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For close to two thousand years, Humanity has been misled and lied to by a cherry-picked “New Testament”—a hodge-podge of re-hashed myth and legend, garbled history, misinformation and misunderstanding, outright fabrication, and crushing male bias—all patched together by the victors in the struggle to control the “sheep” of “The Kingdom,” and put forward as “reality” over the centuries by apostles, priesthoods, rulers and governments corrupted and consumed by arrogance, and by the lust for power, riches, and control.
For too long, Christians have drunk the blood, eaten the flesh, and gazed with perverted pleasure upon a gory “death” that supposedly relieved them of any need to accept responsibility for their own deeds.
The Magdalen’s time has come. Truth’s time has come. Meet your friend, Jesus, who you can truly love, even adore, for the first time in your life. Laugh with him, love with him, dance with him! Sit beside him and learn of the true god All That Is.
Then witness the confusion that gave rise to the two-thousand-year debacle that we call “Christianity.” Understand that the message was supposed to be Joy. And allow Jesus to come down off of that cross.
Excerpt from The Magdalen
After the worst of the day’s heat, Johannan took Joshuah aside.
“I had a dream last night. My time is exceedingly short. I want you to take Miriam away from here now . . . to your home. It is near Bethlehem, you said. So if you leave now, you can easily reach it this night.”
“Yes.”
“I do not need to tell you that if the soldiers of Antipas were to discover Miriam to be a woman when they come for me, and posing as the boy Merovee, she would be handled without mercy. Chandreah has agreed to go with you. We settled on a story. In my newfound freedom, I have developed an insatiable thirst for some of the good wine which you have told me you have in your cellar. Additionally, I want some good fruit, and nuts from my own Samaria, which can be got in the bazaar of Bethlehem. Naturally, Miriam would not trust a man to make these selections, or even trust Chandreah not to lose himself in your cellar and forget to return.
“Chandreah will have spoken to her by now. It will be no surprise when you suggest setting off immediately, so that the provisions may be gotten in the morning and the return journey made after the midday heat tomorrow. Once you have her away, it will be up to the two of you to find convincing reasons to delay that return. Keep her until word comes that I have been taken. It might even be tonight.”
“You have thought of everything. Except her habit of knowing the thoughts of others and peering into the future.”
“I have not forgotten. Lock her up if necessary. Do what you will. But keep her safe.”
He spoke these last words with difficulty, and turned his face away.
“I will try to do as you say,” said Joshuah gently.
Johannan took his hand.
“She is the best of them, Josh. My most beloved disciple. And . . . my beloved. Though she knows it not. Cherish her. She is our sister in Spirit, and will learn quickly. I send her with you not only for her safety, but because you will have need of her. When her wrath against you dies, she will love you and succor you and fill the lonely places you will find along the way. In a manner that is hers alone.”
“I will cherish her as yourself.”
“My eternal thanks. Beyond that, between us, there is nothing more that must be said.”
“Not if you are decided to yield to Antipas.”
“For me, all is accomplished, and I am very tired. May all your futures be joyful, my dear friend.”
“May you return as a great tree, just for a rest.”
Johannan laughed. Then his face straightened.
“There is one question. Have your ever thought . . . that there is yet another one?”
“A third major part of us. Yes. I have entered his thoughts in the dream state. I am not sure I like him. He does not yield. Like the toughest of bread, he will need to be well‑chewed before being swallowed by even the most hungry.”
“It is a man, then. I sensed the third, but could not get an image. I had often wondered if the third might even be Miriam, herself.”
“In another era. If the present parameters of belief among us Jews will hardly countenance a female as follower, how then could she be accepted by our people as a teacher?”
“You are right, of course. You have climbed onto a higher peak than my own, and so see farther into the distances.”
Johannan rose.
“Come, then, my other part. I have tried to make the way straight for you. Let me now see your foot set upon that path.”
* * *
Merovee had no objections to the journey. Indeed, stores were getting low. She needed provisions for the making of bread, and it was the season for melons—orange, green, and luscious, watery pink. And peaches, oozing with juice. Oranges and pomegranates. Not grapes. Too early for the good ones. But she would get cheeses. And raisins . . . fresh figs, and grains for soups . . . it was well that Chandreah was coming, they would probably need a pack animal to carry it all back, maybe two. She had dug up her money belt from under its rock, and, as they left, she was already envisioning Johannan’s delight with what she would bring him. He had no idea about her money. The wine would, of course, be a gift from Joshuah, but the few coins that Johannan had given her would hardly, she knew, buy the nuts which he desired. Poor Johannan had been living in one wilderness or another for so long that he did not realize how prices had risen.
So Merovee took her leave from Johannan with an abstracted little smile and hardly a backward glance. She gave the two men no cause for complaint, girding her loins—tucking the flowing folds of her garment up into her gird to allow free movement of the legs—and striding purposefully along the narrow and dusty shepherds’ paths that led to Bethlehem. She even set the pace, for the paths climbed steadily into the mountains. The welcome cool of darkness would be on them soon enough, but she had no mind to be traveling all night long. It would be a full moon this night, which would make the going easier . . . and she was almost out of her balm, would they have it in the bazaar at Bethlehem?
Yet, there were hours to be passed, and one might as well use them.
“Master . . . ”
“Only Joshuah, please, Merovee. Or the Greek form. Jesus.”
“Johannan called you Josh. That is what I shall call you. So, Josh, when you multiplied your fishes . . . where did you go in your head?”
Joshuah smiled. Johannan was right. She understood and aimed for the core, unawed as it should be.
“I sent The Energy directly, from a place in the forehead between the two eyes. There are many different techniques, both for receiving and sending. I don’t know where Johannan went in his head, but he obviously then channeled it out his fingertips. The teachers to whom I responded the best, however, were those in the north of India, the followers of the Great Buddha. They understand there to be a third, invisible eye in the spot just above and between the eyes. Most frequently, that is the place that they use for sending.”
“What is best then, if one wants to learn?”
“There is no best. There is only what is right for you. Listen often inside your own mind. Become acquainted with the secret little things that are continually going on beneath your notice. Sounds, scenes, voices, emotions, fantasies . . . you spend so much time looking outward, you see. Much too much. You need the balance of inward vision. Learn to listen to what you think are the silences. In those silences hide The Power of the Universe, and of your greater Self.”
“That does not tell me how to multiply fishes.”
He laughed.
“It does. Better than you know. I will make you a promise. Allot just half of one hour each day for a month to quiet listening inside yourself. Then we will talk of this again. If you have done this with diligence, you will already have a feeling about your own best channel, and I can then aid you in strengthening it.”
“But what is this?” said Chandreah. “Do you seek this man's powers, Merovee?”
“No. I seek my own.”
“But power like that is not for such as you.”
“I do hope,” she said archly, “that you really meant to say such as us, Chandreah. Or do you mean that, because I am a woman, I must not presume?”
Chandreah shook his head and gave no answer.
“Perhaps,” said Joshuah, “Chandreah is not sure what he means.”
Chandreah nodded.
“You have put it the best.”
“Let me tell you a story as we go,” said Joshuah. “Once, a very long time ago, a king and a queen ruled over a beautiful land. They ruled equally and with justice, and the people were very happy. But the queen was exceedingly lovely, which made the people adore her, and she was exceedingly wise, so that they sought her counsel as much as that of the king.
“And the king had a brother who had nothing to rule for himself, and, since he had never bothered to learn a trade, he sat around the palace examining his thumbs and thinking of mischief which would keep him from remembering what an empty fellow he was. This brother grew jealous of the queen, and begin to whisper in the ear of the king that the people loved the queen better than the king, and that she grew too much in power by virtue of her goodness, and that soon she would take all the power and lord it over the king, and that the justice and equality for which they were famed would no longer be the mark of their reign.
“Though he should have known better, the king soon began to believe this spiteful brother and to be jealous of his queen. The more beautiful she became, the more he resented it. The wiser she grew, the more threatened he felt. The happier were the people, the more he saw it as a sign that soon the queen would take everything for herself.
“The idle brother then proposed that, instead of the queen, he, himself, should rule with the king. Indeed, he said, in order to preserve the justice and equality for which the kingdom was famed, women should never ever be allowed to rule again.
“And the king agreed that this was a wonderful plan.
“The brother then proposed that they simply kill the queen. Here, the king refused. He was fond of his queen, and, since she was beautiful, he liked to look at her. So it was agreed that she would simply be put into eternal sleep.
“A magician was looked for, one who could brew a proper potion. But all the magicians were out performing tricks for the people that day. So an old sorceress was found, and brought to the palace. The king explained what he wanted . . . a potion to put his queen into peaceful sleep forever. And the sorceress complied.
“Except that, being a woman, she did it her own way. Unbeknownst to the king, she administered a potion which would keep the queen in sleep only until a man as wise as herself kissed her and bade her wake.
“Well, years passed. The foolish king and the spiteful brother ruled, and beauty was gone from the land, and wisdom and goodness. And the people began to be unhappy, and to quarrel amongst themselves, and the men of the kingdom, seeing that all this unhappiness had come about because the queen had gone to sleep and refused to wake, blamed her, and all women, for their woes. So they made their wives into slaves, and bade them not to speak unless spoken to, and to walk behind, and to sit in the corners in the temples, as unfit even to worship their god—who also had his goddess taken from him.
“And things went from bad to worse, and there was a blight on the land, and famine, and wars without end. And the cry of the people went up. ‘Our God! Why have you forsaken us?’ But no answer came.
“In the palace, the king grew old, and the brother died, of a malignancy he had brewed from his own spite. With the whispers of his brother gone from his ears, the king began to remember, and to re‑weigh his beliefs.
“And he realized how foolish he had been. How very happy he and the people had been before his queen was sentenced to her eternal sleep. And he went to the room where she lay, and knelt beside her and wet her face with his tears.
“‘Oh Woman, how I wish that you would wake and take your place beside me once more. For I understand now that there are things our people need which a man alone can never supply.’
“And he kissed her.”
They walked on in silence for a moment.
“Well?” said Chandreah. “Did she then wake?”
“I know not,” shrugged Joshuah. “That is the end of the tale.”
“It cannot be the end,” said Chandreah.
“Why not?” said Joshuah.
“It has no resolution.”
“Make your own.”
“What a miserable story teller you are!”
“That is because my mother was put to sleep by a sorceress when I was only a boy.”
Merovee began to laugh. In mock anger, Chandreah scooped up a handful of dirt and flung it at Joshuah.
“Anyone know a good walking song?” said Joshuah, “How about this one?”
And he began to sing. An impious ditty about a very fat priest on a very small ass, jogging toward Jerusalem.
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