He's coming. Jesus Christ Superstar is. Harvard theater is finally bringing him to the mainstage and everybody is excited about it. But at the moment, this preliminary enthusiasm is riding only on what we know about the show, not this one. A modern treatment of the Passion of Christ demands some measure of experimentation and even controversy, but investigative research has managed to unearth only one word from the producers: visceral. This season's production brings together an incredible amount of raw talent, theatrical experience and pure, unadulterated enthusiasm--the perfect elements for making the sort of ground-breaking theatrical experience that we feel this show deserves, and hope it delivers. Crimson editor J. L. Martin envisions a production that goes where no man (or Son of Man) has gone before, beyond the breakdancing priests that have been promised to something truly revolutionary. What follows is a poetic incarnation of the spirit of Jesus Christ Superstar....

So, Jesus Christ is coming. The mainstage at the Loeb is soon to be Gethsemane, soon to be Jerusalem, too soon to be Golgotha, steeped in gore. There, the star-hung ceiling lighting his last days, Christ his passion will play out and die.

Oh I know the story. It is written: Jesus whines his gentle jussive, dancing down the stage, to kiss the air by Judas' cheek, to limply shake Maria's hand. Unoffending, uninjured, undemanding, the actors lift him by hiccups into heaven on the cross. Jesus, son of God, gladly gives his life to purge us of our sins. We can all sing to this tune. We can all be uplifted. We can all expect the resurrection to take place before a short reception in the lobby. Christ the man killed, we celebrate Christ the lamb, nipping at his heels, holding him in place. For 2,000 years he has been a dead man, pure as a corpse, loving as a sheepdog.

It is not enough to be the Messiah. It is not enough to sing. It is not enough to replay politely the passion. What I in John can read I have no need to see again on the stage. I know that Pilate washed his hands of blood as, bleeding, Jesus bent under the whip. I know that Judas left him in the garden to deliver him to armed and angry men. To tell it again is pointless if you tell it in the same way.

Listen! We have heard how, in bygone times Christ cast out the merchants from his temple, overturning tables, kicking coins across the ground. We have heard how, unwet by waters he walked the whale-road, showed great courage. That was a good king.

Will we now see Christ heaved up heavy, slapped on the boards, prodded slinking smiling mile by mile into martyrdom? Or in this rock-opera raging, ranting, kicking down the cross, song-swinging, shining in his armature of doubt, will this be Christ come again, come for the first time? Descended from thieves, tempted, torn, encircled by disciples and dilettantes, his love shining out from the ranks of the furious, the flaming, the fornicating?