Perspective Rise and fall of a perfectly good Passion
play
By PATTY McCARTY
Teddy was a big-city boy and,
although he moved to my small hometown when we were both in grade school, he
always had a big-city flair about him. After we graduated from the public high
school, Teddy went off to Notre Dame. I went to the junior college at the end
of Sixth Street.
Soon Teddy was back home with the news that he was going to
produce a Passion play for college credit with people from our church as
actors. He said I could be Mary Magdalene. Teddy, a small man, quick moving
with brown curly hair and a rather sharp nose, cast himself as Judas. He
daydreamed through Mass a few Sundays and cast the rest of the parts. We
started rehearsals right after Christmas to be ready to stage the show at the
high school auditorium the week before Holy Week.
Teddy persuaded a dentist who had never been on stage before to
take the part of Jesus. Ruth, the mother of a classmate, played Mary. Her
husband, Frank, my junior college English teacher, wrote a poem for the
prologue. Teddys dad, who owned the towns only hotel, would recite
the poem and play Caiaphas. The county assessor portrayed a bumbling, loveable
Peter. The young associate pastor was one of the apostles. A man who sold
stamps at the post office became Pilate and looked stunning in his toga.
Another postal employee, a man Id never seen smile, built the set. My
brother was a high priest, as was a radio and TV repairman, a businessman who
sold ice and coal and a letter carrier. The letter carriers wife was one
of the women at the well in the opening tableau. A chunky electrician played
Herod who leered at the dancing Salome, portrayed by another classmate. A man
who farmed west of town walked four miles in a snowstorm one night to rehearse
the role of Joseph of Arimathaea. A lawyers wife and her sister played
the organ, brought in for the event. A favorite high school teacher helped with
the makeup. A hundred other people were involved as actors or people in crowd
scenes or helped with making and caring for costumes, lighting the set, doing
publicity, handling ticket sales.
Nobody asked where the money for set, costumes and other
necessities came from. With Teddy, money never seemed to be a problem.
And nobody asked where Teddy got the script. The purple
leatherette-covered programs said the play was written, directed and produced
by Teddy.
Golgotha turned out to be a smash. Full houses every
night. People came from miles around -- including the bishop.
That was just the beginning. As we prepared to repeat the play the
following year, Teddy asked me to write to LOOK magazine. And -- no kidding --
LOOK sent a reporter and photographer who spent a week with us during dress
rehearsals. LOOK never used the story, but that didnt dampen our
parade.
Something miraculous was in the air. The parish, young and old,
men and women, discovered for the second time the delight of working together.
Aided by lights and music, a few artificial beards and flowing costumes -- and
a timeless story -- we could make magic night after night, could transport the
citizens of a sleepy little prairie town to the golden city of Jerusalem.
It takes a kind of fearlessness to do what Teddy did. He was a
demanding director. Sometimes if we werent investing the kind of energy
he wanted, he threw a temper tantrum. I recall whispering to another cast
member, after such an outburst, that Id be in the next room praying for
Teddy to get drafted.
And that summer he did -- caught in the draft for the Korean War.
Teddy hated the Army. For him, no day as a soldier was a good day.
His hometown cast vowed to carry on, to put on the Passion play a
third time, to show we could do it -- if we had to -- without him. The young
associate pastor said hed direct. We found, however, that Teddy
wasnt so easily replaced. Nobody was giving their undivided attention to
the hundreds of details Teddy had attended to. Nobody cared about the Passion
play more than anything else in the world, as Teddy cared. Nobody was that
fearless. When most of the lead actors were stricken with the flu, we breathed
a prayer of thanks and canceled the play. I was working for the local newspaper
and wrote the story -- my only front-page story.
Next year, Teddy was home again. For reasons that remain
mysterious, the Army had decided it didnt need him after all. The play
went on, this time with a big, modernistic set that took up a huge amount of
the high school stage, which was also the basketball court. I was away at
college and cut classes to get home to see the show. The auditorium was packed.
The audience loved it.
But the tradition ended there. The town never had another Passion
play.
I graduated, married, had children and thought about the Passion
play only at Passiontide when the priest proclaimed the story I knew so well. I
could see it all -- my hometown friends loving Jesus, betraying Jesus,
accompanying Jesus to his trials, to his death, lowering him from the cross,
grieving their loss. And Id get misty-eyed at the memories and wonder why
more parishes dont give their people this kind of experience to live and
to cherish all their lives.
And then I heard the rest of the story. One day after the
excitement of the third successful production had faded a bit, Frank, the
college professor, pulled a book from his bookcase and sat down to read. The
words were astonishingly familiar. He called Teddy to come over right away. No,
Teddy hadnt written the play. Yes, it was the English version of the play
presented every 10 years in Oberammergau, Germany. Frank marched Teddy over to
the parish house. The pastor called the bishop. And the parish went back to
smaller ways of glorifying God.
Teddy got a degree, but not from Notre Dame. He moved to a big
city and directed plays at a high school. Once when I was in his city, I called
him but got no answer. A few years later a friend gave me a copy of his
obituary.
I believe, when we get to the Holy City, its not just the saints
wholl go marching in. I expect there will be a few rascals like Teddy in
the crowd. With all the good men of Galilee to pick from, Jesus himself chose
to hang out with a rascal.
Patty McCarty is NCR copyeditor.
National Catholic Reporter, April 21,
2000
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