good news of miriam - the lost gnostic gospel of mary magdelene - chapters seven and eight

- 7 -

Almost as if I had opened a Pandora’s box in my little conversation from Hiram about my native village, the doors to hell seemed to open wide on the very next Sabbath.

I had expected a quiet Sabbath with no outside influence in my little home. I only wanted my small group to have its Persia day in the house.

I had finished my midmorning prayers and then I began into my breathing exercises and meditation.

A loud banging was heard coming from the front door. I briefly ignored the noise but then my focus was gone.

Rebecca was beside herself. She was intimidated by the noise of the banging of the metal knocker on the door. We had not heard it used since we had took up residence here.

I expected J.D. to hear the racket and deal with whatever tradesman or whoever would disturb the peace and calm of our Sabbath.

The banging continued. No J.D.. I was suddenly worried.

Reluctantly I approached the door. We were here in the countryside outside of a town on a Sabbath. The chances were scarce that there would be any people around to protect us or rescue us in any emergency.

I unbolted the door and slowly pulled it open.

There in the sunlight was a ruggedly handsome and well dressed young man standing in arrogant pose.

He said nothing. I spoke first.

“Who are you?” I said.

“No. The question that has to be answered first is – are you the lady of this house?”

“I am renting this house if that answers you question” I said still wondering who or what this intruder represented.

“I am the tax collector in this district.”

“Tax collector?”

He held up some official looking stick in his hand topped by a bronze eagle and with a small plaque that in Latin said “Tax Collector”.

“I do not understand. You say I owe taxes on this property or …

“Wait a moment. Where is my man? He should have heard your knocking.”

The man stepped back and let me exit the front door.

There, about twenty five foot lengths away, was J.D’s body sprawled on the ground.

“My god! Is he dead? Did you kill him?”

Rebecca exited the house and along with myself, we hurried over to J.D..

The stranger walked behind us.

“He came at me with an unsheathed knife. As an officer with Imperial commission I had every right to defend myself and kill him.”

Rebecca and I touched J.D.’s head and were looking for blood.

The man continued. “But I did not exercise that right. I merely decked him. He’s out cold.”

I stood back and again looked at this visitor.

“Why are you here at my house and on the Sabbath?”

“I usually find the people I want to talk to on the Sabbath. It’s a kind of stay at home sort of day.”

I gestured from Rebecca to stay with J.D.. I also gestured for this tax collector to follow me into the house.

I left the front door open and remained standing in the main hallway off the atrium.

“What taxes do I owe?” I said bluntly to this intruder.

“Taxes? I don’t know. I haven’t checked the official scrolls yet.”

“Then what do you want? A bribe?” I said.

“A bribe? I am an honest man. Most people would not believe me. But I am.”

“Then what do you want?” I asked.

“People are asking about you. People above me in the chain of command. You are a stranger in a strange land and you appear to be a person of some wealth.”

“I am a widow. My home is Persia but I was born here. I am here to study your culture and to visit relatives. That’s all I have to say.”

“Rich widow?” he smirked.

He was eyeing the insides of my house and all its possessions as he talked. He was fishing for something. Whether he was a true official or some con artist and thief I had yet to determine.

“Keep talking tax collector.” I said to myself.

“You or one of your agents have paid the taxes of a local village.”

“And?”

“That village in on a watch list. They paid their taxes early this year. If they can pay taxes early, they have too much money. If they have money for taxes, they can have money for arms to be used in rebellion against Rome.”

His delivery was calm and deliberate. He also looked me in the eyes for most of his speech. I grew alarmed.

“I went to a local rabbi. I asked that something discreet to done in the way of easing my aging aunt’s last days. She is my mother’s sister. Apparently I have few close relatives left in that village.”

“Then you know of it’s history?”

“Only recently. As you say, I am a stranger in a strange land. I went through local people to conduct my business. I did not want to offend any local customs. I was raised in a different land with different customs.”

A moment of silence as we each continued to study one another.

“Why do you come on the Sabbath?” I began. “Your speech seems local. All are Jews hereabouts.”

“I serve Caesar. Caesar does not rest on any day of the week.”

I was at a loss for words.

“Some in town say you are a rich widow. Others judge you to be a retired whore.”

I was taking aback by the bluntness and vulgarity of his statement. It has been many a year but at that moment, I think that I blushed.

“Well I am done here. I shall file my official report.”

Inwardly I grew alarmed.

“And what will you report say?” I asked.

I was feeling bold in this moment.

“Rich widow from Persia? A scholar? I will put you down as a retired whore.”

“What!?”

“The Romans will respect you more and keep their distance. A lady as rich as you no doubt has slept with many ranking officials. They will not want to offend anybody for their past indiscretions.”

“A whore?” I questioned him.

“I am doing you a favor lady. I do not do many favors for strangers.”

With his nose in the air and sniffing out loud he added a final comment.

“Kosher cooking and Persian perfume. You are an odd one.”

He turned and walked toward the door and as he was in the threshold I asked one last question.

“When I ask tomorrow about you tax collector. What name do I give you?”

“Matthew. I am the only tax collector in this district by that name.”

He was gone and walking away in his pompous, arrogant swagger.

I did no know what to make of all this. Spies? Bribes? Romans? Into what kettle of fish have I landed? I try to escape politics in Persia and trying to mind my own business, I end up on the verge of arrest or death at the hands of petty Roman bureaucrats. This would not be a calm or sober day for me.

Long about sunset and several cups of wine later I had in my mind come up with some sort of strategy.

Apparently my subtle, diplomatic approach to matters here had put me in a dubious light. I used my own insight. If I was a stranger in Persia looking for my roots and keeping my distance from the local population, many might judge me harshly and as a possible threat.

It was then and there that I determined that military strategy was a good temporary answer. The best defense is to be in offense.

- 8 -

In the weeks that followed I was determined to be seen and talk to more local people. My story remained that I was a widow traveling through the land. If they accept the truth or the other “she was a whore” fantasy, so be it. It was best to blend in with the locals and no longer seem to be a stranger. When in Rome, or one of its territories, do as the Romans and or locals do.

The place to be seen in this town was the amphitheater. I became a regular attendee of theater. I became friends with the amphitheater’s manager. I began to have jugs of wine brought backstage after performances for the actors and writers. This led to my first real feast at my house and of on all days, the Sabbath.

I was a theoretical Jew. I did not practice anything except the dietary thing six days a week. I had first talked to Hiram about this the first day after the visit by the tax collector.

Hiram explained that there were Jews who did not practice anything. They were secular Jews. The only time any of them hired a rabbi was to when one was bred, wed or dead. Another name for these secular Jews in this present era was that of the term Hellenistic Jews. Blood Jews followed the Greek ways in speech, education, dress and manners. This secularization was followed by most Jews all over the Mediterranean world. With Rome added to the mixture, it was better to blend into the new world order.

The young scholar explained that Jewish communities all over the Greek and now Roman world could no longer even read or write Hebrew. In large Jewish communities in Alexandria, Athens or even Rome, the local synagogue had the Torah written in Greek. The whole Jewish identity had merged into the cultures of recent conquerors.

Jews, even if they hated King Herod, were grateful that he built his Roman cities away from the sacred heart of it all, old Jerusalem. The high priests and priestly classes maintained old traditions there if nowhere else on the planet. All around Jerusalem was the Roman army and a thousand native Jewish cults. Some communities are close to the traditional Jerusalem mode of customs and beliefs. Judea was all that was left of the glory days of a thousand years ago under legendary kings like David and Solomon.

In many ways, my religion in Persia was a high priest class in search of a country and a capital. Judaism was in my opinion only one or two steps away from losing its holy capital should it push the Romans too far and too many rebels came out of the woodwork at any one time. This land I felt in my bones was a land preparing itself for extinction.

All these texts borrowed from the rabbi talked about the final battle. They talk of light over dark and of right over wrong.

All sorts of cults and closed communities flourished all about this little oasis of civilization in a Greco-Roman town filled with both religious and secular Jews. As long as the lid remained on this seething cultural pot, the illusion of normality in this iffy Roman province could be maintained on a scorching day to day schedule.

Living in these final days of the world scenario existed in two places in my head. It existed in my adopted homeland and here in my native homeland.

With such thoughts in my mind, my current decadence and feasting on the Sabbath with secular Jews and social outcasts from the theater made for good company on my feast days.

I was surprised how many people hereabouts did not observe the Sabbath.

My feasts were simple affairs. A roasted lamb outside with wine and bread and good company made up the menu. It never seemed to be more that a few dozen people coming by to celebrate “Persia day” instead of the Sabbath.

I felt no guilt but wanted something else.

I had become known and I began to know people. What surprised me most was how secular locals sat down so readily with theater people and even Romans.

Anybody who wondered who or what my past was did not care when handed a cup of wine or with entertainment that came from versatile actors and musicians. Feasts can sometimes get out of hand. It was best to limit the amounts of wine purchased for the feast. When wine and food depart so do one’s guests.

When one becomes the center of feasting, the unholy feasting to some, my reputation as a negative influence grew in the community. I suddenly seemed to have outgrown this small place. I wanted to get out of that small town.

I was sick of the whole Roman Jewish conflict thing. It was not my conflict.

While still in bed one morning, I decided about a possible itinerary. Did I want to see the pyramids once more before I died? Why not. No letters from home. Where was home? I did not know.

I had gotten an invitation from a retired Roman couple to come and visit them a short distance to the south.

It was time to do an official houseguest sort of travel. I would even pull out the star books and entertain people if necessary. Back in Persia, the star chart was something to generate much needed cash.

Since my childhood, the storehouse and treasury of the priesthood had grown and dwindled. Of late, the treasury was almost always empty.

My late husband had invested in a pool of caravans. This pooled investment with others had grown in time. Deposits from profits were held in trust all over the place, anywhere to where caravans travel.

My present plan was to make my way down to Jerusalem, tap some cash, and go on to Alexandria for a while.

Liquidating assets always is a hassle especially when it comes to household goods and you want to move on. Most of the furniture came with the house. Suddenly I had an immense library and where does it go? My Persian scrolls must stay with me. The Jewish ones and of general interest I did not know about.

Hiram’s uncle had scolded him when word got out about the Sabbath feasts. Hiram got scarce for a while and then showed up again. He missed the income and the roles of tutor and scribe.

A business idea came into my head. I decided to continue renting this villa for a few more months to became the basis of operations for the copying of my more important documents. After being copied, the originals would make their way back to Persia and my son. Another copy could be sent on to Alexandria when finished. Hiram and some of his fellow scribes would work with a second copy to further copy and sell parts of my library. Percentages and royalty arrangements I made with my new business partner Hiram.

Almost overnight, a stately country library would be making its way in bits and pieces all over the place. That is the way it should be. Knowledge should be shared with anybody who could afford the price of a scroll. Knowledge in writing could be a terrible thing to lose should one just let it sit upon a shelf to rot and decay.

The story goes about how the great fire at the infamous Library of Alexandria, some sixty or seventy years prior, had been the cause of the loss of all the ancient knowledge of the known world. This was not entirely true. Once a good story starts it becomes legend and there is little stopping a legend from living on in oral history and being embellished along the way in time.

Truth was as I understood it, that many scrolls of the great library were lent out to scholars to make their own copies. Many original documents had been lost in the fire. Perhaps forty percent of the originals were still intact in the homes of nearby scholars and scribes working in their homes. The other sixty percent of originals that were lost were so tightly inventoried that copies of original texts could be found in many cases. It was the inventory lists that were the first and perhaps only scrolls saved as the fire started and spread so quickly.

Perhaps only five to ten percent of the library’s original inventory of knowledge was truly lost or so they say who might know.

One small benefit of such a tragedy as the great fire is that scholars from all over the known world began to contribute scrolls to the rebuilt library. In fact it is a mark of a true scholar to be listed on the library’s benefactors list.

Part of my journey to Alexandria and the new library would be to see if anything interesting and Persian may have turned up in recent inventories there. Perhaps these Persian documents if they exist may have disappeared from Persia long ago. Hidden treasures when it comes to knowledge are all around us.

I would later find out that some of my lesser Persian scrolls left with Hiram got translated into Hebrew. I do not know if there is a market for it but business is business. Persian stories are much more interesting to me. Words and ideas and stories usually conform to some great moral theme. In the end good always triumphs over evil.

The Hebrews have much to thank Persia for. First and foremost was their liberation from Babylonian captivity.

Babylon, under the skin, was a sister to Persia in many ways in terms of culture. The brethren were strong all over the middle east back then. So many of the Jews were already exposed to the ideas of the great master Zoraster while in Babylon. Then they were exposed to these ideas all over as Persia freed them.

The best and brightest of Israel had absorbed Babylonian and middle eastern and far eastern culture and ideas during their captivity.

The Jews who came back to the virtual ghost town of Jerusalem could in many ways start from scratch. Parts of the Temple of Solomon’s walls still stood. Persian architects at the command of Cyrus the Great wanted a strong trading partner on the coast of the Great Sea. Cyrus wanted the Temple rebuilt first as a magnet to draw all Jews back to their homeland.

Indeed, the myth of the ten lost tribes of Israel has its roots in the fact that Jews, comfortable in Babylon or Persia did not want to reestablish themselves all over the countryside of this holy land.

The “grand thing”, that secular secret brotherhood, set out to lay out the new temple in alignment with certain stars and conform in many ways to the secrets texts of Zoraster.

I was expecting to see that temple soon. I do wonder. There are many opinions about Herod’s Temple. The “grand thing” was not used in the redesign.

One body of opinion say that a new local and secret grand thing goes on in occupied Judea. On one level of opinion, the old guard of the old grand thing, and native to the land, would not throw in with corrupt Herod’s architects.

Another body of opinion puts Herod in league with dark magic and they thoroughly wanted no “grand thing” as part of the new redesigned Temple.

Still, having knowledge of the grand thing through my late husband, I see a more simple pattern.

Herod represents Rome. That beyond the basic conformities to the cardinal points of north, south, east and west, Rome has a grand but vulgar style or philosophy towards architecture. Not only does architecture serve the state, it must first serve the ruling class who sells and supplies building materials.

I have been in Roman temples. They look like Greek temples but they have no soul, no spirit, no passion like a Greek temple. The cooks, the Roman architects, knew nothing of the old “grand thing”.

Indeed, the soul of the Roman Empire lacks a true flavor of its own. It is strong but it lacks old fashioned character. This stage thing, this respect thing, is something that lacks an inner journey.

I have heard and seen how the Romans have plowed roads in a straight line through the sacred woods of the Druids in old Gaul. The Romans only know how to build roads along straight lines. There are few curves in any Roman road. If a mountain gets in the way of a Roman road, or so the saying goes, the mountain must go. Ten thousand slaves will die carving a tunnel through the mountain. The Roman way is blunt and in your face and gives no sway to unseen muses of creativity.

Romans cannot build roads in the eternal deserts. They would lose face and prestige in wake of any road building failures. My brother in law’s scheme is doomed to failure as well.

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