The movie casts Jesus as a modern icon, a superstar, which allows us to question who he was with the fully critical modern eye. And how we answer our questions has huge implications for how we live.
Seen through Judas' eyes of interrogation, we see Jesus inflated with his popularity. The adoring crowds and the dazzled disciples simply encourage his self-aggrandizement, but Judas is trying to separate "the myth from the man." He warns that Jesus has betrayed his ministry: "you've begun to matter more than the things you say." Jesus retorts that no one but he understands what true power is. He tells his followers to sing songs for him and each other, for they are blessed by his presence. Later he says, "Not one of you will remember me when I'm gone" he's worried about his immortality project. Mary tries to comfort Jesus in the throes of meeting others' needs, but she unwittingly encourages his inflation.
This is a very human response to fame. Inflation is usually an avoidance of pain, and most of us aren't immune to its cycles. This Jesus is a very believable "rock star." The film takes Jesus' humanity seriously. Whether it happened like this or not isn't the point. The film gives us a unique opportunity to explore what Jesus' humanity might mean.
Limitation is one of the hallmarks of being human. And the inflated rock star clearly shows his limitations. Suffering, often on the heels of inflation, is a quintessential human characteristic. Although in the film Jesus tries to avoid pain (as when he is overrun by the beggars and lepers), suffering catches up with him. In Gethsemane he says, "what we started? What you started! I didn't start it." Jesus begins to separate his identity from God. He talks about once feeling inspired; now he feels abandoned. And when he finally accepts his death, the tension between himself and Judas is transformed into compassion and forgiveness for Judas' own suffering with betrayal.
Strangely, as Jesus accepts suffering, his compassion increases. Suffering and humility cure us from our pride and self-absorption and make us more human. Like Jesus we can and usually do try anything to avoid suffering, any reminder of our dreaded death. And like Jesus in Jesus Christ Superstar, when we accept what life has given us, pull-out quotationincluding suffering, we find our hearts begin to open. The film seems to suggest something transformative in both Jesus' and Judas' suffering, as if it is in becoming more human that we are able to reflect more deeply the image of God.
Like Judas, I'm left asking with an intense need to understand just who Jesus was. "I just wanna know." The film doesn't take us any further; possibly trusting that once the questions have started in us, we will find our way to answers we can live with. Being confronted with a limited and suffering Jesus disturbs me. I can't hide behind Jesus' cloak of divinity. Something in me would rather not have the hassle of trying to be good. It's easier if Jesus was God; then I wouldn't have to try so hard.
On the other hand, I often excuse my sub-human behaviour for the same reason. "I'm not God; what do you expect from me?" I've convinced myself I'm nothing more than a selfish clod, and the best I can do is limit this selfishness, never mind transcend it. But something about this very human Jesus won't let me get away with either response.
The image of Jesus suffering and forgiving Judas haunts me. It's his compassion and not his divinity that is remarkable, God-like. How can suffering point to God? For starters, I'm convinced it has nothing to do with the idea that God required someone to suffer for his wounded sense of justice. This is too barbaric a God to stomach. There is nothing transformative about retribution. No, something else seems to be going on here. True, the tension between humanity's goodness and its capacity for evil have to be dealt with. Justice and mercy do seem a paradox. But retribution merely collapses the tension. Redemption requires both.
There is a mystery in this Jesus that draws me. Jesus' suffering comes to mean something, possibly more than he could have imagined. It suggests that God is willing to enter into suffering with us, to identify with our insecurities and failures to such an extent that it is actually God who experiences death. God's compassion becomes ultimate; he knows exactly what we go through. And in touching my frailty, I am somehow touched by the hope of God for humanity. Because of this kind of love, we can give up the illusory struggle to secure ourselves with accomplishments or religiosity and just be ourselves. Because of this love, we are related to God.
Strangely, this Jesus suggests that when we allow our own limitations to offer God's grace to our suffering world, we begin to heal our world. Not by riding in on donkeys, not as superstars, but as limited persons. As hated as that term is, if we're honest we know we're all limited in our own efforts. It's only as we become truly related to each other (to God) that we understand our worth is given, not earned. And suffering is the cradle for this kind of new life.
So at the end I'm left with something unexpected. I followed the lead of Jesus Christ Superstar, asking, "who was this Jesus?" I'm left asking who am I, or actually, whose am I? For if God used suffering to re-connect with me, with us, how can I help but give myself back?