One Woman, Many Names? Unraveling the Magdalene-Bethany Debate

a Subversive Inquiry into Merging Names, Stories, and Vocations

Mary of Bethany and Mary Magdalene — or one soul, many names? A visual meditation on devotion, identity, and the sacred mystery of the anointing.

This reflection emerges from Through Holy Week with Mary Magdalene, Cynthia Bourgeault’s contemplative teaching that re-centers the Passion narrative through the eyes of Christianity’s most misunderstood witness. Among the many provocative themes she explores, few are as charged—or as revealing—as the debate over whether Mary Magdalene and Mary of Bethany are two separate figures or one woman remembered under different names. What may seem like a historical footnote opens into a portal of deeper symbolic meaning, pointing not just to who she was, but to how spiritual lineage, feminine authority, and initiatory naming were edited out of the Gospel memory. This piece takes up Bourgeault’s invitation to engage the Magdalene-Bethany tension not as a problem to solve, but as a doorway into the sacred mystery of transformation.

The Great Divide: One Story Split in Two?

For almost two millennia, the question has lingered in the shadows of Christian memory like incense that won’t quite clear: Was Mary Magdalene also Mary of Bethany? Two names, two towns, or two sides of one sacred coin?

At first glance, the scholarly consensus lands hard on separation. Different names. Different places. Distinct episodes. The Gospel of John distinguishes Mary of Bethany—sister to Martha and Lazarus—from Mary Magdalene, the woman who meets the risen Jesus in the garden. The rationalists settle the matter with geography: Magdalene from Magdala (in Galilee), Bethany just outside Jerusalem. Case closed.

But this tidy conclusion, like much else in inherited dogma, may be too clean. Something vital gets lost when we dissect these women into parallel but unconnected figures. What if—against the grain of current academic fashion—these two Marys were, in fact, one woman? What if Magdalene was never a last name or a hometown, but a title? A mark of spiritual attainment, akin to calling Peter “The Rock” or Thomas “The Twin”? What if the confusion we inherited is not accidental, but the residue of a deeper mystery—one that points not to error but to initiation?

To pursue this, we need to trace the tangled lines of memory, culture, and redaction. We begin with the anointing.

The Woman with the Alabaster Jar

All four Gospels record a scene in which a woman anoints Jesus. The details diverge. In Mark and Matthew, it’s a nameless woman in Bethany, near the end of Jesus’ life. She pours costly perfume on his head. In John, the anointer is Mary of Bethany, and the anointing is of Jesus’ feet. In Luke, the story appears earlier in the narrative and takes place in the house of Simon the Pharisee. There, the woman is explicitly labeled “a sinner”—likely code for sex worker—and she weeps as she anoints Jesus.

Curiously, not one of these stories names Mary Magdalene as the woman with the alabaster jar. Yet for centuries, Christian tradition assumed she was. The memory of the Magdalene as penitent, repentant prostitute stuck—fueled by homilies from Pope Gregory I in the 6th century and enshrined in Western iconography. The conflation was so culturally complete that even medieval mystics and painters didn’t question it. She was the one with the jar, the tears, the long hair, the sorrow.

Modern scholarship corrected the record. Magdalene was not a prostitute. And Mary of Bethany, we were told, was a different person entirely. Progressive theology took up the cause: Let’s restore Magdalene’s dignity by distinguishing her from this sinful woman stereotype.

But something went missing in this split. We tossed out a cultural mistake—and may have buried an initiatory truth.

The Conflation That Refused to Die

In her book The Woman with the Alabaster Jar, Margaret Starbird makes a provocative suggestion: what if Magdalene was never a hometown reference at all? In Aramaic, "Magdala" means "tower." A nickname. A spiritual title. Mary the Tower.

It’s not without precedent. Jesus bestows new names on others. Simon becomes Peter, “the Rock.” James and John are dubbed “Sons of Thunder.” Why not Mary the Tower? A woman recognized not by geography but by spiritual stature. One who stood tall in love, wisdom, and presence.

If that’s the case, then the anointing woman, the tower woman, and the garden mourner may all be the same. This isn’t a case of gospel confusion—it’s a sacred mystery remembered in fragments, like a story told by multiple witnesses from different angles, each drawing out different hues.

John remembers her as Mary of Bethany at the anointing and as Magdalene at the resurrection. But what if the name shifted because her role did? What if “Magdalene” was her later name, given after she stepped into her full calling?

In many spiritual traditions, a new name marks a new identity. Sufi initiates, Buddhist monks, even Christian nuns receive names aligned with their deeper self. So why not her? Perhaps Magdalene wasn’t a different woman. Perhaps she was Mary of Bethany transformed.

Why the Split Still Matters

Today’s feminist theologians often insist on keeping Mary of Bethany and Mary Magdalene distinct. The reasons are understandable. One is associated with the home, contemplative stillness, and quiet adoration. The other is linked with grief, witness, and bold public proclamation. Mary of Bethany sits at Jesus’ feet. Mary Magdalene seeks him in the tomb and announces the resurrection. One is family. The other is the first apostle.

Different energies. Different archetypes.

But what if these were phases, not personas? Initiatory stages of one soul’s unfolding?

To make the split permanent may deny the initiatory wisdom buried in the sequence: intimacy (Bethany), transformation (anointing), witness (resurrection). The Mary of Bethany who sat silently listening became the Tower Woman who stood at the cross and entered the tomb. Her love ripened. Her grief carved new depths. Her voice became a trumpet.

Symbolically, the movement from Bethany to Magdala is the movement from hidden disciple to revealed apostle.

The Gospels Behind the Gospels

Further complicating the picture is the Gospel of the Beloved Companion—a controversial but deeply moving text that claims to preserve a Magdalene-centric account passed down through an underground French tradition. Whether historically authentic or a luminous fiction, it offers a reading where Mary Magdalene is not only the woman at the anointing and the resurrection, but also the author of the gospel itself.

In this text, the anointing becomes the moment when Mary is publicly confirmed as Jesus’ chosen one—not in a romantic sense, but in a vocational one. She is sealed as the one who understands him fully, who bears his teachings in full consciousness. The tower, then, is not a symbol of distance or difference, but of visibility and height—of one elevated to see what others could not.

Whether this gospel is ancient or recent, its resonance is undeniable. It restores continuity to the story. One woman. Many moments. A single thread of conscious love.

Anointing as the First Eucharist

If we accept that Mary of Bethany and Mary Magdalene may be the same woman, then the anointing in Bethany takes on new layers. It becomes not just a tender act of devotion, but the beginning of Holy Week itself—a prophetic gesture that prepares Jesus not just for death, but for transformation.

She pours oil. He praises her. The others protest. He silences them. “She has done a beautiful thing.”

In that moment, she becomes priest and prophet. She inaugurates the passion. While the others are debating budgets and theology, she acts. She moves from love.

And it’s love, not dogma, that initiates the mystery.

No wonder the church eventually erased or divided her. A woman acting without permission, without title, performing a liturgical act before there were sacraments? That was dangerous.

But she did it anyway. And he blessed it.

Why Re-Merging Her Now Matters

In a time when the institutional church continues to wrestle with women’s roles, the memory of the Tower Woman calls to us. Not as a relic of ancient debates, but as an icon of what could still be possible.

She is the apostle who broke open the alabaster jar. The sister who sat in stillness and ran in witness. The beloved who stood in the garden and heard her name called with love.

Whether named Magdalene or Bethany, she holds together what we’ve been taught to keep apart: the contemplative and the prophetic, the personal and the public, the intimate and the liturgical.

She is not a composite mistake. She is a unified mystery.

Let her be one again. Not for the sake of harmony, but for the sake of truth. A truth that pulses beneath our categories, our names, our tidy doctrines. A truth that rises, like perfume, from the broken jar of memory.

🕯️ If this exploration stirred something in you, consider going deeper with Cynthia Bourgeault’s full course, Through Holy Week with Mary Magdalene offered through The Contemplative Society. It’s a rich journey into the Passion narrative through Magdalene’s eyes—subtle, luminous, and quietly transformative.

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