I though I was just agreeing to be part of a tableau that looked something like this . . .

It seemed like an almost innocuous request: could I be a part of a “Living Lord’s Supper,” for the Maundy Thursday service at my church.

Sure, I could put on a robe and be part of a Da Vinci-esque tableau. Why not?

So, I volunteered, and the next thing I knew I got an e-mail with my monologue and a rehearsal schedule.

Monologue? Rehearsal? I need to more thoroughly vet these little requests.

Yes indeedy, the Living Lord’s Supper was more than looking like part of a masterpiece. It was actually a reenactment — key word, “act” — of Jesus’ final meal with his disciples in which Christ would announce he was going to be betrayed, and then each of the disciples stepped forward to tell their stories and insist they would not betray Jesus.

I was Philip, frankly a kind of boring disciple. Didn’t betray anyone, didn’t doubt anyone. Just saw Jesus and rolled with him. But the monologue, written by our pastor, Woody Berry, was a nice two to two-and-a-half minute — depending on how I paced it — journey of fascination and acceptance. Directing us through it was Martha “Mrs. Lincoln” Campbell.

The last time I acted was a scene class in college, more than 20 years ago. So, could I memorize a line? Did I have any business trying to deliver a performance, even a two-minute one?

Martha was there to help. Since this was basically a collection of monologues, most of our rehearsal was one-on-one sessions with our director. Martha talked to me about telling a story, dividing the piece into logical sections and how to give them maximum impact.

What impacted me most working on the piece was something I look for in performances from actors I watch today, but don’t recall registering with me in middle or high school theatre. That was really internalizing the story and emotion of the character. I played Bob Cratchit in seventh grade, but it wasn’t until much later in life that I really thought about what it might be like to work for a mizer while scraping by on a meager living for my family, including a crippled son.

But as I worked on this piece, I would stop and think what it must have been like to be a disciple and hear Jesus speak and watch him work for the first time. It was something I worked to internalize and share, and it also fed our supper scene. Imagine a man you’ve followed passing you bread and saying it’s his body, wine and saying it’s his blood. “This is bizarre,” was written on our faces as we played the scene in dress rehearsal.

That rehearsal wasn’t the best experience. Three-quarters of the way through rehearsal, I blanked. No idea what my next line was.

Maybe this wasn’t such a hot idea. Maybe I should have called when I got that e-mail and said I didn’t realize what I was getting myself into and needed to bow out.

The next two days, I drilled the piece — in the car, on the treadmill, doing chores, instead of counting sheep . . .

Maundy Thursday came, and memory was no longer my problem. But there was a problem.

The ringtone, ironically, was When the Saints Go Marching In.

It started right as I was heading into a quotation from Jesus. It was a part of the monologue I had really worked on, trying to strike the right tone.  And now, in the actual presentation, it was competing with a ringing cell phone that was not getting turned off.

What to do? It wasn’t really a part where I could take a pause in character. No way to really incorporate a cell phone ring into a character from the First Century A.D. I just had to concentrate and keep going, hoping the ring wasn’t as loud as it sounded standing there before the congregation.

It’s a memory that I will take from performing in the Living Lord’s Supper, but not the memory. The memory is listening to the many stories my castmates shared, many new perspectives on stories I thought I knew or never bothered to pay attention to. Such is the power of drama, and we have some really good actors in our congregation.

For one evening, it was great to be a part of the drama — for one evening.