Bright Dark Madonna. Elizabeth Cunningham

      “I’m not talking about the inside of a cunt, you old cunt, and you know it. I’m…I’m talking about…what am I talking about?” she appealed to me.

      “I don’t know if I can say any better than you just did,” I said. “That Jesus is the lover, who knows us from the inside out—and isn’t that what lovemaking is? I mean, really? You can talk about god as a father or a lord or a goddess as mother or a queen. You can call your god the maker of all things or the ruler or the judge. What if god is also our lover, our secret, passionate lover? What if that’s who Jesus is, who the Christ is—now that he has suffered the god-making death? And if he is our lover, then we—”

      “That is enough.”

      We all startled and looked up to see Peter, James, Matthew, John, Mary B, and others standing over us.

      “Mary of Magdala, you are not authorized to teach.” Peter challenged me.

      “She has as much a right to teach as anyone,” Mary B was right on his case.

      “Has she repented? Has she been baptized in Jesus’s name?” Peter countered.

      “Was I dipped, do you mean?”

      Peter and the others hadn’t been there when John the Baptizer tried to drown, exorcise, or baptize me all at once. I had tried to drown him back, so perhaps it didn’t count. In any case, Peter ignored me.

      “And where was she the day the Spirit descended and gave us the gift of tongues so that we could bring the Word to the people?”

      “Peter, excuse me, if I may be so bold as to suggest unto you,” James interrupted, and yes I am exaggerating and poking fun at him, “that this grave matter of who has authority to teach the flock, as it were, and who has not, is best discussed amongst the few of those unto whom our Lord—and my brother—has appeared to give instruction, so to speak…”

      “All right, all right,” said Peter, rather ungraciously. “I see your point. We will speak at council tonight.”

      And he turned to walk off.

      “Do we get to come to the supper?” one of the whores called after him, rightly guessing that Peter was a bit more “equal” than others. “Word on the street is that you Jesus Jews set a generous table.”

      Peter turned, rather wearily and warily. He’d had a long day, and the press of the multitudes can be exhausting.

      “All Jews who repent of their sins and receive baptism in Jesus’s name are welcome at his table.”

      And before there could be further discussion, Peter and the other men stalked off.

      “What does that mean, Dove?” Gert called me by my most recent streetwalker name. (In Rome I’d been known as Red.)

      “It means sure thing,” I said.

      “Mary,” said Mary B. “I need to talk to you. Privately.”

      The two whores came to help me up, clucking over me and patting my belly, and I realized how much I longed to have time just to marvel at my body, to sit and watch the little heels and elbows swimming by, and to have women who loved me make a fuss over me. How I missed Dido, Berta, and Reginus and everyone at Temple Magdalen. I was grateful for this visit from Gert and her friend and resolved to bring them with me to supper if I had to baptize them myself.

      “Will you tell us more of the story tomorrow?”

      Mary B shook her head at me and scowled.

      “As soon as I can,” I said as Mary B dragged me by the wrist out back of the busy kitchens to a small yard where a few chickens scratched in the dirt.

      “What is the matter now?” I took the offensive. “You act as if someone just shoved a roasting spit up your butt. Are you constipated again?”

      You get to know a lot about people’s digestive problems when you’ve been on the road with them, and I had been witness to Mary B’s occasional distress, and had helped to ease her with abdominal massage and dietary advice.

      “Must you be so crude all the time? Don’t answer that,” she cut me off before I could say, predictably, yes, I must. “You are living in a house of prayer. We are trying something here that has never been tried before, and you are undermining our cause.”

      “Which is?” I asked when she paused for breath.

      “Living and working as a community of believers, men and women together serving as equals. ”

      “Mary,” I said gently, pausing for a moment to consider how to respond. I was sorry I had been flip with her. She was so earnest and passionate—and vulnerable. “You say such a community has never existed before. But isn’t that how we lived when we traveled with Jesus?”

      “You are missing the point.” She didn’t say “as usual.” She didn’t need to; I could hear it.

      “What is the point then?”

      “Listen, Jesus was—is—our teacher, our guide. He showed us the Way. He is the Way. But now it is up to us to follow the Way. When he was here, it was easy. Remember how he called himself the Bridegroom? I know. I know he married you, but that is not what he meant when he called himself the Bridegroom. He was—he is—the Bridegroom of Israel. While he was here, we were all at the wedding feast. Now the marriage begins. It takes work; it takes discipline. Following the Way is not going to happen by itself. When your teacher leaves you, you have to become the teacher.”

      “You’ve always been an excellent teacher, Mary,” I said, still conciliatory.

      “Thank you, Mary,” she said gruffly. “But again that’s not the point.”

      I wavered between feeling stupid and exasperated and chose to compromise.

      “Your points are sometimes very hard to grasp. Come on, give it to me straight.”

      “All right, the point is, are you a good teacher? No, the point is will women continue to be recognized as teachers? Jesus defended our right to be disciples, but some of the men question even that much. When they hear you trading rude remarks with common whores it doesn’t help.”

      Now my Irish was up, so to speak, or the Celt, or the street fighting whore. Take your pick.

      “If you want to be like your teacher, Mary, don’t you dare be contemptuous of whores. He never was. As to what I was teaching, if you must to call it that, it wasn’t much different from what you just said to me. You called him the Bridegroom of Israel; I called him the Lover of the World.”

      It was downright dark in the back yard now. The chickens had gone into a huddle in the corner, their heads tucked under their wings. The aroma of fresh bread was wafting from the kitchen, the sharpness of onion sliced the air.

      “I think it’s time to eat, Mary,” I changed tack.

      “Not yet.” She took hold of my arm again. “You need to understand something. What you said to those women was very different from what I mean. You spoke as if Jesus was some kind of pagan god who would make love to them in some supernatural way. I am not talking about some vain idea of a love affair between a god and a mortal. I am talking about the Bridegroom of the people Israel. The people, the ecclesia, not individuals. The other is just sentimental nonsense.”

      The baby did a somersault, and I felt dizzy and tired.

      “Can we talk about this over supper? And speaking of supper, what about those women? Do we really have to baptize them before they can eat?”

      “You can’t baptize them. And besides, I suspect the whores are gentiles.”

      “Why can’t I baptize them? I thought men and women were equal here. And so what if they are gentiles?”

      “Mary, how can I make you understand?” I took hold of her wrist now and she followed, so intent on what she was saying that she offered