Easter 2018: Under the Sycamore Tree

Note: This is a written and edited version of reflections I recorded after the 2018 production. I've reorganized the material thematically for better readability.

Here’s the video recording of the show.

Why This Post, Now

I didn't share much about the previous year's productions. Our church was going through a difficult season, and it didn't feel right to focus on personal reflections when we were collectively processing something heavier. I was dealing with my own challenges too.

But 2018 felt different. The experience was worth documenting—not just the performance itself, but everything that happens behind the scenes, the choices that shape what the audience actually sees, and what I learned in the process. There's real value in pulling back the curtain on what it actually takes to do this kind of work, spiritually and technically.

The Physical Preparation

Hair & Appearance

One of the first things I had to commit to was my hair. I intentionally grew it out for two to four months leading up to the production, which felt strange at the time. Here's why: for the character I was playing, I felt the long hair was essential. It fit the period, and more importantly, it supported the visual story I wanted to tell. Short hair would have made the character read as too young, which would distract from what I was trying to convey spiritually and emotionally.

It was uncomfortable—genuinely. By the end, it was very long. But the visual worked.

Removing Facial Hair

I also had to remove all my facial hair entirely. This sounds small, but it was part of a larger principle: anything about my physical appearance that might distract people from the character or the story had to go. The makeup process itself was elaborate—layers of glue, powder, application—and removing facial hair meant the cleanup afterward wouldn't be agonizing. I learned from previous productions that trying to remove glue from leg hair is painful. Better to eliminate the problem upfront.

Weight Loss & Ketosis

The most significant physical change was my weight. Easter always falls after Chinese New Year, when we feast and gain weight. When I started preparing for this role, I was 75.2 kg. By Easter, I was 69.2 kg. Six kilograms in roughly a month.

I used the ketogenic diet—ketosis—to achieve this. I did my research, and I highly recommend looking into it if you're interested in the approach. But why did this matter for the character?

Two things: First, practically speaking, a visibly overweight Jesus carrying the cross reads differently to an audience than a fit one. The cross carrying is hard work; the body needs to communicate that. Second, and more importantly, I remembered something an actor—I think Michael Caine—once said: if you show your body on stage, people stop watching your acting and start watching your body instead. My goal was to create a body that didn't distract—that allowed people to focus on the character and the story, not on judging my physique.

That said, I'm aware people have different expectations. Some want Jesus fit and strong; others prefer a different build. One year, another actor who played Jesus was very fit, and someone in the audience said they didn't like how muscular he was. In that moment, I realized I had some freedom here. For me, I didn't want to portray Jesus as overly strong or physically impressive. I wanted the focus on his suffering and his humanity.

Performance: The Physical & Technical Reality

Adjusting Body Language

Over the three shows, I made deliberate adjustments based on what I was learning.

Early on, I noticed my leg position during the crucifixion walk wasn't looking quite right. When I walked naturally, my legs looked strong—too strong. In photographs, it didn't convey suffering. So in the 2nd and 3rd shows, I changed my approach: I bent my knees slightly and pointed them inward as I walked. This created a visual stumble with every step, a physical vulnerability that better communicated the character's pain.

Similarly, during the crucifixion scene itself, I made a deliberate choice about my stomach. Physically, no matter how fit I was, when I bent over, there was still a small protrusion. I knew some people would find this distracting. So during the crucifixion walk, I held my stomach in—consistently, for the entire walk. It was uncomfortable. I was essentially breathing shallowly while trying to portray someone in agony. But when I was on the cross afterward, when I was breathing hard and catching my breath, that was real. The physical strain was genuine.

Reactions & Intentionality

When soldiers hit me during the scene, I committed fully to the reaction. The whip didn't always make contact, but I acted as if it did every time—big, visceral reactions. I told the team upfront: if you actually hit me, go ahead. I don't want the audience to feel like the violence is soft or fake. If it connects, it connects. I'm fine with that. It serves the character.

And in moments like when the disciples came to help me after the crucifixion, there was real human connection. I reached for them, gripped their hands briefly before they were pulled away, then had to quickly reset and get back into character. Those moments had to feel true.

Technical Challenges & Improvisation

When Things Go Wrong on Stage

During the first show, a security issue at the building meant one of our actors couldn't get backstage to deliver his single line. We only had a moment to adjust—a single line of dialogue was missing, and the show needed to move forward.

Here's the thing: I'm not naturally good at improv. But I've trained myself to imagine what could go wrong and mentally prepare responses. So when that actor didn't appear, I already had a mental pathway. I delivered a line that moved the scene forward and kept us on track for the next moment.

This matters because accidents happen on stage. Real life isn't scripted. When things break, you need to be prepared to break with them—not in a way that breaks the story, but in a way that honors where you are and where you need to go next.

Timing & Musical Cues

One of the hardest parts of live performance is managing timing when emotions run high. The entire production runs on a single musical track. There's no stopping, no waiting for an actor to finish their emotional moment. If someone gets caught in the emotion and misses a musical cue, the whole timeline shifts.

I had to learn to feel the emotional depth while simultaneously staying aware of the music, watching for the next cue, and being ready to adjust my pacing or lines if someone else had gotten lost. Sometimes I'd shorten my lines. Sometimes I'd hasten through a moment. It's a delicate balance—you can't sacrifice the emotion, but you can't lose the structure either.

The Makeup Gauntlet

Between the crucifixion scene and the final resurrection scene, I had maybe thirty seconds to get cleaned up. The makeup team had to remove all the makeup, clean the blood from my face and body, clean my hands and feet, and get me back into costume.

On the first show, we didn't make it in time. I was still being cleaned up when I needed to be on stage. We'd prepared for this before by applying a prosthetic that protruded from the palm, but this year we didn't have time—we just drew a black dot instead.

Then, as I head up, my cloak got caught on one of the stage lights. By the time I got myself untangled, I made a judgment call: I put the cloak on my arm and proceeded. There was a brief moment of delay, but we carried on.

In live performance, you don't always get to save every moment. You move forward.

The Spiritual Dimension

Why the 3rd Show Was Different

Among the three performances, something shifted by the third day. The director and I shared an observation: it felt different spiritually.

One of the young actors playing Jesus in a flashback scene gave a fantastic performance that day—so emotionally present and committed that it elevated everyone around him. When one person brings that level of presence, it creates a ripple. Everyone else wants to match it. The energy was different. The atmosphere was different. It wasn't just better; it felt lighter, more grounded, more real.

The Ketosis Collapse & God's Provision

Here's something most people don't know: the day before the final show, I ate a glazed doughnut. It sounds small, but for someone on a strict ketogenic diet, it was significant.

When your body is in ketosis, it's burning fat for energy. Once sugar enters the system, your body exits that state and starts looking for glucose again. On the day of the third show, during makeup application, I started to feel faint and giddy. My body was looking for sugar it didn't have. I had to sit down. The makeup team helped me recover—they got me some food with sugar content, got my blood flowing again.

But here's what happened in that moment: I was alone, holding the cross during preparation, and I was thinking about Wee Kee —a brother with special needs from our church community who had passed away due to an accident. Wee Kee is protective of Jesus during the crucifixion scene; he doesn't understand what's happening, only that someone he cares about is in danger. He runs toward the soldiers, tries to protect.

In that vulnerable moment, I prayed. I said, Lord, I know he's with you now and in a better place. I'm grateful for him. But I thought of him today.

And then I heard—I never confirmed this, but I heard—that during my crucifixion walk, people had tried to come attack me. Audience members so moved or disturbed they wanted to intervene. But the soldiers stopped them. Nothing happened. We were protected.

I can't verify all the details, but I know this: I was physically weak, spiritually dependent, and God held space for the performance to happen. That's what I hold onto from that moment. Not my strength or my preparation, but his provision when I had nothing left.

Recovery & Presence

Once the team got me some food and helped me recover, my energy returned. And because I had surrendered that moment—because I wasn't relying on my own resources—I went into that final show differently. I was more present. I was more reliant on something bigger than myself. And everyone felt it.

Script & Story Decisions

Why Marion Didn't Come Back to Life

Early in the script development, Marion (the character's wife) was written to come back to life at the end. But when I read through it with the scriptwriter and the team, something didn't sit right.

I gave feedback: I didn't think it worked. Not story-wise, not theologically.

Here's my reasoning: Yes, the Bible has resurrection stories. But the Bible also has people dying every single day. Not everyone comes back to life. When Jesus was alive, people were born and people died. That's real life. And for a character like Zacchaeus (who the Easter story is told through), the point isn't that he gets his wife back. The point is how he learns to overcome loss through Christ.

• Consider Job: he lost everything—his family, his wealth. God didn't bring his family back to life. But God gave him something new. Restoration wasn't resurrection; it was renewal.

For Zacchaeus, having Marion stay dead—having her loss be real and permanent—creates space for the actual Easter message: we overcome loss not because our loved ones are magically restored, but because Christ has overcome death itself, and that changes how we carry our grief.

I also think it's important that Marion stays dead because it creates a talking point. After the show ends, people don't just walk out thinking "that was a good show." They ask questions. Why didn't she come back? What does that mean? How do we deal with loss if Jesus doesn't just restore what we've lost? Those conversations are where the real theology happens.

Symbolic Moments

At the very beginning of the show, I place my cloak on Zacchaeus. Later, young Jesus places his cloak on me. It's a mirror, a cycle.

For me, it's deeply symbolic: we keep trying to do things our way. We fail, and we fail, and we fail. At the end, Jesus comes and says, You need to let go of your past mistakes. I have come to make all things new. We stop relying on our old methodologies and methods. We stop trusting what we think is best and surrender to his guidance.

I don't know what your symbolic moments are when you watch it. I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Lessons & Reflections

Preparation is About More Than Technique

What strikes me looking back is how much of performance happens in layers: physical, technical, emotional, spiritual. You prepare your body. You memorize your lines. You mentally rehearse what might go wrong. But ultimately, the deepest preparation is learning to let go—to trust that when you've done what you can, something larger than your effort takes over.

The technical moments matter. The physical choices matter. The emotional authenticity matters. But none of it works if you're white-knuckling your way through, trying to control every outcome. At some point, you have to release it.

Why This Matters

Everything we did in this production—the weight loss, the leg positioning, the costume adjustments, the timing work, the conversation about Marion's death—existed for one reason: to serve the story of Christ to the people in that room. Not to prove something about ourselves as performers. Not to create a polished theatrical experience for its own sake.

I think about that a lot. We spent months preparing, made countless small decisions, pushed our bodies and our focus to the edge. And it was all in service of the possibility that one person—maybe just one—would encounter Jesus differently through this retelling.

When you pray and release what you've created into God's hands, you're acknowledging something crucial: you're not doing this work for yourselves. You're serving something bigger than your own artistic success or perfection.

If you have thoughts about the production—what moved you, what questions you still have, symbolic moments you noticed—I'd genuinely love to hear them. That dialogue is part of what this is for.

God bless.