I was a fresh recruit to physical theatre, brimming with idealism and raw technique. My strength and stubborn dedication had won a spot on the team, but as I looked out from the stage, I felt weak and wavering. If the audience only knew my dearth of experience, how feeble my ability, surely they would demand refunds. Yet we survived to the end, despite a few mishaps, and they applauded.

I learned to wear the mystique of the stage like armor. Misgivings aside, I projected confidence in an expertise I didn’t yet possess. But I’d seen the frailty of my fellow performers. My rookie doubts and struggles still surfaced in twenty-year veterans, and I wondered why we went to such great lengths to put on the mask. Isn’t an authentic, shared experience the reason people attend theatre? Art can bypass defenses and express truth that speaks directly to the soul. That’s what drew me to performance. I reveled in capturing God’s truth through the sub-creation process, though most of my performances weren’t religious in nature. People laughed or wept, or even learned something.

But I was afraid.

Breath. It always comes back to the rhythm of air. We learned to listen to each other’s exhale on stage to know when to start moving. In lieu of counting beats in the music, we learned to feel the ebb and flow of strain and rest in each other’s bodies. We trained in acrobatics and methods of mimetic manipulation, but our performances were rooted in the profoundly human: simple stories of bringing joy to the elderly, narratives of life springing from the ground to bloom against all odds—moving pictures of common grace.

The more I gained technique and theory, growing as a dancer and actor, the less invigorating it became to consume art. Rewatching my shows on video, or viewing other groups perform live, seemed trite. Within one year of becoming—ahem—a professional, the poison of elitism had transformed me inexorably into an art critic (a position for which I was even less qualified than performer). In my arrogance, I denounced others as hackneyed and repetitive, lacking in scope of imagination. They were all technically deficient or, worse, boring. Like an addict, I sought out greater displays of skill and more daring examples of creative license, but I knew that in my heart I had already weighed them on the scales and found them wanting.

One day I chatted backstage with fellow performers prior to a particularly emotional piece. We joked about reviewing shopping lists on stage: in the depths of the narrative’s pathos, our faces contorted in agony, our minds were counting how many eggs we had left in the fridge. Afterward, we heard from people who approached to share vulnerable moments, hoping to connect with us as their hearts overflowed. To the credit of my company members, we always made time for listening. Don’t misunderstand me; we cared deeply for people, and I have fond memories of my time with the team. Yet we were strangely removed from the passion that we’d first poured into the pieces we performed. We’d inured ourselves to the power of the story.

A time of reckoning finally arrived. I’d become jaded and apathetic, and my technique suffered. I could have coasted through to the end of my few years on tour, but instead I reflected on why I’d been attracted to a career in the arts. I wanted people to experience the magic and mystery of the worlds we spun into existence, to encounter something beyond their ken, but I couldn’t invite them into a partnership when I was detached and aloof. I needed to revisit the admonition in 1 Peter 5 to not lord over the flock. Although directed to pastors, the charge to tenderly nourish the sheep holds true for artists as well. Performing is leading. We forge a path for the audience to follow. And to lead, we must grasp this truth: the artist is first and foremost a servant.

Leaders can veer into a rockstar mentality or sink into apathy if they’re not on guard. Neither is conducive to leading with humility. Instead, we ought to adopt the difficult sayings in Luke 17:7 - 10 and embrace our duty as servants. Otherwise, we risk developing a patronizing attitude, viewing the audience as rabble barely worthy of watching our works of genius. But to lead, we must see where we’re going. If we can’t, then we’re like the blind leading the blind; we’ll both fall into a pit. Don’t lose heart, however. We often quote Luke 6:39 and don’t go on to the next verse about disciples and masters: “everyone who is fully trained will be like his teacher.”

In all things, whether pastoring or performing, we ought to ask how to become like the Master. Imitation forms the bedrock of Christian maturity. “Imitate me,” Paul commands in 1 Corinthians 11:1, “just as I imitate Christ.” The Greek word here for imitation, mimétés, a form of the root word from which we get the English word mime, carries the idea of emulating or copying; we playact at godly behavior while we grow and mature in the Christian life, and eventually we discover that we have got it right. Jesus didn’t remain aloof. His incarnation is the example we all strive to embody—to become like another, to share their frailties and cares, and in so doing point them toward a better thing. Jesus came to love and to lay down His life—and, ultimately, to triumph. We can learn to create in the same way.

The rending of the temple veil that accompanied the death of Christ carries far more meaning than the lifting of the curtain in the theatre, but as a performer I want to to usher the audience  into a sacred place. Fulfilling our calling as artists and leaders means painting a tableau of life for our audience, entering into their world with an invitation to enter into ours, and putting to death our fears in order to bring them into the inner sanctuary. Theatre certainly isn’t the holy of holies, but it is an opportunity to enter a secret place of wonder and, perhaps, revelation.

Even now, half a dozen years after I’ve retired from theatre and transitioned into writing fiction, I still apply the same guiding principle. I’m a co-conspirator with the audience. Together, we’re embarking on an adventure, and along the way we just might discover something that’s lovely and true and admirable.

Pilate famously asked, “What is truth?” Stories can reveal truth via untruth—that is, the fiction of story. Whether prose or performance, the narrative world temporarily becomes accepted reality. Although the operational rules may differ from our everyday experiences, we've all had a moment when a story surprises us with implications that translate to the real world. Fiction can shift the foundations of reality for a heartbeat. Perhaps this is why performers often crusade for a cause or engage in didacticism or polemic. Conversely, others insist on ars gratia artis as a purer artistic expression. Regardless of where you stand, escapism need not be a dirty word. We can remain rooted in reality while engaging in dreamlike respite. Far from willful ignorance of the travails of the world, we recognize art is an invitation to rest and recharge.

The Christian, however, ought to ask: what are our responsibilities as truth-tellers in an age of fluid reality? We can reaffirm the centrality of a robust faith—the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen—in the role of truth within fiction. Beyond the question of what we communicate with our stories, we should also ask how we approach the telling. Resignation? Entitlement? Or fear and trembling and joy as we offer an invitation into the inner sanctum to our co-conspirators?

When we humbly invite our audience to a new experience that we curate for them, we have an opportunity to move past disillusionment, burnout, or a sense of the grandiose, and recover something more mundane but far more precious. Entering into this shared simulacrum is a sacred agreement between artist and audience. It’s a promise of transportation, if they’re willing, to a place of vulnerability and wonder, where they can experience joy or sorrow or edification, or just plain have fun.

In a way, I’ve come full circle. Now, instead of the uncertainty of a wide-eyed rookie, I embrace humility, although the two may look similar. I’ve wrestled with the temptation toward elitism and rejected it for the mantle of servanthood. Whether on stage or not, I invite you to participate in everyday theatre by taking on the role of a lifetime: imitation of the Master.