40. The Passion

Not the real Jesus, obviously. The actor playing Jesus, and the effect he had was unholy. It was instant, that thing I didn’t know I’d been missing. With the Director, who still makes me laugh to this day, I found a real friend and with Jesus I found something biblical. It fizzed. It was alive. From the moment we locked eyes. I remember walking into the Director’s kitchen and thinking, S**t. These shows were no amateur productions, a cast of hundreds, an audience of thousands, the actors trail the story over a park dedicated to the spreading of the word and this Jesus had been playing the part for many years. He was well known and well loved and he was treated like the actual Jesus so the extra thrill when we’d come off set and drink wine in the Director’s kitchen and try not to touch because I was married was crack to my devilish heart. Jesus also liked actual crack, a fact the Producers, who were very Christian indeed, drew a veil over. But he would go missing sometimes and I would stand in for him at rehearsals and tech runs, a cross dragged on my shoulder, a surreal afternoon spent crucified on the hill of Golgotha. I knew this about him and I didn’t care, I too was an addict although I didn’t know it. And I never once thought of the feelings of my husband at home and I couldn’t wait to drive away from the commune which lumbered on, fractious and barefoot to the Director’s house where Jesus waited. It was the distraction I’d been looking for. While my husband made music in the studio we’d built, his tall frame bent over the mixing desk his parents had given us for our wedding, I put on a tool belt and boots and discussed the logistics of rolling a stone from the mouth of a cave and how to walk on water. I didn’t know the Producers knew who I was and what I did, where I came from, a stone circle near completion, the pagan soul of me. But they were watching, too. They were well aware of a heathen striding about their land with a walkie-talkie distracting their Jesus from his lines. When he disappeared the night before curtain up, they blamed me. The Literary Obsessive is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit eleanoranstruther.substack.com/subscribe