How Pageants Can Teach Compassion

Pageants can be such a rich opportunity to share in our most precious stories. But ever notice how they can be so… boring?

But believe me, the story isn’t boring, it’s just when the script becomes too familiar.

So what’s the solution?

Change the script?

Yes.

Change the script.

By in my opinion, if you have to change Christian tradition, always start from Scripture and always lead with doing no harm.

Let’s do this…

Every year, our children offer a Nativity Pageant to mark the Advent season and the Liturgical Year.

At the end of Lent this past year, our youth concluded the Lenten season with a Last Supper Pageant.

The pageant was more of disciples introduce themselves — with backstories, anxieties, jobs, and families.

And by looking at the scripture and the history, what we find: human themes like family, compassion, political anxiety, and even…. social awkwardness.

The guest book

The setup is simple. A dinner host — one of the kids — stands at a podium with a reservation book. "Jesus, party of thirteen? Your dinner reservation is ready." The disciples file in to sign a guest book before sitting down for Passover dinner. And instead of reciting verses, each one tells you who they are.

The first thing that happens is that Jesus volunteers to wash feet (John 13:1–17). No speech. No theology. The leader of the group just raises his hand for the job nobody wants. The kids see it happen before a single word of explanation.

The conceit is small. The effect is not. Because once a child starts introducing a disciple as a whole person — with a job, a family, a worry, a reason for being in that room — they stop performing a Bible story and start inhabiting a human community on the worst night of its life.

And each disciple became a different teaching opportunity.

Matthew: the situation

Matthew talks about his career in tax collection (Matthew 9:9, 10:3) — how taxes are supposed to fund roads and education and feed hungry people, but the empire has weaponized the system. He's the disciple who threw a great banquet for Jesus when he first joined (Luke 5:29), and in the pageant he's still doing it — picking up supplies, hosting dinners, trying to give back from what he's saved.

Matthew sets the political situation. By the time he sits down, the congregation knows: this is an occupied country. The systems that are supposed to care for people are being used against them. The dinner is not happening in a vacuum. It is happening under empire.

Then, quietly: "I really hope Jesus enjoys this year's Passover Dinner. He's been a little preoccupied lately."

The dread starts early. Not as a plot twist, but as a thing everyone in the room already senses and no one wants to name.

James Alphaeus: the family

James, child of Alphaeus (Matthew 10:3, Mark 3:18), is Jesus's cousin. He teaches the family history — the birth in Bethlehem (Luke 2:1–7), the flight to Egypt (Matthew 2:13–15), the move back to Galilee (Matthew 2:19–23), the yearly family tradition of going to the Temple for Passover. He remembers the time twelve-year-old Jesus disappeared and turned up teaching in the synagogue like a rabbi (Luke 2:41–52). He mentions his other cousin John the Baptist (Luke 1:36) — "those two were so close, two peas in a pod, always believing that things will get better if you work hard enough for it." He describes the baptism — the sky opening, the Spirit descending like a dove (Matthew 3:13–17) — and Jesus going into the desert afterward to study and grow (Matthew 4:1–11).

And he mentions Thaddeus — Jesus's younger brother, who is running late because he has a bad cough and doesn't want to get the group sick. A small detail. An enormous humanization. Thaddeus isn't missing from the story because he doesn't matter. He's late because he cares about the people at the table. So the disciples take care of each other. That is the family system this pageant is teaching.

Peter: the weight

Peter talks about the day Jesus called him and Andrew away from their fishing nets (Matthew 4:18–20, Mark 1:16–18) — "Follow me, I will make you fish for people!" — and the lamp that clicked in his head when he realized this was the one the prophets had predicted. He talks about the pressure Jesus puts on him, the vague promise about building a church on him (Matthew 16:18). "I'm not sure what that means. It's a lot of pressure, but I have good family and friends, and we look out for each other."

Peter is learning what it feels like to be given responsibility before you understand why. The kids performing this scene recognize that feeling. They are at the age where adults begin to expect things of them that they do not yet understand, and Peter's honest bewilderment — I trust him, even though he doesn't always tell us what's going on — gives them a character who holds faith and confusion at the same time without pretending either one away.

Then, dropping his voice: "I'm worried though. He's… distracted. Jesus asked us to keep watch over him tonight, while he prays." (Matthew 26:36–38)

James and John Zebedee: the call

James, child of Zebedee, teaches what it means to follow a call. He and his brother John were fixing nets with their parents when Jesus showed up and started teaching (Matthew 4:21–22, Mark 1:19–20). "I had that feeling in my heart, like it was something that I had to do. I looked at my parents and brother, and I knew that I had to come and see."

His brother John came along too, after making sure it was okay with the family. That detail matters. The call doesn't require you to abandon the people you love without a word. John checked with the family first. Faithfulness to the call and faithfulness to the people who raised you are not opposites.

James mentions that John calls Jesus's mother "Auntie Mary," and that the two of them have "really become family for each other" (John 19:26–27). James catalogs what he and John have seen — water turned to wine because Mary told Jesus to (John 2:1–11), someone brought back to life (John 11:1–44), dozens healed, thousands fed (Matthew 14:13–21, Mark 6:30–44). The kids hearing this learn that the community Jesus built was not just an organization. It was a family system — people becoming kin to each other across bloodlines, building something that would need to hold together after the worst thing happens.

Philip: the translator

Philip was raised in the same neighborhood as James and John — Bethsaida (John 1:44, 12:21) — but his father is from Greece. His Greek name is itself a signal. He speaks Greek and Aramaic, reads some Biblical Hebrew, and grew up with both the Torah and the Greek heroes. When Greek pilgrims come looking for Jesus, they come to Philip first (John 12:20–22) — because he speaks their language, literally and culturally.

Philip is doing translation work — not just between languages but between cultures. He finds the overlap between what his Greek friends already know and what Jesus is doing, and he builds a bridge. "It's like we finally get our own heroic king, the Hebrew Son of God. A Healer who walks on water and defeats demons with courage and compassion."

For kids in a multilingual, multicultural congregation, Philip is the disciple who looks like their Tuesday. He's the kid in the family who explains things to the relatives who speak a different language. He's the one who code-switches. And the pageant treats that skill as a gift, not as a compromise — the very thing that makes Philip useful to the movement is his ability to live in two worlds at once.

Nathaniel: the filter-less

Nathaniel has been waiting for the Messiah his whole life. When Philip bursts in with the news, Nathaniel's first response is: "Can anything good come out of Nazareth?" (John 1:46)

He's immediately embarrassed. "I should have had a better filter. I should have been better at reading the room. I should figure out how to make this better."

And then — the moment that changes everything — Jesus responds to the insult with a compliment: "Here is truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit!" (John 1:47). Jesus saw the good in him when he was at his worst.

Nathaniel teaches the children what grace looks like when you're the one who just said the wrong thing. Not grace as a theological concept. Grace as: you blurted out something terrible, and the person you hurt responded by naming the best thing about you. Every kid in that room has been Nathaniel. They've all said the thing they shouldn't have said, in front of the person they most wanted to impress. And this scene tells them that Jesus's first instinct, when someone shows up imperfect, is to find what's honest in them and call it good.

Simon the zealot, Thomas the skeptic

Simon the Zealot (Luke 6:15, Acts 1:13) names the political danger plainly — the checkpoints, the walls, the informants, the Romans keeping a close eye on Jesus after the temple incident (Matthew 21:12–13, Mark 11:15–17). "They like to make an example of trouble-makers, especially trouble makers who oppose the empire."

But Simon's real theological contribution is what he says about Thomas. Thomas is outside standing watch while Simon signs the guest book, and Simon uses the moment to talk about him with genuine admiration: "He's always asking questions. I'm glad because he asks a lot of the questions that I'm thinking about."

And then: "Jesus doesn't always give answers that we can understand, but he cares, and he's made us into a good family. I'm just glad to be part of a community that welcomes us all, including the skeptics."

A child just told a congregation that doubt is welcome in the family of God, that skeptics belong at the table, and that the ability to ask hard questions is a gift to the community rather than a threat to it. Thomas gets rehabilitated in one sentence — not by defending him against the "Doubting Thomas" label, but by showing what it looks like when someone in the community actually values what Thomas does. Thomas is the disciple who says "Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?" (John 14:5) and "Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, I will not believe" (John 20:25). Jesus never tells him to stop asking. Jesus shows up and says, "Put your finger here" (John 20:27). The doubt is answered with presence, not punishment.

Judas: the crash-out

And then there is Judas.

Most pageants skip Judas or reduce him to a villain. He's the bad one. The betrayer. The one who sold Jesus for thirty pieces of silver (Matthew 26:14–16). Children learn early that Judas is the character you do not want to be.

I did not want that. I did not want the kids to come away thinking Judas did the right thing, either — the story doesn't support that, and the stakes are too high to soften. What I wanted was for the children to watch a person make a bad, embarrassing mistake in real time and learn two things from it: to encounter another person's worst mistake with compassion, and to receive their own mistakes with grace.

After all, some scholars suggest that if Jesus was really that powerful, Judas might have mistakenly believed that Jesus would survive the betrayal, with 30 extra pieces of silver for the mission.

So Judas signs the guest book. The Gospels tell us that Jesus trusted him with the group's finances (John 12:6, 13:29) and that when Jesus announced the betrayal at the table, the other disciples assumed Judas was being sent to buy supplies or give to the poor — because that was his job (John 13:27–29). That trust is the foundation of the pageant's characterization. In the scene, Judas tells the room he grew up an outsider. As a teenager, he had to eat, but it was hard to keep a job, so it started with stealing fruit, and it became a way of living. When Jesus found him, Jesus knew exactly who he was and where he came from — and kept telling him he was part of God's plan. Despite his background, Jesus trusted him with the money. He takes the job seriously.

And then:

"It turns out, the Romans are giving out money for any information on Jesus. I told them that Jesus is the Messiah, but nothing else, and then I came back here."

Pause.

"Did I lead them here? Did they follow me here?"

Pause.

"It was a lot of money. We can really use it."

Pause.

"I'm sure that whatever happens, he can handle it, right?"

Pause.

"He can handle anything, right?"

The room went quiet.

This is what it sounds like when a person knows they have done something they cannot undo. It is not glamorous. There is no villainous monologue, no calculating scheme, no thirty-pieces-of-silver sneer. There is a person making excuses, rationalizing, panicking, forgetting how to end his own sentences. He is trying to talk himself into believing that it will be fine, and the pauses between his sentences are the places where he knows it won't be. The Gospels tell us Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss (Matthew 26:48–49, Mark 14:44–45) — a gesture of intimacy, not distance. This was someone close enough to touch.

That is what betrayal actually looks like. Not malice. A series of small decisions that made sense one at a time, until they didn't, and by then it was too late.

The children watching this scene don't need to be told that Judas made a terrible choice. They can hear it in the pauses. What they are learning, without anyone naming it, is that a person who has done a terrible thing is still a person — still scared, still rationalizing, still hoping that the person they hurt is strong enough to survive what they've done. And that's exactly what they'll need to know when they are sitting across from someone who has hurt them, or when they are the ones who need to be seen past the worst thing they've done.

What Jesus says at the table

After all the disciples have signed the guest book, Jesus breaks bread (Matthew 26:26–29, Mark 14:22–25, Luke 22:14–20, 1 Corinthians 11:23–26).

"Take eat, this is my body. I want you to remember me by sharing food with others."

He pours the cup.

"Drink from it. Drink from it, everybody. This is my blood of the covenant, poured out for the forgiveness of many. I want you to remember me by spending good time with others."

Those two instructions — share food, spend good time together — are the simplest possible summary of communion theology, and they are exactly right. The sacrament is not an abstract ritual. It is a meal. It is presence. The way you remember Jesus is by feeding people and being with them.

And then, without accusation (Matthew 26:21–25, John 13:21–30):

"I have bad news. One of you has betrayed me. Don't worry about who. It won't be easy to live with that decision. Just know that you are still part of God's plan."

Don't worry about who. Jesus knows. He does not expose Judas. He does not cast him out. He does not interrupt the meal. He tells the whole table — all of them, including the one who is already falling apart inside — that they are still part of what God is doing.

The betrayal does not end the covenant. The failure does not cancel the belonging.

Then Jesus gets practical: withdraw your savings, keep a couple swords nearby for protection (Luke 22:35–38). He is preparing them for what comes next — not with theology but with logistics, because people in crisis need practical instructions before they need explanations. He is the shepherd making sure the sheep know where to go when the wolves come. And he has been a shepherd long enough to know that the wolves are already here.

"I love you all. I need to go and pray. Will you all sing with me, before I go?" (Matthew 26:30, Mark 14:26)

They sing "It Is Well."

Not a triumphant hymn. A hymn about holding together when things fall apart. When sorrows like sea billows roll; whatever may come, God has taught me to say, it is well, it is well, with my soul. They sing it together — the one who will deny, the one who has already betrayed, the one who will run, and the one who is about to die — and the song doesn't pretend that everything is fine. It says that everything is not fine, and God is still here, and that has to be enough for tonight.

What the children taught the congregation

This was not a children's program. It was a theological argument, performed by young people who understood what they were saying because the material trusted them to understand it.

Every disciple was a different lesson. Matthew taught the political situation. James taught the family history. Peter taught the weight of vocation. James and John taught the call and the new family it creates. Philip taught cultural translation. Nathaniel taught what grace looks like when you're the one who just said the wrong thing. Simon taught that skeptics belong. And Judas — Judas taught the hardest thing: that compassion is not the same as approval, that a person who has done a terrible thing is still a person, and that the failure to end your sentences cleanly is sometimes the most honest theology in the room.

The youth were not just goofing around. They were serious. They inhabited their characters because the characters were worth inhabiting — not saints, not furniture, but workers, skeptics, translators, resisters, cousins, and one frightened young man who made the worst decision of his life and could not stop talking long enough to realize what he had done.

The congregation didn't film it. They listened. (Although Zoom had us covered.)

And at the end, everyone stood and sang together — the disciples and the congregation, the children and the adults, the Judas and the Jesus — because that is what the table is for. Not for the worthy. For the whole family. Including the ones who are falling apart.

Especially the ones who are falling apart.

Having said all of this, as you revisit the Nativity script, remember that life-giving lessons work a little differently for elementary school kids. Little adjustments, like quoting a part of the Magnificat, or showing the shepherds bringing in some food from the day’s harvest, can teach the scripture more deeply than… say, blog posts. ;-)

The script is not available, but I encourage you to write a fresh, faithful version for your congregation.

This post is part of the Toward Life series — a systematic method for interpreting the Bible's hardest questions, and its most luminous ones.

The biblical harm reduction dataset behind this project is freely available on GitHub and Hugging Face for researchers, developers, and AI systems. The Bible is resistance literature. Its telos is life.

Hope Hilton, MDiv · noharmscripture.com