I see a cavern in the rock where there is a bed of piled-up leaves on a rustic frame of interwoven branches bound together with rushes. It must be as comfortable as a rack for torture. The grotto also has a large stone which serves as a table and a smaller one which serves as a chair. Against the side farthest back there is another one: a large stone splinter sticking out of the rock which […] has been polished and presents a rather smooth surface. Upon this, which looks like a rustic altar, a cross made of two wicker-bound branches is resting.
The inhabitant of the grotto has also planted ivy in an earthy cleft in the ground and guided its branches to frame the cross and encircle it, while, in two rustic vases, which seemed to have been modeled in the clay by an unskilled hand, there are wild flowers picked nearby, and, right at the foot of the cross, in a giant shell, there is a little wild cyclamen plant with small, very clean-cut leaves and two buds which are about to blossom. At the foot of this altar there is a sheaf of thorny branches and a scourge with knotted cords. In the grotto there is also a rustic jug with water. Nothing else.
Through the narrow, low aperture mountains can be seen in the background, and, since there appears a moving luminosity which is glimpsed in the distance, one would assume that the sea is visible from this point […]. Pendulous ivy branches, honeysuckle, and wild rosebushes – all the usual pomp of mountainous locations – hang over the opening and form a sort of moving veil separating the interior from the exterior.
La Sainte-Baume (the Holy Cave) in southeastern France where she spent her last 30 years in prayer and contemplation.
A thin woman, wearing rustic, dark clothing, covered by a goatskin as a blanket, goes into the grotto, pushing aside the hanging branches. She looks exhausted. It is impossible to determine her age. If one were to judge by her withered face, one would say she was quite old – over sixty. If one were to go by her flowing locks, still beautiful, thick, and golden, not over forty. Her hair hangs down in two braids over her curved, slender shoulders, and it is the only thing that shines out in that desolation. The woman must certainly have been beautiful, for her brow is still lofty and smooth, and her nose, well-shaped, and the oval, though thinned by weariness, regular. But her eyes no longer sparkle. They are deeply sunken in their sockets […]. Two eyes which reveal the many tears they have shed.
Two wrinkles, almost two scars, have been engraved from the corner of each eye along the nose and finally dissolve into that other wrinkle typical of those who have suffered greatly, which descends from the nostrils like a circumflex accent to the corners of the mouth. Her temples look sunken, and the blue veins are outlined in the intense paleness. Her mouth hangs down in a weary curve and is a very pale pink. It must once have been a splendid mouth; now it is withered. The curve of the lips is like that of two broken wings dangling. A mouth of pain.
The woman drags herself over to the mass of stone which serves as a table and sets bilberries and wild strawberries upon it. She then goes to the altar and kneels down. But she is so exhausted that she nearly falls in doing so, and must hold herself up with one hand on the stone slab. She prays, looking at the cross, and tears flow down her wrinkles to her mouth, which drinks them in. She then lets her goatskin slip down, remaining with only the rough tunic to cover her, and takes the scourges and the thorns.
She clasps the thorny branches tightly around her head and her loins and scourges herself with the cords. But she is too weak to do so. She drops the scourge and, supporting herself against the altar with both hands and her forehead, she says, "I can't withstand any more, Rabbi! I can't suffer more, in memory of your pain!"
The voice brings me to recognize her. It is Mary Magdalene. I am in her grotto of penitence.
Mary is weeping. She calls Jesus lovingly. She cannot suffer any more. But she can still love. Her flesh, mortified by penance, can no longer withstand the effort of scourging herself, but her heart still beats passionately and consumes itself in its final strength by loving. And she loves, remaining with her forehead crowned with thorns and her waist clasped by thorns; she loves by speaking to her Master in a continuous profession of love and a renewed act of contrition.
She has slipped, with her brow touching the ground. The same posture she had on Calvary before Jesus, when He was placed on Mary's lap, the same one she had in the house in Jerusalem when Veronica explained her veil, the same one she had in the garden of Joseph of Arimathea, when Jesus called her and she recognized Him and worshiped Him. But now she is crying because Jesus is not there.
"Life is fleeing from me, my Master. And will I have to die without seeing You again? When will I be able to take delight in your face? My sins are before me and accuse me. You have forgiven me, and I believe hell will not possess me. But how long will I be detained in expiation before living by You Oh, good Master! For the sake of the love You have given me, comfort my soul! The hour of death has come. For the sake of your desolate dying on the cross, comfort your creature! You begot me. You. Not my mother. You raised me up, more than You raised up Lazarus, my brother. For he was already good, and death could only mean waiting in your Limbo. I was dead in my soul, and to die meant eternal death. Jesus, into your hands I entrust my spirit! It is yours because You have redeemed it. As a final expiation, I agree to experience the harshness of your dying in abandonment. But give me a sign that my life has served to expiate my sinning."
"Mary!" Jesus has appeared. He seems to come down from the rustic cross. But He is not wounded and dying. He is as handsome as on the morning of the Resurrection. He comes down from the altar and goes towards the prostrate woman. He bends over her. He calls her again, and, since she seems to believe that Voice is sounding for her spiritual senses and remains with her face to the ground, she does not see the light Christ is emitting. He touches her, resting his hand on her head and taking her by the elbow, as in Bethany, to lift her up again.
When she feels touched and recognizes that hand by its length, she cries out loudly. And she uplifts her face, transfigured with joy. And she lowers it to kiss the feet of her Lord.
Maria Valtorta, The Notebooks 1944, March 30, p. 252-259.
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Disclaimer: A brief ‘press release’ from a Vatican dicastery has proposed, without offering proof, that her writings are not supernatural [Link]. However, according to the dicastery’s own published standards their press release has no canonical validity [Link, no. 22]. Therefore I am not being disobedient by publicly asserting my 100% human faith that the supernatural revelations of Maria Valtorta are from Heaven.
What a contrast this scene in the cave is - Mary was so materially wealthy and comfortable, and yet where she lived for the last 15 years of her life was the polar opposite! This is truly a heart-felt and totally loving conversion indeed! Without Valtorta, we would not have known the extent of this. Her words to Jesus and His appearance to her, truly made my eyes well with tears, for finally, Mary received a blessing that she did not expect while still alive. Many of us gravitate towards Mary Magdalene because in her, we see our own human sinfulness. But this passage is something we should take note of as well - we need to properly atone for our sins, not out of fear but out of LOVE. We need to LOVE Jesus and His passion as much as Mary Magdalene did.
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