Mary Magdalene Revealed: The First Apostle, Her Feminist Gospel & the Christianity We Haven't Tried Yet

“I am the whore and the holy woman,” and my whole body applauded. I had to brace myself against the bookshelf from the shock and extreme relief I felt in the corner of the bookstore where I couldn’t stop inhaling it.

And by sermon, I don’t mean a formal or official one; they’re more like love letters.

I felt my love for my son, and let that love, which contains unfaltering forgiveness, extend to me. As I found so often, my love for him teaches me how to love myself, how to let love reach within me where it has never been before.

There is no hierarchy in the spiritual world.

Angels are the thoughts, the memory, the sensation of love. They are whatever comes and shifts us from being lost within ourselves, to seeing again, not with the ego, but with the eye of the heart.

This arduous and somewhat calamitous process of Mary’s gospel finally making its way into print feels significant to me. It reflects the almost magnetic reluctance of shifting our perspective about her, like the effort of what it would take for a river to change direction.

If I could write the beginning, it wouldn’t be in the light. It would be in the womb, in the dark, in a cave, in an egg. It would be to name all that has been left out of what’s holy. The blood, the body. Nothing real or imagined has ever happened without it.

I was exhausted. I was exhausted not just from a lack of sleep. It was from all the energy it took to remain blind to what I could almost see that night, but not quite.

Then, for this quick, but clear millisecond, I realized that this state of mind had become my default. I realized I was imprisoned again in this onslaught of judgment. I wasn’t actually there in my room, but trapped inside my thoughts.