"I know He lives..."

(A reflection on the life of Mary of Magdala, on a poem of Sir Rabindranath Tagore, and on the song "In my heart" of Fr. Manoling Francisco SJ)

The battle is over. After strife and struggles the treasure is gathered and stored.

In my heart, I know my Savior lives.

I can hear Him calling tenderly my name.

Over sin and death He has prevailed.

In His glory, in His new life we partake.

Come now, woman, with your golden jar of beauty. Wash away all dust and dirt, fill up all cracks and flaws, make the heap shapely and sound.
Come, beautiful woman, with the golden jar on your head.

   I can still lovingly recall the first time I met the Master. It was during the time I was a captive of seven inimical beings who were reigning over my inmost being. I came to hear that the Master, the controversial Jesus, the Nazarene, will be passing by. I recall shamefully that then, I had decided to find out what sort of man the Master was. With all the charm and enticement I was carrying, I went out... to seduce Him. I approached Him, jar on my head, gracefully conscious of every move that I make. I looked at Him; he in turn gave back a look of concern. It was a moment of cleansing for me. I felt a sudden gush of bathing water poured over my being. His gaze? It was liberating! There and then, I felt a most glorious freedom. I am free! His words freed me. His gaze liberated me. His presence cleansed me. His being recreated me.

   The memory of Jesus never left me then. He is the Savior. I know... He is my Savior.

The play is over. I have come to the village and have set up my hearthstone.
Now come, woman, carrying your vessel of sacred water; with tranquil smile and devout love, make my home pure.
Come, noble woman, with your vessel of sacred water.

   It was during a dinner in the house of a certain Simon that I had the opportunity to meet again the Master. I prepared for that event. What was left behind of the money which I gave to the poor I devoted to procure a costly alabaster jar filled with perfumed, precious oil. While my sister Martha was helping serve food to the guests, I left my station in the kitchen and went to the servants' room. There, I got the jar and held it tight near my breast. I walked slowly but firmly to the great hall and looked for my Liberator. I saw Him sitting down near His followers, conversing with the owner of the house. I removed my veil, moved near Him, and broke the jar over His head. The fragrance of the essence created a sudden silence in the hall. Afterwards, I knelt to wash His feet with my tears, while recalling the many times I have strayed away from His flock. I also anointed those feet--those feet which carried the Good News Himself--with what was left in the jar. I dried them with my flowing hair. I heard some of the present speak against what I have performed. But deep in my heart, I know that what I did was still incomparable to the grace He has lavishly bestowed on me. He even defended me; yet His words I cannot fathom, but I kept them in my heart. All I could make up from those words were,

"In pouring this perfumed oil upon my body, she did it to prepare me for burial.

Amen, I say to you, wherever this gospel is proclaimed in the whole world,

what she has done will be spoken of

in memory of her..."

   From then on, I resolved to follow Him, wherever He may go. After all, to whom can I go? He alone has the words of life, life in its fullest.

The morning is over. The sun is fiercely burning. The wandering stranger is seeking shelter.
Come, woman, with your pitcher full of sweetness. Open your door and with a garland of welcome ask him in.
Come, blissful woman, with your full pitcher of sweetness.

   News about the Master's passing by our humble shelter filled me with joy and excitement. The three of us hastened to the preparations: Lazarus with the furnishings of the house, chef Martha with her delicacies, and I, with the simple chore of cleaning the living room. It was about noon when the Master came, together with Peter, John and the rest of His friends. When He occupied His place in the room, I brought Him a pitcher of refreshing wine to drink. He was speaking. Those restful words seemed to pull me to His side. As one of the hosts, I feel that the best welcome I could give Him is my listening ear. And so went to His side, sat on the floor, rested my head on His lap, and most of all, welcomed His words into my heart. My sister told Him to reprimand me for not lending a hand on the kitchen chores, but the Master uttered these words to her:

"There is need of only one thing.

Mary has chosen the better part

and it will not be taken from her."

   I was delighted, not because it seemed that the Master sided with me, but moreso, for His appreciation of the gesture that I made. For what manner was more welcoming than sitting by my guest... err, Guest, and keeping Him company? Come, divine Guest, for whoever welcomes you welcomes not You, but Him who sent You. My attentive ear, the open door; my open heart, the welcoming garland; my welcoming presence, the sweet pitcher: good measure, flowing over.

The day is over. The time has come to take leave.
Come, O woman, with your vessel full of tears. Let your sad eyes shed tender glow on the farewell path and the touch of thy trembling hand make the parting hour full.
Come, suffering woman, bring your brimming jar of remembrance.

   As the Passover feast approached, bad news about the Master reached my ears. I heard that there were plots against Him, plans to take away His life. I dismissed those evil thoughts, for three years had transpired and He is still safe. But one morning, when I was on my way to the market to buy some oil for the evening festivities, I heard the noise of a mob. Holding tightly the jar of oil, I rushed to the scene. I was nervous. I felt that something unpleasant was about to happen. When I reached the path leading to the outskirts of the great Jerusalem, I made my way through a thick swarm of people. There I beheld the most pitiable being on the face of the earth. He was carrying a long piece of lumber on His back, which was obviously heavier than Him. His was face was unrecognizable due to blood that already clot and to new blood gushing forth from new wounds by the merciless whipping of a Roman soldier. The people were all shouting, "Crucify Him! Crucify Him!" I heard somebody scream, "Crucify Jesus, that Jesus of Naza..." When he came to those words, I felt a sudden numbness all over. I gasped for breath. At that moment, the jar which I can throw into the air without letting it fall to the ground suddenly became heavy. My hands, without any hesitation, dropped it to the ground. With all the strength I could muster, I ran towards the direction of the Master. At that race against all odds, the memory of my Liberator dawned upon me: the first meeting, the raising of my brother Lazarus, the dinner at the house of Simon... All I could do then was run, and cry: Jesus? Jesus?! JESUS! The Master looked towards me. His bloodied face rendered me a loving look. All I could do was shout out loud, JESUS! A man pushed me back, while the people closed in til I cannot, with the minimal strength I had, enter in and follow Him during those last moments. I sat down in a corner, and wept, until sleep visited me.

   All I could remember afterwards was that my feet led me outside the city walls. I was there, on the hill branded as Golgotha. It was my first time there, on that place of the skull. Probably called so because the Romans' hunger for blood was satiated on that place. There was I, beneath the cross where the Master was crucified like any criminal, weeping... trying desperately to reminisce the joyful past that was freedom, life, love. I was there, a vessel of tears, weeping for Him who has loved me greatly, and whom my heart has loved deeply in return.

The night is dark; the house is desolate and the bed empty, only the lamp for the last rites is burning.
Come, woman, bring your brimming jar of remembrance. Open the door of the secret chamber with your unbraided streaming hair and spotless white robe, replenish the lamp of worship.

   The body was prepared for burial. It was late afternoon when Nicodemus and a certain Joseph of Arimathea, both secret followers of Jesus and members of the Sanhedrin, came with the permission for the body from the Procurator. I joined the women in wrapping the Master's body with linen. Afterwards, I, together with Joanna, followed the procession towards the garden where he was to be laid, in order to remember the path leading to it so we may anoint the body after the Sabbath. When I got home, my sister Martha and I prepared the spices and the ointments. Afterwards, I replenished the oil in the lamp, since work was forbidden on the Sabbath. As I was pouring oil on the lamp, I remembered the words of  the Master before He raised my brother Lazarus...

"I am the Resurrection and the Life!"

   Though it may be a Sabbath rest, a day of immobility, of passivity, yet the flame of the lamp of worship flickered still; my heart, beating still. I know He lives, as he promised. He lives. He is alive. He is the Life.

Come, suffering woman, bring your brimming jar of remembrance.

   The next day after the Sabbath found us: myself, Mary, wife of Cleopas and Mary Salome, on our way to the tomb, the Master's sanctuary. We brought along with us the vases of anointment, vessels full of perfumed oil, all the anoint the body of the Master.

   I went there to rekindle the memory of my Master, my Savior. I believe He did not die in vain. Yes, I may have come there bringing my jar of memories, my remembrances of Him, yet I also approach the Creator's dwelling place for three days in order for the Treasure to be gathered and stored. Little did I know that I also came there to be witness of His fulfilling of His promise:
"He is not here, but He has been raised..."

"Mary!"

"...go to My brothers and tell them,

'I am going to My Father and your Father, to My God and your God.'"

=======================
This short story of the life of Mary of Magdala may seem to romantic, but that is so. Her greatest vice may have been that she loved many, but her greatest virtue was that she loved much. She is woman: vessel of beauty, of sacredness, of sweetness, of sorrow, of reminiscences. God who has begun the good work in her brought it to fulfillment. She carried, and treasured the Master who made His dwelling within her.
"But this treasure we possess in earthen vessels,
to make known that its surpassing power comes from God,
and not from us..."

   She carried the Lord. She accommodated Him who is the Treasure and brought it to the waiting world, by her breaking of the news of the Resurrection to the weary apostles: "I have seen the Lord!"

For I have seen and touched Him risen

To all the world will I proclaim His majesty!

With joy I sing to tell His story

That in our hearts may live His memory!

"Amen, I say to you:

wherever this gospel is proclaimed in the whole world,

what she has done will be spoken of,

in memory of her."

Not even death can separate me

From His whose love and might remain in me!

Come, Mary Magdalene, bring to us the Life.
Be to us a vessel of Him who liberates, who raises up, who loves... who lives.
Amen.

[I have written this last 17 July 1996 as part of the requirements in the subject "Afro-Asian Third World Literature", and in view of the feast of St. Mary Magdalene on 22 July of that year.]