Magdalena
A hymn of devotion for the ones who love with their whole bodies
She does not arrive as a wife, nor as a mother.
Not as a maiden or a saint.
She arrives as herself
whole, wild, fragrant with something forgotten.
They say she was possessed.
They say she wept at his feet.
They say she was the fallen one, the forgiven one, the redeemed.
They say so much,
but the truth of her is quieter.
More dangerous.
She is the one who stays.
You’ll find her in the shadows of scripture,
rarely named but always near.
You’ll find her where the ache lives—
where grief and love press up against each other like tide against stone.
Magdalene is not remembered for miracles.
She is remembered because she did not look away.
Because when the story broke,
when blood spilled and voices rose and men ran,
she remained.
Not out of duty.
Out of devotion.
The kind of devotion that anoints.
That touches death and calls it sacred.
That holds the body of love when it’s broken,
and stays until the light returns.
She knelt at his feet,
not in submission
but in knowing.
Her hands were steady,
full of spikenard and something ancient.
She touched him with full presence.
She poured oil like offering,
each drop a declaration:
“This is holy. This is holy. This is holy.”
And when they scoffed,
when they said the oil was too precious,
that the act was inappropriate,
she did not flinch.
Magdalene knew:
There is no waste in worship.
There is no shame in sensuality braided with spirit.
To touch with reverence is to pray.
To weep without apology is to heal.
Her gospel was not written in stone.
It was written in saltwater and myrrh.
In the way she showed up at the tomb,
in the way she called his name in the garden,
in the way she walked back to the others
carrying resurrection in her breath.
She did not just witness the miracle.
She became part of it.
This is the Magdalene no one taught you about:
The one who loved without armor.
The one whose tears consecrated the skin of the Divine.
The one whose hands were brave enough to touch what others feared.
She is not an accessory to someone else’s holiness.
She is a holy fire of her own.
If she is stirring in you
if your body has become louder than your mind,
if your grief feels like it might turn into gold,
if your love spills over edges you were told to keep tidy
this is her.
She is not delicate.
She is not tame.
She is blood and perfume.
She is silence and song.
She is the first light after the longest night.
Let her devotion live in your life:
In the way you light a candle with intention.
In how you offer presence instead of fixing.
In how you love even when it breaks you open.
When you touch your own skin like it matters.
When you cry without shame.
When you stay when others leave.
That’s her.
That’s you.
May you love like Magdalene
with scent and sorrow,
with courage and surrender,
with no need for approval
and every breath an offering.
You are the temple.
You are the oil.
You are the one who stays.