Whore, saint, prostitute, abused wife, harlot, temptress—a lot of those epitaphs I lay directly on Judas’ lap. Not that I’d ever touch his body, mind you, nor he mine. But I do blame him, make no mistake about that. Even if he doesn’t do it openly, I suspect he’s responsible because he hates me with a ferocity that hasn’t dimmed any over the course of the past couple millennia, but has grown stronger if anything. But that’s his trip, not mine. I’ve worn many hats during my lifetimes, and done whatever I needed to do to survive. All within the framework of the master plan, of course. Never forgetting the master plan. At the same time I’ve worked to achieve my own personal growth as much as it’s been humanly possible.
Again within the context of the times; some periods were easier than others. For example, there were more freedoms to exercise being a woman in ancient Rome than being one during Victorian England. Stands to reason, though. All part of the evolution of mankind. Anyone find it amusing that I said evolution? Creationists?
Darwinists? Anyone? Never mind. Never let it be said, though, I chose to be less than who I am, or that I didn’t always take myself seriously. Except, of course, for those occasions when humor was more appropriate. Even if not always understood.
I admit I’ve got a rather strange sense of humor. For example, I think when Judas called me a lesbian I had one of my biggest laughs ever. The fact is I laughed so hard I damn near choked. But it was well worth it. Naturally Jesus rushed to my aid. I had the pleasure of watching Judas’ face suddenly morph into this turbulent black raging storm cloud of pure hatred. The irony of it. Being accused by him of being gay, when heaven only knows that is the proverbial pot calling the kettle black. Whether the fool admits to it or not, we all know it. And laugh at him behind his back. Not for being gay, of course, but for just being him. I admit I do egg him on. I stoke the flames of his jealousy over Jesus by touching the Master every chance I get, by fawning and hovering around him—not that I wouldn’t do it anyway, ’cause of course I love him—who doesn’t? But not to this extent, and not in that way. My greatest joy in life is simply to annoy the fuck out of Judas Iscariot.
Well, my second greatest joy, anyway.
Which is all a rather longwinded introduction that leads to me—Mary Magdalene. In case you haven’t guessed by now. Although that’s not the name I’m known by in this particular time. Of course none of us use our real names, except amongst one another. It just wouldn’t be kosher. Or serve any useful purpose.
What is my current name? You’d know it, of course, so for the purposes of this tale, I’ll content myself with being known as M. Simple, short, and to the point.
Sorry to disappoint, but there you have it.
For those who are confused thus far, and I imagine there are a few, especially if you’ve read any of Judas’ writings—that man has more twists and turns to his mind than any of Satan’s minions—I’ll try to clear things up as much as possible.
And hopefully between me and the other apostles, Judas excepted, things will become clearer.
I’m sure there’s no need to go into the original story. That’s far too well known and has been for years. Jesus’ life story, and to a lesser degree the rest of us, has been covered ad infinitum for over two thousand years. His birth, his life, his death
—his teachings, his miracles, his followers, his precepts. Nothing much left to be said there, hmmmm? And how the world is holding its collective breath in anticipation of His Second Coming, the revelation, the rapture—etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
But what I think a lot of people fail to comprehend is God doesn’t always reveal everything. He sometimes plays his cards close to the vest, and for what I consider to be very good reasons—the complacency of mankind that anticipates all its problems will be solved when He sends His son to them again. But that was never His plan, to make a big hoopla production out of Jesus’ return—an end of the earth party, so long and thanks for the memories sort of thing. What useful purpose would that serve? And what lesson would be learned? No, He’s more subtle than that. He’s God, after all, the Creator—the one that knows. And He knows mankind pretty damn well.
No, it was never His intention to hoard His son, to simply put him upon the earth, allow him to live there for thirty some-odd years, and then yank him away for a long, long, long time before returning him once again, amid a great deal of glitter and fanfare, as a fait accompli, a pied piper to lead the faithful to their just reward. Again, what purpose does that serve? That simply denotes a disinterest in the future of mankind as a whole, a belief that only some people shall be with Him in the afterlife. Why has mankind decided God would ever pick and choose in that way? Did He not create everyone in his image? Does He not love everyone?