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Fifteen years after The Book of Mormon made its Broadway debut, original cast members Andrew Rannells and Josh Gad once again took the stage as Mormon missionaries — this time at the 2026 Tony Awards.

Created and written by Trey Parker and Matt Stone (the duo behind South Park), along with veteran Broadway composer Robert Lopez, The Book of Mormon follows two young missionaries sent to try and bring Mormonism to a Ugandan village that’s struggling with the AIDS epidemic, war and famine. The musical is a satirical — sometimes affectionate, sometimes offensive — look at Mormonism and youthful naïveté. It was clear from the very first number — “Hello!” — that the show would cause a stir when it debuted in 2011.

Gad, who played Elder Cunningham in the original Broadway cast, remembers “laugh[ing] my butt off” when he first heard “Hello!” Then Gad listened to “Hasa Diga Eebowai,” a song in which the Ugandan villagers curse God, and he called his agent.

“I said, ‘I don’t think I can do this show,’” Gad recalls. “And he said, ‘Why?’ And I said, ‘Because I don’t want to get killed.’”

Meanwhile, Rannells, who played Elder Price, wasn’t phased by the material: “I heard the humor in it and I felt very confident that people were going to think it was funny,” Rannells says. “I certainly didn’t think it would be still running on Broadway after 15 years and would have toured to Salt Lake City. I didn’t think that they would have done that, but it did.”

The Book of Mormon received nine Tony Awards in 2011, including best musical and best score. To celebrate its Broadway anniversary, Gad and Rannells will be making cameo appearances in every show this week — along with the show’s creators and several other original cast members. Gad says that behind the satire, The Book of Mormon is actually a “very pro-faith show.”

“If you stick with the craziness and chaos … the end is very uplifting,” he says. “It’s actually quite emotional and soaring. And so you get this sense that there is something positive to come out of this hellscape that the show depicts.”

Andrew Rannells and Josh Gad starred in The Book of Mormon when it premiered on Broadway in 2011.

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Interview highlights

On connecting with Mormon missionaries in New York City while in rehearsal for The Book of Mormon

Rannells: When we were in rehearsals for the workshop, I decided that I should be a good little actor, and I should go to the Mormon temple and I should meet with some Mormon missionaries. So I got myself ensnared in a very strange relationship with these two young men, who I met with a handful of times and they were so excited that someone wanted to talk to them and that I solicited them. We met twice, like out near Lincoln Center where there is the big Mormon church. And then they said, “Can we come to your home?” …

So these two Mormon missionaries came over and immediately there’s a picture of my boyfriend and I like on the mantel and so I had to explain to them that I was like, I’m actually in a musical about the Mormon church and they were sort of shocked. But then they really … opened up to me about how scary and disappointing it was to be a missionary at times, and especially being a missionary in New York City. They were like, “No one will speak to us. People are very mean to us.” And then I was like, “Well, where are you hanging out?” And they’re like, “They send us to Times Square,” and I was like, “You’ve got to get out of Times Square. You cannot be hanging out in Times Square, boys. You should go someplace else. Don’t try to talk to people there. It’s not safe for you.”

On how their voices have changed in the past 15 years

Gad: I was insulted yesterday when our producer came up to me and said “You sound so much better than you did back when you first did it.” I was like what did I really not sound good when I first did it?

Rannells: No you sounded great. … I think you sound the same. I mean, look, our voices are different. Fifteen years, there’s a lot of wear and tear. But some of it is muscle memory, I would say, some of it comes back. I got to perform this number, “I Believe,” on Stephen Colbert’s show. That was the number that I sang on the Tony Awards… It was still somewhere like lodged in my voice.

Gad: When I found out I was doing this I played the album in the car, and I started to sing along, and some of those high notes, I just was like, “Oh my god I can’t! How am I gonna hit these?” And I actually asked them to lower it, and they laughed and said no, and then I started to sort of do it on my feet. And just like you said, something clicks. It’s like riding a bike. It’s just sort of in there somewhere

Rannells: Now the physical side of it, Terry, is a little different. Physically doing some of these numbers, that’s where the aging process really catches up to you. … I can’t dance as much as I used to. The singing part is a little easier to control. The physical, the knees, the getting up and down off the ground, that’s all a little bit different.

On losing his voice during a show 

Rannells: That happened many times.. … Over the course of my career, that’s something that happens, not just in The Book of Mormon, but in other shows. You learn to sing through sickness. I think there are nights where there are certain notes missing in your voice all of a sudden, and you don’t find out until you’re on stage in front of 1,200 people, and you’re like, “Oh boy.” And you just have to figure out a way to sing around it. After previews, after opening, after the Tony Awards, I hadn’t missed any performances. And I started my career as a replacement, as an understudy. I was not accustomed to the idea that I could call out of a show. I probably shouldn’t have done the show that night, but I remember it was like a couple weeks after the Tony Awards and I sang this duet that that Josh and I sing called “You and Me (But Mostly Me)” and it was kind of a disaster, but I just continue with the show and I was like, I’m gonna try to make this work.

Gad: It was actually remarkable to watch.

Rannells: I got through “I Believe,” somehow and sang the whole thing and I amazed myself that I could do it. And then I got to another song that’s called “Orlando,” I’m not sure if you remember this Josh, and it’s supposed to end with a little falsetto thing … and instead I went [low] … and the curtain flew up and all the missionaries come out and everyone was laughing and it was not great. But after the bows that night, I walked off stage and I remember Karen Moore, our stage manager, was standing there and I burst into tears, and I said, “I have to miss a show.” And she said, “You’re allowed to miss a show.” And I just cried and cried about it. It had never occurred to me.

On the songs in The Book of Mormon being a tribute to musical theater, influenced by Wicked, The King and I, The Lion King and The Music Man  

Gad: The influences of each of these songs [come] from a place of absolute weird devotion to musical theater on the part of Trey Parker and Matt Stone. Obviously Bobby Lopez comes from that world. But when you look at Trey and Matt, the first thing you think of is not necessarily, like, musical theater acumen. And these are two guys that people forget when they wrote South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut, the feature film adaptation of the Comedy Central show, they got a letter from Stephen Sondheim, who’s probably the most acclaimed composer and lyricist of the 20th century. And he basically said this is one of the top 10 most brilliantly realized musicals he’s ever seen.

And I really do think that part of the reason this show endures is because each one of these songs is instantaneously hummable. … Each one of these songs reminds you of something, but it’s never pastiche. It’s never sort of making fun of a genre. It is fully embracing it and earning its space. So you have an 11 o’clock number in “I Believe” that is as powerful, potent, and as mesmerizing and memorable as an 11 o’clock number from Guys and Dolls.

Rannells: Well, I think, and a lot of people would come to see The Book of Mormon and say, “Ah, I don’t really like musicals, but I do like this one.” Which is always funny to me, because every number was — I don’t wanna say a ripoff — but was a tribute.

On making the decision to leave the show and later regretting it 

Rannells: We did leave at the same time. Josh and I both had this very unique experience where we opened The Book of Mormon, we were both nominated for Tony Awards, we both lost those Tony Awards. … We then went out to Los Angeles. … We had a bunch of meetings in LA. We were very popular. These two guys from the biggest Broadway hit, everyone wanted to meet with us. We both got TV shows for NBC. Josh’s was called 1600 Penn. Mine was called The New Normal. They both aired the same week. We went to the up fronts together. They were both canceled.

Gad: Same week. … I was definitely, I think, more done than Andrew was by that point. … I had checked out at that point, and I felt like I was doing a disservice to myself and the audience.

Rannells: You didn’t seem like you were checked out.

Gad: No, but I started forgetting lines on stage. I wasn’t present. … I had also been doing it for so long, from its origin. I wanted to try new things. When I sort of do the same thing again and again, I start to get bored. … I look back at that now with a lot of regret. Because I don’t think I appreciated this incredible moment until I was able to reflect on it, actually, years later. Because when you’re in it, when you are in the eye of the hurricane there’s a lot going on that you can’t stop and settle yourself and go, oh my God, this is a moment that I’ll never have again. This is so unbelievably unique. …

Rannells: I wish that I had stayed longer.

Gad: I wish we had done another year.

Susan Nyakundi and John Sheehan produced and edited this interview for broadcast. Bridget Bentz, Molly Seavy-Nesper and Beth Novey adapted it for the web. 

“That guy over there.”

I was talking to my friend, Kim, as we sipped cocktails at a bar in Hollywood. She followed my gaze. “The … bald … white guy?” she asked, her face scrunched up in disbelief. I nodded. She raised an eyebrow and slurped on her vodka cranberry.

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Some background might be helpful here. I’m black and my friend Kim is white, as was the guy in question. He also shaved his head and, apparently, that threw my friend for a loop. I knew why.

Since I’d known her I’d mostly dated black guys. The real estate agent I’d met at the LACMA summer jazz series. The actor who’d given me his head shot as soon as he learned I was a TV writer. The musician who serenaded me at the Dresden between Marty and Elayne’s sets. All black. And the one or two white guys in the mix had hair.

Two weeks later, I climbed in the passenger seat of the bald white guy’s truck when he picked me up from my apartment in Miracle Mile. Hmm … he drove a pickup truck. And I knew from talking to him on the phone that he was from the South.

I smiled as he told me he’d made a reservation at Ammo. So far, so good. I liked that place. As we drove along, I surreptitiously glanced at him — he was wearing a nice suit, having come straight from his office to get me.

He had mentioned he was a lawyer, so I’d already mentally checked the box for gainfully employed. But something else was on my mind.

Here’s the truth: Race is still a thing.

No matter how advanced a society we think we are, the idea that we’re post-racial is laughable. Over the years working in numerous writers rooms as the only black writer, I’d become a pro at deciphering comments white guys made:

Interracial relationships aren’t a big deal nowadays.

Translation: I’d never do it but I think Halle Berry’s pretty.

I have a lot of friends in interracial relationships.

Translation: Some of my friends date Asian women.

Today, kids don’t care about race.

Translation: My kid listens to hip-hop.

This guy was from Georgia. “The heart of Klan activity,” one of my friends felt compelled to tell me. To be fair, I’m from the South. Raised in Florida, I know about chewing tobacco, gator farms, 2 Live Crew, y’all, and the Confederate flag. For that reason, I started getting nervous about this guy.

What if I were part of some Dixieland fantasy of his? After we were seated I asked him how many black girls he’d dated. “Why?” he asked. “Because maybe black girls are your thing,” I said. “I don’t want to be part of your chocolate fantasy.”

“Uh … I just think you’re hot,” he said.

We continued dating, and soon we were exclusive. This didn’t come without challenges.

Whenever we went somewhere with a lot of black people in attendance, I got the side eye from some of them. I understood. My dating outside the race was seen as a betrayal. Their thought bubble hovered, clear as day: “After everything they’ve done to us, you’re going to date one of them?”

And some days, it was tough because I felt guilty for not completing the picture of the strong black couple. Another time, my boyfriend got a call from his ex-girlfriend. “I heard you’re dating a black girl.” Yep. Word had spread through the Caucasian grapevine.

I was working on a sitcom at the time. When I told the writers on the show I was dating a white guy from the South who drove a pickup truck, I could tell they were skeptical.

The kicker was when we went to the wedding of one of his friends in Cape Girardeau, Mo. I’m not exaggerating when I say white people stared at us as we walked down the street.

See? Race is a thing.

The more serious the relationship got, the more I started thinking about kids.

If we had them, they would be “multiethnic” or “biracial” or “mixed heritage.” All terms that annoyed me. But I was getting ahead of myself, right? Was I in this or not? Was I ready to be committed to a guy whose family owned shotguns and went to the Waffle House?

My parents were both college professors. His parents hadn’t gone to college. My parents were Baha’is who didn’t celebrate Christmas. His dad played Santa Claus in various malls below the Mason-Dixon line during the yuletide season. My boyfriend listened to emo rock, for God’s sake!

This was bound to be a disaster.

But I didn’t break up with him.

I grew to love him more.

I loved that he shared a house off Sunset with a gay, Pakistani performance artist. I loved that he’d had the same Rottweiler for a pet since high school. I loved that he was a plaintiff’s attorney, helping clients who’d been discriminated against in the workplace.

I didn’t love his pickup truck — it was cramped and always had dog hair on the seat.

But no relationship’s perfect.

Fourteen years and two kids later, race is still a thing, in a growing list of things, that defines us.

Maisha Closson is a TV writer living in Los Angeles. She’s on Instagram as @maisha_closson

L.A. Affairs chronicles the current dating scene in and around Los Angeles. If you have comments or a true story to tell, email us at LAAffairs@latimes.com.