I had a significant crush on the kid who played Judas in my high school’s production of Jesus Christ Superstar. Which is testament, I think, to two things: 1) I am a sucker for someone who can pull off a good run, even in the face of some prominent character flaws; and 2) Andrew Lloyd Webber’s “ rock musical” was compelling in its invitation to consider this deeply familiar narrative from a perspective other than the ones I’d heard in church. The perspective of a cute tenor at odds with Jesus is not usually highlighted as sympathetic in the four canonical Gospels. Before Judas tells the audience that it was beautiful but now it’s sour, I hadn’t considered how or why that arrival in Jerusalem was so fraught. 

I have my theological beefs with the English composer, but as I’ve grown older, my appreciation for the show has grown nonetheless. Both thanks to the genius that is Muppet Christ Superstar, (I don’t think I ever heard the anguish in “Gethsemane” until I heard Kermit do it; it is both absurd and heart-rending) and moreover, to the exercise of entering into this ancient story from a different perspective. JCS certainly isn’t the only religious art to guide that exercise — to pose the questions of how did we get here, and did it have to be this way — but for me it was the first. 

As we approach our second pandemic Easter, it’s been important for me to pull out the art that has shaped my understanding and inspired my questions. Observing anything ritually, even only at annual intervals, runs the risk of causing emotional and spiritual distance from the heart of the matter. We sing this every year. We tell this story every year. What is different this year? Does it even matter if we observe or not?  Last year our separation was new and our celebrations felt profoundly important; now we are celebrating in a difficult context for the second year running. 

What I have found, what I want to assure you, is that this year, like every year, it is important to hear the old, old stories again. To give ourselves over to the music and the power of the conflict and the fear and the complexity; the beauty, tragedy and joy of human life, of human community, and the presence of the sacred in the midst of it all. 

I hope you’ll join us — in the courtyard on Thursday or Sunday, online on Friday or Sunday.  I hope you’ll bring your full self to the endeavor — ready to hear again as though for the first time, ready to ask questions that had never occurred to you before, ready to see a new perspective. I hope the encounter will bring you life.