She listened to snippets of conversation from the other pilgrims as they climbed. She did not understand the Hebrew language, but their passion for their journey was unmistakable. She wondered if they were discussing the Masada martyrs who chose to die rather than live in bondage or subject their women and children to Roman slavery and debasement.
Reaching the summit, she explored the remains of what was once a great fortress, wandering through ruined rooms and crumbling walls. Because it was a surprisingly large space, she soon found herself alone, separated from the other pilgrims, who were exploring for their own reasons elsewhere on the sacred site. There was an absorbing stillness in this place, a calm silence that felt like a ruin unto itself, as tangible as the stones. She was immersed in that sensation as she stared almost absently at the ruins of a Roman mosaic. Then, she saw her.
It happened fast and came completely unbidden, like her other visions. She couldn’t recall how she knew the child was there; she just knew that there was a presence in the room. About ten feet away, a child of no more than four or five was staring up at her with huge, dark eyes. Her clothes were torn and filthy; tears mixed with the mud that splashed across her face. She did not speak, but in that moment Maureen knew the child’s name was Hannah — and that she had witnessed events that no child should ever endure.
Maureen also knew that somehow the child had survived the unspeakable tragedy of Masada. She had left this place and taken the stories of it with her. That was her legacy, to share the truth of what had occurred there to her people.
She did not know how long the child appeared before her. There was a sense of timelessness to her visions. Were they minutes? Seconds? Or eternities?
Later, Maureen spoke with one of the Israeli guides at Masada. He was young and open, and she surprised herself by telling him of the encounter. He shrugged and said he did not believe it was unnatural or uncommon to see such a thing in so emotional a place. He explained that there were legends of survivors from Masada, of a woman and several children who hid in a cave and ultimately escaped, taking the true story with them and preserving it in their way.
Maureen believed that little Hannah was one of those children.
She had wondered so many times since that day why she had seen that vision, why it had happened to her. She felt unworthy of it, undeserving of such a profound encounter with the sacred history of the Jewish people. But after her experience at Montsegur, it all began to come together in a beautiful pattern that Maureen was finally beginning to understand. Little Hannah and the Cathar girl known as La Paschalina were related, in spirit if not in blood. They were the children left to carry on and hold the stories within them, so that the truth would never be lost. It was their destiny to become humanity’s most sacred teachers. These little girls, and what they grew to become, embodied the history and survival of the human race. Their experiences had no boundaries; these stores belonged to all people, regardless of ethnic identity or religious beliefs.
By grasping that connection, couldn’t we all come together in the knowledge that we are all one tribe, ultimately?
Maureen thanked Hannah and La Paschalina in a whisper as she finished her journal entry.
Tammy ran into the château, hoping to avoid contact with anyone before she could take a shower. She was exhausted and felt that every inch of her body was dirty. But solitude was not to come so easily. She was intercepted by Roland as she reached the door of her room.
He opened it for her and stepped inside. “You are all right?” he asked with grave concern.
“I’m fine.” She had practiced a speech in her head all the way home, but one look at the enormous Occitan and her heart melted. She was so relieved to be here, safe in the house and safe with him, that she threw herself against the massive strength of his body and cried.
Roland was stunned. He had never seen vulnerability in this woman before. “Tamara, what has happened? Did he hurt you? You must tell me.”
Tammy tried to steady herself. She stopped crying and looked up at Roland. “No, he didn’t hurt me. But…”
“But what, what has happened?”
She reached up and touched his face, the angular, masculine face that she was growing to love.
“Roland,” she whispered. “Roland…you were right about who killed your father. And now I think we can prove it.”
…Easa was the child of the prophecy, this was something everyone knew. And the prophecy brought with it a destiny that had to be fulfilled in an exact way. Easa did this; not for any glory to himself, but to make his role as the messiah easier to understand and embrace for the children of Israel. The closer Easa’s role came to fulfilling the exact nature of the prophecy, the stronger the people would be when he was gone.
But even for all of that, we did not expect it to happen the way that it did.
Easa entered Jerusalem on the back of an ass fulfilling the prophet Zechariah’s words about the arrival of the anointed one. We followed him with palms and sang hosannas. A great crowd joined us as we entered Jerusalem, and there was a sense of joy and hope in the air. Many followed us in from Bethany, and we were met by Simon’s compatriots, the Zealots. Even representatives of one reclusive Essene movement had left their desert dwelling to accompany us on this triumphant day.
The children of Israel rejoiced that this chosen one had come to liberate them from Rome and the yoke of oppression, poverty, and misery. This son of the prophecy had grown to be a man and a messiah. There was strength in our heaArts, and in our numbers.
THE ARQUES GOSPEL OF MARY MAGDALENE,
THE BOOK OF THE TIME OF DARKNESS
Chapter Thirteen
Château des Pommes Bleues
June 25, 2005
Dinner at the château was always an elaborate affair when guests were present, and this night was no different. Bérenger Sinclair had spared neither his kitchen staff nor his wine cellar to present a Languedoc feast of medieval and decadent proportions. The conversation was equally robust. Tammy had pulled herself together with Oscar-worthy aplomb. Donning her trademark saucy attitude, she appeared to be fully herself once again.
Maureen enjoyed watching Sinclair and Tammy spar with Peter, secure in the knowledge that her cousin could hold his own in any theological debate. She certainly knew that from firsthand experience.
Sinclair started out on a soapbox. “We know historically that the New Testament as it exists now was shaped at the Council of Nicea. Emperor Constantine and his council had many gospels to choose from, and yet selected only four — four that were altered dramatically. It was an act of censorship that changed history.”
“It can’t help but make you wonder what he decided to conceal from us,” Tammy chimed in.
Peter wasn’t bothered in the least by an argument he had heard a hundred times. He surprised both of his would-be antagonists with his answer. “Don’t stop there. Remember, we don’t even know for sure who wrote those four Gospels. In fact, the only thing we’re even moderately sure about is that they weren’t written by Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. They were probably attributed to the evangelists sometime in the second century, and some would say those aren’t even very good guesses. And a further thing. Even with the staggering documentation available in the Vatican, we can’t say with certainty what language the original Gospels were written in.”
Tammy looked taken aback. “I thought they were written in Greek.”
Peter shook his head. “The earliest versions we have are in Greek, but they are possibly translations from some earlier form. We simply can’t be sure.”
“Why does the original language matter?” Maureen asked. “I mean, other than translation errors.”
“Because the original language is the first indication of the author’s identity and location,” Peter explained. “For example, if the original Gospels were written in Greek, that would indicate authors who were Hellenized — a Greek influence that would have been reserved for the elite, the worldly, and the educated.
We don’t traditionally think of the apostles in that way, so we would expect something else, a common vernacular like Aramaic or Hebrew. If we were certain the originals were written in Greek, we would have to take a close look at what that means about the original followers of Jesus.”
“The Gnostic gospels found in Egypt were written in Coptic,” Tammy added.
Peter corrected her gently. “There are Coptic texts, but many were written originally from Greek originals and then copied into Coptic.”
“So what does that tell us?” Maureen asked.
“Well, we know none of the original followers were Egyptian, so it tells us that some took their earliest ministry to Egypt and that early Christianity flourished there. Thus, Coptic Christians.”
“But then what do we know with certainty about the four Gospels?” Maureen was curious about the direction of the conversation. She hadn’t had the luxury of time during her research to dig too deeply into issues surrounding the history of the New Testament. She had focused strictly on the passages relevant to Mary Magdalene.
Peter answered. “We know that Mark came first and that Matthew is nearly an exact copy of Mark, with almost six hundred identical passages. Luke is also very similar, although there the author gives us a few new insights that aren’t found in Mark and Matthew. And the Gospel of John is the greatest mystery of the four, as it takes a very different position politically and socially from the other three.”
“I do know that there are people who even believe Mary Magdalene wrote the fourth Gospel, the one attributed to John,” Maureen added. “I interviewed a really brilliant scholar during my research who made that claim. I don’t necessarily agree with him, but I found the idea fascinating.”
Sinclair shook his head and replied vehemently. “No, I don’t believe that. Mary’s version is still out there, waiting to be discovered.”
“The fourth Gospel is the great mystery of the New Testament,” Peter said. “There are many theories, including the committee theory: that it was written by several people over a period of time in an attempt to convey the events of Jesus’ life in a specific manner.”
Tammy was listening to Peter with interest. “But it seems to me that so many traditional Christians want to just plug their ears and ignore these facts,” she responded. She was passionate about this subject and had been involved in many arguments over the years. “They don’t want to know this history; they just want to blindly believe what the Church tells them. Or what their clerics tell them.”
Peter responded with passion. “No, no. You’re missing the point. It’s not blindness; it’s faith. For people of faith the facts simply don’t matter. But don’t make the common mistake of confusing faith with ignorance.”
Sinclair laughed, a derisive sound.
“I’m very serious,” Peter continued. “People of faith believe that the New Testament was divinely inspired; therefore it doesn’t matter who actually wrote the Gospels or what language they were written in. The authors were inspired by God to do so. And whoever made the decision to edit the Gospels at the Councils of Constantinople or Nicea, they must have been divinely inspired to do that as well. And so on, and so on. It’s a matter of faith, and there’s no room for history there. Nor can you debate it. Faith is something that can’t be argued.”
No one replied, waiting to see what else Peter was going to say. “You think I don’t know the history of my own Church? I do, which is why Maureen’s research and your opinions don’t offend me in the least. By the way, do you realize that there are some scholars who even believe that the Gospel of Luke was written by a woman?”
It was Sinclair’s turn to look surprised. “Really? I hadn’t heard that. And that idea doesn’t bother you?”
“Not at all,” Peter replied. “The importance of women in the early church, as well as in the continuation of Christianity, is something we can’t deny. Nor should we want to, when we consider great women like Clare of Assisi, who kept the Franciscan movement together after Francis died so young.” Peter looked at the amazed faces of Sinclair and Tammy. “Sorry to spoil a perfectly good argument, but I agree with the idea that Mary Magdalene deserves the title Apostle of the Apostles.”
“You do?” This was an incredulous Tammy.
“Absolutely. In Acts, Luke provides the specific requirements for becoming an apostle: one must have been a part of Jesus’ ministry while He lived, one must have been a witness to His crucifixion and a witness to His resurrection. Now, to be entirely literal about this, there is only one person who fits all of these requirements — and that is Mary Magdalene. The male apostles didn’t witness the crucifixion, which really is somewhat embarrassing. And Mary Magdalene is the first person to whom Jesus appears when He is risen.”
Maureen was trying her hardest to keep from laughing at the expressions on the faces of Sinclair and Tammy. They were stunned by this show of Peter’s intellect and personality.
Peter continued. “Arguably, the only other persons to technically fit the description of apostles are other Marys — the Virgin Mary, as well as Mary Salome and Mary Jacoby, both of whom are accounted for at the crucifixion and at the sepulcher on the day of resurrection.”
When Peter caught Maureen’s eye she could no longer hold it in. Her laughter rang through the room.
“What?” Peter asked mischievously.
“I’m sorry,” Maureen apologized, hiding behind a quick sip of her wine for a moment. “It’s just — well, Peter does tend to take people by surprise, and I always find it amusing to watch.”
Sinclair nodded. “I concede that you are nothing like I anticipated, Father Healy.”
“And what did you anticipate, Lord Sinclair?” Peter asked.
“Well, with all due apologies, I expected something of a Roman watchdog, I suppose. Someone immersed in dogma and doctrine.”
Peter laughed. “Ah, but Lord Sinclair, you have forgotten a very important thing. I am not simply a priest; I’m a Jesuit. And an Irish one at that.”
“Touché, Father Healy.” Sinclair raised his glass in Peter’s direction. Peter’s order, the Society of Jesus, better known to the world as the Jesuits, focused on education and scholarly pursuits. While they were currently the single largest order in Catholicism, conservatives within the Roman Catholic Church traditionally have felt that the Jesuits were a law unto themselves and have been for several hundred years. They were nicknamed “footsoldiers of the Pope,” yet there had been rumors for centuries that the Jesuits elected their own leader within the order and answered to the Roman pontiff only as a matter of formality and ceremony.
Tammy was curious now. “Do other priests in your order feel this way? I mean, about the role of women.”
“It is always unwise to generalize,” Peter answered. “As Maureen said, people tend to stereotype the clergy, assuming we all think with one brain, which is simply not true. Priests are people, and many of us are highly intelligent and educated as well as committed to our faith. Each man draws his own conclusions.
“But there is something we have discussed at length about Mary Magdalene and the accuracy of the four Gospels. The male apostles must have found it somewhat embarrassing that Jesus trusted His entire mission to this woman, whatever her position was in His life and His ministry. She was still a female at a time when women were not considered equal to men. So the evangelists would have been forced to write that account of her because it was the truth, no matter how embarrassing that was for them. Because even if the authors of the Gospels played with other facts, they would not have altered this most important element of Jesus’ resurrection — that He came first to Mary Magdalene. He didn’t appear to the male apostles, He appeared to her. So I believe that the authors of the Gospels had no choice but to write this, because it’s simply the truth.”
Tammy’s admiration for Peter was growing; it was visible on her expressive face. “So you’re willing to explore the possibility that Mary Magdalene may have been the most important disciple?
Or even that she may have been more than that?”
Peter looked directly at Tammy, this time very seriously. “I’m willing to explore anything that brings us closer to an honest understanding of the nature of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior.”
It was a great evening for Maureen. Peter was her most trusted adviser, but she had grown to admire Sinclair and found him fascinating. For her cousin to find common ground with the eccentric Scotsman was a profound relief for her. Perhaps they could now all work together to explore the strange circumstances of Maureen’s visions.
At the conclusion of the meal, Peter, who had spent the day exploring the region on his own, claimed exhaustion and excused himself. Tammy made a comment about getting back to some scripting on her documentary and did the same. This left Maureen with Sinclair on her own. Bolstered by the wine and conversation, she cornered Sinclair.
“I think it’s time you kept your promise,” she said.
“Which promise is that, my dear?”
“I want to see the letter from my father.”
Sinclair seemed to consider this for a moment. After a slight hesitation, he conceded. “Very well. Come with me.”
Sinclair led Maureen down a winding corridor to a locked room. Removing a sizable key ring from his pocket, he opened the door and ushered Maureen into his private study. He touched a switch on the right as they entered, which served to illuminate a huge painting on the far wall.
Maureen gasped, then squealed with delight. “Cowper! It’s my painting!”
Sinclair laughed. “Lucretia Borgia Reigns in the Vatican in the Absence of Pope Alexander VI. I confess that I acquired it after reading your book. It took quite a bit of haggling to obtain it from the Tate, but I am a very determined man when I want something.”