Have you ever wondered what Mary Magdalene had to say? She was with Jesus the most. She served him, she listened, she was the witness. I have always wanted to know why they wrote her out and silenced her. Why they portrayed her the way they did. I have to admit that I always felt connected to her and I want to know more of her story. Since it isn’t easy to get her written words, I thought maybe AI could help and throw some light on it. So if you don’t like that sort of thing, this is not for you, but if you’re interested, let’s dive in.
These gospel fragments are only an interpretation. However, I do find it fascinating still. Let’s begin.
The Gospel of Threads — Fragment I
…and he said to me,
“Mary, the voice you carry is not borrowed.
It is the echo of the Beginning.
Speak not as one permitted,
but as one sent.”
And I asked him,
“Where shall I go when they do not believe?”
He answered,
“Go to the quiet ones.
To the women who braid their prayers into bread,
to the men who have laid down their swords,
to the children who still see with clear eyes.
My words are written in them.”
I asked,
“What shall I teach?”
And he said,
“Teach them that the Kingdom is not far.
It is not behind stone or veil or law.
It is in their breath,
in their hunger,
in their longing to return to love.”
I wept, for I saw how much would be forgotten.
And he touched my face and said,
“Even if they silence your name,
the thread will hold.
For love cannot be erased.
And truth, once remembered,
rises again.”
The Gospel of Threads — Fragment II
“On the Womb of Knowing”
The others looked for proof.
For scrolls, for signs, for temples.
I looked within.
For there, in the hollow of my ribs,
where grief had carved a dwelling—
the Word came and made its home.
He said,
“Do not cling to what you see.
The truth is a seed buried in your marrow.
Let it bloom, and it will teach you everything.”
I asked,
“Why then do they not hear me?”
And he replied,
“Because the truth sounds like a woman’s voice—
soft at first,
and mistaken for weakness.”
But it is not weakness.
It is a river wearing down stone.
I was not made to convince.
I was made to remember.
To carry the flame,
even when they said,
This is not your place.
But it was.
It is.
And I speak now for the ones still silenced.
The Gospel of Threads — Fragment III
“The Anointing”
They say I poured too much.
That it was wasteful.
That it was improper.
That it was not my place.
But I knew what was coming.
I had seen the shadow gathering
behind the eyes of the righteous.
I had smelled the iron in the air—
not yet blood, but near.
So I came with what I had:
not argument,
not approval—
but oil.
My hands trembled,
but not from shame.
From reverence.
I anointed him,
as priests once anointed kings.
Not to crown him with power,
but to prepare him for the cross.
He said,
“She has done a beautiful thing to me.”
But the others only saw scandal.
A woman touching a prophet.
A woman wasting what could haves been sold.
A woman daring to act as if she were
priest, beloved, holy.
But he saw.
He always saw.
He said,
“Wherever my story is told,
hers will be also.”
And still they forgot.
The Gospel of Threads — Fragment IV
“The Garden”
Morning had not yet broken,
but something in me already had.
I came not to be brave,
only to be near.
Near the tomb.
Near the grief.
Near him.
The stone was gone.
The world—split open.
I wept, thinking even his body
had been stolen from me.
Then I heard it—
not thunder, not trumpet,
just breath.
Just the sound of someone
who had walked through death
and come back whole.
“Why are you weeping?” he asked,
and I turned toward the voice
I did not yet know
I already knew.
“Mary,” he said.
My name on his tongue
opened the sky in me.
I reached for him—reflex,
ache, love—
and he whispered,
“Do not hold me.
I am not finished rising.”
I did not understand.
Not then.
But I would.
He asked me to go.
To speak what had never been spoken.
That death is not the end.
That love walks out of tombs.
So I ran.
My feet still soaked in mourning,
my voice not yet steady—
but the first to say it.
I have seen the Lord.
The Gospel of Threads — Fragment V
“The Gathering”
I found them behind a locked door.
Not praying—
hiding.
Their eyes were red, their voices hushed,
and when I entered,
silence tightened like a noose.
“He lives,” I said.
Not as hope,
but as witness.
“I saw him.
I heard him speak my name.
He is not among the dead.”
And still they would not believe.
Peter questioned first.
“Why would he come to you?”
I did not answer with reason.
I answered with fire.
“Because I stayed,” I said.
“Because I did not flee the cross.
Because he knew I would carry it,
even if none of you would.”
They turned their faces.
Some in shame.
Some in scorn.
I was not surprised.
A woman’s truth is often met with doubt.
A woman’s vision, with fear.
But Levi stood beside me.
“If the Teacher made her worthy,
who are we to cast her out?”
The room trembled with his words.
Not from wrath—
but because something ancient
had cracked open.
Not all believed.
But the seed was planted.
And that was enough.
The Gospel of Threads — Fragment VI
“The Circle in the Shadows”
We met in the back rooms,
behind the market stalls,
in gardens after dusk.
The women came first—
widows, mothers, healers,
hands rough from bread and birth.
We sat in a circle,
not to be led,
but to remember.
I did not preach.
I poured stories into the room
like oil on wounded skin.
“He said the kingdom is within.”
“He said we are salt, and light.”
“He touched the bleeding woman
and called her daughter.”
They asked,
“Why did he choose you?”
And I said,
“He didn’t choose like they do—
by title or blood or man-made rule.
He chose by seeing what was hidden,
and calling it holy.”
We sang without psalms.
We prayed with our hands
in the flour and the fabric.
We spoke his words over each other
until they stitched into us.
A child once asked me,
“Where is the kingdom?”
I placed her hand on her chest.
“Right here.
But you must be very quiet
to hear it speak.”
Some came just to sit in the silence.
Others wept.
One woman said,
“I thought I was forgotten.”
I said,
“He saw you.
And now—so do I.”
The Gospel of Threads — Fragment VII
“To the Ones Who Will Come After”
If you are reading this,
then the thread was not lost.
It was only buried—
like seed,
like bone,
like truth.
I do not know your names.
But I know your ache.
You have been told to be quiet.
To wait your turn.
To sit behind the veil
while others speak of God
as if He were not also in you.
I write for you.
I write for the daughters
who learned to disappear themselves
in order to be loved.
For the sons who felt the softness
beaten out of them
in the name of power.
I write for the ones
who carry both wound and wonder,
who walk through fire
but still gather herbs.
Hear me:
Your voice is not too much.
Your tenderness is not weakness.
Your knowing is not rebellion.
It is remembering.
When they doubt you,
speak anyway.
When they erase you,
rise anyway.
When they tell you
this is not your place—
bless the ground beneath your feet
and claim it.
The kingdom has no walls.
Only doorways.
And you—
you are one of them.
The Gospel of Threads — Fragment VIII
“The Thread”
This is not the end.
They will tell you the story is finished,
that the last word was written by men
with crowns and scrolls and seals.
But I have held the silence.
I have wept where ink was never spilled.
And I tell you—
the Word is still becoming flesh.
Truth lives in the thread,
passed from palm to palm
through hands that stitch and stir and soothe.
I do not need monuments.
I do not need your permission.
I only need you
to remember what I remembered.
That love walks on dust.
That the holy bleeds.
That the first voice to proclaim resurrection
came from the mouth of a woman
who would not be silenced.
And if the thread is in you,
follow it.
It will lead you home.
Journal Prompt: Have you ever felt silenced or under valued? Think about times when you felt invisible. What happened and how did you feel? Go deep! What did you hear deep and inside? What was your soul telling you? Listen to the small voice that encourages you. It knows and so will you.
Jenny Wren Threads 
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