Theology in Jesus Christ Superstar

NOT long after the extensive reordering of All Saints’, Loughborough (where I used to be Rector), I used to be approached by someone who had sung in an ad hoc choir at a friend’s wedding there. “This is a improbable place,” he said, “so dramatic. I’ve at all times desired to placed on a production of Jesus Christ Superstar in a church, and this one” — he waved his arms across the medieval space — “can be perfect.” The following autumn, the rock opera was performed to a very packed church between 18 and 21 September.

This was 2001. On the evening of 11 September, the entire forged and crew were joined by regular members of the congregation and others from the town as they accomplished their rehearsal, and all of us stood around the massive cross that may be utilized in the performance. We pondered the connections between violence then and violence now, and prayed that a spirit of forgiveness and peace might emerge from the ashes and devastation of 9/11.

Concerns that some members of the regular congregations had had concerning the irreverence or irrelevance of the controversial show (first performed in 1972) were dispelled by the catastrophe. To have the church open and full within the week that followed seemed right, and the edgy dramatic narrative crafted by Tim Rice’s uninhibited lyrics and Andrew Lloyd Webber’s provocative and evocative tunes didn’t jar within the least with the spiritual turmoil that infected us all as we waited with bated breath to see what would occur next on the deeply troubled world stage.

Since my ministry as Rector included most of the responsibilities of a church caretaker, I spent a variety of time with the producer and at rehearsals. Getting more involved, I went with the forged to see an expert production in Nottingham, and located myself within the pub discussing what it was wish to perform Pilate — or Judas, or Herod, or Mary Magdalene, or Peter, or Jesus; or to be a leper, or a priest. I hadn’t known any of the corporate before, but their interest within the story, empathy for the characters, and general curiosity was infectious and stimulating.

I SET about an in depth reading of Tim Rice’s lyrics with the Gospels on my desk. The more I tracked similarities and differences, the more I used to be drawn into deeper problems with theology.

Buoyed by the beery, late-night theological conversations, I made a decision to write down a pamphlet to commemorate the production and supply much more food for thought. The result was a 20-page booklet whose title quoted a line from Mary Magdalene’s famous song “I don’t know love him” — “What’s all of it About?” We printed so much, and put one on each seat for each performance.

All were taken home. Some were read before the performance and within the interval. I used to be each embarrassed and delighted to see one woman intently reading hers in the course of the performance, managing to read by the spill of the stage lights because she was within the front row. Not what I had hoped for, but sometimes theology really could be that compelling.

The West End revival of Superstar on the London Palladium prompted me to look out my old pamphlet. I had introduced it by making the purpose that there isn’t one gospel story, but 4; so interpretation, difference, and variety have at all times been a part of Christianity: “I due to this fact see Superstar as fitting in with the historical stream that features the medieval mystery plays, the passions of J. S. Bach, and oratorios similar to Handel’s Messiah. It also suits with other dramas performed in church that depart from a strictly Biblical script — similar to school nativity plays.”

Plunging into the theme of the incarnation, I took as my cue one other of Mary Magdalene’s lines: “He’s just a person.” I used to be at pains to indicate that it was completely true to say that Jesus was fully human, and suggested that the rhetoric of the song was really about emphasising the whole humanity (and vulnerability) of Jesus, while not denying that there was anything more to him — though who could say what was the perception of his followers and friends at the moment?

Next, I identified that the show’s depiction of Mary Magdalene was not biblical, but an interpretation that originated within the sixth century when Pope Gregory the Great decided that the “woman of low repute” in Luke 7 was similar to Mary the loyal friend and first apostle. I’m undecided how convincing my attempted demythologising was, but I did my best.

I also had a go at undermining any anti-Semitism within the portrayal of Judas, the priests, or Herod, and reflected at some length on the problems that the show generated by telling much of the story from Judas’s perspective in addition to examining the pathos of his position. The betrayer was in reality the betrayed, because God’s plan required a fall guy: it was a set-up.

THERE are some difficult-to-perform and difficult-to-witness scenes in Superstar. As a pastor, I discovered it relatable and moving to see Jesus overwhelmed by the neediness of the poor and sick. As one who prays, I identified with the protestations against God from the mouths of each Judas and Jesus.

It isn’t really easy to make connections with Pilate, but his self-awareness of his own lack of ability to follow moderately than lead is maybe a lesson concerning the holding of positional power. We all squirm on the jaunty Herod scene, with its easy-to-enjoy but difficult-to-think-about mockery. The on a regular basis cruelty of mockery is something that I drew attention to within the pamphlet.

The central section, and probably the most difficult to write down, was an attempt to tell apart the love at the guts of the Christian gospel from the romantic and erotic love of the stage — and indeed of much popular culture. The query what it means to “love him” continues to be a difficult and perplexing one, because the English language collapses all of the nuances of attraction, affection, commitment, and care right into a single word.

When Superstar was first staged, many Christians protested and boycotted the theatre. Now that it’s being revived, there’s a likelihood to embrace it as an accessible and fascinating retelling that may prompt deep and enriching theological explorations.

Theatre, even musical theatre, could be a gift to mission and theology if we approach it not through the lens of doctrine or accuracy, but with imagination and curiosity.

The Revd Dr Stephen Cherry is an Emeritus Fellow of King’s College, Cambridge.

Read his review of Turning Away by Benjamin A. Saltzman here