The Easter story I love

The church lights dim. The music swells. Onstage, a handful of figures step out and wait. Down the center aisle, nearly a dozen smaller silhouettes line up, waiting for their cue.

The music shifts suddenly—the aisle and stage come alive. The figures surge forward, hands raised, each holding lights aglow.

I've seen this scene many times in rehearsal, and it still brings tears to my eyes, not least of all because my 11 year old son is in that group. In fact my whole family is part of the cast.

Since 2013, I've had the privilege of being part of our church's Easter dramas. We first ran a version of The Borrowed Tomb, directed by our previous pastor, Eric Brown. And now we’re doing War in Heaven, directed by Giselle Schultz. These stories, this time spent in practice year after year, shaped how I understand the story of that Nazarene walking the roads of Palestine 2,000 years ago.

Each year, we rehearse for weeks. Some of us memorize lines, we block movements, sync with lights and music, and hope not to miss our cues (my biggest fear is running onstage too early, but thankfully that's only happened in practice).

I grew up reading the stories of Jesus of Nazareth—his life, what he did on this earth. And while it sometimes resonates, too often I've seen it as data points on a page. But here, in this place, retelling the story with the lights dimmed, and the music spelling, those words become real. They carry weight.

When I'm on that stage, I imagine that ancient world. I see the man walking among us, bringing hope and joy to people everywhere around him. And I see myself

laying a disciple who keeps misunderstanding his intents. I think his goal is to conquer other nations. I silence the innocent children who want to run up to him, I condemn people who I view as sinners, and run in fear when the danger becomes too real.

Practicing scene after scene, I'm reminded why this story still matters to me, and how even our imperfect attempts to retell it can still have an impact on the people around us. In a world where coercion stands, might makes right, and power wins, this story encourages non-coercive love to those around us.

Growing up I tried to learn this story from a sense of duty, obligation to the religion I’d grown up in. Now I’m drawn to it. This idea, this story of Jesus that sacrified everything, who was entirely selfless, and encourages friendship and love—it feels needed now more than ever.

That’s why I keep coming back year after year for practice, keep spending hours among other volunteers as we rework, tweak, and practice over and over, trying to catch a tiny glimpse ofhow I can be more loving and kind to those around me.

As for the scene that keeps tearing me up, watch it yourself this weekend when we record it.

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This piece was modified from an original version shared internally as part of our church newsletter.