As they often do, Passover and Easter coincide this year; Easter Sunday is the second full day of Pesach (which is also April Fools’ Day this year— beware). Normally this wouldn’t be much cause for concern; you stay in your lane and I’ll stay in mine. But this year, to celebrate the (alleged) resurrection of one Jesus of Nazareth, NBC is airing Jesus Christ Superstar Live in Concert!

I am on the record as thinking that Jesus Christ Superstar is dated, and straight-up anti-Semitic— a crowd of Jews chanting “Crucify him,” really? I have publicly decried this telecast’s existence as a modern passion play.

Call me a hypocrite. I love this musical so much I don’t care. This year, I’m celebrating Pesach by watching Jesus Christ Superstar.

If you think about it, it’s still seasonal. The Last Supper was a seder, after all (the body of Jesus? Matzo). And it is a piece of media full of Jewish characters (if not actors this time around—the musical’s only substantial female role is played by Sara Bareilles, whom people often think she’s Jewish but she isn’t, which is probably the best type of person to portray Mary Magdalene). So what if the Pharisees, the progenitors of rabbinic Judaism, are seen as conspiratorial murderers? The Beit HaMikdash makes an appearance! “Hosanna” comes from Hoshana! The show is full of Jewish references!

And for what it’s worth, one of the main producers of this telecast is Marc Platt, father of Broadway star Ben and a member of the family that is extremely, super-duper Jewishly involved. As in, his wife Julie is on the Board of Directors of the Foundation for Jewish Camp. I’m not saying this undoes problematic elements in the show (though it may help avoid some that are the result of direction rather than text), but I’m saying I would rather it come from friends.

I’m traditionally observant, which means I can’t use electricity till 8:02 pm on Sunday night. The show starts at 8 pm. I’m trying to find a calendar that’s about 3 minutes more liberal. So I can watch Jesus Christ Superstar. This seems like an unusual problem to have.

Chag Sameach. And zanna zanna, ho!

Photo by Tony Alter, via Flickr.

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Elizabeth Simins is a compulsive doodler living in New York. She splits her time between making paintings, being a production designer, and playing pretentious indie video games. She tweets here.

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It was my final summer (a little late in the game, frankly, to start thinking about Jesus—a delay likely rooted in my Semitically-oriented Long Island upbringing or general ninth grade disregard for things not directly impacting me or my BFFs), which meant our play was performed during visiting day, to the presumed delight of parents who had shlepped up to the Adirondacks to endure a day—or two, depending on how prolific you were—of poorly navigated sailing jaunts, tennis drills, and an inevitable ceramics class. An odd choice of musical, perhaps, for a camp (mostly) full of Jewish girls, but in those days there was no High School Musical to fall back on.

I auditioned because I thought it would be fun for my parents to watch me on stage. They had never made any indication to suggest that was the case, but theatrically ahead I forged.

I should make it very clear that I have a less-than-stellar singing voice, a generally uncomfortable stage presence, and very little idea of what to do with extremities like arms and hands in public spaces.

Regardless, I was cast as Priest Three, a partially-named character with many more lines than Priests One and Two. I know this because the piano player noted the discrepancy during one of our priest-only rehearsals.

At our all-girls camp, a single french braid, tucked into a pageboy cap or maybe a cowboy hat, signified that a character was male. I had the (debatably) good fortune of being able to tuck my french braid into the conical black construction paper hat my character wore, which while not as stately as Caiphus’ certainly did the trick.

As my family likes to retell it, my lines mainly consisted of “Yes he did I saw him too,” sung varyingly in an awkwardly deep voice or an unsustainably high pitched lilt. I’m pretty sure I had other lines, though I am finally able to admit that most of them probably sounded a lot like that one. If I’ve learned anything from The Voice—other than that I would do terribly on The Voice—it’s that sometimes you just need to be true to yourself as an artist. Or be less pitchy.

I hadn’t considered the impact my theatrical debut (and the wretched VHS tape documenting it) had on my intellectual development until I enrolled in a Classical Judaism course in college. When we got to the part about the rabble rousing and the carpenter king, I realized somewhat sheepishly that the bulk of my understanding of Jesus could be hummed, sung, or recited—either way it all definitely rhymed.

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