted her. Wide obsidian eyes peeked out from behind it. Mary rubbed her alcohol-clouded eyes.
"Sapphira. What do you want?"
"Good morning to you too! Get your sandals on. There is a prophet on the streets, and you should hear the kinds of things he's saying! Come, come!" Without waiting for Mary to snatch her sandals, Sapphira grabbed her by her robe sleeve and dragged her out into the narrow streets, heading for town square Even as they began to get closer, Mary could hear nothing aside from the normal clamor of business on a market day. Still, her friend kept tugging her across the dusty roads, past eager hawkers and piteous beggars. Mary was confused. Usually you could hear prophets shouting their sermons across town, along with the boos and cheers their words evoked. She could hear nothing.
Slowly the shops cleared into the wide open space of the town square. Finally, Mary saw the teacher Sapphira had been talking about. Rather than standing on a bananna crate in the center of the square, he sat crosslegged under a palm, running his fingers across the fleshy leaves as he spoke. There were so many gathered to listen, Mary had to strain her eyes and ears to see and hear him.
"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." His voice was soft, but reeked of passion and fervor. He looked like a tradesman of some sort, wore well-loved, homespun robes, and his hair was long and untrimmed. His skin was dark as a cow's hide, like that of someone who had been burned repeatedly by the sun's rays. His eyes were earnest as they scanned through the crowd, brushing lovingly against each face they touched.
"Blessed are those who weep, for they will be comforted." Mary couldn't help but snort. As far as she knew, comfort was a fairy tale, weeping unacceptable. She had never seen any evidence of a blessing on those who wept. It was a practice she had long ago left behind for its sheer futility.
Suddenly she felt those eyes on her, like two burning brands. Mary flinched, stubbornly avoiding the man's face. Surely he couldn't have heard her derisive noise. But he was looking at her. Sapphira shifted uncomfortably. Mary couldn't move. When he spoke again, his words made the world shake.
"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled."
Mary was sure the sun was standing still in the sky. For a moment, just a moment, she looked deep into this man's eyes and felt sure that he was more than a man. She saw grief, anguish, longing, such that only divinity given form could feel. For that brief instant she could almost see the God of her fathers and mothers dancing in delight over all Creation, then sobbing as man fell from Grace to imperfection and was wrenched away from the shroud of His protection. As though from a gentle breeze, soft words whispered into her ear.
Hosanna! Hosanna to the Son of David!
"Mary, are you all right? Mary?"
The Man of Sorrows at the head of the crowd broke His gaze with Mary as a group of teachers approached Him. One of them, named Simon, drew hisses from Sapphira. He was a pharisee that was renowned for visiting the prostitute's section and telling them each personally that no matter what they did, they were going to be swallowed up by Sheol for the sinful lives they had led. He and Sapphira had a mutual hatred of each other, intensified by her telling him she would see him there. Simon glared at Saphira, causing her to ask in a loud voice whether they would see him in the whore's quarters again tonight. Simon withdrew himself with all the grace of a bloated porcupine, then stooped and said something to the teaching prophet.
"Kiss-arse." Sapphira muttered under her breath. Mary strained to hear what was being said.
"I'll bet he's inviting Him over to dine." She breathed. Sapphira chuckled mischievously.
"Are you thinking of breaking into the gathering, sister?"
"Sapphira, hush!" Mary warned. The last thing she needed right now were more glares from the purest of the pure. She needed to think, to plan.
Suddenly she became conscious again of the heavy weight in the folds of her robe. Her box--her precious box that held symbol of a purity long ago spent. She fingered the treasure as time seemed again to stand still. If He really was the Son of God...what was it He had said? Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness...for they will be filled. Filled! How long had Mary felt that she was nothing more than a yawning, gaping chasm dressed in soft shades of scarlet and black? How long had she fought to stop herself from falling into the blackness that had become her very world? If there was any chance that this Man could give her the means to be filled, any chance at all...Her heart raced, sweat glistening on her palms. The crowd was thinning out, but the Master was gone. She had to find Him, had to see if He was the one her soul had been crying for.
"Sapphira, go back. I will be home in a little while." A lie. If this Man were a false hope, she would kill herself and bring an end to her own torment.
"But Mary, what are you...."
"Go, Sapphira!" It was the tone all prostitutes knew, a shrillness of voice meant to drive away an unwanted client. Sapphira gave her friend a bewildered look, then turned without another word and headed back into the crowded streets.
Mary scrambled in the direction of Simon's imperious house. If her instincts were right, Simon would be deep into his wine by now. Parched Jerusalem dust flew from her heels, obscuring her from view. Her hands were tucked inside her robes, holding the precious dowry box close to her body to keep it from jarring. The sun had dipped behind a sheet of clouds. The darkness urged her on. She could feel poisonous things snapping at her heels, trying to keep her back, trying to hold her away from the One she flew toward.
Mary reached the doorstep, tripped, and fell. The jarring brought her back to her senses as she curled around the precious box of perfumes. Slowly, she stood, knees trembling, and followed the sound of voices into a large anteroom. The air emanating from that room was cool, and it carried a sound that shook her to the marrow--it was the sound of her own soul crying out, and for the first time in memory, being answered.
Before entering the room, Mary removed the scarlet draping from her head and rent it in two. She threw it to the ground in a violent motion, then spat on it. Her long hair, the only thing that separated her from a temple prostitute, fell heavily around her shoulders and waist as she stepped into the room. At first no one noticed her. Then those deep-set eyes in the weathered, homely face turned on her. Mary fought to keep herself from falling again. One by one, the guests dining in the room turned to stare at her. Simon's face contorted in rage, and he opened his mouth to call for servants to remove her. The Man she had come to see raised His hand silently, shaking his head. Mary stumbled forward, stopping a few feet in front of those worn, dusty feet. Her mouth opened, but words flew from her, leaving her abandoned. Still He watched her, and Mary felt something else coming from His eyes. No longer was she here thirsting for something she wanted. She was here to honor the God of her fathers. Her chest hurt from a pounding, aching heart. Her own guilt rose from her blood, shooting its way upward like fire, burning her flesh and finally spilling from her eyes as tears. A knowledge seeped into her soul that she did not deserve to be on her feet before this Man. He was sinless.
Broken, Mary sank to her knees.
One by one, teardrops began to fall onto His dusty feet. As their number increased, they joined each other to form rivulets and slither onto the earthen floor. Mary kissed them in humble homage, expecting to be pushed away at any moment. Who would want to touch one as soiled and used as she? Still she showered His feet with her guilt, kissing Him, silently begging for His forgiveness. When the dust had been washed away, she took hold of her own hair and gently dried the salty water from His feet. Her hands reached fumblingly into her robes, and brought forth the alabaster vessel, her only treasure, a symbol of every pain she had ever inflicted on the heart of God. With a sharp motion she hit the box on the floor, shattering one end. The splinters cut her fingers and hands, and her blood covered the pure white alabaster as she poured the perfume on the Messiah's feet. Hunched around herself miserably, she continued to weep brokenhearted tears. They fell, made indentations in the precious oils, and then rolled onto the floor.
Behind her, Mary could hear the den of piety erupt in whispers, but she cared nothing about it. She didn't stop kissing the feet of the Son of God, couldn't stop heaving with remorse over the wounds she had caused Him. Suddenly, His voice broke into the whispers, no longer soft but strident, tinged with anger.
"Simon, I have something to tell you." Mary could hear the breath hissing past His clenched teeth. The whispering and muttering stopped. Simon spoke meekly from the corner.
"Yes Master, what is it?" The cowardly deference made no difference in His tone.
"A certain man was owed two debts. One was great, the other small. Neither of the debtors could pay the man back, so he canceled both debts. Now, you tell me, which will love the man more?" A long pause ensued.
"I....I suppose the one with the greater debt."
"Right." The Master said sharply. His voice rose in a tone that made Mary think of heavy thunderclouds over the Sea of Galilee. Each word felt like a flash of lightning, dangerous, but beautiful.
"Do you see this woman? I came into your house. You did not even give me water for my feet! Look at her! She wet my feet with her tears, then dried them with her own hair! You did not greet me with so much as a kiss on the cheek, but look! She still hasn't stopped kissing my feet. You didn't put even a drop of oil on my head, but she's washed my feet in perfume. Listen to me! Her many sins have been forgiven, because she loved much." He paused. The air was pregnant, stifled. His voice dropped, husky with spent anger and reproach. "But he who has been forgiven little loves little."
Mary trembled, trying to absorb what she had just heard. What was He saying? Could He really be...
"Mary?"
She had never heard her name said so sweetly. Not even from her parent's lips had it fallen with so much love. Fresh tears welled in her eyes. She could not bring herself to look up.
"Mary." Thick, work-roughened fingers clasped her cheek, drawing her face upward. Mary lifted her head, gazing into his eyes. He smelled like cedar shavings, dust, and sweat. His eyes held tears to match hers, and His smile was radiant. She was sure no rainbow could ever be more dazzling.
"Your sins have been forgiven."
Mary dropped her forehead onto His knee, her chest heaving. Her lips whispered a word she hadn't spoken in years, a word that had left her vocabulary when her father was killed. It was a word that seemed to contradict itself in its very usage, but the only word that could come close to expressing what she felt.
"Abba..." Father. Daddy. The meaning rushed from her heart to her lips, and the single word expressed the love she felt. He clasped her hand, and again she felt that smile on her. She raised her head, her hair still wet from tears and perfume. For an instant she studied that face, now the most beautiful face in the world to her. No more striking than a hitching post, it now held every last vestige of hope in her soul. He stroked her cheek tenderly, like a father comforting His child.
"Your faith has saved you. Go in peace."
"Mary? Mary! Wake up, fool! Wake up!" Shrill words. Mary dragged herself out of a sluggish, exhausted dreamworld. She couldn't decide whether the pounding in her ears was from the wine she had consumed last night or from the hard knocking at the door. The soft blankets clung to her sweaty arms as she tried to push them back. The knocking was growing louder. Mary shreiked an obscenity in Aramaic, her native language, and the pounding subsided. She sat up unsteadily, then jumped, startled, as a heavy weight hit her hip, then clattered to the floor. Another raw phrase, this time in greek, rattled the jars on the shelves. What had that box been doing in her robes? Why had she gone to bed with it? Hadn't she realized what could have happened to it? Since the day she had come here from Magdalene, it had remained safely tucked inside a cedarwood chest. Its contents were worth more than anything else she owned. Even the comfortable living she earned in her not-so-comfortable profession had not been able to purchase her another thing quite so valuable. Then again, that was how it was meant to be. The box contained her dowry, a distillation of the land's most precious spices into two cups of perfume, sealed in a box of white alabaster to symbolize purity. Mary couldn't help but snort as she stumbled her way to the door, dropping the box in her robe pocket for safekeeping. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt pure, no matter how convinced her parents were that she was perfect. Till the day of their death she remained an angel in their eyes.
So maybe angels fall from grace too. All Mary knew was that if there were any grace left in Yaweh, the God of her ancestors, she had used it up a long time ago. All that mattered now was that she was surviving, though even that didn't seem too important any more.
Mary pulled the door open, then reached out and pushed the scarlet woolen curtain, a symbol of her vocation, back from the opening. A thick bush of curly black hair greeted her. Wide obsidian eyes peeked out from behind it. Mary rubbed her alcohol-clouded eyes.
"Sapphira. What do you want?"
"Good morning to you too! Get your sandals on. There is a prophet on the streets, and you should hear the kinds of things he's saying! Come, come!" Without waiting for Mary to snatch her sandals, Sapphira grabbed her by her robe sleeve and dragged her out into the narrow streets, heading for town square Even as they began to get closer, Mary could hear nothing aside from the normal clamor of business on a market day. Still, her friend kept tugging her across the dusty roads, past eager hawkers and piteous beggars. Mary was confused. Usually you could hear prophets shouting their sermons across town, along with the boos and cheers their words evoked. She could hear nothing.
Slowly the shops cleared into the wide open space of the town square. Finally, Mary saw the teacher Sapphira had been talking about. Rather than standing on a bananna crate in the center of the square, he sat crosslegged under a palm, running his fingers across the fleshy leaves as he spoke. There were so many gathered to listen, Mary had to strain her eyes and ears to see and hear him.
"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." His voice was soft, but reeked of passion and fervor. He looked like a tradesman of some sort, wore well-loved, homespun robes, and his hair was long and untrimmed. His skin was dark as a cow's hide, like that of someone who had been burned repeatedly by the sun's rays. His eyes were earnest as they scanned through the crowd, brushing lovingly against each face they touched.
"Blessed are those who weep, for they will be comforted." Mary couldn't help but snort. As far as she knew, comfort was a fairy tale, weeping unacceptable. She had never seen any evidence of a blessing on those who wept. It was a practice she had long ago left behind for its sheer futility.
Suddenly she felt those eyes on her, like two burning brands. Mary flinched, stubbornly avoiding the man's face. Surely he couldn't have heard her derisive noise. But he was looking at her. Sapphira shifted uncomfortably. Mary couldn't move. When he spoke again, his words made the world shake.
"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled."
Mary was sure the sun was standing still in the sky. For a moment, just a moment, she looked deep into this man's eyes and felt sure that he was more than a man. She saw grief, anguish, longing, such that only divinity given form could feel. For that brief instant she could almost see the God of her fathers and mothers dancing in delight over all Creation, then sobbing as man fell from Grace to imperfection and was wrenched away from the shroud of His protection. As though from a gentle breeze, soft words whispered into her ear.
Hosanna! Hosanna to the Son of David!
"Mary, are you all right? Mary?"
The Man of Sorrows at the head of the crowd broke His gaze with Mary as a group of teachers approached Him. One of them, named Simon, drew hisses from Sapphira. He was a pharisee that was renowned for visiting the prostitute's section and telling them each personally that no matter what they did, they were going to be swallowed up by Sheol for the sinful lives they had led. He and Sapphira had a mutual hatred of each other, intensified by her telling him she would see him there. Simon glared at Saphira, causing her to ask in a loud voice whether they would see him in the whore's quarters again tonight. Simon withdrew himself with all the grace of a bloated porcupine, then stooped and said something to the teaching prophet.
"Kiss-arse." Sapphira muttered under her breath. Mary strained to hear what was being said.
"I'll bet he's inviting Him over to dine." She breathed. Sapphira chuckled mischievously.
"Are you thinking of breaking into the gathering, sister?"
"Sapphira, hush!" Mary warned. The last thing she needed right now were more glares from the purest of the pure. She needed to think, to plan.
Suddenly she became conscious again of the heavy weight in the folds of her robe. Her box--her precious box that held symbol of a purity long ago spent. She fingered the treasure as time seemed again to stand still. If He really was the Son of God...what was it He had said? Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness...for they will be filled. Filled! How long had Mary felt that she was nothing more than a yawning, gaping chasm dressed in soft shades of scarlet and black? How long had she fought to stop herself from falling into the blackness that had become her very world? If there was any chance that this Man could give her the means to be filled, any chance at all...Her heart raced, sweat glistening on her palms. The crowd was thinning out, but the Master was gone. She had to find Him, had to see if He was the one her soul had been crying for.
"Sapphira, go back. I will be home in a little while." A lie. If this Man were a false hope, she would kill herself and bring an end to her own torment.
"But Mary, what are you...."
"Go, Sapphira!" It was the tone all prostitutes knew, a shrillness of voice meant to drive away an unwanted client. Sapphira gave her friend a bewildered look, then turned without another word and headed back into the crowded streets.
Mary scrambled in the direction of Simon's imperious house. If her instincts were right, Simon would be deep into his wine by now. Parched Jerusalem dust flew from her heels, obscuring her from view. Her hands were tucked inside her robes, holding the precious dowry box close to her body to keep it from jarring. The sun had dipped behind a sheet of clouds. The darkness urged her on. She could feel poisonous things snapping at her heels, trying to keep her back, trying to hold her away from the One she flew toward.
Mary reached the doorstep, tripped, and fell. The jarring brought her back to her senses as she curled around the precious box of perfumes. Slowly, she stood, knees trembling, and followed the sound of voices into a large anteroom. The air emanating from that room was cool, and it carried a sound that shook her to the marrow--it was the sound of her own soul crying out, and for the first time in memory, being answered.
Before entering the room, Mary removed the scarlet draping from her head and rent it in two. She threw it to the ground in a violent motion, then spat on it. Her long hair, the only thing that separated her from a temple prostitute, fell heavily around her shoulders and waist as she stepped into the room. At first no one noticed her. Then those deep-set eyes in the weathered, homely face turned on her. Mary fought to keep herself from falling again. One by one, the guests dining in the room turned to stare at her. Simon's face contorted in rage, and he opened his mouth to call for servants to remove her. The Man she had come to see raised His hand silently, shaking his head. Mary stumbled forward, stopping a few feet in front of those worn, dusty feet. Her mouth opened, but words flew from her, leaving her abandoned. Still He watched her, and Mary felt something else coming from His eyes. No longer was she here thirsting for something she wanted. She was here to honor the God of her fathers. Her chest hurt from a pounding, aching heart. Her own guilt rose from her blood, shooting its way upward like fire, burning her flesh and finally spilling from her eyes as tears. A knowledge seeped into her soul that she did not deserve to be on her feet before this Man. He was sinless.
Broken, Mary sank to her knees.
One by one, teardrops began to fall onto His dusty feet. As their number increased, they joined each other to form rivulets and slither onto the earthen floor. Mary kissed them in humble homage, expecting to be pushed away at any moment. Who would want to touch one as soiled and used as she? Still she showered His feet with her guilt, kissing Him, silently begging for His forgiveness. When the dust had been washed away, she took hold of her own hair and gently dried the salty water from His feet. Her hands reached fumblingly into her robes, and brought forth the alabaster vessel, her only treasure, a symbol of every pain she had ever inflicted on the heart of God. With a sharp motion she hit the box on the floor, shattering one end. The splinters cut her fingers and hands, and her blood covered the pure white alabaster as she poured the perfume on the Messiah's feet. Hunched around herself miserably, she continued to weep brokenhearted tears. They fell, made indentations in the precious oils, and then rolled onto the floor.
Behind her, Mary could hear the den of piety erupt in whispers, but she cared nothing about it. She didn't stop kissing the feet of the Son of God, couldn't stop heaving with remorse over the wounds she had caused Him. Suddenly, His voice broke into the whispers, no longer soft but strident, tinged with anger.
"Simon, I have something to tell you." Mary could hear the breath hissing past His clenched teeth. The whispering and muttering stopped. Simon spoke meekly from the corner.
"Yes Master, what is it?" The cowardly deference made no difference in His tone.
"A certain man was owed two debts. One was great, the other small. Neither of the debtors could pay the man back, so he canceled both debts. Now, you tell me, which will love the man more?" A long pause ensued.
"I....I suppose the one with the greater debt."
"Right." The Master said sharply. His voice rose in a tone that made Mary think of heavy thunderclouds over the Sea of Galilee. Each word felt like a flash of lightning, dangerous, but beautiful.
"Do you see this woman? I came into your house. You did not even give me water for my feet! Look at her! She wet my feet with her tears, then dried them with her own hair! You did not greet me with so much as a kiss on the cheek, but look! She still hasn't stopped kissing my feet. You didn't put even a drop of oil on my head, but she's washed my feet in perfume. Listen to me! Her many sins have been forgiven, because she loved much." He paused. The air was pregnant, stifled. His voice dropped, husky with spent anger and reproach. "But he who has been forgiven little loves little."
Mary trembled, trying to absorb what she had just heard. What was He saying? Could He really be...
"Mary?"
She had never heard her name said so sweetly. Not even from her parent's lips had it fallen with so much love. Fresh tears welled in her eyes. She could not bring herself to look up.
"Mary." Thick, work-roughened fingers clasped her cheek, drawing her face upward. Mary lifted her head, gazing into his eyes. He smelled like cedar shavings, dust, and sweat. His eyes held tears to match hers, and His smile was radiant. She was sure no rainbow could ever be more dazzling.
"Your sins have been forgiven."
Mary dropped her forehead onto His knee, her chest heaving. Her lips whispered a word she hadn't spoken in years, a word that had left her vocabulary when her father was killed. It was a word that seemed to contradict itself in its very usage, but the only word that could come close to expressing what she felt.
"Abba..." Father. Daddy. The meaning rushed from her heart to her lips, and the single word expressed the love she felt. He clasped her hand, and again she felt that smile on her. She raised her head, her hair still wet from tears and perfume. For an instant she studied that face, now the most beautiful face in the world to her. No more striking than a hitching post, it now held every last vestige of hope in her soul. He stroked her cheek tenderly, like a father comforting His child.
"Your faith has saved you. Go in peace."