NOT long after the extensive reordering of All Saints’, Loughborough (where I was Rector), I was approached by someone who had sung in an ad hoc choir at a friend’s wedding there. “This is a fantastic place,” he said, “so dramatic. I’ve always wanted to put on a production of Jesus Christ Superstar in a church, and this one” — he waved his arms across the medieval space — “would be perfect.” The following autumn, the rock opera was performed to a completely packed church between 18 and 21 September.
This was 2001. On the evening of 11 September, the whole cast and crew were joined by regular members of the congregation and others from the town as they completed their rehearsal, and we all stood around the huge cross that would be used 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 about the irreverence or irrelevance of the controversial show (first performed in 1972) were dispelled by the catastrophe. To have the church open and full in 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 did not jar in the least with the spiritual turmoil that infected us all as we waited with bated breath to see what would happen next on the deeply troubled world stage.
Since my ministry as Rector included many of the responsibilities of a church caretaker, I spent a lot of time with the producer and at rehearsals. Getting more involved, I went with the cast to see a professional production in Nottingham, and found myself in the pub discussing what it was like 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 company before, but their interest in the story, empathy for the characters, and general curiosity was infectious and stimulating.
I SET about a close reading of Tim Rice’s lyrics with the Gospels on my desk. The more I tracked similarities and differences, the more I was drawn into deeper issues of theology.
Buoyed by the beery, late-night theological conversations, I decided to write a pamphlet to commemorate the production and provide even 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 how to love him” — “What’s it all About?” We printed a lot, and put one on each seat for every performance.
All were taken home. Some were read before the performance and in the interval. I was both embarrassed and delighted to see one woman intently reading hers during the performance, managing to read by the spill of the stage lights because she was in the front row. Not what I had hoped for, but sometimes theology really can be that compelling.
The West End revival of Superstar at the London Palladium prompted me to look out my old pamphlet. I had introduced it by making the point that there is not one gospel story, but four; so interpretation, difference, and diversity have always been part of Christianity: “I therefore see Superstar as fitting in with the historical stream that includes the medieval mystery plays, the passions of J. S. Bach, and oratorios such as Handel’s Messiah. It also fits with other dramas performed in church that depart from a strictly Biblical script — such as school nativity plays.”
Plunging into the theme of the incarnation, I took as my cue another of Mary Magdalene’s lines: “He’s just a man.” I was at pains to point out 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 complete 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 that time?
Next, I pointed out that the show’s depiction of Mary Magdalene was not biblical, but an interpretation that originated in the sixth century when Pope Gregory the Great decided that the “woman of low repute” in Luke 7 was the same as Mary the loyal friend and first apostle. I’m not sure how convincing my attempted demythologising was, but I did my best.
I also had a go at undermining any anti-Semitism in the portrayal of Judas, the priests, or Herod, and reflected at some length on the issues that the show generated by telling much of the story from Judas’s perspective as well as examining the pathos of his position. The betrayer was in fact 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 found 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 both Judas and Jesus.
It is not so easy to make connections with Pilate, but his self-awareness of his own lack of ability to follow rather than lead is perhaps a lesson about the holding of positional power. We all squirm at the jaunty Herod scene, with its easy-to-enjoy but difficult-to-think-about mockery. The everyday cruelty of mockery is something that I drew attention to in the pamphlet.
The central section, and the most difficult to write, was an attempt to distinguish the love at the heart of the Christian gospel from the romantic and erotic love of the stage — and indeed of much popular culture. The question what it means to “love him” is still a difficult and perplexing one, as the English language collapses all the nuances of attraction, affection, commitment, and care into a single word.
When Superstar was first staged, many Christians protested and boycotted the theatre. Now that it is being revived, there is a chance to embrace it as an accessible and engaging retelling that can prompt deep and enriching theological explorations.
Theatre, even musical theatre, can 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