Mary Magdalene's Cat

Jan 31, 2026

I was sent forth from the power,
and I have come to those who think about me,
and I have been found among those who seek me.

Look at me, you who think about me,
and you hearers, hear me.
You who are waiting for me, take me to yourselves.
And do not banish me from your sight.
And do not make your voice hate me, nor your hearing.
Do not be ignorant of me anywhere or anytime.
Be on your guard! Do not be ignorant of me.

For I am the first and the last.
I am the honored one and the scorned one.
I am the whore and the holy one.
I am the wife and the virgin.
I am the mother and the daughter.
I am the members of my mother.
I am the barren one, and many are her sons.

The Thunder, Perfect Mind, one of the most striking Gnostic writings from the Nag Hammadi Library (Codex VI), usually dated to the 2nd century CE. It is generally understood as a poetic revelation spoken in a divine feminine voice, often associated with Sophia, Wisdom, or the indwelling divine Mind.

Dear Readers,

I know I am not the only one who has been sitting somewhere, minding my own business, when — from the corner of my eye — I’ve noticed a movement, and a cat has suddenly appeared. Perhaps from around the side of the house, or from behind a tree. Unexpectedly. With a faint sense of the miraculous, even as it happens.

Maybe you have tried to coax said feline closer. Maybe not. Studied indifference, I find, is usually the best policy if one wishes a cat to draw near.

Perhaps my own indifference was a little too studied when Mary Magdalene’s Cat first slipped into my imagination. Suddenly he was there — not merely beside me, but firmly installed on my lap, making his intentions quite clear. What am I to do?

I’d love to know your thoughts in the comment box below. Rest assured, the
Dalai Lama’s Cat is still reclining comfortably on her windowsill, gazing out over Namgyal Courtyard. If I’m not mistaken, I saw her sharpening her claws just a short while ago - usually a sure sign that a burst of creative playfulness is afoot. But in the meantime… should I feed this great, striped beast or shoo him away?

Glossary:

Agapēte -a warm form of personal address meaning ‘dear friend,’ ‘well-beloved friend,’ or ‘esteemed friend’ used in early Christian circles.

Rabboni - Aramaic for ‘my teacher.’ A more reverent and personal form of ‘Rabbi,’ a highly honoured spiritual instructor, famously used by Mary Magdalene when recognising the risen Jesus.

Pronouns referring to Jesus are not capitalised in this book. This follows common historical and scholarly practice and is offered with respect, not irreverence. Nothing in this choice is meant to diminish the spiritual depth or significance that readers may find in Jesus’s life and teaching.

So, you’d like to meet Mary Magdalene? To know who she is? Of course I can take you to her, agapēte. I am on my way home. And who better to lead you to the woman who knows the All than the All-knower’s cat?

“The woman who knows the All’ was what Rabboni called her – though I suspect you have heard this already. It’s not as though you are here by chance. You may not be in the habit of wandering the cobbled streets of our town hoping for a glimpse of Mary - or even of her much-fabled feline - but I suspect that you are a seeker nonetheless? One who feels the insistent tug of intuition, the quiet knowing that something is missing. Something you long to have revealed - perhaps from the very depths of your heart - even if you cannot yet name exactly what that something is?

All in good time. But for the moment, keep your wits about you! In the early evening, the streets of Beth Shean take some getting used to. A newcomer might easily be knocked aside by a horse-drawn cart like the one bearing upon us now, its iron-rimmed wheels clattering on the paving stones. And see those three Roman women in their fine togas, sweeping toward the baths? They don’t give way to anyone.

This is a cosmopolitan town. The Via Maris from Egypt to Syria runs straight through it, crossed by the great east–west road from Persia. Beth Shean may call itself Greek-Roman, but its streets are a tapestry of travellers - merchants, soldiers, pilgrims - every accent, every fragrance, every shade of skin.

Just look at me. At a casual glance I may pass for an ordinary tabby Tom. But gaze more closely and you’ll see the blazing symmetry of my stripes, etched dark as jungle shadow; the muscular coil of my body; the gold of my eyes, fierce as any guardian worth the name. “Tyger, Tyger, burning bright” is a phrase that may leap to mind. And if it does, you will understand that my origins are far from these parts.

How I came to be here you will know soon enough - but for the moment, sharp right, and quick about it! The fishmonger on the corner is about to disgorge today’s catch into waiting baskets. If you want to avoid being drenched in briny spray, you’d best move smartly.

And before we venture further, an important - and delicate - matter. I don’t wish to lead you anywhere under false pretences. From time to time visitors come here in search of the former prostitute, Mary of Magdala. Or seeking out Miriam, the fallen woman who bathed the Teacher’s feet with perfumed water and dried them with her hair, so penitent was she.

The Mary I am leading you to is not that woman. She never was. Centuries from now, a story will be concocted in which Mary of Magdala is a scarlet woman, a fiction given authority by Pope Gregory himself. Repeated often enough, it will harden into accepted truth. A convenient one for popes and their robed peers, for generations of men who have good reason to keep it alive. Because in a single stroke the tale discredits Mary, the wisdom she carried, and the unsettling notion that women, alongside men, share the spiritual lineage of our much-loved Rabboni.

Many centuries after Gregory, the Church will quietly correct him. Pope Francis will restore Mary’s standing, naming her apostle to the apostles. For many, alas, the erratum will come too late or simply pass them by.

But as you lift your gaze above the terracotta roofs of Beth Shean and see the palm trees etched against the sepia sky, pause for a moment with this thought: nearly two thousand years must pass before Mary is recognised for who she truly is - not merely one of the Teacher’s closest students, but the most important one. The one who knew, and lived, divine wisdom like none other.

Of all who knew and loved him, she had no equal. And yet the truth she carries will be buried for centuries, waiting - silently, patiently - to be heard. This is the Mary to whom I am taking you. And the wisdom she gives voice to - Rabboni’s wisdom - is one for which your world has only just become ready.

If you are wondering how a cat living in the time of Tiberius Caesar can possibly know such things, let me gently remind you that time itself is a construct, one your own modern sages have begun to explain. What if a soul evolves to such clarity that past and future are seen for what they are: mere appearances, not absolutes?

What if this way of seeing, so liberating to those who know it, is also profoundly unsettling, even dangerous, to those who are less evolved? Men like Gregory, for instance. And what if this wider reality hints at the very wisdom for which you, agapēte, have been yearning?

We don’t have much further to go. As we approach the hour when the sun begins to turn, make sure you savour the warm glow it casts upon the walls of the houses. The faint waft of perfumed oil drifting from the bathhouse: myrrh, nard and frankincense. And yes, that is the local tavern. The bearded old men in rags playing dice outside linger there every day and night until it closes, drinking and gambling on luck instead of labour. Some things never change.

I wonder what made you choose this particular moment to come? The year, the day, even the hour could hardly be more auspicious! For it is five years since Rabboni last appeared to Mary. Each year her inner circle gather to honour the moment — always at this sacred hour, when sunlight and starlight briefly share the sky, at the meeting place of the visible world and the less tangible realm of spirit.

Around us, merchants are closing their shutters. Those two slaves hurrying past are carrying amphorae of red wine to Mary’s neighbour, Demetrios, about whom you will come to know much more. This entrance to her laneway, half-hidden by pomegranate trees, might easily be mistaken for a garden. Discreet and private it is just as we like it.

The high stone wall at the end has a broad cedar gate set into it, darkened by age, its iron studs dulled by salt air. It bears the simplest of carvings, a vine and a cluster of grapes. But in a town where most doors are left bare, this speaks of quiet prosperity.

Mary inherited this house from her mother’s father. Born and raised by the Sea of Galilee, when the old man’s strength failed it was Mary who made the two-day journey to tend him. Her mother had died when Mary was still young, but she had always been close to her grandfather. When he died, with no one else left to claim him, he left her his house and the quiet accumulation of a lifetime.

She chose to remain here rather than return to the lake for a very simple reason: as a well-known associate of Rabboni, the anonymity of Beth Shean is much safer than the visibility of a small fishing village where nothing goes unnoticed.

Please do open the gate - I couldn’t possibly reach the latch. All those already gathered in the courtyard are far too absorbed in their conversations to notice us. They don’t often have the chance to come together like this, so when they do, it’s very special.

These are the ones history has not yet caught up with, but it shall. The ones carrying a flame which has yet to be named. The slender young man in his early twenties over there with bright eyes and intelligent features is John, Mary’s twin flame in their devotion to Rabboni. He is listening to Salome — free-spirited, with laughing eyes and a musical voice — while Philip, who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, leans in beside them, a gleeful smile playing on his gentle, ascetic features.

A little way off Joanna, in the apricot linen tunic, stands with the bearded Philemon and his wife Apphia. Along with Mary, Joanna is the other patron of the group, and through her husband is politically connected. As is their wont, the three are exchanging the latest news from Jerusalem.

Nearby, Mary’s housekeeper Leah - sturdy, sleeves rolled up - moves briskly between them, setting out low stools and cushions in the courtyard, pausing only to trade a snatch of conversation before hurrying on.

Leah had long kept the hearth for Mary’s grandfather. After his death, Mary kept her on, the two growing close - not merely companions, but complements. While Mary burns with spiritual intensity, Leah, a decade older, tends the hearth. It is Leah’s constant service that makes Mary’s work possible, and their shared devotion that gives this place its special atmosphere.

I wonder if you feel it? It is surely worth pausing for a moment to drink in? What you sense is the peace but also the palpable undertow of enlivening purpose - the milk and honey of devotional energy.

The house curves around its sun-warmed courtyard like open arms, its pale limestone walls breathing out coolness after the heat of the day. Arched doorways lead to the sleeping rooms on the left, the living space straight ahead, and Mary’s workroom to the right. A flight of steps rises to the rooftop, where wooden beams cradle a reed trellis heavy with honeysuckle, offering shade by day and a heady sweetness by night.

There is a stirring at the door of Mary’s workroom. Conversation falls away. One by one, those gathered are taking their places on the stools and cushions Leah set out, forming a loose circle. Only two remain empty - one nearest the house, the other opposite it, on the far side.

Mary steps into the fragile hour between day and night. Her robe is the deep blue of lapis, softened where the sun has faded it, and her dark hair, drawn back from her face, reveals features cut with a sculptor’s economy—high cheekbones, a resolute jaw—softened now by the falling light. She moves without haste. As she lifts her gaze, the air itself seems to pause.

Her eyes are dark and luminous. And when she looks at you, something loosens in your chest, like a long-held breath finally released - you are seen and known completely and loved all the same.

She walks towards one of the two empty seats and takes her place. And yes, she is looking directly at you with a beckoning smile. Perhaps you hesitate, agapēte, wondering if closeness to Mary is even possible? If truly knowing her is attainable given that the time and place from which you come?

Mary would say that all depends on the kind of knowing you seek. What matters about Mary is not whether she reached for olives or dates, or preferred goat’s milk to wine — such things dissolve like footprints in dust.

What matters is her closeness to Rabboni, and how, through her closeness, she was guided to that state of heart where beauty and wisdom arise. Words are clumsy tools for expressing the inexpressible. Rabboni knew this and so he offered a metaphor instead. He called this most sublime of states the Kingdom of Heaven. The Mary who matters is the one who can lead you there, as Rabboni led her.

She is bowing her head slightly, the others following.

“Maranatha,” she murmurs.

They reply, intoning the same word - one that instantly ushers mind beyond itself.

I pad towards her, tail briefly curling around the leg of John, seated nearby. I do not hop onto her lap but take up my customary place at the centre of the circle. The very best place in the whole courtyard. How could it be otherwise, at the heart of a gathering of those who have long since learned to loosen their grip on any diminished idea of who they are, and who, within a few breaths, recall a more spacious and divine reality? Faces soften. Shoulders fall away. A quiet luminosity arises, so exquisite it sets my whiskers tingling.

The seat across the circle from Mary is yours, agapēte. You may not have known it, but it was always there for you. If I detect any lingering hesitation on your part, let me assure you that I, myself, was not always at the centre of this circle. For some time - and for good reason - I, too, remained fearfully on its fringes. There I may very well have remained were it not for the action of one man. The same one, I suspect, who is the reason that you are here today.

END

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