7/19/2017

Gnostic Gospel of the Garden

(Mary Magdalene Removing her Jewelry by Alonso del Arco, 17th C)

Jesus said to her, “Noli me tangere: Don't touch me. For I have not yet ascended to My Father."
~John 20:11-17

Jesus said to her, “Noli me tangere: Don't touch me. For I have not yet ascended to My Father." ~John 20:11-17

O Magdalene, I never said such words. I said, "Touch me, touch me!" For as you live through my breath on your lips, so I am embodied through your caress.

Touch me in the smallest petal of a wild rose. Touch me in the rain-soaked sunbeam. Touch me in the loam and dahlia bulb, the icy water of a mountain stream.

Touch me through the feline curve of the midnight moon, the rippling pelt of the wild stallion, the fur of mist on fallow meadow.

Touch me in the blue flame of the homeless mother's gaze, ever searching for her child. Touch me in pain unbearable without the nearness of hands. Touch me in the speechless zero of a dying soldier's mouth.

The Word of the Lord is a radiant throb of silence at the heart of sensation. All scripture is written in your palm and pain. Working fingers are as holy as fingers that pray. Therefor touch me in the doubled kneading of risen dough.

Beyond stars and night touch me. Reach into the darkness that was here before I spoke the world: then cling to what yearns back.

My flesh is everywhere now, my inhalation sheathed in your form like the kernel in a chaff of wheat. Because we have met in this garden, holy men no longer say, "God is in heaven."

The time has come for you to repose more deeply in the chambers of your body. Let the marrow of your bones be yeast, fermenting the death-pale illusion that you were ever not ripe.

There is a bridal bower in your chest, where sun and moon lie down to conceive a human thistle, fragrant yet clustered with thorns. The scent brings forgetting, the thorns bring remembrance of grief: these are your wings.

On your ankles you wear the ringing galaxies, the earth your crown, weightless as the moment of death. Let every dust on your naked sole, each atom in the crysalis of your skin, become a doorway to the wedding.

Invite the living and the dead, the rich and poor, those who believe and those who doubt. This feast is not a secret.

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