By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
Try the theater listings.
Provocative arguments about the role of faith in our private and public lives are dominating our typically secular stages right now, courtesy of playwrights and performers from Catholic backgrounds. Doubt, John Patrick Shanley's period parable about a nun struggling to take action against a priest she believes is a sexual predator, has recently transferred to Broadway after its much lauded run at Manhattan Theatre Club. Downtown, the Public Theater has offered two episodes of Divine Law & Order this season: the LAByrinth's production of Stephen Adly Guirgis's The Last Days of Judas Iscariot and the recent staging of Jean-Claude Carrière's The Controversy of Valladolid. While Guirgis imagines Christ's traitorous disciple on trial in a purgatorial courtroom, Carrière dramatizes an actual deliberation held in Spain in 1550, in which factions of the Church debate whether the indigenous peoples of the New World are human beings. And underground at the new Dodger Stages, the musical Altar Boyz, a sly satire on boybands, believes in getting right with God by busting a few good moves in tight corduroys.
What to make of this current run of plays with an explicitly theological bent? Not surprisingly, the subject of sexual abuse in the Church has been at the center of several productions already, including Michael Murphy's damning docudrama about Cardinal Bernard Law, Sin (A Cardinal Deposed), and Martin Moran's 2004 Obie-winning solo show The Tricky Part.
Moran, whose play (and forthcoming memoir) wrestles with the 30-year impact of his molestation by a counselor from a Catholic boys' camp, compares an individual's need for purgation with the larger cultural dynamic. "In terms of sex abuse, you store so much in your body. But it rises and rises until it reaches your head. I feel the same way about the body politic, and even the body of the Mother Church right now. On a lot of levels, we're finally starting to pull all this stuff apart and look at it."
But there's a larger inquiry at work, suggesting that the abuse scandal is symptomatic of a religious vision that denies the humanity of the very souls it purports to cherish. Each of these playwrights seeks a kind of catharsis from the extremism of an ossified institution that has seemed more invested in protecting its own authority than in acknowledging a profound need for reform. These writers aren't disavowing spiritualityonly the self-justifying uses to which it has been put.
While John Patrick Shanley makes no secret of the fact that one of his relatives was a victim of Father John Geoghan, the playwright insists that Doubt, set in 1964, was written to "find relief from the zeitgeist." Maybe, but the entrenched ethos that defined Shanley's 1960s Bronx childhood, so vividly rendered in Doubt, still characterizes much of the Church's approach to morality today. "I was basically raised in the 19th century," he says. "My father was born in rural Ireland. My mother remembers the  armistice fires in Brooklyn. I was educated by nuns who were in touch with people who'd seen Lincoln. The rhythms of the Bible were in everyone's language." It's a worldview personified by Sister Aloysius, a parochial-school principal playedwithheld might be more accurateby the superb Cherry Jones. From her diatribe against the "heretical" Christmas song "Frosty the Snowman," which "espouses a pagan belief in magic," to her final, wrenching lines, Jones pulls the audience from comic reassurance (aren't crotchety nuns funny!) into a fierce gray zone where moral action feels like "a step away from God."
For Shanley, the end of certainty marks the beginning of wisdom. "There's a perception in our culture that a person who has doubt is weak, has no ability to act in an effective way. I don't think anything can be further from the truth. The thing that sets most influential thinkers over the centuries apart is their willingness to acknowledge they weren't sure."
On the other hand, Shanley argues, to insist on simplistic categories of good and evil requires an enemy against whom you can define yourself. It's an approach the playwright sees in no less than the pope himself. "He was formed in the Cold War, in an 'us versus them' mentality. He's the Retro-pope." A papacy defined by nostalgia for the Cold War? "I think it's a nostalgia for Hitler," says Shanley, who hopes there'll be "a redefinition of what it means to be on the left and on the right. . . . The two sides will have to see what they have in common. Otherwise there's no way out."
In very different terms, Guirgis also questions Catholicism's wrathful rhetoric, as seen in the pope's recent assessment of gay marriage as part of "a new ideology of evil." The courtroom on view in The Last Days of Judas Iscariot purports to judge the maligned disciple by a jury of his eternal peers, although it is really the faith's obsessions with condemnation and sin that are on trial. But don't get the idea Guirgis is letting anyone off the hookhis nonpartisan Jesus loves Donald Rumsfeld and Osama bin Laden as much as he does Nelson Mandela.