The Separation of Church and Theater

BY BARTON BUND, THE BLACKBIRD THEATER 

 

Church gigs don’t pay. They only gave us the script a few minutes before we went on. We had the copy room for a dressing room. Blackbird Company Member Gayle Martin needed a favor. We went last Wednesday to put on a little skit at her Lutheran Church. This is a clear case of the need for actors to examine their ethics on a regular basis.

 

I am not a churchgoer. It’s not that I don’t believe in God. I believe in everything. I just don’t belong there among the ultra-faithful. And I have serious problems with organized religion.

 

Anyone who would go to church on Wednesday, they are much holier than I am. But I was the headliner. A pastor had written the script. And it was actually quite good. It’s a scene between Mother Mary and John the Apostle. Jesus has just died. The other guys with hard-to-pronounce names take care of the funeral arrangements and I stay to comfort her and we say the special Passover prayer thing.

 

Services begin. I am sweating. What is that sulphur smell? Am I the only one in the sanctuary who can smell it? Is there a chasm of magma beneath me? Is it the breath of the mouth of Hell as it opens up to devour me? God, please don’t kill me, I’m in a show!

 

The woman behind me makes me kiss her teddy bear. She clearly has some kind of developmental disability. This is all very new to me. I am sitting in the front row, trembling, exposed. The choir sings one of those endless songs, and I see in the program that we’re on deck. The priest has to speak first. He explains things. His job is to put the word of God into plain Washtenaw County English. And by the same extension, I am too. What am I doing here?

 

We begin. I stumble a few times and lose my place. In one of my ad libs I almost blasphemed. I was about to say “My God!” and not in a holy way, more in the way you say “My God, these shorts ride up!” But I squelched the word, and it stuck in my throat and I paused like I was going to cry. And then Gayle cried. And so I started crying. The emotional tone of the scene had to be high. This is a biblical situation. My best friend Jesus has died, and I have to comfort his poor mother. I’m so filled with rage! They nailed him to a cross, and we just stood there and did nothing! Nothing! And now I’m weeping openly.

 

I was having some kind of breakthrough. We reached the end, I said the prayer for Passover and banged on the stand and tears exploded out of us both. It was orgasmic. This was one of those experiences you don’t forget.

 

And I sat back down again. No one applauds in a church. Afterwards I kissed the teddy bear goodbye and was enticed by several people to come join the congregation. I told them, oh no, I’m just an actor. They said “Isn’t it better when you do it for God?”

 

Here’s the thing. I said some pretty holy stuff up there. But I didn’t feel holy. In fact, I felt kind of dirty. I had gone up there an re-enacted one of the most important events in the Bible, and I felt nothing at all for God. I felt plenty for Gayle, plenty for my dear friend Jesus whom I had lost that morning, but that was it. I am dirty. I am a terrible person. And God knows it.

 

In truth, I think that church and art ought to stay separate. Why am I performing in a church on a Wednesday night? I need to get back to naked gay plays, I’m way more comfortable with that.