Quite Contrary

In church, my mind cannot help but wander.

Mary Magdalene was not a prostitute. There is not a single piece of historical evidence that suggests she was a woman of ill repute by any definition. As a matter of fact, she might have been the "chosen" disciple, Jesus' best friend, and his confidant.


I envy the women who knew him. I would be glad to share my wine with him, walk in the desert beside him, and onto his feet, rub perfumed oil. I fantasize that I am in his circle of friends there among Martha and Mary of Bethany, his friends from adolescence, and of course, Mary Magdalene. I know there were others, but the past month or so; I have been fixated on the two Mary?s.

When I am hiding from myself, I am Martha, in constant motion. Busy with the details, busy with the preparations, busy with everything but what is fundamental. My mother is a self confessed Martha. She is happy with her Martha status, I am not. I am trying to be more of a Mary. Nurturing the relationships, exploring ideas, making positive changes in myself, taking the time to cherish and to learn from everyone I meet. But I suspect, if transported back in time, I would still be the woman busy in the kitchen and not the one kneeling on the floor beside his chair, my head on his knee, or washing his feet in perfume, drying them with my hair.

But I am trying to be more of a Mary. I am trying.

Two weeks ago, I was late for church. I slipped in the side door and waited in the back until the beautiful soloist finished her beautiful song, beautiful husband and beautiful baby watching from the front row. It was too much beauty for one paragraph in my life. What happened to the darkness I used to embrace? It is all too close for me to enjoy it now. It is much more romantic and interesting to watch the darkness in others, or to live in self invented darkness, knowing you do not have to live inside, no escape in sight.

When I was a girl sitting in church I used to scan the congregation to look for trends in how people styled their hair. Now I tend to watch the congregation and wonder about their sexual lives. Was it like the hairstyles? Did some wear their sexy outfits, fuck me pumps to church when in fact they were sitting on a frigid piece of ice? Were the perfectly dressed women with every hair in place, were they afraid of their own fires burning that they needed to give the image of control? The ones with the loose wild hair, seemingly unbrushed, did they roll out of bed that morning thighs still wet with last nights passion, without time enough to primp?

It was not any news to me that outward appearance had anything to do with the secret sexual lives of my fellow Sunday morning friends. Jennifer, the woman who always wore the black leather pants, too low on her hips, with tight short shirts showing off her navel and the hollow of her back. She walked into the narthex like she was walking into a pick up bar. She dripped with the promise of sex. However, I knew for a fact that she never slept with her husband anymore, or anyone else for that matter. She had told me, when she wanted to get pregnant, she climbed in bed, laid on her back, gave her husband a dirty magazine and said ?Do what you have to do, I am ovulating.? It was the first time they had sex since she became pregnant with their first son, and probably the last time since.

I know the math teacher who sang in the choir, always wearing flowered cotton dresses and white Keds sneakers recently left her teenaged children, husband and career because she was weary of keeping her S