Magdala: The Lost Story of Mary Magdalene

By Bridget Erica

"For over two thousand years my name has been printed in the holy book and buildings have been erected in my honor. Yet, men in ornate robes have trampled on my words, tainted my name, and hidden my story from you. The exceptional events of my life have been erased…"

Based on the life of Mary Magdalene, Magdala beautifully pieces together the hidden remnants from the past and masterfully weaves them into a fascinating tale about faith, love, and our connection with the Divine. Magdala transports readers 2000 years into the past as it follows Mary Magdalene on her journey from innocence to cherished healer, sacred confidante, wife, and mother. A stirring work of historical fiction that explores the meaning of Mary Magdalene in the face of her erased history. Magdala is a fascinating invitation to re-examine the hidden messages in Jesus' teachings and what it truly means to be a powerful woman.

Perfect for readers of Meggan Watterson, Paulo Coelho, Claire Heartsong, and Clarissa Pinkola Estes, this is the lost story of Mary Magdalene as it should have always been told.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9780645476101

Book preview

PREFACE

The Word of Mariamne and the Truth Revealed

For more than 2,000 years my name has been printed in the holy book and buildings have been erected in my honour. At the same time, men in ornate robes have trampled on my words, tainted my name and hidden my story from you. The exceptional events of my life have been erased and lost like pebbles thrown into the deep, murky waters of a bottomless pond. Many have called me a prostitute and a sinner. Many have sat back on their thrones, sipped their wine and made you believe that my name is unclean.

May the truth be known that I am, and always have been, a woman, a daughter, a sister, a wife, a lover, a healer and a mother. A woman who was never afraid to live with her heart or speak with the truth. One who never weakened in the face of oppression. My name is Mariamne, I was born in Magdala, I am the sister of Philip, the daughter of Jonas, and the wife of Yeshua. This is my story.

CHAPTER ONE

My Name is Mariamne

32: There were three who always walked with the Lord: Mary, his mother; the sister of his mother; and Miriam of Magdala, known as his companion; for him, Miriam is a sister, a mother, and a wife.²

— Gospel of Philip

At the early age of 12, I left my family and moved from my hometown in Magdala to live with my aunties in Jerusalem. The women in my family had long worked with plants and oils, a practice that went back to the oldest of our grandmothers that time could remember. According to family tradition, each firstborn daughter would be sent to Jerusalem to learn our people’s ancient craft once she had started her monthly moon cycle. She would cut all ties with her parents, cousins and siblings, and dedicate her time to learning from and serving her elders. After three years of tutelage in ancient techniques and secret remedies, she would return to society and use her skills to heal the sick and cure ailments of the heart.

Therefore, with the blood blessing of my first menstruation at the age of 12, it was my duty and destiny to leave my childhood behind me and continue my familial legacy. Despite all that it meant for me, it was an honour to learn the craft, and I was eager to begin.

I packed a small sack with my finest robes and a handful of letters and drawings my sisters had prepared for me. My mother gifted me fruits, grains and colourful wildflowers gathered in a beautiful woven basket that she had been weaving over the previous months, though I had not known she was preparing it as my parting gift. When it was time to leave, she embraced me firmly, and I observed tears in her eyes as she handed me over to my older brother Marcus, who would accompany me on my journey to Jerusalem.

I was grateful for the beautiful gift from my mother and promised to use it every day on my trips to the market and when I was attending healing ceremonies. Though I was young, I was not sad to leave. I had been waiting for that day my entire life, and I welcomed the adventure.

As children, my mother would tell us magical stories about my aunties, what special powers they had and what they could do with them. My younger sisters and cousins were envious of the fact that I was chosen to go, but they lined the streets to bid me farewell, grinning with happiness for me, as I waved them goodbye, blowing kisses in their direction.

The journey to Jerusalem seemed to glide by as I fantasised about what lay ahead for me. Meeting my aunties for the first time gave me such a thrill — they were just as my mother had described them to me, and were true angels.

The aunties quickly took me under their wings and taught me all their secrets. Of course, their lessons were not without arguments, as there were always one or two aunties who insisted their methods were superior to the others. But there was also the sweet one who brought me special treats from the market and organised special deliveries to my sisters and cousins in Magdala. And, though I was not supposed to remain in contact with them, I often sent my sisters and cousins letters and gifts from Jerusalem.

Like my mother had done with me, I’d share stories of the magical remedies and miraculous cures we were creating. The girls would often send requests for love potions, so I would secretly prepare musk and lavender oil and send it to them with a prayer that they would find their perfect husband. One who would protect them, provide for them and love them selflessly.

The first months of living with my aunties was such a wondrous experience. They seemed like magical beings, like angels who walked the earth, and at times I didn’t feel like I was good enough to be one of them. Of course, it was difficult to be so far away from my parents and siblings, but as I spent more and more time with my aunties, a hunger to learn and spread the light of my ancestors grew inside of me.

My aunties were the strongest and bravest women I had ever known. They taught me how to grow and cultivate many species of plants and herbs. I learned how to dry the leaves and create potions or extract their sweet oils. But above all, they taught me how to be a woman and how to stand on my own. I embraced their wisdom and I skillfully learned how to continue my daily activities in a city filled with lies, thieves and masculine-governed laws.

Though it had initially been a surprise to me, I grew used to being spat on by men when buying ingredients at the markets. I learnt that I was considered a disgrace, for it was customary that a woman would work only for her husband and family. I was not married, though nor did I have patience for rules that tried to limit me. I was a healer and I determined that their petty laws would not stop me from living my life and helping those in need. I was born with a gift and a duty. I knew that if God had chosen to endow me with such a gift, I was obliged to share it with whomever needed it.

During this time, Jerusalem was ruled by King Herod and the Roman Empire. The local Jewish laws prevented married women from being touched or treated by male doctors, and so these women would come to us for healings. Often, they would bring their children and unmarried daughters as well, for they felt safer in our care.

Our cures were well known amongst most women of our village, though we managed to maintain a low public profile by only treating women when they were menstruating. You see, Jewish traditions considered women to be unclean during their cycle, and they were barred from entering a Temple during this time. So, when the men attended Temple, the menstruating women would come to us. As long as this tradition was upheld, our treatments were received without men’s knowledge, saving us from public persecution.

My aunties also believed that when a woman has her menstrual flow, her body and soul are aligned with the moon, which allows the healings to transition more quickly and have a greater effect. They believed that if a woman’s cycle is out of sync with the moon cycle, she must reconnect with her heart and body and address the issues in her life that are preventing her from being her authentic self. My aunt Rebekah, one of the oldest and sweetest of them all, would explain it to me by saying:

Like the stars that help the lost traveller find his way home during the darkest of the nights, the moon is every woman’s guide. And it is the light that stirs within our hearts that gives us access to the essence of life. When these two elements are aligned, miracles can, and do, happen.

I adored listening to Rebekah, as she had a way with words that made her prayers stick to the hairs of your skin and penetrate deep within your soul. She would snuggle next to me at night and tell me stories; she would stroke my hair and show me warm affection. In her comforting embrace I always felt loved and at home. She became a second mother to me and I, perhaps, became the daughter she never had.

Much like the Vestal Virgins, who often came to us for healings and to learn sacred rituals, the healers in my family would take a vow of celibacy and remain virgins for our entire lives. Each month we would come together in secret to celebrate a deeper insight into the mysteries of the universe and to incarnate the divine feminine