Monica Dux - Lapsed

For Kris Mrksa,

the light of my world

Casting the role of Jesus has always been a tricky business. Going for a hunky Hollywood leading man seems tacky, yet a saviour who lacks screen presence is also out of the question. You could take the Ben Hur approach, in which Jesus face is never seen, but then you get a Christ notable primarily for His footwear. Do you cast an unknown in the hope that the performance will be untainted with other associations, or do you just get Willem Dafoe in, and accept that while hes emoting on the cross, some people will see the bad guy from the original Spider-Man movie?

I say all this as someone who has played Jesus, and to considerable acclaim. At the age of ten I was chosen to depict Our Lord in my parishs Holy Thursday Easter passion play, which was something of a theatrical institution, at least in the immediate neighbourhood of my Sydney suburb. My selection was an honour made even greater by the fact that in the past, the coveted role of JC had always gone to a Grade Sixer, while I was in Grade Five.

As a child with a strong sense of her own manifest destiny, this seemed quite unremarkable to me. Yet it caused considerable consternation among the older kids, at least if my friend Marie OBrien was to be believed. Marie told me her Grade Six classmates were angry. What was so special about that Monica Dux, they asked, to justify this outrageous break with tradition? Luckily I was already in character, so I simply turned the other cheek.

As a concession to the controversial casting, a Grade Sixer was chosen to read the narration an important job, since I would remain mute during the performance, expressing myself through dance. Hymns would be sung at key moments, at which point my chorus line of disciples would dance with me to the accompaniment of Miss Horton on the Hammond organ.

On the morning of the big day, my hair was taken out of its usual plaits and brushed straight, which my proud mum, Kath, deemed to be more Christ-like. Then I was dressed in a special gown, the single brown satin one that the school owned. And so I took my place in front of the altar, ready to enact the Passion.

Like all interpretative dance, the Catholic version that we performed, known as liturgical dance, usually allows for a good deal of improvisation. The big difference being that when youre performing an improv for Jesus, your moves are supposed to be inspired by the Holy Spirit. This posed problems for our passion play, especially among my less disciplined disciples such as Sonia Marino, who was prone to lewder dance steps picked up while watching Hot Gossip on the Kenny Everett Video Show. To combat this, Miss Horton had choreographed most of the numbers, building a set routine around liturgically appropriate moves. For example, the airborne dove involved holding your hands together above your head, then fluttering them like bird wings. There you have it: the Holy Spirit, captured in dance. Or there was the ever-popular horizontal lunge, which involved throwing your body sidewards and waving your arms like flags on a squally day. Hark, God is all around us!

I suspect that by the time Miss Horton got to the Last Supper, which was where my solo dance work would take centre stage, shed run a bit dry on choreographic ideas. So, she told me I could just make it up. And, oh sweet Jesus, did I ever.

Those at the Last Supper table stood in mute awe as I exhorted them to eat of my body and drink of my blood all in dance. Which is harder than it sounds, as there are only so many doves, swishes and sideways lunges you can execute before it starts to feel a bit samey. Still, I forged ahead. After a short dance-free reprieve in front of Pontius Pilate, another role gifted to a smarting Grade Sixer, I was led away to be crucified. I stood with my arms outstretched against an imaginary cross until I was finally pronounced dead.

But it didnt end there, oh no. As dead Jesus, I swooned into the arms of the Grade Sixers playing Roman guards. Given their mood, I did this with some trepidation, but they were also caught up in the moment, so instead of dumping me on the church floor, they carried me reverently to my tomb behind the altar. Obscured from the congregation, I readied myself to rise from the dead.

Had you wandered into our church on that Holy Thursday in 1983, you would have found the place bursting with children and parents, so many that it was standing room only up the back. Yet a hush fell over the room as I waited for my cue.

From behind the altar, my hands emerged the hands of Jesus! These were followed by arms, a head, then at last I/Jesus was completely revealed, like a holy jack-in-the-box but in dramatic slow-mo.

Praise be! He is Risen!

I walked slowly to the front of the altar, the entire supporting cast looking on in reverence as I marched out through the church foyer, my arms still outstretched to Heaven.

And on I went. And on. Because no one had told me where I should stop. I just kept walking, alone but still deeply in character, until I reached the parish hall. At which point a teacher came running out to get me, which was just as well or Id probably have kept walking and been ploughed down by a bus on Coxs Road.

People never applauded in church, but Mum assured me that my performance had been a triumph. Mrs Hogan, the Grade Two teacher, had been so moved shed wept. Photos of me were displayed on the noticeboard at the well-attended end-of-year Parish Turkey and Tinsel craft event. Certainly, it was the pinnacle of my young Catholic life. To be honest, its still a bit of a lifetime highlight. But back then I just felt it was my destiny, finally fulfilled. Because I was the perfect Catholic girl, the one most likely to meet Our Lord.

*

Most children grow up hearing fanciful tales of supernatural occurrences and magical happenings, from Disney princesses to Harry Potter and beyond. Then theres Santa Claus, the Easter bunny and even the tooth fairy, all of whom blur the line between fantasy and reality, at least for a time.

My childhood was no different, but as I was a devout Catholic, it was dominated by another set of equally fantastic tales, involving the fellow I had so compellingly portrayed that Easter. The big difference was that according to my family, my teachers and just about every adult I knew the Jesus story was a hundred per cent true. Even though, when you consider it objectively, it makes Lord of the Rings and My Little Pony look like works of kitchen sink realism.

Matt and me. The year he played Jesus. The better Jesus is on the left, unless you believe the critics.

And the unlikely adventures of Christ and friends were only the start. We were also told stories of the lives of the saints, many of which ended with gruesome deaths and miraculous happenings. Most of the major saints also had a special trick they could do; for example, Saint Christopher would keep you safe if you went travelling, Saint Anthony would help you find lost things, while Saint Francis was your man if your budgie was feeling poorly. It was like a superhero team-up comic, where one character has extra strength, another has laser beams coming out of her eyes, and a third goes invisible. Individually formidable together, unbeatable!

The important thing for non-Catholics to understand is that none of this was ever described to us as magic. When crazy stuff happened in the story of Jesus or in the tales of the saints, it was miraculous. And miracles, unlike magic, are real.