{Excerpt #3, journal of a sacred whore.}

Whatever precise or abstract theory one may have about Mary Magdalene, there is a distinct difference between thinking about Mary Magdalene and actually being Mary Magdalene.

Consciously making Love with the Divine in any given era, the current one quite spoken for, comes with certain requirements. It requires the will to love exactly what comes up, exactly as it is. It requires steadfast devotion and unshakable trust, as well as an outspokenly humble nature and a firm openness to growing–bolder, wiser, more compassionate–no matter what the circumstances. It requires willingness to always return to the work inside, to find one’s own hands making the shadow puppets upon the wall, to anoint those hands in scented oils and the smooth warm waters of Love.

Mary Magdalene is the thin, craggy Ironwood growing in the stark desert at the side of a constantly-traveled highway, seldom perched upon, seldom visited, seldom even noticed, saying in the language that touches all the elements: “I grow. I grow.”

Mary Magdalene is the tall, awkward dandelion stretching out of the minuscule crack between concrete and brick wall, reaching its face toward the sun, chanting the song of the faerie-footed passerby: “I don’t care what it looks like, I’m going to grow here!”

Mary, Beloved of Yeshua, she who makes Love with Everlasting Divinity, does not have the luxury of acting on her passing whims or dallying with fleeting edits. In the act of being intimate with the One, she does not get to keep only the parts she likes best and avoid the parts she’d rather not love. She does not get to be theoretical about her Consent. When she says “Yes” to the Divine, she says “Yes” to its every formation, its every delineation. In the exact Now moment, this includes everything.

Does this mean she has no choice? Does this mean she is doomed to affirm the suffering of the world, never to move beyond the acceptance of what is so, despite all the carnage and all the deception and all the slavery and all the coercion and all the brutality and all the horrors? Where is her Choice if she only says this one word? What is meant by the word repeating from her lips, constantly playing softly on these strings of her vocal chords, resonating from this brass of her open throat, spilling out into fingers and toe-tips every moment?

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

What is she saying? Every whisper a “Yes.” Every song, shout, smile, murmur, and wail: “Yes.” What does it mean? What has been missing from understanding, both of those who hate her and those who love her, those who wish to live purely from the drops of her blood in their embodied oceans and those who wish to malign and eradicate the honest memories of her contribution to the Whole?

There on the bridge between the extremes, what has been missing in consensual reality?

When she says “Yes,” it is an act of Creation.

She doesn’t say “Yes” out of lack; she doesn’t say it because she has no other choice, no better ideas. She certainly doesn’t say it because she can’t say something else. In fact, the only thing that makes “Yes” mean anything at all, anything other than the vocalization of linguistic evolution singing its strange sounds into nothingness—Da, Si, N’am, Ja, Ho, Yey, U’mme, Toh, Oui, Han, Nyeya, Tak, ‘Ae, Ioe, Ava, Webo, Sawa, Mm, Eeya, Han Ji, Ken, Ba’leh, Haha, Ee, Hai—is this: she has the full undauntable power of “No.” She has its every shape and size and color. She has its silence & its roar. She understands “No” better than anyone on the planet, better than the two-year olds who toss it about ceaselessly, better than the war-makers shooting its bullets into Final Showdown. She knows “No” in spades, in a royal flush, and she lets it rest in the infinite center of her Being where it darkens the stage for “Yes” to choose its spotlit dance.

“No” is a line. “Yes” is an act of Creation, using that very line to draw, to build, to mend, to sculpt, to write stories and letters and law.

When Mary, the Sacred Priestess of Magda, the Beloved Disciple, the Holy Daughter, says “Yes,” she is writing the Dream in that moment, hiding nothing, including everything, and choosing Love with a power so great as to turn the tides of Earth. Spinning “Yes” through every sunrise, weaving “Yes” through every moon, the One who makes Love with the One, oh yes, she knows precisely what Consent is.

Mary Magdalene is not a side character in some tired-ass mafia plot devised for world conquest.

Mary Magdalene is an archetype, a guru, a Way of discovery: She who makes Love with the Present.

Put in a different light, Mary Magdalene is the Present making Love with you. As you choose.

You feel me?

As an Ordained Priestess of Magdalene, I follow the rhythm of the blood and tides of the Moon. The Moon, she holds Mary’s face close to her own and kisses it with such loving abandon, a spectral halo enshrines them both. This is how the Lunar Glory came to be: round rainbow encircling the bright-eyed satellite, sinking its smile well into the tissues of the Earth, the Word made Flesh. Such smiles can last lifetimes. And to this I owe my existence.

One such rainbow shone the night of my Birth. And one in the midnight of my Initiation. I suspect one glows every inky black of my Death and every indigo twilight of my Rebirth.

I suspect you keep one below your navel and together we could find it.

I gather you can see mine with your eyes closed.

Bless your Yes, wherever you may find it. Bless your No, exactly from whence it comes.

 

Benedixitque sermo verborum Magdalene.

 

~VGR~

 

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