The Jesus & Mary Chain
written by: Andy Houstoun
The sky is heavy with cloud, and warm rain falls in a steady hush, softening the world into shades of grey and green. The rich, familiar scent of wet earth rises around me, and beneath the sheltering branches of a tree, I sit beside the stream, lulled by its gentle, soothing rhythm.
Mary approaches, her steps careful on the damp ground. Her green silks cling lightly to her form, darkened by the drizzle, the fabric catching glimmers of soft light where it isn’t soaked through. Her hair, loose and dark, clings to her shoulders, rain-slicked and luminous.
“Jesus,” she says, her voice warm, her eyes shining.
“Mary.”
It is the Wednesday before Passover. The weight of what lies ahead presses against my spirit like the thick clouds above us, but I hold it in silence, choosing gentleness instead of burden.
She settles beside me on the damp grass without hesitation, the hem of her robe absorbing the rain. “A quiet moment for yourself?”
“Yes,” I answer softly, exhaling as the mist thickens around us.
“You seem far away.”
“I am.”
She speaks again, her tone low and thoughtful. “And when you’re alone with your thoughts, Master… do you ever long for something… more than duty?”
My gaze lingers on the hills in the distance. “That’s not a simple question.”
Mary never shies from truth. She sees through shadows others don’t even notice.
“Life offers many paths,” I say. “And, the heart sometimes pulls in directions we must resist. Our deepest desires can reveal who we are… or who we are becoming.”
She shifts slightly, turning toward me, her eyes searching mine.
“I would like to be with you,” she says, her words steady and sincere. “Not as others. I see the man beneath the mission. I feel something between us, something rare.”
Her quiet confession stirs my heart, each word echoing deeper than the last.
“Would you ever want to be with me in that way?” she asks.
A longing stirs in me, sudden and raw. I feel an ache to close the small distance between us, to offer comfort, warmth, something more. I look at her not just as a woman, but as the story she carries, her grief, her grace, her quiet strength burning beneath the surface.
“What you offer is… beautiful,” I say. My voice is steady though my spirit trembles. “But to give myself wholly to one heart… would mean turning from the many who search for the hope I’ve been sent to bring.”
Her eyes glisten, and she turns her face away.
There is sorrow in my words, but no dishonesty.
“Then what am I to you?” she asks quietly, almost to the rain.
I reach out, resting my hand on hers, cold and trembling.
“You are already beside me, Mary. Not as something claimed, but as someone known. You see me when others see only mystery. Your presence steadies me. But what I carry… I must carry alone.”
A single tear falls down her cheek. She does not weep, only nods, as though confirming what her heart already knew, but never wanted to believe.
Still holding my hand, she leans closer.
In the quiet, something passes between us, something infinite, precious and unbearably human. A love not claimed, or consummated, but no less real.
***
Thursday Nisan 14
Jerusalem is a city brimming with excitement and tension. The Passover is not merely a meal; it is a ceremony of sacrifice, a tradition that carries layers of meaning.
I move through the outskirts of the capital, with purpose. Peter and John walk beside me, eager but uncertain. They are good men, though they do not understand the depth of our current situation.
I set them a task: “Go into the city, and there, you will see a man carrying a jar of water. Since it is rare for a man to be doing such a task, he will stand out. Follow him to the house he enters. Speak to the owner and say, ‘The Teacher asks, where is the guest room where I may eat the Passover with my disciples?’”
Peter and John obey. They are sceptical at times, but they trust me more than they trust their own doubt.
I wander to the olive grove alone. The weight of my path ahead weighs heavy. My disciples, with their misconceptions of power, exhaust me.
In the hush of the trees, I draw in a deep breath, craving the stillness that has whispered truths to me since childhood. I’m startled by how much I want to see Mary. It’s not supposed to be this way, but I ache for her presence.
The olive branches stir above me, as I listen to the breath of the evening, when I hear footsteps.
She walks with careful purpose, before hesitating at the edge of withered tree.
“May I sit?”
My heart races.
“Of course.” I gesture gently, and she lowers herself beside me.
She traces a finger through the dust near my feet, and I feel the raw edge of what lays between us.
“Mary…”
“No, listen.” Her voice is firm, yet trembling. “They will kill you. We both know it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. And when they do, all of this, this Kingdom you speak of, what will be left of it? A few scattered followers, frightened and lost?”
She clutches my arm, and a jolt surges through me. The air buzzes with charged possibility. For a moment, the outside world disappears, and all that remains is the pull between us, intense, electric, undeniably real.
“The world does not change easily, Jesus. Come with me. We can go beyond the Jordan, past the reach of the Pharisees. We can find a place, where no one knows our names where you will be safe. You do not have to do this.”
The temptation reaches into my soul, not because of the logic, but because of the love.
The unbearable burden of what lies ahead presses on me, and here is Mary, offering an escape. Not a false one, not a cruel trick, but a genuine road away from the coming horror.
I see it within reach. A quiet life, with simple joys. Days filled with the holiness of ordinary love. I picture a humble home with Mary by my side, my hands calloused from an honest day’s work. I see laughter, and children. A life of peace and anonymity, untainted by a mighty destiny.
Mary’s eyes captivate me, unlike anything I’ve known, and my gut stirs. I need her in ways I can’t explain.
“Mary,” I turn to her, my voice soft. “I would love a life with you.”
But love is not the avoidance of pain. I am about to make the ultimate sacrifice — the Logos made flesh will encounter the worst depravity of humanity. My own people will demand my execution, choosing to set a mercenary free in my place. A friend will betray me, and those closest to me will abandon me. I will endure the slow and excruciating death of crucifixion.
I reach out and take her hand firmly in mine as though it’s the last thing tethering me to this world.
“But if I run, who will stand? If I hide, what hope will humanity have? There is no other way.”
And if I look far enough into the abyss, I see the light.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
This short story is taken from the novel ‘The Jesus & Mary Chain’ – an introspective reimagining of Jesus’ life, told from his own perspective.
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