When I was 23 and my future brother-in-law, Raymond was in high school, a traveling passion play on the life of Jesus came to town. He bought a ticket, but on the day of the play, he had no way to get to the venue. "I’ll drive you," I said. "I’ll even buy a ticket and join you." But when we got to the school where the play was to be given, we learned it was sold out.
"Don’t worry," I said. "I have a partly-read book in the car. This will be my chance to finish it. When the play is done, meet me there." The proposal seemed agreeable, so he went inside the auditorium, and I headed back to the car.
"Just a minute!" someone shouted after me as I went out. "I’ve got a seat for you—in fact, the best seat in the house." I turned around, and before I could say a word, a woman grabbed my arm and led me down a hallway and into a room where the actors were getting ready for the performance.
"Andrew!" she said, poking me in the back. And just like that, I was being outfitted with a wig, toga, sandals, and makeup. Someone also handed me my lines and gave me instructions on when to say them. There were two of them. The first was: "there is a boy here who has five barley loaves and two fish." The second was: "crucify him," which seemed like a really strange thing for Andrew to be saying. But, you see, I wasn’t just Andrew in the play but, also, one of the crowd.
As I got ready for my acting debut that day—although, the truth be told, I was a Christmas elf in first grade—I asked the Apostle John how he liked traveling with the troupe. It’s tolerable," he said. One town’s greasy spoon is like another." As long as we spend as little time with Jesus as possible, we get along fine."
Soon the performance began and, before long, we were coming to the part of the play where the disciples shoo away children whose parents have brought them to Jesus. However, Jesus insists they be allowed, saying "for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs" (Mark 10:14). That scene was coming up, and Jesus, the disciples, and the children were behind the curtain, waiting for it.
Two of the children, though, were whispering, probably about what they were suppose to do. And, then, the most incongruous thing happened. Just before the curtain was raised, Jesus whirled around, pointed a long bony finger at the children, and said, "If you kids don’t shut up, I will cut your ears off!"
Afterwards, when we met at the car, I asked Raymond what he thought of the play.
"You didn’t miss much," he said. "The guy who played Jesus spoiled it for me."
"How?
" He was a prima donna."
"A prima donna is a woman," I said.
"Well, you know what I mean. The guy who played Jesus—what was his name?—he seemed more intent on showcasing himself than Jesus. Everything he did and said was for effect. Take those kids in that one scene. Did this Jesus really want those kids in the scene? They were only props. He never looked at them once—not once. They were invisible to him. Why? Because he was so fixated on impressing the audience."
I decided to change the subject. "Raymond, tell me about the rest of the play and the other actors. What did you think of them? What did you think of Mary? And Andrew . . . what about the guy that played him?"
"Andrew?" he said.
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