Behind the Cross: Inside the Emotional Filming of The Chosen Season Six

By the time the cameras began to roll on a quiet Italian hillside, the cast and crew of The Chosen already sensed that this day would not resemble any other.

The location, chosen for its haunting resemblance to ancient Jerusalem, carried a gravity that transcended ordinary filmmaking.

Long before the first hammer struck wood or the first tear fell, the atmosphere had shifted.

Silence replaced laughter.

Reverence replaced routine.

What unfolded over the following hours became one of the most emotionally charged moments in the history of the global phenomenon that has drawn more than 250 million viewers worldwide.

The Chosen, the internationally celebrated series portraying the life of Jesus through the eyes of those who knew him, had traveled far from its Utah beginnings.

For its sixth season, creator and director Dallas Jenkins brought his production to Italy to film the crucifixion, the narrative climax toward which the entire series had been steadily moving.

The choice of location was deliberate.

Years earlier, the same hill had served as a filming site for The Passion of the Christ, one of the most influential religious films ever made.

Many on the set spoke of the land as already steeped in prayer, memory, and reverence.

When the crew arrived, the mood transformed almost instantly.

There was no casual banter, no rehearsed humor to ease nerves.

Actors, technicians, and assistants moved quietly, as if entering a sanctuary rather than a film set.

Some described the sensation as stepping into church.

Others said it felt like walking into history.

Jenkins, who once doubted whether his series would survive beyond a single season, now stood at the helm of one of the most watched religious productions in modern media.

Translated into more than seventy languages, The Chosen had become a cultural force, praised for its human portrayal of Jesus and its attention to emotional authenticity.

For Jenkins, the guiding principle had always been simple: allow audiences to encounter Jesus through the perspectives of those who walked beside him.

That philosophy shaped the day’s most difficult sequence.

The filming of the crucifixion required not only technical precision but spiritual endurance.

Jonathan Roumie, the actor portraying Jesus, had prepared for months, physically and emotionally.

Crowned with thorns, bearing visible marks of suffering, he carried the character not as an icon but as a wounded man.

Around him, actors portraying Mary, Mary Magdalene, John, and the Roman soldiers took their places.

When the camera focused on the hammer and nail, the distinction between performance and reality blurred.

One strike echoed across the hill.

Then another.

The sound alone proved overwhelming.

Tears flowed freely.

Extras wept openly.

Crew members wiped their eyes behind cameras and microphones.

Makeup artists paused mid-task, hands trembling.

Even the actor assigned to play the executioner struggled to steady himself, later confessing that he felt he was committing something real rather than symbolic.

Jenkins watched from behind the monitors, eyes filled with tears.

He was not merely directing a scene; he was witnessing a community confront the core of the Christian story.

There were no interruptions for emotional recovery.

The cameras kept rolling.

The weight of the moment demanded it.

When the final take ended, no applause followed.

No one rushed to stretch or joke or consult schedules.

Instead, silence settled across the hillside.

Jenkins quietly announced a break, yet few moved.

The pain of the scene lingered in the air, thick and unresolved.

It was then that someone suggested they eat together.

Not in trailers or dining tents, but on the ground, still in costume, still immersed in the moment.

Disciples, soldiers, grieving women, and executioners sat side by side.

Bread was passed hand to hand.

Water was shared.

No speeches were given.

No prayers were announced.

Yet many later said it felt unmistakably like communion.

Roumie remained silent throughout the meal, eyes closed, crown still resting on his brow.

One actor whispered that the gathering felt too sacred for language.

Another admitted he felt compelled to ask forgiveness for what he had portrayed.

Jenkins would later describe it as the most real meal he had ever shared on a film set.

In the days that followed, the emotional toll became evident.

 

Roumie posted a single photograph on social media, standing beside the cross used in filming.

His caption was brief, restrained by contract, but heavy with meaning.

He asked for prayers for himself and the cast and crew, describing the experience as the most demanding work of his life.

Other actors responded with quiet confessions: nights spent crying, lingering heaviness, a sense that something inside them had shifted.

Fans needed little explanation.

Many wrote that they could feel the weight of the moment simply from the image.

The post spread quickly, not with spectacle but with reverence, lingering in timelines like a whispered prayer.

Behind the scenes, Jenkins bore his own burden.

The director, who had launched The Chosen as a crowdfunded experiment, had poured years of faith, doubt, and perseverance into the project.

Season six, he later admitted, proved the hardest not because of budgets or logistics, but because of the cross.

Throughout filming, he remained on set for every moment.

He prayed with actors between takes.

He embraced crew members when words failed.

Sometimes he simply sat beside them in silence, allowing grief and devotion to coexist.

His wife, Amanda, flew in to support him, aware that this chapter would test him in ways no production schedule ever could.

A crew member later observed that Jenkins cried more that week than during any other period of filming.

Not from frustration or fatigue, but from reverence.

In a later livestream, Jenkins summarized the experience in a single phrase: “This wasn’t just direction.

This was devotion.

”

The significance of the project extends beyond artistic ambition.

The Chosen has been embraced by believers and nonbelievers alike for its portrayal of Jesus as fully human: a man who laughs at weddings, jokes with friends, dances, and yet faces suffering with dignity.

Jenkins has long argued that humanity does not diminish divinity but reveals it.

As anticipation builds for the release of season six, scheduled for theatrical debut in March 2027, expectations are high.

Jenkins has confirmed that the final episode will function as a full-length crucifixion film, designed not merely to conclude a season but to confront audiences with the central mystery of Christian faith.

Industry observers note that few television productions have attempted such an extended and reverent portrayal of the Passion.

Early leaked clips, though limited, have already moved viewers to tears.

Many predict that the final release will become one of the most discussed religious films of the decade.

Beyond ratings and reviews, the influence of The Chosen has manifested in unexpected ways.

Hundreds of extras have traveled from distant regions to participate, some returning season after season.

On set, denominational boundaries fade.

Catholics, Protestants, and nonbelievers work side by side, united by a shared respect for the story they are telling.

Jenkins insists that the true success of the series lies not in viewership numbers but in testimonies.

Across continents, audiences report renewed faith, deeper curiosity, and emotional encounters with a figure they thought they already understood.

For the director, the ultimate goal remains unchanged: to help viewers love Jesus more, whether they call themselves believers or not.

The filming of the crucifixion, however, stands apart even within this remarkable journey.

What began as a scheduled production day evolved into an unscripted spiritual event.

A meal became communion.

A performance became prayer.

A set became a sanctuary.

In the weeks after, life on set gradually returned to routine, yet traces of the experience lingered.

Actors spoke more softly.

Crew members approached scenes with renewed sensitivity.

Jenkins resumed directing future episodes, though friends noted a quiet gravity in his demeanor.

Season seven, planned as the final chapter of the series, will eventually follow, depicting the resurrection and the early days of the church.

Afterward, Jenkins hopes to pursue new projects, including adaptations of the stories of Moses and the Acts of the Apostles.

For now, however, his attention remains fixed on the cross.

As the world awaits the release of season six, the memory of that Italian hillside endures among those who were there.

They recall the sound of the hammer, the stillness after the final take, the shared bread in silence.

They remember a day when filmmaking gave way to mourning, when art became worship, and when a familiar story felt painfully new.

What occurred on that hill cannot be captured fully on screen.

It survives instead in the quiet testimonies of those who witnessed it: actors who could not sleep, directors who wept, technicians who prayed without speaking.

Together, they carried forward a reminder that the cross, though endlessly portrayed, still possesses the power to break hearts and open them.

In the end, The Chosen did more than recreate history.

It allowed a modern community to stand, however briefly, at the foot of the cross.

And in doing so, it revealed that even in an age saturated with images and noise, there remain stories capable of silencing a hillside and gathering strangers into reverent awe.