A very Christian Goddess

To the right

inside the portal

maiden mother and crone

share their knowledge of this temple of what is past

or immortalised.

Opposite

The Goddess holds the head,

the severed head,

of merely mortal man.

Do you dare ascend the

sweeping stone stairs

to the chamber of the Queen of Heaven

Cross the threshold

under the lintel

into the womb room tomb

where Mary is conceived,

is born,

gives birth,

and dies.

This is a place of extraordinary conceptions.

An angel connects Joachim and Anna, father and mother.

At this moment of embrace the Queen of Heaven

is supposedly conceived.

But wait.

Who is this female attendant, who stands behind the barren woman,

whose thighs join in a most distinctive V?

Is this the holy ghost, whose hand stretches in blessing?

Is this the maiden who shall bear the surrogate child of God?

Or is this the Goddess in whom all things find fruition?

I always struggle with the idea

We are made in the image of God.

Then Mary is born.

Hallelujah!

Two envious midwives fight over the baby.

An attendant gives her condolences to the visitors;

sad and sombre visitors.

Mother lifts a hand

in blessing or dismissal.

She looks really tired.

What is to be understood from all of this?

Epiphany!

The angel descends direct from God above.

His wings are dark.

Mary bows her head.

This is indeed a fearful undertaking,

to bear a child

not sanctioned by the human law.

She will need an angel by her side

to keep the stoning mobs at bay.

Even at this moment

a spy conceals himself

behind a pillar.

Mary holds her child,

practising for the sorrows of the crucifixion.

The Christ child struggles to be free,

already too big to be a babe in arms.

Then Jesus is already fully grown.

He eagerly ascends

to the heaven of his mother’s face,

tenderly touching her cheek,

while pulling at the neck line of her dress.

She gazes down, serene.

In the old religion

the God man king

would have been sacrificed to the Goddess.

At this crucifixion

the Goddess grieves for her lost son,

while her sexual self continues

worshipping his feet.

Martha looks on, ashamed.

For the men

Christ goes on suffering on his cross.

Mary’s Magdalen maid

gazes,

pensive or penitent,

her pink lips flowing with oil,

florid.

Her halo turns the world to gold

behind her head.

In the distance,

darkness.

Times change

We must be born again

Into another world, another room.

Puritans have come

taking the Goddess’ head,

leaving the headless body holding

the infant saviour,

safe in a world of yesterday.

Nick Owen