Sam Ryder as Jesus. It’s hard to imagine a more perfect piece of casting. He barely needs a costume before you start believing it.

I left my tendency towards teenage-style fandom behind many years ago, but when I saw the poster in London, I immediately knew: I have to see this.

Not only because of Sam. I have loved Jesus Christ Superstar since childhood, and the last time I had the chance to see it live, I was thirteen.

More importantly, during my breast cancer journey, I found myself connecting with both the music and the story more deeply than ever before.

Despite the religious controversy surrounding the musical, for me it has actually brought me closer to my faith. Perhaps precisely because it approaches Jesus, and the entire story, through such a deeply human lens.

My suffering obviously cannot be compared to his, and I feel almost hesitant even mentioning the connection. But imagining him walking that unimaginably difficult path in his human form—with faith, fear, courage and patience—has given me strength while facing the things I have had to face myself.

Looking around the audience before the performance, I wondered whether I was alone in this. There seemed to be more visibly disabled people than at most shows I have attended. And, of course, visible difficulties represent only a fraction of what people may be carrying.

It made me think about the responsibility performers take on when they step into stories that mean so much to so many people.

The First Act

The set was remarkably simple. A huge cross hung horizontally above the stage, while industrial scaffolding formed the background.

I simultaneously felt sorry for the audience members standing on the set for so long and slightly jealous of their view. Even at twenty, standing that long would have ended in back pain for me. These days, probably an ambulance.

Never mind.

My own seat was on the far left of the stalls. Relatively affordable and, as it turned out, an excellent choice.

At one point Sam came down from the stage and walked right past me.

The entire experience lasted approximately two seconds, but I can now dramatically retell my near-star-struck encounter whenever necessary.

Not everyone was so fortunate with their seats.

An elderly lady and her daughter sitting nearby had the misfortune of finding two particularly tall and broad people directly in front of them. When the daughter politely asked whether they could avoid putting their heads together throughout the performance, the response was that next time they should buy better tickets.

A ridiculous situation all around. Although, to be fair, ticket offices rarely provide advance information about the dimensions of the people who will be sitting in front of you.

But back to Jesus.

I always approach a new production with a certain amount of suspicion. Can these performers stand alongside the great performances that came before them? Are they bringing something new?

By the end of the first act, I still hadn’t entirely made up my mind.

There were ideas I loved. Rather than hiding Sam’s musical background, the production embraced it, introducing rock-concert elements that gave the familiar story a contemporary twist.

I particularly loved the moment when Jesus sat down with his guitar and accompanied Pilate’s Dream. To me, it suggested humility: the central figure of the story quietly stepping into the background to support someone else’s moment.

The supporting cast and dancers were exceptional. One dancer in particular caught my attention so strongly that I later searched for her.

I watched her movements with an almost childlike sense of wonder and longing, thinking how wonderful it would be to express something so complex through movement alone.

And then, for a moment, it made me sad.

After breast cancer, I thought, that would now be impossible for me—even if my age weren’t already making the idea somewhat optimistic.

Then I looked her up.

One of the first things I found was an article in which she spoke about her own breast cancer journey. A journey almost eerily similar to mine.

What is that, if not a little heavenly reminder that obstacles do not enter our lives simply to tell us to abandon our dreams?

The one aspect of the first act I found less convincing was Mary Magdalene’s relationship with Jesus.

I know that talking about romantic chemistry in this context is slightly unusual, but I believe the musical deliberately explores Mary’s devotion, vulnerability and inner conflict, alongside the question of how Jesus responds to her feelings.

Mary sang beautifully, but I didn’t quite feel the emotional complexity I had hoped for. Jesus’s response seemed uncertain, almost as though he preferred to avoid engaging with the situation.

Perhaps that was intentional, but I missed the emotional force of their relationship.

During the interval, the elderly lady beside me and I compared our impressions. Neither of us was entirely convinced yet.

Then came the second act.

Gethsemane

And both she and I were on our feet.

The entire theatre gave Sam Ryder’s Jesus a standing ovation after his confrontation with God in Gethsemane.

Sam sang with such extraordinary force that this moment alone would have justified the price of the ticket.

Just him and his guitar, illuminated against a dark stage.

He captured the loneliness of Jesus after the Last Supper: the pain, the fear, the desperate questioning, the moments of courage fighting their way through, and the violent conflict between all those emotions.

For me, it surpassed every version of the scene I had previously seen.

I don’t know where Sam knows that emotional landscape from. But during my illness, that same mixture of fear, anger, bargaining, courage and surrender became deeply familiar to me.

His performance reached places in me connected to some of my deepest wounds.

I don’t want to say that he tore those wounds open, because it felt almost like the opposite.

It felt as though someone had somehow reached the core of where that pain lives—and, simply by recognising it and expressing it, eased it a little.

I was moved, but it was more than that.

It was catharsis.

I suspect many people in the theatre felt something similar, each connecting the performance to something in their own private world.

The standing ovation continued for minutes.

And from that moment onwards, the production could almost do no wrong.

The Second Act

The energy seemed to change completely.

Every performer appeared to be working with every nerve in their body. Judas, with his unforgettable voice and acting, portrayed a man escaping into madness. Pilate, Herod, Peter and the rest of the cast were equally impressive.

The simplicity of the staging complemented the story rather than competing with it.

Small ideas carried enormous meaning.

Gold dust thrown onto Jesus’s body with every crack of the whip made his wounds appear wetter and more raw. Symbolically, it could represent humiliation—but perhaps also the value contained within his suffering.

Roman statue masks represented the crowd and those in power. Their blank faces suggested faceless cruelty, conformity, and the ease with which people avoid individual responsibility.

And the choreography was extraordinary. The dancers didn’t merely support the story; they told it through movement.

At times, I almost felt dizzy trying to decide which element to follow. I wanted to take everything in, but I was equally afraid that if I allowed my thoughts to wander, I would miss something important happening elsewhere on the stage.

Afterwards

I hated walking out of the theatre and straight back into the chaos of Oxford Street.

I wanted to turn around, go back inside, and watch the entire thing again.

And then again.

I wanted another chance to let my thoughts wander down different paths, to notice things I had missed, and to experience all those layers of emotion once more.

I had arrived expecting an excellent musical, a memorable performance, and perhaps a brief opportunity to admire Sam Ryder from a respectable distance.

I left with something rather different.

A reminder of how much art can mean when it meets us at exactly the right moment in our lives.

A reminder that suffering, although deeply personal, can sometimes connect us to other people in unexpected ways.

And, perhaps most importantly, a reminder that the things we have been through do not necessarily have to define the limits of what we can still become.

Although I wouldn’t object to another two-second encounter with Sam Ryder.

Preferably with a little more warning next time.