The Archbishop imagined himself in the mind of Mary Magdalene, who was the first to see Jesus risen but who mistook him for a gardener. His choice is significant because along with the move to restore equality to women in the Church has gone a move to rehabilitate Mary from the fallen woman she was often seen as. This is an edited extract

Mary Magdalene went to the disciples with the news: “I have seen the Lord!” And she told them that He had said these things to her.

“Tell them,” He said to me. He didn’t say whether they’d listen, but I can make a guess. Why should they, after all? When have they ever? So what’s He doing, asking me to tell them? There’ll be some of them who won’t want to hear. They know what’s written and they want to be obedient: women don’t give evidence; end of story.

I can sort of cope with that because it isn’t personal; they’re not just talking about me. But it seems to belong in a world where things stay the same, where God has settled what He wants to say and left it there for us, carefully wrapped up.

But it’s harder with the ones who know me better, the ones who knew Him better. They remember who I was. They remember the seven devils.

When they listen to me, they think, “Yes, she lived in a world of terror and fantasy and pain all those years, she’s had a life that’s been so damaged you can’t really be surprised if she’s still only half in touch with normality.”

They’ll say that and mean it kindly, of course.

It’s true; I lived with devils, I was being eaten alive from the inside for years.

I lived with devils. I thought I was infectious, dangerous for everyone. They remember that. So do I. Sometimes it comes back for a moment and I’m not sure of anything.

Bad enough being a woman to start with — they’ll know exactly what you can and can’t do; they’ll know that you’re the kind of human creature that changes and varies with the seasons so that you don’t know when you might be polluted if you touch them.

But worse to be a woman whose life has come apart and been put together again very slowly, very precariously. And they all know and are sympathetic and serious and kind . . . I can’t make them listen. I can’t make them believe. They will only see when they too have heard the echo of creation, when they have been brought out of death and understood who it is that is there with them, with his torn hands and feet. And what I have to do somehow is to make them see Him, not me.

After all, it isn’t me who is alive now, but Him, and me only in Him and because of Him. Perhaps someone with better credentials than me will have to find the words for that some day, and then they’ll see it. In a moment I shall be climbing the stairs again to the locked doors.

I’m not a young woman any more and my steps are slowing down and my breath is short after all that has happened this morning. I shall knock on the door. And if they let me in I shall tell them what He said, I shall tell them what He has done, I shall tell them who He has made me. And perhaps they will believe. And if they don’t, He is there still; no door is forever locked to Him now.

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