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Economic woes threaten — but also bolster — a county’s Passion play

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The Rev. Philip Ryan knows a lot can go wrong during the annual Lake County Passion Play. Chariot wheels stick in the grass. Sheep balk at taking direction. Fake blood doesn’t splatter properly during crucial whipping scenes.

“It’s always something,” Ryan, 79, said in a soft Irish brogue, his heavy gray eyebrows furrowing. “There are an awful lot of little things that have to go right.”

And that’s in a good year. This spring, with Lake County struggling with foreclosures, bankruptcies and one of the highest unemployment rates in California, Ryan said the level of difficulty in staging the religious spectacle of Christ’s final days went up several notches.

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The Passion play’s 150-member cast of sinners and saviors, virgins and vagrants is all volunteer. High gasoline prices and unemployment forced some to quit and stay home. Others skipped out on rehearsals or moved to places with better job prospects.

“This county, it’s a tough place,” said Martin McManus, 58, who plays the apostle James and otherwise works in security at a truck stop. “The last couple of years, we’ve had trouble getting people.”

Cast members such as McManus have their own epic tales of jobs lost, business opportunities vanished, real estate depleted in value.

Before this spring’s show, they huddled together in bright robes of white, pink and blue, hidden from the audience behind a grassy hill. Some were dressed as soldiers, their breastplates spray-painted silver and gold. Others, wearing red capes and plumed helmets, tended the horses they’d ride during the two-hour performance.

A dozen spears were lined up against the wall of the small costume shed, and the sheep that graze the set year-round baaed in the background.

“There hasn’t been any work. It’s been dead,” said Mike Ernst, 72, of Kelseyville, who wore a silver helmet, a skirt made of tie fabric and sandals with leather straps laced up his legs. Ernst’s design firm has barely had any business this year, he said.

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Ernst — who played the captain of the guards until he had a heart stent put in — wanted to retire from the play when he busted his knee last year. But with the shortage of volunteers, he said, “God keeps bringing me back.”

God apparently forgot to nag Kile Gillaspie, who stood next to Ernst in street clothes. Gillaspie, 24, used to act in the Passion play, but he decided to skip it this year because he was out of work and needed to concentrate on finding a job. Anywhere.

“If people have the means and ability, it makes sense to move out of Lake County,” he said.

The government sector dominates employment in the area, located about 120 miles north of San Francisco and isolated from neighboring Napa and Sonoma counties by winding roads and steep hills. The remote location makes it a tough sell to any businesses not related to tourism or recreation.

“For sale” signs dot picturesque cottages along the shores of Clear Lake, the largest freshwater body of water entirely inside California. The restored 19th century main streets of the small towns edging the lake are usually empty, and the shopping areas abound with vacant storefronts.

With the onset of warm weather, cities throughout California stage festivals every year celebrating wine, garlic, strawberries and even mules as a way to build community spirit and maybe help the local merchants make a buck or two.

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The Passion play, however, hasn’t been a big shot in the arm for the Clear Lake area’s economy. The spectacle draws some out of towners, but most are locals, who head home right after the performance. Admission is free and there are no concessions, except for water and the sale of programs. The proceeds for those go right back to the play.

Still, for some people struggling in a tough economy, the Passion play offers a welcome diversion.

“Nothing is more satisfactory,” said Steve Cervi, who plays one of Herod’s guards.

Cervi lost his job as a security guard with the 2009 closure of the Konocti Harbor Resort and Spa, which drew in tourists when acts such as Rascal Flatts, Don Henley and Chris Isaak played its 5,000-seat amphitheater.

The camaraderie with fellow cast members is a big part of the attraction for Cervi. “You become bonded with these people, which is what God wants us to do,” he said.

Ryan had to put in extra hours to convince his flock of that sentiment this year. He travels to churches in Lake and neighboring counties year-round, begging congregants to act in the play, attend the six rehearsals, donate money to his cause.

“It’s a personal thing — I go to people,” he said. “But sometimes you have to bend over backwards to get people happy and keep them in it.”

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Ryan founded the Passion play 31 years ago, and in 2001 he was able to secure a loan to buy the 85-acre ranch where it’s now performed. The ranch serves as a permanent outdoor set for the show, complete with three stages, a costume shed, a palace for King Herod and a Garden of Gethsemane.

Ryan himself has retired from his responsibilities with the Catholic Church to work on the play full time. He tends the sheep and horses that live on the property, maintains the set and even lives with the woman who has played Mary for 30 years, and her husband, Gary.

The outdoor nature of the play created other obstacles for this year’s production, staged on a weekend. Ryan rents a flock of snow-white homing pigeons to stand in for doves in a resurrection scene. But his pigeon supplier, a Pacific Gas and Electric employee by day, was transferred south, and Ryan was left without any birds two weeks before the show.

Right before the Saturday performance, Ryan’s audio engineer was unexpectedly called into work for his day job as a paramedic. When one of the speakers blew out, no one there could fix it. And wind and rain intermittently pounded the audience of a few hundred — the smallest in years, with only one tour bus in attendance. Past performances have attracted thousands, Ryan said.

But the show must go on.

This year, tears flowed wildly. They began with the first appearance of Jesus, played by the Rev. John Boettcher, who has come from Italy the last few years to play the part and who bears an uncanny resemblance to the Jesus of picture books.

“My children, I will not be here among you much longer,” he intoned to the apostles gathered around him at the Last Supper. Those audience members who hadn’t taken refuge from the rain in their cars murmured, anticipating the somber moments to come.

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The Passion play did drag on a bit in spots, and the crowd’s attention waxed and waned with the varying intensity of the wind and rain. As the drama unfolded, Boettcher was mocked by unbelievers in robes and kaffiyehs, led through gantlets by Roman soldiers and humiliated by craven women in sinful, flesh-baring tops and harem pants.

But the audience was fixated on him as he stepped out from behind a tree, resurrected. As his white robes flapped and the taped fanfare music crescendoed, the sun emerged from behind the clouds.

“It stopped raining during the performance. Now that’s a miracle,” said Beth Weaver of Clearlake Oaks.

“It makes me cry every time,” Rosie Carlon of Ukiah chimed in, wiping tears from her eyes. Then she turned to ask for a picture with Jesus, who was granting photo opportunities.

Kelly Thorn, 66, was recently laid off from her job at a title insurance company, which went from 37 employees to five

“It’s very inspirational,” said Thorn, who volunteers to sell programs for the play. “People are seeking something different — when the economy is bad, you seek help.”

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That may be why Ryan knew that in the end, he’d have performers and an audience.

“People might have all sorts of problems,” he said. “But they think more of God when times are bad.”

alana.semuels@latimes.com

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