An awkward silence had fallen over the room; conversations stalled, and no one wanted to start them up again for fear of being overheard. People were trying hard not to stare, but of course they were curious, and perhaps some were appalled at the idea of Jesus having something as ordinary and human as a wife and mother. Trust me, it had not yet occurred to anyone to venerate Miriam, though a couple of women recovered themselves and escorted Miriam to one of the only couches in the room. Two other women, who looked as though they might be sisters, approached me, trying not to eye my belly, and invited me to sit down while Mary B went to talk to someone about arranging a place for us to sleep that night.
“When do we eat?” was my opening conversational gambit, I’m afraid. “The food looks wonderful.”
“After the prayers,” explained the older of the two. “We’re waiting for Brother Peter and some of the others.”
“Were you really his wife?” the younger burst out suddenly.
“Shh, Serena, that is rude,” said the older one.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” I said. “Yes, I…I was.” It still felt funny to speak of him in the past tense.
“Don’t scold, Hannah. What was it like? What was he like?” the younger woman said breathlessly.
“Serena, you must not trouble our guest with personal questions. That is not for us to know. We know the Master by faith, not by flesh.”
I don’t think she meant it unkindly, but I felt relegated to a lower status.
“Tell me,” I decided to change the subject. “Do you all live here together in this house?”
“Some of us do, some of us don’t,” the older woman said. “But we all gather to pray and break bread together in Jesus’s name, and we all give what we own or earn to the ecclesia. We are one in His Spirit.”
“So I gather,” I said, suspecting I was going to hear a lot of that phrase.
Before I got to ask any more questions, there was a stir of excitement in the room, like a breeze turning all the leaves, and everyone turned as Peter, James (the brother of Jesus) and John of the Thunder Brothers (so nicknamed by Jesus for their boisterousness) strode into the room with a man and a woman I did not recognize. The pair looked well heeled and, if not Roman, they dressed in the Roman style.
“Greetings, beloved brothers and sisters, in the name of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. His grace and peace be with you.”
“And also with you,” everyone answered back.
There followed some foot washing, the men vying with each other for who would wash the most feet. I smiled (a bit tearfully) remembering our last night together when Jesus had washed everyone’s feet. Peter, always one for the grand gesture, had offered his whole body when Jesus rebuked him for resisting. I was touched that Peter had taken this particular teaching to heart, though I did wish he’d get on with it. It seemed to have become a long and solemn procedure, and I was beginning to feel faint with hunger.
When the apostolic feet were clean, the prayers began. As well as the prescribed Hebrew prayers that I knew from Jesus, there were extemporaneous prayers that seemed more like sermons. Peter gave one; James gave one; John, goddess bless him, passed. Then Mary B, unsolicited, offered one. (I hope you don’t expect me to reproduce these prayers, because to tell you the truth after a while I wasn’t paying attention). I did catch on pretty fast that the word Amen didn’t mean a prayer was over. It was an expression of fervor, a way for the rest of us to participate. I started shouting “Amen!” with the best of them in order to distract myself from the scent of the fresh bread and the lentil stew going cold. Finally in the middle of one of Mary B’s more complicated, theological sentences Peter uttered a loud, definitive “A-men.” Mary B’s eyebrows bristled fiercely, and she doggedly completed her sentence, but she brought her prayer to a close. Before anyone else could jump in, Peter motioned for everyone to be seated.
“Praise Jesus!” I said out loud, but I was premature in my rejoicing.
“I have an announcement to make before we eat,” said Peter still standing.
(The Early Christians may not have invented announcements, but they had a penchant for them, and their timing left a lot to be desired. Between the main course and dessert would have been my preference.)
“Rejoice, brothers and sisters, for by the Grace of our Lord and Savior, we welcome two new believers to our community. Two more lost sheep have repented and come to his fold….”
Sheep, I free-associated, feed.
“Peter, feed my sheep.” I shouted out, quoting my beloved. I couldn’t help myself; the Spirit had definitely come upon me.
Poor old Peter turned and registered my presence. From the look on his face, you would have thought I was the one who had died and been resurrected—except that he wasn’t exactly leaping out of the boat in joy and rapture the way he had greeted our mutual friend. I shot a glance at Mary B: Didn’t you tell him we were coming? She shook her head, managing to look defiant and sheepish (pun intended) all at once.
“Mary of Magdala,” he managed to get the words out. “What—”
“Forgive me for interrupting you, Peter,” I said. “I was just remembering when he said that to you. You know, Jesus. Feed my sheep, he said. Remember?”
“I remember,” he said, and his eyes filled with tears, and he looked completely lost for a moment. Bereft. I wanted to get up and throw my arms around him, but I knew he would hate it if I did. “So, where was I?” Peter recovered himself. “Oh, yes. Here are Ananais and Sapphira who have received the grace and forgiveness of our Lord and Savior. Please welcome them into our midst as you would welcome him, for we know that when two or three are gathered in his name, he is there with us in our midst.”
“Welcome, Ananais. Welcome, Sapphira,” the assembled chorused.
And my heart—and stomach—leapt in hope; for Peter seated the newcomers and began to sit down himself. I eyed the bread, wondering when the signal would come to break it. Then Mary B, who had never had a proper appreciation for food, in my opinion, got to her feet again. I thought I would weep.
“My brothers and sisters, please also welcome Miriam of Nazareth, mother of Jesus, and Mary of Magdala, who was his wife. Let us give thanks to the Spirit that these women, who were closest to him in life, have joined our community and our cause.”
If I had been less hungry, I might have felt more alarmed by Mary B’s announcement, but goddamn it, I was pregnant.
“Have they repented of their sins?” the cantankerous old woman inquired.
No one answered, but Miriam started humming; I could hear her from where she sat on the other side of the room.
“Well, have they?” The old woman insisted. “The rest of us did, and I don’t see why they should be let off, just because of family connections.”
Mary B looked thoughtful, which worried me. Now was no time for a philosophical debate.
“James,” said Peter in a loud whisper. “They’re your relatives. Do something.”
“My dear sister in the Lord,” James got to his feet and addressed the old woman. “I believe we can safely assume that the mother of the Chosen One and wife of his bosom have had ample opportunity to repent and be forgiven and restored fully to the house of Israel, that is, should they have strayed, which undoubtedly they have from time to time, as we all, like sheep—”
“Must be fed!” I stood up swaying a little with dizziness. “Listen everybody, I’m here to tell you, Jesus loved to party. Whenever you get together to eat and drink, remember me, he said, I’ll be there. That’s why we’re gathered here with