He felt something in his life was missing, until he was called upon to play the role of a lifetime.

By Bill Oberst, Jr., Pawleys Island, South Carolina
August, 1998

I lay awake, listening to the surf outside my bedroom window. It seemed every night had been a sleepless one lately. What was wrong with me? At my new job, editing The Carolina Opry's entertainment magazines, I was making more money than I ever had. In addition, I performed a weekly one-man show as Mark Twain in one of the Opry's theaters. I should have been energized and excited, but instead I felt deflated and distracted. Strangely, I found myself wondering what I really wanted out of life.

Growing up, I was fat and had acne, so I was a favorite target for bullies. That's when I developed the yearning to be somebody important. In the meantime, I fended off ridicule by making people laugh. I mimicked our principal and teachers, as well as characters like the Hunchback of Notre Dame and Frankenstein's monster. I discovered I had a talent for capturing an audience.

In college I decided politics was my ticket to recognition. After graduation I landed a job as a radio talk-show host, my first step into the public eye. Through contacts made there—and a little luck—I became executive director of a regional chamber of commerce in the Myrtle Beach area. On the side I indulged my love of the stage by co-creating a show with friends, dramatizing the rich folklore of the South, performing five of eight characters myself.

My job and show got me lots of attention. When a U.S. Congress seat opened up in my district, I decided to go for it. Campaigning, I gazed into the faces of people at speaking engagements, many of those folks wearing buttons with my name on them, and I felt electrified. I even sold my house to finance my campaign. Although my chances of winning were slim, I believed the effort would pay off the next time.

Now everything was in place for that second attempt. I had respect, power and admiration—everything I had always wanted. Yet I couldn't shake the feeling that something crucial was missing in my life.

I got out of bed and went to the window to stare out toward the Atlantic. I felt like a bottle adrift on its roiling waves. I couldn't remember ever feeling so alone and helpless. In meetings at work I would often be taken with the feeling that I didn't belong there. I leaned my head against the cool windowpane and watched my breath fog the glass. "Lord, help me," I whispered, and the desperation in my voice surprised even me. I had always considered myself a religious person, but I had never before felt such a deep need to reach out to God.

As I prayed, it suddenly hit me that I had never before asked God to guide my way. I had always just asked for the strength to continue down the path I had chosen. I got back into bed. Show me the way, I prayed, before finally falling asleep.

The next morning I awoke feeling rested for the first time in a long time. Then I found myself with a strange idea I couldn't push out of my mind. I envisioned myself dressed as Jesus, quoting his words from the Bible before an audience. I've been under too much stress, I told myself.

But my mind whirled with more details—I could distribute questions for the audience to ask during the performance. I could share bread and fruit with them. It would give people a sense of what it must have been like to be in Jesus' presence. But who am I to do this? I thought. People will think I'm blaspheming or have a Messiah complex. No one will come.

I tried to dismiss the odd notion and went to work, throwing myself into brainstorming for new issues of the Opry's magazines. But I could barely concentrate. In desperation I prayed, Lord, what am I supposed to do? Call up a church and say, "Hi, I play Jesus"? How do I do this?

Later in the week I received a package in the mail from a woman with whom I had once worked briefly. Inside was a note: "Here is something I felt you should have." It was a leather-bound, hand-printed book. Etched in delicate gold leaf was the title, The Journeys of Jesus.

The breath went out of me. All right, Lord, I'm on my way, I thought. A few days later, during a business lunch with a public-relations man, I revealed my idea. It turned out his wife was an expert in ancient textiles. She designed an authentic costume for me. Next I ordered a Broadway-quality beard and wig. Day and night my idea consumed me while I tried to keep up with the demands of my job.

Apparently I couldn't hide my inner struggle. One day my boss took me to lunch. "You're a good person and a hard worker, Bill," he said, "but we both know your heart's not in this job. I'm going to have to let you go."

I took it quietly, but back at work I went into the empty Opry theater, climbed way up into the top row of the balcony, and cried. I would lose the money and security of my job. Leaving it behind marked the end of a path I had followed all my life. Now I was being pushed into the unknown.

The next day, I pored over Scripture for hours, picking out parables and verses that would lend themselves to discourses on various topics. During the following weeks, I called on churches to get support. I made arrangements to use a state park's open-air theater, and placed a newspaper ad announcing my free performance. I had never been so passionate about anything.

The two hours before my first show, as I carefully transformed myself into a likeness of Jesus, were the most anxious of my life. Just before walking onstage, I prayed, Lord, I don't know how I can possibly represent you. But you gave me this idea. Please help me to be worthy of you.

Midway through my presentation, I quoted Jesus' words to Nicodemus: "Listen to the wind. It blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound..." A murmur rose from the audience as a soft wind began to rustle the surrounding palm trees. "But you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit." I paused. I am truly where I belong.

I've done hundreds of performances in the four years since, and every time I walk out onstage I feel a tingle up my spine: I know I'm helping bring people closer to God.

At one performance I had just recited what Jesus told his disciples in the garden of Gethsemane: "My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death." Just then a little girl came running down the aisle, her dark hair flying behind her. She skipped up to me and handed me a note, then threw her arms around me. I looked at the words she had written: "I love you, Jesus." I held her close to me and looked up. "But you have made my heart glad," I said.

This is not the life of fame I once imagined. After a service, without my makeup, I can walk unrecognized among the audience. They didn't come to see me; they came to see Jesus. I couldn't be happier. It's not about me; it's about God. He was the piece missing in my life all along.