Of course he was handsome. His mother saw to that
and all who knew him doted on the beautiful child.
Sure, women loved him. Men did too.
He carried himself with dignity, and taught us
to do the same. He spoke of love
as if it were our right, and joy
as though it lay within our grasp. He feared
no-one, but many men feared him
for knowing the corruption in their hearts.
They hated us because he was our friend.
They wanted to be like us
and yet they couldn’t see
that they were welcome too. Most of all
they despised us women, for he
regarded us as equals.
They slandered us, as others would,
and called us harlots. We were not
as women should be, following this man.
We shared a common sleeping place with him,
a common life, a common goal,
and, yes, I loved him. Men I’d had, and plenty
but after him would always have compared them.
I would have been his wife, if he had wanted, would happily
have borne his children, kept his house.
No matter. It wasn’t in God’s plan
and history would not record
that women, too, were his disciples, or how
we died for love. At least they gave me this,
that, early on that morning,
I saw him first, and heard him call me:
First published in Reach
I wrote this based on the erroneous view perpetuated by the church that Mary Magdalene had been a prostitute. I now know that she was almost certainly not a prostitute.