Reading on Palm Sunday

I was a reader on Palm Sunday.

I was Voices.

An anonymous Apostle.

Peter.

The High Priest.

Pontius Pilate.

The Centurion at the Cross.

A serving girl.

A man with a wine-soaked sponge.

Judas.

A rogues gallery.

When I studied acting, one of the things I was taught was when you play a character, try to find something in yourself to build upon and help to bring the character to life.

I could do that with each of the person’s whose voice I was.

I was tempted to give each a different voice as I read, by the way.

I didn’t.

But it was fun to think about.

Pilate was British.

Peter was Irish.

The high priest was this priest I sometimes hear on the radio.

Judas was one I was still searching for.

Nixon?

Reagan?

Pat Robertson?

But as I prepared, I did manage to find something in each character I could identify with.

That’s scary.

That’s probably one of the points.

Dang. Whoever wrote the Gospels was good.