Acting Honestly

One of our family’s annual Christmas traditions is reading The Best Christmas Pageant Ever by Barbara Robinson. It’s a rather funny story of the time the Herdmans, a family of 6 kids, who were known to be the worst kids in town, took over the church Christmas pageant. They force their way into all the major parts, adding their own take on what it would mean to be Mary or a Shepherd or Wise Man (including burping baby Jesus and giving him a Christmas ham), in the process frustrating all who want the play to be “just so.” But in the simplicity, even in the imperfection and humanity of it, the reader finds a greater message.

I’ve seen many kinds of drama ministries doing various kinds of productions (and, as the daughter of a Drama teacher, have been in more than my fair share). But I’m sad to say that I’ve rarely seen it done well (or, indeed, done it well). Unless we have trained actors and huge budgets, it’s difficult for a church to pull off an ambitious or serious work of theater.

So how can we use the dramatic arts in a way which is still meaningful? Is there a unique kind of potential in dramatic works which are knowingly simple, low-budget, self-effacing or even tongue-in-cheek? If Christianity is supposed to be about humility, transparency and authenticity how can we reveal those things by making the most of our less-than-polished presentation? Often the issue with Christian drama isn’t that it’s low budget but that it’s trying to make faith look too pretty or it’s totally devoid of humor or it’s just trying too hard.

Look at how these examples use simplicity, humor, and authenticity. How can you adapt their style for your own dramatic arts endeavors?

To create a feeling of simplicity through set and costume design, flip through Stage It Right: Beautiful, Practical, Theatrical Ideas for On and Off the Stage by Lena Wood and Arian Armstrong (The design of the book is, in itself, inspiring!)

Watch these great examples of Christian sketches which are self-effacing through the use of humor (while still raising some important faith issues like “How present are we when we pray?” and “What is our motivation for kindness?”)

Two movies are being released this Fall which are worth mentioning: Higher Ground and Blue Like Jazz The Movie. They’re note-worthy because they represent, for the first time in my memory, cultural offerings which have a positive approach to faith without presenting it in an overly-simplified or sentimental way. They are more self-aware and more comfortable with complexity, irony and rawness than most Christian drama I’ve seen.

How will your costumes express simplicity? How can your actors communicate that they don’t take themselves too seriously? How will your script deal with both the darkness and the light?

Image © iStockphoto

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The Revelation of Jesus Christ: A Staged Reading

This post was written by Anastasia McAteer about her staged reading of the book of Revelation.

(The Revelation of Jesus Christ: A Staged Reading is located in the Worship Texts/Dramas section of the Clayfire collection, “Discipleship for the Real World.”  Included with the reading are detailed performance notes for casting and staging. It is available for local use with a subscription to Clayfire.org.)

The Revelation is a casebook of visionary excess… [but] also an ordinary human vessel, a letter meant to be read aloud. It begins and ends with a blessing upon those who read it to others, and those who hear and heed it.

This is a poet’s book, which is probably the best argument for reclaiming it from fundamentalists. It doesn’t tell, it shows, over and over again, its images unfolding, pushing hard against the limits of language and metaphor, engaging the listener in a tale that has the satisfying yet unsettling logic of a dream.

Kathleen Norris, Revelation (Pocket Canon), pp. vii, viii & ix

The Revelation of Jesus Christ: A Stage Reading began with a sermon series. My pastor, Darrell Johnson, had decided that he wanted to share this book about “discipleship on the edge” with his congregation, and it being the year 1999 and end-times all the rage, he figured he could get away with it. This wasn’t any normal little series, however – it was 32 weeks of intense theological digging into perhaps the most deep, poetic and misunderstood book of the Bible.

After each week’s service, I would go home and meditate on the scripture which had been presented. As usually happens when I hear scripture read aloud, I began to hear different voices reading it with varying inflection and interpretation. I considered how the words may be presented by not just one, but multiple readers. The very beginning of the book states quite plainly that the words are “meant to be read aloud.”  This book, which as a child I’d read during boring sermons for sensational entertainment, turned out to be an epic poem which was intended by its author to be read to others. Not turned into cheap fiction, not made into bad movies. It was a letter from one disciple to others, and originally would have been read aloud to the congregations mentioned therein as well as many others. Why couldn’t we, today, have the same experience – the original intent?

Of course, to hear these words as simply a beautiful poem or a sensational story is not wrong – the art of the book is part of what makes it so special. But going deeper within the text adds a new dimension of understanding to the much-maligned familiar scenes taking place in the spiritual dimension. Simply put, the further one dives into this book, and the more one understands its true meaning and intent to change our lives, the more one will enjoy this staged reading. Indeed, I wish that all audiences of the piece would learn the theology behind what they are hearing. Thus, I was delighted that the first performance of TRoJC concluded the sermon series mentioned above. It was a perfect ending to a year of intense study and debate, for everyone listening could recall how the verses they were hearing had been unpacked and wrestled with. It brought back the truths we had discovered together, while at the same time reminding us all that, in the end, the book is an amazing work of art.

Download an excerpt of The Revelation of Jesus Christ: A Staged Reading.

© Anastasia McAteer


Anastasia McAteer is a freelance writer and liturgical consultant. She holds a Master of Divinity with a concentration in Worship, Theology and the Arts from Fuller Theological Seminary, and has done doctoral work in Liturgical Studies at the Graduate Theological Union, Berkeley. She authored the popular blog Feminary while at Fuller. Stasi has also written a variety of worship resources for local use and national publications. Her essay “Exorcising the Spirit” is included in Jesus Girls: True Tales of Growing Up Female and Evangelical (Cascade Books, 2009). Stasi is married to John and their two children, Maggie and Kieran, help her fulfill her priestly calling on a daily basis.

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A Thousand Voices. A Single Story.

There was so much hub-bub recently surrounding Rob Bell’s book (Love Wins) about heaven and hell. Either people were wrestling with what they perceived as “universalism” or some groups struggled with what seemed to them to be an obvious and long standing theory about spiritual afterlife. I have absolutely no desire to rehash those talking points, but I have to admit how fascinated I was by the fear that seemed to resonate from my own tradition (Evangelical) that was masking as preservationist. It got me thinking – as a follower of Jesus and somebody’s who’s tied my life to the Nicene Creed – that the conversations that followed Rob’s book were as close to Interfaith Dialogue as some of us might venture.

What a pity.

There’s a Native American proverb that sits on my inspiration board: “It takes a thousand voices to tell a single story.” The power of many being greater than the power of the one. The ideas and experiences of many being more potent and – maybe even more necessary – than the experience of the one.

We have started to embrace this idea in worship… and to accept what comes with that: the messy expressions, the ambiguity of mystery, the humility it takes to receive another’s experience as something that informs our own. Pulling this philosophy into our exploration of GOD and spiritual formation is something that we’re still working out practically, even if working on it theologically is still the sticking point for some of us.

But what if it’s absolutely true that it takes a thousand voices to tell this Story? In Paul Knitter’s book “Without Buddha I Could Not Be a Christian” he starts with the idea that our development and spiritual and emotional maturity will naturally find a place to settle, to make ourselves comfortable, and to become stiff, unbending and unlearning. Unaware – to use my own word. The challenge is to venture out on a spiritual quest of sorts, to intentionally and purposefully venture into the traditions and philosophies of another faith and carry back into our own tradition what is enriching and beautiful and true.

All truth is GOD’s truth. All beauty is GOD’s beauty. How can one not read the works of medieval rabbis or the Sufi poets and not encounter that transcendent element? What might be the obstacle to that practice?

As we contemplate the idea of interfaith dialogue, especially from the perspective of worship curators and artists, maybe it’s best if we let go of the notion that dialogue is talking and embrace the idea that dialogue often begins with deep listening. Start with letting the poetry and sacred texts of other faiths sit with you as prayer or meditation. Challenge your experience with the low drone of listening to fervent men in prayer.

I love that image that Knitter brings… of venturing into another territory and drawing the most beautiful and true resources to carry back in the hopes of enriching my own tradition and exploding my naturally shrinking GOD-box. What would this look like in your context? How can you draw from the thousand voices to tell this Story? We could start here – with dialogue between our traditions, sharing resources, and celebrating our experiences.

Peace to you on this great spiritual quest.

Image © iStockphoto

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A Rabbi, a Priest and an Imam…

Some people love the idea of interfaith dialog. I don’t. I’m afraid I’ll put my foot in my mouth or that I’ll be misunderstood. I’m a tiny bit afraid someone might say something which brings my entire faith system crashing down around my ears. And yet, at the same time, I have been blessed by the opportunities I’ve had to interact with those of other faiths. For it to be meaningful, we have to be open to vulnerability, respectful listening and experience.

Vulnerability
I meet each week with three other women – one from a rural, conservative Christian upbringing, one who has a Jewish background but who now calls herself a seeker and a third whose spirituality has been largely shaped by her study and practice of yoga. One of our first conversations revealed to us how clumsy the word “God” really is. I remember it as one of the most formative conversations of my recent faith journey. Is God really an old man with a beard, sitting on a throne in the clouds? Is He even a “He”? If I believe that God is the source of all energy and all light, can I agree with someone who says their deity is Energy? Or Light? When theology let us down, we began using general terms like “goodness” and “creativity” and “source” and found more common ground. But when words continued to fail us, we sat on the floor, held hands, opened our hearts and prayed.

How does speaking with those of different faiths help us define our own faith?

Respectful Listening
A few years ago my biblical scholar husband was invited to take part in a panel discussion at a mega-church. Joining him on the panel were a Rabbi, a Buddhist theologian and an Imam (I know, it should have taken place in a bar). The facilitator had five questions and they each were given three minutes to answer a question before the facilitator moved to the next question. There was no debate, just an opportunity to respectfully hear what each speaker had to share.

The questions were:

  • What is the source of authority in your tradition?
  • How would you describe your deity?
  • What faith practices shape a believer’s daily life?
  • How do believers worship?
  • Is there a moral code and what happens when someone breaks it? How does a believer make things right again?

Create a panel discussion of your own. Provide the questions in advance (you may find you have to assure the guest speakers that they’re not going to be burned at the stake).

Experience
After spending this week over-thinking a faith issue of my own, I wrote this somewhat over-simplified comment on Facebook: “I’m reflecting on the fact that when people study faith by thinking about it, they often lose it. But when people study faith by living it, they often find it.” A thoughtful friend responded with a fascinating question about how this relates to how we study other religions: “Do we just study them intellectually? Do we have freedom to explore them experientially?” Is reading a book on comparative religions enough? How would attending a service or family faith tradition enrich our studies of other faiths? While avoiding taking part in aspects that would seem insincere to our hosts or unfaithful to our own tradition, how could we at least observe others in their worship?

Abraham’s Path is an organization which seeks to bring together those of all Abrahamic traditions (Muslims, Jews and Christians) through pilgrimages of various distances around the world. Go to their website to find a group near you or learn how to organize your own walk.

[A]s the insightful Catholic writer Father Andrew M. Greeley has observed, religion is ‘a collection of… “pictures”’ that we use to give order and meaning to our lives and everything around them. Viewing others’ ‘religious “pictures”’ and noting the contrast between what we see and what we’ve experienced in our own religious traditions can also deepen and solidify our own faith by making us consider how our tradition speaks to us, comforts us and challenges us.

Stuart M. Matlins and Arthur J. Magida in How to Be a Perfect Stranger: The Essential Religious Etiquette Handbook, xvi.

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The Story Wall

I’m sitting in a room with a large group of relative strangers watching as their pens move very thoughtfully over the paper in front of them. In about fifteen minutes, this group will have their names changed from Mr. Blue Plaid Shirt and Ms. Fabulous Hair to Dave Who Learned To Play Guitar As a Response To The Bullies and Nancy Jo Who Marked Childhood Decembers With an Advent Wreath. My newly acquainted colleagues are working through an exercise to capture their stories on paper – but not the way we tend to tell our stories. No, this is a chance to take them from a chronologically contained relaying of the cognitive and anonymous and move into a fluid unfolding, move them into the vulnerable beauty of their unique human experience. Some of their prose makes me laugh. Some of it moves me by it’s tenderness. And some of it scrapes like fingernails along my skin with its tragedy and grief.

This wasn’t simply an exercise to nurture our creativity, even though we’re sitting under the projected image of The Art of Curating Worship and I’m here to prompt people’s sacred imaginations; it seems that we are exercising our ability to open up, to be compassionate, to challenge our expectations of who we are and who that is sitting next to us.

The pieces are hanging on the wall now, moving slightly in the blow of the creaky air conditioner. This section of dry wall seems animated with spirit and soul, dancing under the stories that dress her. It’s hard to not notice it. It’s harder to not be curious about the hearts laid bare on paper.

Story is such a powerful tool. It seems to be woven into our deepest humanity. No wonder Christ used story as his greatest practice for awakening the soul! It draws us out of our assumptions, our selfish expectations, our own limited (and sometimes limiting) experiences. Story has the unique potential to serve as a portal to the mysterious and transcendent, to affect us in a holistic way. Reading these narratives fluttering on the wall engaged my heart in people’s experience, provoked my imagination with their pictures and landscapes, challenged my prejudices – and in turn, my body responded with goosebumps, sinking stomach, bubbling laughter. Story draws us deeper into an experience of our humanity by inviting us into an experience of another’s.

The invitation into experience and out of myself is powerful. And possibly transformative, depending on the story we’re telling.

Worship breaks down to a beautiful story of a GOD pursuing humanity with a reckless love – at least once the props are pulled away and the theological arguments quiet. How does it change your work as a curator if you approach worship as a storyteller? What words would you use?

Pulling the story of GOD out of either an emotional moment in time or a chronological relaying of historical events and into a prose and flow of encounters, experiences and insights into the heart of GOD makes the worship narrative a profoundly reshaping experience – and the narrative makes room for everybody. It can invite everybody. It can provoke everybody.

So be a bard, a story-teller, a poet. It is, after all, the first language of our souls.

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