My remembrance is a conversation with Robert Klein, an outstanding actor who had performed in the role of Jesus for five years at the time (and is performing his twentieth season in the role this week). Working with Robert was a remarkable experience. His grasp of character and focused portrayal was so intense that, as High Priest, it was all I could do to not fall on my face and repent. Talking with him one day during rehearsal, I asked him about his experience developing the character. Preparing the character for the first time changed his life forever, because he had to focus on seeing things as Jesus would see them. After five years, he believed preparing for that role was the greatest spiritual growth exercise in his life.

Think about it. Jesus knew exactly what would happen. He knew the mission he had to accomplish. He knew that every road he traveled led to an agonizing death on a cruel Roman cross. With that knowledge, every photon that entered his eyes took on greater meaning and intensity.  Given his deeper knowledge, what did Jesus see as from his unique vantage point on the Cross?

The eyes of Jesus’ body had a good view of the crowd gathered at Golgotha. A strange and unusual mix of people the diverse crowd that gathered to witness his execution wasn’t a crowd in Jesus’ eyes. Jesus saw a gathering of individuals, each with their own life experience, identity and viewpoint. Roman soldiers rolled the dice just beneath Him, dividing His clothing among them. A group of women wept, mourning the one that they had loved and followed. Jewish elders hurled insults, challenging His claim to be the Christ: “He saved others, but he cannot save himself.” Jesus’ disciples gathered, confused by their leader’s apparent surrender. His mother wept, releasing thirty-three years of motherly angst, knowing that her boy was the Son of God, knowing that this day would come. Just as in today’s church, a sea of spectators gathered around these main players, the same fickle crowd that hailed Him as King of the Jews just a week before that dark day when they called for Barabbas’ release and Jesus’ crucifixion.

The eyes of Jesus’ soul saw each person in the gathering, their needs, their hurts, their misunderstanding. As he looked at his mother, Jesus felt her heartache at watching her son die a slow, miserable death. He commissioned the disciple John to care for Mary as his own mother, a compassionate act that not only served his mother’s needs, but the needs of his disciple to love and serve his dying Lord.

The mob of bloodthirsty onlookers must have caused Jesus’ tender heart to break. They didn’t even begin to understand the redemptive scene they witnessed.  Jesus felt no anger or bitterness, as you or I might. He looked at them with eyes full of compassion, longing for them to accept the sacrifice he offered on their behalf. He prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they’re doing.”

Jesus’ disciples—the men with whom He had traveled and lived with for three years—had no more insight than the ignorant mob. He saw their confusion,heartache, and utter cluelessness.  Of all those gathered, only Jesus fully understood what took place that day, but he knew that in time his disciples’ mourning would turn into laughter, their tears into shouts of joy, their discouragement into vision and purpose.

The eyes of Jesus’ Spirit saw what only he could comprehend. For the first time in all eternity, Jesus experienced isolation from his Father and understood the depth of human depravity and sin. Demons danced around him with delight, celebrating their supposed victory—but with eyes not limited in time and space, Jesus also saw those demons cowering in darkened corners three days later. He saw an eternal bridge, christened with his blood, that would allow mankind the same intimate, personal relationship with God that Adam and Eve enjoyed in Eden before they sinned. When others saw only defeat, Jesus saw victory.

The dying Messiah looked beyond His momentary pain and saw 3000 people receiving His salvation on the day of Pentecost as cowardly Peter, who had denied Him three times, boldly preached under the empowerment of the Holy Spirit. Further down the timeline, Saul of Tarsus, a vicious enemy of the Gospel, accepted the free gift of grace made possible only by Jesus’ sacrifice. An Ethiopian eunuch baptized by Phillip in a roadside pool took the good news to his homeland. Countless generations of mankind passed before the Savior’s eyes, generations for whom His sacrifice made possible salvation by grace through faith. Some accepted, some refused, but all made their choice between the free gift of eternal life and the self-chosen curse of eternal death. Billions made their decisions as he watched, individuals making their personal choice between grace and condemnation, death and life. Al Capone, D.L. Moody, Adolf Hitler, Billy Graham—each made their own personal, eternal choices.

Then Jesus saw you, and He knew your name.

He could have stopped his suffering. He had the authority to call a legion of angels to set Him free. Instead, He cried out, “Father, into your hands I commit my Spirit.”

Then, He bowed His head—and He died.

Because He thought you were worth it.

Our church presented its annual musical Christmas drama this past weekend, and in honor of the event I pulled and old friend from the closet shelf—my makeup case. Last night as I made my way toward a reasonably well-lighted mirror, Ryan (one of our crack sound guys) said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man with such a honkin’ big makeup case.” I chuckled, picked up my wireless microphone, and walked away with a smile. He’d obviously never been around a bunch of theater geeks.

I suppose it is more makeup than most middle managers carry around on a typical weekend, even the ones who wear makeup regularly. By theater geek standards, though, it’s rather average. Picture a typical old-fashioned blue-collar lunch bucket, the kind with a thermos inside the top half. If that’s a single-wide, my makeup case would be a double-wide. It’s well-stocked, though not gratuitously. The only thing in there that I haven’t used at least once is a one-ounce bottle of white liquid face paint (Ben Nye ML-01) given to me by a well-intentioned lady at a costume shop, who said I could use it in a pinch if I failed to find the silver-grey hair color I needed. Fortunately, I’ve never had to test her theory.

My makeup case has spent a lot of time on that closet shelf. We’ve lived in this house eleven years, and before last Thursday it hadn’t left the spot where it was stowed after we moved. I almost took it down before last year’s Christmas drama, then decided the role didn’t require makeup in such a close setting. In retrospect, I should have used it last year, but couldn’t bring myself to do it.

This year was different. The role was Paul the Apostle, in his old age while under house arrest in Rome (and yes, it did pertain to the Christmas story). My makeup case must have known that the role required its services, for it began calling my name ever so gently from the day I got the part. Last Thursday, I finally answered that call.

As I wrestled it from the high shelf, it seemed sad but anticipatory. The thick layer of dust made the black plastic look ugly and dirty, but gave way quickly to a dust rag, revealing what some would see as dirt but I saw as distinguished signs of experience—those perma-dirt makeup smudges on the top half. I snapped the latch, opened the top, and greeted my old co-conspirators in character creation. They responded by caressing my nose with that unique aroma that made me itch for the burn of stage lights on my retinas, wrapping around me like warm arms welcoming me home.

A quick inventory told me all was present and accounted for, though not everything had weathered the dormancy well. After the respectful interment of a rancid jar of Pond’s Cold Cream and an equally distasteful jar of curdled Eucerin, I retired a handful of disreputable sponges and a box of hyper-stale lemon drops, then took stock of what remained. The makeup had weathered the hiatus well, and in short order I had a brief shopping list in hand and set out to find a Ben Nye dealer in Little Rock.

It wasn’t until last night, after our third and final performance of A Night to Remember, a brand new Christmas drama written for us by Charlie Warren, that I fully grasped how much I missed my old friends in the makeup case. As I smeared cold cream on my head to dissolve my base of PC-17 “Light Egyptian” and inhaled that unique fragrance of Ben Nye Color Cake mixed with Pond’s Cold Cream, a little touch of sadness mixed in with the greasy sensation on my skin. I suddenly grasped how very much I missed the stage, bringing characters to life and connecting with an audience. It feeds me. It nourishes me in a way that only another artist can understand. It is a part of who God made me to be, a part that I have missed for far too long.

Now, I’m faced with a decision. Do I put the makeup case back on the closet shelf?

When I first moved to Little Rock eleven years ago, I was warned by a fellow theater junkie that I would find only three varieties of theater here: the “experimental, social-issues, slightly-left-of-Stalin” groups whose productions I would likely find offensive, the “in-bred, cliquish community theater” types who would welcome outsiders only when necessary, and the paid, professional, “send us your headshot and resume, and we’ll giggle because you aren’t really one of us” theaters. In retrospect, I can see that I made a serious mistake. I believed him.

Last night, as I removed my makeup and packed up my theatrical trappings, The Lord and I had a little chat about the theatrical world, and I came away with a new perspective. Perhaps the “slightly-left-of-Stalin” crowd needs a little balance. If they are true to their liberalism, they ought to respect my world view, and if I’m true to the teachings of Christ, I ought to love and respect them even if we disagree. And as for those “cliquish community theater groups,” I can look back and see that every community theater group I’ve been involved with has been cliquish. I proved myself as an actor, and was accepted into the clique. And those “professional” theaters may audition in New York, but they audition locally, too. If I really want to, I could get my foot in their door. I might not get the big, meaty roles, but they’ll respect my passion and talent. “You do not have because you do not ask.” (James 4:2)

SO, the makeup case sits across the room from me now, on a living room chair. No doubt, I’ll be made to move it before long. When that moment comes, I plan to put it somewhere obvious, a place where I’ll see it every day and hear it’s insistent call, reminding me to make connections and watch for auditions and be ready for our next joint adventure, wherever it may be.