Years ago I belonged to a parish church that was among the first in our community to enact a “passion play.” It covered Jesus’ life from his arrest on Thursday night, his death on Friday, and his Resurrection on Sunday morning. The props and special effects were engineering feats, the makeup and costumes amazing, but it was the SRO attendance at the one enactment on Good Friday that proved our church had attempted something special. The first year I played in the “the angry mob.” I really wanted a speaking role, but the deacons and their wives had already taken all of those. I just had to do the best I could with what I had been assigned. The deacon playing Jesus led the way up and down the church aisles carrying a cross. Roman soldiers accompanied him. Behind them walked John and the two Marys. The Angry Mob (about a dozen of us) brought up the rear, jeering and calling for Jesus’ death. I knew I had nailed my performance when a furious preschooler lunged at me from