Can Community Theatre Still Unite Us?

(Photo: Spacious Acting)

by Chris Peterson

Every day, especially yesterday, it feels like we’re reminded of how divided our world has become. Politicians argue, neighbors stop talking, and social media becomes a battlefield where words are wielded like weapons. The polarization seeps into family dinners, workplaces, and friendships. We are encouraged to pick a side, hold our ground, and view the “other” as a threat. But I keep asking myself: in this fractured landscape, can community theatre still be a place where we come together?

Community theatre is one of the last places where people of vastly different backgrounds voluntarily gather with a common purpose. Think of the makeup of any local cast or crew: a high school student eager to learn their first dance routine, a retiree finally pursuing the hobby they never had time for, a parent squeezing in rehearsals between soccer practice drop-offs, and maybe even a lawyer, a nurse, a carpenter, or a grocery store clerk all sharing the same rehearsal room. Political leanings may be vastly different and life experiences worlds apart, yet for weeks at a time these people pour their energy into the same show. They memorize lines, paint sets, sew costumes, and stumble through choreography until it clicks. The question of who voted for whom is replaced by, “Who’s got duct tape?” or “Do we enter on the second beat or the third?” The priorities shift not to who is right, but to how we make this moment work together.

At its core, theatre is about empathy. To act is to step into another’s skin. To direct is to shape the way an audience will see a character’s humanity. To watch a play is to be asked, even if just for a few hours, to care about people who are not ourselves. In a world that rewards outrage and speed, theatre slows us down. It places us in a room with others, asking us to laugh at the same jokes, hold our breath in the same silences, and weep at the same heartbreak. When the lights dim, everyone in the audience, regardless of background, sits together in the same darkness, looking toward the same light.

I’ve seen firsthand how theatre can bridge divides. In small towns across the country, productions bring together casts made up of people who otherwise might never have crossed paths. These aren’t professional actors; they are neighbors. And somehow, in the process of rehearsing, friendships are forged that extend beyond the theatre walls.

Rehearsal halls are not perfect utopias. They are messy. They are filled with stress and late nights, forgotten lines, missed cues, and frayed tempers. But that’s what makes them real. The act of pushing through the mess to create something worthwhile mirrors what community itself should be. You can’t carry the show alone. Everyone’s contribution matters, from the lead actor to the person running the light board. Disagreements are inevitable, but compromise keeps the curtain rising. And most importantly, when the show ends, you bow together. It’s hard not to see a model for society in that.

If we accept the narrative that the world is too divided to come together, we stop trying. We hunker down with “our people” and lose the richness that comes from bumping up against difference. Community theatre offers a counter-narrative. It insists that people can still work side by side for something bigger than themselves. Local theatres don’t just produce plays; they produce connections. They create friendships between people who might never have shared a meal otherwise. They create moments of recognition in audiences who suddenly see themselves in a character. They create laughter in rooms that needed it.

And it’s not only about the performers. When audiences gather, they too are participating in a small act of unity. For two hours, everyone in the room surrenders to the same story. They laugh at the pratfall, gasp at the betrayal, hum along to the familiar tune. Those are not left-wing laughs or right-wing gasps, they’re human ones. At a time when entertainment often isolates us, with endless streaming shows watched alone in bedrooms, community theatre offers the opposite. It requires presence. It asks us to show up, sit side by side, and share an experience.

This doesn’t mean community theatre is easy to sustain. Many groups struggle for funding, volunteer support, or audiences. And in times of cultural division, even the selection of a play can feel like a political act. But that’s all the more reason to protect it. To fight for it. To remind ourselves that we need spaces where art and humanity are valued more than arguments. Because if we can still come together to put on a show, with all the challenges, compromises, and joys that come with it, then maybe there’s hope we can do the same in the wider world.

So, can community theatre still unite us? I think it already does, quietly and persistently, in rehearsal rooms and backstage hallways across the country. The real question is whether we will allow ourselves to recognize it, and whether we will keep showing up. I know I haven’t always been a shining example of this myself, but I’m willing to try. When the curtain rises, the divisions of the world outside don’t disappear. But for a little while, they fade. And maybe, just maybe, we remember what it feels like to stand together, to laugh together, to applaud together. That’s not just theatre. That’s community.