Our Lord's Passion in Mime

I just returned home from a mime presentation of the Passion of Our Lord. It is Palm Sunday as I write this. I am proud to say I successfully fooled three of my sons. What do you think of when you hear the word "mime"? I think of Marcel Marceau and of course, no speaking. Not exactly the most exciting event for a 22-year-old, a 20-year-old and a 17-year-old. My 18-year-old was working this evening.

Tonight's journey began this morning. You see, today was a day when we could not go to church together "as a family," as I often say. I went at 9:00 and my 18-year-old went with his dad at 11:00. Those other three boys of mine decided they didn't need to go to Mass today; instead they slept much of the day away. I was at a church function so when mom's away...

But mom came home. And mom was not happy. At 4:00 in the afternoon her three sons were still sleeping. She formulated a plan. She woke them for dinner. They ate together and then she began her diatribe. I believe she talked for a good half hour without stopping. Talked of the evils of missing Mass, and many other potential young men evils. She was on a roll. She had quite the captive audience because these boys are great guys, but sometimes they decide to assert that independence thing. And today they did it en masse.

As I finished my heavenly inspired sermon I informed them that since they missed Mass, they were going with me to the Stations of the Cross at 7:30 this evening. Tomorrow begins their Spring Break so they didn't have a leg to stand on as far as any objections would go, and we all knew it. Another point to add: they really love me and they knew I meant business.

They asked about the Stations of the Cross. I was vague. "How long do you think it will last?"

"Not sure."

"Why not? You've been to them before."

"Yeah, but not like this one." Evasion working.

As we arrive at church many cars are already in the parking lot. My guys are amazed at this and persist in their questions.

"Geez, why so many cars?"

"I don't know."

And then my oldest son spots kids inside with paint on their faces. "What is this? The mime?"

"Yes." And in we went. They felt hoodwinked but I cared not. We were there.

And it began. As the first group of eighth graders pranced down the aisle complete with face make-up and wielding streamers I thought, "Oh no - they're going to start laughing." And then like a gift from God our priest came and sat right in front of my men. My worries were over. They wouldn't dare snicker. And the show continued.

It may take much reflection and many rewrites to do justice to what I saw tonight; I will never forget it. Here's an abbreviated version. The performers were eighth graders! I wasn't watching three minutes before my eyes were tearing up. And on and on it went through the horrific story we all know so well. Beautiful music with haunting words, exceptional performances, feeling beyond words. We watched as "Jesus" was baptized, cured the sick, and entered Jerusalem until He began His Passion. I never looked at my boys once throughout the entire 1 1/2 hours. I couldn't take my eyes off Jesus. By now the tears were rolling down my cheeks but I didn't care.

I watched, entranced, as Jesus was carried to His tomb by His believers/betrayers/beloved. For this production our church's altar was simply gone. Gone. Where did it go? I didn't even know it could be moved. But it was gone, and in its place the tomb: a table. And on this table Jesus was most reverently placed and covered completely with a white cloth.

There He was offered up on the table: the Lamb of God. He had been taken, blest, broken and given to us all. This young man, this boy not yet in high school, lying under a sheet. I'm sure by this time the church is back in its proper order; the altar replaced. But I know without one shred of doubt in my heart that every single day for the rest of my life as I gather around that altar to partake of the Body and Blood of Christ, I will see that boy's body, Jesus' Body.

As their final farewell, the players silently walked around the church, most of them truly crying, not acting, and each walked into a pew in front of every person there. They rubbed their own cheeks which were full of facepaint removing some of it and gently rubbed the cheeks of every person in attendance while looking into our eyes as if they were wise beyond their years.

My boys and I left the church without a sound; I cried all the way home. They were silent. We entered our house with the traces of facepaint still upon our cheeks. No one had made a move to remove it or was it that no one dared remove it?

We all knew we were in the presence of God this evening and we brought Him home.

~Maureen