Mystery of the Magdalene

You cannot enter the mystery of the Magdalene without entering the mystery of healing. You cannot enter the mystery of the Magdalene without entering the numb places in your bones, the places that most discomfit you. And the mystery is, you cannot heal your own marrow without healing the earth. Are there not grottos in your body where you meet the Magdalene alone, gazing into her candle of prayer? You may not find her at the yoga retreat in Bali, in the ashram at Big Sur, or surrounded by roses, sitting on a dais in white robes before 10,000 chanting devotees. She falls dustward in teardrops, spilling from the broken half-moon onto rubble of ruined apartments in Turkey, after the earthquake. She flows through dead lead water pipes of underground Detroit. She wades across the Rio Grande, clutching someone's baby, hoping not to be sent back. Don’t imagine that she seeks justice, for justice is not enough. Justice divides the righteous from the damned, separates white from black, woman from man. Justice is in love with blame. But Mary holds everyone accountable for everything, bearing in her flesh the wounds of all sentient creatures. Mary is the salt of compassion in the weeping of those who lose hope. Mary feels the green in darkness. And in her gentlest breath, Mary offers the Beloved all the pain we cannot carry.


The elder Magdalene with Jesus' women disciples, by Sue Ellen Parkinson.
I read this meditation today at the international conference on Mary Magdalene
and the Tree of Life, sponsored by Mythica Foundation, 2/18/23.