Mary’s House

Mary’s House

As I leaned out my window into the breeze and closed my eyes, the clunking engine of the dilapidated car, the conversation between Bob, Ali Baba and Murat, and even the smell of gasoline fumes disappeared. I could just be, as we ascended Nightingale Mountain and prepared to enter Mary's House.

After our first night in Turkey, Sammy encouraged us to hire Ali Baba and his fifteen year old son Murat to take us for a tour to Mary's House - Mary, as in the Virgin Mary. Bob and I folded ourselves into the tiny car, well worn with scratches and dings. Not that I took that simple observation as a premonition of Ali Baba’s driving abilities or anything. Just like our adventurous journey from the Kusadasi port to Hotel Rose, Ali Baba and Murat were again guiding us on our way.

"So, you are from America? I love American girls, mate!" Murat's Australian Turkish accent made me smile. We learned that Talik, Ali Baba's partner in his rug business - everyone had a rug business in Turkey - lived in Australia during the off- season. Murat was a serious student of the Aussie inflection and key slang words. He dreamed of college in Australia and all those tanned blonde girls.

"Before we go to Mary's House, I take you to Cave of Seven Sleepers. It's on the way. Murat will show you very old ruin," Ali Baba announced. Seriously, our guide's name was Ali Baba. Bob had already laughed about that one. Short and balding with a moustache, Ali Baba looked like half of the cab drivers I had driven with back in New York. I watched closely how he and Murat interacted. He was kind, patient, firm - a good father. I trusted Ali even though his name was associated with forty thieves.

Ali Baba pulled his car up to a large ruin surrounded by chain link fencing. Bob stayed and Murat and I went to peek into the Cave of the Seven Sleepers.

"Murat, what is this? I've never heard of it."

"Seven boys fell asleep in a cave and woke up 200 years later. The King at the time thought that - what do you call it when you die and come back to life?" Murat asked.

"Reincarnation?"

"Yes, that’s it. The story is the king believed that reincarnation was true because of these boys. The Christian Church was fighting about it at that time."

"Oh Murat, name a time the Christian Church hasn’t been fighting with itself."

I looked from the cave down to my sandaled feet covered with a layer of chalky dust and thought about this land, the foundation for these ancient buildings. I loved standing in places believed to be remnants of the story of the early church especially the stories that didn’t make it into the official approved version of Christianity.

Sweat rolled down my forehead and into my right eye. As I turned to wipe the sting away I asked Murat, "What are all those pieces of paper and fabric tied to that fence over there?"

"They're prayers and wishes; do you want to tie one?" Murat asked.

"No, it's too damn hot. Let's get back to the car."

Even if I had wanted to tie a prayer, I didn't have a piece of cloth to do it.

And the thought of making a prayerful plea in this heat was unbearable. I quickly snapped a picture of Turkish version of Tibetan prayer flags and headed to the car.

Murat opened the door for me, "Next, we stop at Meryam Ana Eve, Mary's House."

I liked the way he referred to our destination - Mary's House, not the House of our Blessed Virgin Mary. It's simply the house where Mary lived. Without the trappings of piety and worship, I almost feel like we will be welcomed with fresh bread when we arrive.

We were greeted by a grove of tall ancient trees at the entrance to the shrine and an onslaught of garishly colored tour buses - turquoise, hot pink, peach and bright green. Swarms of sun-visored tourists with white t-shirts and shorts that matched the buses scurried around. So much for my fantasies of mystery and feminine sacredness, instead I was in a Turkish version of Dollywood.

A slight nun dressed in a light blue habit stood at the doorway to the humble stone building. She gently welcomed visitors and seemed so sweet and frail, the way Mary has often been portrayed to me. Compliant. Humble. Obedient.

"Whereas Mary was obedient, Eve was disobedient!"

Suddenly I am back in a pew last December listening to a booming male voice on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. I had stepped into the dark coolness of Corpus Christi Church on Broadway and 121st across from Union Theological Seminary where I was in school. Since this had been the home church of the famous monk and priest, Thomas Merton, I assumed it would be a safe place for a girl like me just wanting to connect with Mary's story. Instead, I was yelled at by a fat white man, a priest yes, but a man who clearly wanted to control that which he had no connection to. So, I did what any self- respecting twenty-seven year old feminist would do, I stood up in the middle of his sermon, politely said “excuse me” to the family next to me and processed down the central aisle and right out of the church. Stepping back out to 121st Street with the muffled sounds of Broadway’s busyness just a block away, I breathed in the cool winter air and felt safe again.

The simplistic juxtaposition between Eve and Mary turned both into such one dimensional characters. Eve disobeyed God. She got all of us kicked out of the Garden of Eden. And Adam? Just another helpless male victim when confronted with a woman's guileful ways. But Mary, why she obeyed God so fully. She was the good girl. As daughters of Eve, we were taught to emulate Mary and if we were successful in this endeavor, we might have a fighting chance at redemption.

As I had grown older, my fascination with Eve, the woman who chose consciousness over paradise, increased. A woman reviled for disobeying God by eating from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. The way I looked at it, she yearned for a deeper understanding, a deeper communion with life, than she would have had locked in that garden with Adam. The first creation story in Genesis said we were made in the image and likeness of God and God declared it good. In that story the man and woman are told they can eat from any tree. It's in the second creation story that we have Eve's transgression, Adam's mindless following, and the serpent responsible for all of it. I just could not believe the desire to know for oneself, to experience the fullness of life, could be such a dangerous and rebellious act of insubordination. But I had grown up in a tradition where it was just that.

As a member of the "disobedient" sect, I felt the familiar tension emerging as I stood on line in my blue sundress in 5,000 miles away from Corpus Christi. How could I not? As vivid as my memories of the priest on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception were, my memories of childhood May Crownings of Mary were just as strong.

Every year Mrs. Calovich used to gather all the Catholic kids in the neighborhood to pick flowers: white blooming spirea from the Jaskot's yard; lilacs from Wenski's; and peonies from us, the Wewers' clan. In her backyard we wove these spring flowers our mothers' tended into crowns for Mother Mary, and us, her young initiates.

Mrs. Calovich scared me a little, she was so religious. In my home mom and dad had weekend parties where everyone sat in a circle and passed the funny cigarettes. My mom was reading lots of books about being an assertive woman and listening to Helen Reddy. At St. Pat's she wasn't a member of the Altar or the Rosary Society. My dad had run for the Parish Council, his accounting skills would have certainly been a benefit, but he lost. He wasn't enough of an insider. We went to church every Sunday and David and I were students there, but we weren't like the Calovichs. They were very Catholic and Croatian and definitely on the inside. They came from Strawberry Hill and St. John the Baptist parish. Places in our tradition synonymous with solemn piety. And not surprisingly, they didn’t seem very happy. Celine, their youngest daughter, loved coming to our house. I think the air was lighter at 7911 Orville Avenue, at a minimum our curtains were open and light from outside poured into our home.

One special year though Mrs. Calovich asked me to crown Mary with a dainty ring of white spirea. Clearly I didn’t want to disappoint her in my May Crowning skill set. I assumed someone so holy must have special pull with the God I was taught about in religion class - the old guy with the white cloak.

Celine, Lisa, Cheri, Kathy, David, Troy and I stood in a circle around the stone sculpture of Mary, Queen of Heaven, high on a pedestal in the rose garden. Mrs. Calovich held my hand, the one holding the crown, as I tentatively ascended the rickety wooden step-ladder. I lost my balance and reached out to steady myself, placing my other hand on the spiraling snake under Mary’s bare feet. I thought of how loudly my mom screamed when a tiny black garter snake found its way into our house and around her leg. But Mary, she wasn't afraid of snakes and this snake was the Devil! She was strong, yes, but only because God had asked her to do something very special, to be Jesus' mom, and she had said yes. The story of her obedience to God made her very holy. I thought back on my 10 year old self and felt such compassion for this young girl who had yet to learn that snake was a symbol for the mother goddess the medieval male church leadership sought to destroy and who would as young woman measure herself against the Virgin Mary and fail – over and over and over.

The damp coolness of the shrine brought me back to Turkey and I crossed the threshold into Meryam Ana Evi. It was dark and a hushed silence filled the space. Along the stone wall to my right, tens of lit candles were rooted in metal trays filled with sand. The flames slowly danced and their shadows stretched up the wall. Everything fell away until Bob gently touched my arm asking if I wanted to light one. I nodded as he wordlessly handed me a long thin cream taper. The smell of warmed wax permeated. It wasn’t the scent of vanilla or frankincense, but rather the aroma of warmth itself.

As I lit my candle, Ma Mere came to mind. My grandmother had passed away from lung cancer a few months earlier. I bowed my head and prayed for her to be surrounded by peace, joy, and acceptance - those things that escaped her in this life. I planted my candle in the sand and felt the warmth of the light from the candles, each a prayer, a wish, a yearning. A feeling of opening moved through my entire body and energy surged in to fill the space. I had become one of the candles, shot through with a crackling aliveness that deliciously moved up my spine and tickled my neck. Tears came to my eyes. As I passed the hearth area, the energy continued to travel through me. For a few moments time stood still, I never wanted to leave. If I could just stay in this gentle euphoria I would want for nothing.

Eventually, the tourists, desperate to get on to the next holy site, nudged me out through the cramped doorway exit and back into the jarring light of the sun. All I wanted was to go back into that space and feel that deep peace, but the line was so long and I had had enough of these moments to know that you can't recreate them. You just have to be open and sometimes they catch you.

A stranger took pictures of Bob and me as we stood under the sparse shade of an olive tree. Bob took one of just me. I look exhausted, but relaxed and at peace. I knew in every part of me I was standing on holy ground. And that ground could handle anything I brought to it.

Before leaving New York for this trip, my friend Diane had mentioned that Artemis worship had been strong in the same wooded hills and mountains where the shrine to Mary now was. In their pursuit to convert pagans, early Christians often took over pagan shrines and rechristened them. They knew the power of sacred places and wanted their story to have a head start. My feet were resting on ground where a few thousand of years ago, people had come to this spring to pay homage to the goddess Artemis. I reminded myself that this land wasn't just Mary's terrain, it also held the sacredness of the goddess of hunting, the woods and all wild things. Artemis was also the one who presided over birth and she was a special protector of girls until they married. She was the guardian of the maidens. I was standing on her hunting grounds. And perhaps this experience meant that I had been caught in her sights.

"Jen, I need to find a bathroom." Bob's statement of bodily needs ended my sojourn with the spirit world.

"Okay, let's go down that path. I want to look at the religious medals they have here. I need to get a few."

The stone path led to a number of faucets with spring water flowing for filling water bottles and washing hands in holiness. And there was a little shop with religious tchotchkes. I bought three shrine medals and sat on a ledge waiting for Bob. A thin Franciscan Indian priest walked by me. I assumed he was Franciscan because he wore the telling brown robe corded at the waist with white rope. He had to be so uncomfortable in this heat. I smiled. He returned the gesture and nodded with gentle deference.

The Franciscan walked by a second time. Bob had returned and he engaged the priest, "Hello Fadda," Every time Bob said the word father I thought of the first time he had me watch "Angels With Dirty Faces" with Cagney saying, "Fadda, Fadda, Fadda!" I smile at this native New Yorker I have chosen as my partner in this life. The priest nodded and again smiled. Turning around to begin our descent back to the car, the old Franciscan walked towards us for a third time. This time he stopped and hesitated.

"Where are you from?" he inquired.

"New York City." Bob said.

"I'm just so pleased to meet you. Are you on a tour?" His proper Indian English accent gave everything he said an air of dignity and respect.

"No," we both responded in unison.

"If you have the time I would love to speak with you about this place. I felt so drawn to you two. There was something about you...some special quality. It was as if I was being called to talk to you. That's why I kept coming back. And I am so glad to talk with you. I am Fr. Tarvey." He gleefully extended his hand in to us.

The three of us gathered under the shade of an ancient pine with a trunk so gnarled it looked like it had been there forever. Fr. Tarvey shared with us that he was a Capuchin Franciscan priest from India and that Ephesus and Mary’s House were his new assignments.

“Father, did you ever meet Anthony de Mello?” Bob asked.

De Mello was one of Bob’s favorite spiritual teachers. An Indian Jesuit who was a gifted guide on the spiritual journey. Bob's spiritual director, Fr. Tom Clarke, SJ, had given him his first de Mello book, Awareness. Of course Bob would love a book written by a Jesuit that opens with this passage:

I'm going to write a book someday and the title will be I'm an Ass, You're an Ass. That's the most liberating, wonderful thing in the world, when you openly admit you're an ass. It's wonderful. When people tell me, "You're wrong." I say, "What can you expect of an ass?”

“Well actually Bob, I have. He was such a wonderful holy man. The world lost a special teacher when Tony died so suddenly and unexpectedly."

Fr. Tarvey's spiritual energy emanated freely from him. His dark hair was a bit wild and his tawny translucent skin stretched tightly over his bones. His thinness reminded me of what I imagined the Buddha looked during his asceticism phase before the he decided on the Middle Path. Fr. Tarvey received nourishment from the air itself. Perhaps he didn't need the peaches and tomatoes that the rest of us devoured in this fertile country. I was in the presence of one who had already begun to take the form of the spiritual body that Paul wrote about in his letters. Fr. Tarvey lived somewhere between the mundane mortal body and the glorified one. And he felt called to talk to us?

He started the story of Mary's house by sharing with us about Anne Catherine Emmerich, a bed-ridden Augustinian nun, whose life straddled the 18th and 19th centuries. Anne's poor health was probably worsened by her strict adherence to rules of her order and her zeal for God. She had visions of Mary's life and in them described a stone house set on a hill outside of Ephesus. Although a book was published after her death, her visions of Mary's House, the place where Mary helped to birth the early church after Jesus' crucifixion, were not uncovered until another nun devoted to Mary found her way to Izmir, Turkey.

Sister Marie de Manat-Gracey, a French Daughter of Charity, was born 13 years after Anne Catherine had died in 1824. She read Emmerich's account of her visions and was deeply inspired. A seed was planted and Sister Marie's calling to help uncover this ancient holy site began to grow.

Eventually Sr. Marie was assigned to the French Naval Hospital in Izmir, Turkey, just 45 kilometers from Ephesus. She begged some local Vincentian priests to try to see if they could find the spot Emmerich wrote of. Eventually, Sister Marie found two adventurous priests who found this site, just like Anne Emmerich had described.

"But Mary’s House is more than the historical evidence, the archaeological findings, even the human story. Bob and Jen, at some point you must take a leap of faith and trust what you hear and see." Fr. Tarvey's words settled into my bones.

Immediately I was back in that moment of darkness at the hearth in Mary's house with the candles flames dancing and swaying to a spiritual movement I could not see, but which reverberated through every part of my being.

Fr. Tarvey's warm brown eyes looked deeply into mine. He smiled, "She knows more about this," gesturing toward me.

"This is Mary's House where she lived and mothered the early church, yes, but it is much bigger than Christianity. The holiness transcends different religions. Muslims regard this place as sacred and make pilgrimages here as well. Actually, more Muslims than Christians visit Mary's house every year. This place is really about the love of the mother. And that's why you, Jennifer, may understand more of this place than Bob precisely because you are a woman. Women hold deep mysteries and there are things about women’s secrets that men will never understand. Are you a mother?"

Smiling, "No, not yet Father." This was the second time I had been asked this question. What was it about Turkey that was making me interact with mother on so many levels? I called her name in a dream as we traveled on the overnight ferry to Kusadasi from Samos. An elderly woman on an evening walk along the streets by Hotel Rose reached out to touch me and asked me the same question. And finally, both inside Mary’s house and while speaking with Fr. Tarvey, in these places I was moved by the Mother.

We prepared to go back to Ali Baba's car. Bob was conscious of Ali and Murat waiting for us. All I wanted to do was listen longer to Fr. Tarvey. I was here in the presence of a mystic. He understand the ultimate oneness of all religions, he didn't just understand it though. He had experienced it. I wanted to hug Fr. Tarvey but restrained myself. Instead I grabbed his bony hand and thanked him for his time with us. A gentle warmth moved up my arm and throughout my body. He gave us a piece of blue-lined notebook paper with his name and address. " "What I need most are your prayers. I am very poor, but you, my friends, are very rich." I left not sure what he meant and the ambiguity seemed right.

I don't remember much about our leave-taking. Only this. As we drove away, I turned to look one last time. All I saw was a grove of ancient trees and a simple stone house. I had been given a gift today. I had experienced the heart of the Mother. And that I would always carry with me.