Generous Orthodoxy  

Sunday, April 24, 2016

Resurrection: Worship during the Great Fifty Days

An advance copy of a long, detailed, and affirming review of my book The Crucifixion: Understanding the Death of Jesus Christ has just arrived (it will appear in Pro Ecclesia this fall). At the end, the reviewer observes that I do not have much to say about the Resurrection--except to insist (repeatedly) that the crucifixion and the Resurrection are a single, inseparable event--and he hopes that I will write a book about the Resurrection.

I am sorry to disappoint anyone, but there will be no book from me about the Resurrection. I hope that readers will correct me if I am wrong, but I have never read a book about the Resurrection that seemed adequate to me. I think words and comprehension fail us at this point, and only proclamation works: "The Lord has risen, and has appeared to Simon!" "He is going before you into Galilee; there you will see him!" "For now is Christ risen from the dead!" Even my beloved Karl Barth lets me down on this subject, and my almost-favorite commentary on the Fourth Gospel (by Rudolph Bultmann, believe it or not) is hopeless on the Resurrection. My writings about the Resurrection, such as they are, appear in the collection of my sermons called The Undoing of Death.

I believe that the Resurrection lives in the worship and the continuing life of the Body of Christ. This morning I attended a service at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Spirit in Orleans on Cape Cod. For me, the service was an embodiment of the Resurrection. This is partly--but not entirely--because the rector, Adam Linton, was a member of the Russian Orthodox Church for twenty years, after graduating from Gordon-Conwell. The Orthodox Church is known for its emphasis on the Resurrection, and Fr. Linton absorbed this well. (He is also, be it noted, an exponent of the theology of the cross, and is thereby an exemplar of the teaching that the cross and Resurrection should be understood as a single, inseparable event.)

The service began with the customary Easter Acclamation ("Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed!") and the singing of a rousing Easter hymn: "We know that Christ is raised and dies no more." There was something added, however. The congregation at Holy Spirit is obviously practiced in saying "The Lord is risen indeed!" (or, "He is risen indeed!"); it was said again, enthusiastically, at the end of the sermon, and again at the offertory.

The long, somewhat difficult first reading for the day, Acts 11:1-18, was exceptional. The lay reader read slowly, carefully, with understanding and, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer counseled, "with inmost rapport" as if being spoken to directly by the Word of God--not addressing the people herself, but as one being addressed--thereby conveying the awe and wonder of discovery in the final line, "Then to the Gentiles also God has granted repentance unto life!"

The sermon was on John 13:31-35, and specifically the theme of glory (doxa) in John. At the Last Supper, Jesus says, "Now is the Son of man glorified, and in him God is glorified." This saying occurs immediately after Judas leaves the table "and it was night." In the Fourth Gospel, Jesus' "hour of glory" is the hour that he is "lifted up" on the cross. Thus, again, the cross and the power of the Resurrection are linked. In the Eucharist, Paul writes, "we remember the Lord's death until he comes" (I Corinthians 11:26). In the passage from John, it is clear that the Lord's Supper is a participation in his glory.

The prayers of the people, very well and audibly read by a layman, were obviously written to address not only the concerns of the community but also the issues of the day, with an eloquent appeal for the healing of our political process. I did not know until the service was over that the prayers of the people at Holy Spirit are written every week by none other than Dilys Smith, widow of Frank Smith who was the beloved organist-choirmaster at Grace Church in New York during most of my 14 years there. Most parishes can find a person who is gifted to write special prayers, and when it is well done it makes an unforgettable impression, week by week. (Not to praise Dilys overmuch, but it was also she who read the lesson from Acts.)

In this case, the petitions this Easter season each concluded with the words, "in the power of the Resurrection, we rejoice, saying..." and the congregation responded each time with "Glory to you, O Lord, glory to you!" By the time of communion, therefore, it was clear to everyone that this was an Easter service, and that the "new commandment" that we should love one another as Jesus has loved us is given to us through the power and the glory of the self-giving of the Lord.

We live in a time when, for most people, Easter is one day and then forgotten. But worship like this is worthy of the Great Fifty Days, and it makes the resurrection alive in our hearts and in our lives.

(And by the way, when I had dinner with the rector and his wife in their home, the meal began with the usual grace and then, unexpectedly, with the raising of wine glasses and "He is risen!" How joyful!)

Saturday, April 23, 2016

Two superb movies about the financial crisis of 2008, each with a moral impact

Two of my favorite movies in recent years deal with a subject that I don't understand: high finance. (I don't understand low finance either; I'm the aging lady holding up the line at the supermarket checkout.) Both of these films delve into the reprehensible finaglings by the big banks and mortgage brokers that caused the financial meltdown of 2008. I've watched Margin Call (2011) four times, which is one more time than I have ever watched any movie in my entire life. I've watched The Big Short (2015) twice, the second time very closely, stopping it and rewinding it every few minutes in order to analyze it and understand it as best I can (which is not very much). I'm trying to figure out why these films about a subject I don't understand impress me so deeply.

For one thing, it's obvious even to an amateur like me that there is great skill involved--skill in writing, acting, pacing, momentum, camera work, directorial authority. Margin Call gets the palm for writing, because the director, J. C. Chandor, also wrote the original script. The Big Short was also written, or rather co-written, by the director, Adam McKay, based on the respected non-fiction book (2010) of the same name by Michael Lewis.

The most obvious immediate difference between the two  is that whereas Margin Call takes place in 24 hours at just one bank (bearing a very close resemblance to Lehman Bros.), The Big Short covers many months, many banks, many hedge funds. But the aspect of The Big Short that interests me from an ethical standpoint is that it makes glancing references along the way at the pain and suffering that came, and continue to come, as a result of the gleeful financial maneuverings of the characters in the movie who are driven solely by their passion for making money. The fact that these references are glancing somehow makes the point more powerfully than a lot of lingering would do--as I'll try to indicate.

The Big Short opens with a snappy run-through of how, starting in the 70s, "boring old banking went from the country club to the strip club" until 2008, when the whole structure came crashing down. Soon after, we see the principal character, Mark Baum (a real person played by Steve Carell), in a profane, wildly inappropriate interruption of a meeting, setting off the farcical tone of much of the movie. We laugh, and we barely notice that his indignation concerns the contempt for "working people" shown by his counterparts in high finance. This theme will not return for an hour or two, as we watch the mostly youthful hedge fund managers and other operators go about their inspired but deeply cynical betting ("shorting") against the housing market. Led by Christian Bale in an amazing performance as Michael Burry, a one-eyed financial genius with some form of Asperger's, the youthful central characters have learned what the mandarins in a kind of willed blindness have refused to see. Some of these scenes are hilarious, with very good actors playing off each other with amusing facial expressions. The reactions of the big banks (Deutsche, Bear Sterns, Goldman Sachs, etc.) when Burry shells out mega-millions from his hedge fund to "short" the market are priceless, as they believe they have put one over on this very strange fund manager from California. It gets laugh-out-loud funny when the two youngest among the money men try to pitch their fund to Morgan Chase, the only bank that has agreed to see them. They receive a mortifying brush-off in the lobby at five minutes to five PM from a sharply-dressed subordinate who looks younger than they do, greets them with, "Have a seat a second," perches on the arm of a chair, shoots his cuffs with effortless superiority, heaps disdain on their proposal, and cheerfully caps off their humiliation with "Have a good one, guys," as he zooms out the door. The two rejects (Charlie and Jamie) have their revenge, however, because they coincidentally come upon the trail of the Burry express and from that point on, the movie becomes unstoppable -- as does the arrival of the market collapse. It's all tremendous fun, and horrifying as well, which is a difficult trick to pull off. I think Adam McKay manages it.

Here's my main point. As the plot rockets along, there are two scenes that are very brief and not emphasized, so understated that I really didn't recall them the first time I watched, but the second time they registered powerfully. Two of the callow young hedge fund operators are sent to Miami by their boss, Mark Baum, to a new housing development 45 minutes out in the exurbs (as they deplane, one of them says, "I just hope there are some good Cuban restaurants"). They are supposed to be gathering data about the housing bubble. They see abandoned condos, unfinished rental housing, uncollected newspapers piled up on stoops. "It's like Chernobyl," says one. Finally an actual inhabitant answers a doorbell--a very large, heavily tattooed, black-bearded man in a tank top who looks quite scary but whose manner is surprisingly mild. The young traders tell him they are looking for his landlord, who is 90 days delinquent in paying the mortgage. The big man blinks;  it appears that the mortgage is registered in the name of the landlord's dog. It's extremely funny, and yet not; the big man is stricken as it dawns on him that his landlord has not been paying the mortgage. He says, with a soft earnestness, "It's not my fault, I've been paying my rent, dude." A little boy comes up and attaches himself to his father. The big man looks as if he's going to cry. "Am I going to have to leave, man? My son was just getting settled in school."  "You should talk to your landlord," says the young trader, "You have a great day." End of scene.

The big bearded man and the son appear again very briefly, at the very end. More about that in a minute.

The pace continues to pick up, and various short scenes give us glimpses of the venality of the banks. We are introduced to two truly loathsome young mortgage brokers (almost everybody is young in this racket) who do NINJA loans ("no money, no job") and have made tons of money. They specialize in immigrants who don't understand what they're signing. They cackle with profane glee when they're asked by Mark and his team whether they've ever turned down an applicant. They laugh at such an absurd question. Mark asks his team, "Why are they confessing?" "They aren't confessing," says one, sobered at last by his trip to Miami; "they're bragging." Even viewers like me who don't understand any of the financial details are beginning to get the picture.

Scene follows upon madcap scene to show the depth of the greed, lies, deceptions, and profoundly cynical manipulation that went on (and presumably still go on) in the world of high finance. The scenes at a conference in Las Vegas are particularly incisive, especially the wonderfully acted dinner conversation between the increasingly horrified Mark Baum and a preternaturally cool, slick Asian character who trades in worthless bonds (played with spectacular style by Byron Mann). Again, it is all shockingly funny. Charlie and Jamie--the "garage band hedge fund" duo--are so appalled when the banks start selling their worthless bonds that they go to a friend from college at The Wall Street Journal. He refuses to touch the story, despite their passionate attempts to show that, as Jamie almost shouts, "This level of criminality is unprecedented, even on f**g Wall Street!"

Mark Baum, whose blunt, inconsiderate ways were offputting at first, becomes the moral center of the movie, if one can speak of morality in the midst of such wholesale villainy. Another highlight is a meeting where Mark speaks to the fat cats, the Wall Street types pristine in ties, while the hedge fund guys, casual and tieless, follow the plummeting market on their phones even as they sit there. Mark assails the bankers: "Average people are going to have to pay for this, because they always, always do." As the numbers sink and sink, most of the people in the audience jump up and vacate the room in order to get on their phones. The collapse predicted by Burry has arrived. In niftily edited clips we see the announcement of the demise of Lehmann Brothers crawling across one of the neon news tickers. The stunned Lehmann employees are herded out of their  building forever, almost like driven cattle, toting big cardboard boxes with their hastily packed belongings.  Vinnie, one of Mark's team, sits on the steps of St Bartholomew's Church (I'm not sure why that location) and telephones Mark. Mark is sitting in deep despair on the balcony of his posh apartment overlooking Central Park. He is not in despair for his own investors, since he will cash out in the mega-millions. He is despairing for the suffering that he knows will come to the "average people," the "immigrants and poor people."

We also see Burry, preparing to shut down his fund. His skill and prescience has earned 2.69 billion. He is typing out a letter to his investors. We hear him reading it in a voice-over: "Making money is not like I thought it would be. This business kills the part of life that is essential -- the part that has nothing to do with business." As he continues to write/speak in this vein, we see a gas station and a run-down car. The car has cheap suitcases and a gasoline container tied on top with ropes. A man emerges from the car, and a little boy is running around. A frazzled-looking red-haired woman chases him and scoots him into the back of the car where a little girl is sitting. The man comes around to the car door and gathers the woman into a long, desperate embrace. We see the tattoos on his arms and suddenly realize that it is the big man with the delinquent, lying landlord.  He and his family have been evicted. The scene is so brief, less than a minute, that it is easy to miss, but the point is made far more effectively than if it had been allowed to go on and on. In this one man, this one family, we see in microcosm the outcome of the greed and deception at the top that caused millions to lose their homes and their livelihoods. We then see the two creepy young mortgage brokers, looking bewildered and emptied-out, in a crowd of people at a jobs fair -- we are glad to see them get their comeuppance, but at the same time we also recall a scene in which Ryan Gosling, playing Jared, one of the investors who saw the collapse coming and acted accordingly, lovingly strokes a check made out to him for $47,000,000.00 (that's not a typo).  Jared does not see the big man with his cheap suitcases and his children in the rundown car, but Mark does. That's why Mark, whose fund will equal a billion when he sells everything, is the moral conscience of the film.

As the movie ends, we are told that only one banker ever went to jail. And the words appear,
When the dust settled, five trillion dollars had disappeared. 8 million people lost their jobs, 6 million lost their homes. And that was just in the USA. 
The credits roll alongside a rapid series of alternating images: a signature being affixed to a subprime mortgage, foreclosure signs, eviction notices, food stamps, furniture and possessions piled on a curb, hands sorting through coupons...and on the other hand a private helicopter, a yacht, a closet of bespoke suits, flutes of champagne.

This has been a very long review, and I left out a lot. I didn't even mention Brad Pitt, one of the producers, who is extremely effective in his role as a big-time trader gone to the vegan-and-subsistence-farming life in Arizona. What I've tried to do in this idiosyncratic recital of certain features of the movie is to show how The Big Short manages to be non-stop funny and propulsively engaging while still having a distinctly moral point of view. Most of the big-screen, wide-release movies being made today have no clear point of view at all; they are just entertainment. Both The Big Short and Margin Call are both grown-up films. They ask something of their audience: reflection, and perhaps some righteous indignation.

My previous post about Margin Call is here:

Sunday, April 03, 2016

What has happened to the common cup?

The new Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church, Michael Curry, has testified that he, a black man, was first attracted to the Episcopal denomination because when he was young, he attended an integrated Episcopal church and was deeply impressed that black and white members all drank out of the same communion vessel.

He did not say anything about the wholesale abandonment of this tradition by the church in recent years.

Until the 70s and 80s, virtually no Episcopalians dipped their communion wafers into the chalice (intinction). I grew up acting as an acolyte in the early 50s (probably the first girl acolyte in the diocese of Virginia), and I can vouch for the fact that no one ever dipped his or her wafer in the wine. Everyone drank from the common cup. I went to many Episcopal youth camps; no one dipped. I was an active Episcopalian in college and early adulthood, going to numerous conferences; no one dipped. It would have been considered very peculiar if not downright irreverent (indeed, I'm afraid we were snootily dismissive of Baptists and others who passed around those teensy little individual glasses in trays). It's possible that occasionally someone would refrain from drinking from the common cup if she had a bad cold and did not want to risk giving it to others, but even that was very unusual, and typically she would not dip but would simply signal for the cup to pass by. I don't recall anyone ever mentioning the possibility that a healthy communicant might catch a germ from someone else.

When I was a seminarian in "Mass class" in the early 70s, we were instructed to "turn the chalice with each sip, wiping as you go" and  "keep the wine flowing over the rim" and "refold the purificator frequently, keeping the stained side in." This counsel hardly seems necessary today. Since I was ordained in the mid-70s, the numbers of people drinking from the chalice has plummeted.

I realize that my anecdotal evidence is not scientific. I admit that I don't know what they are doing in the Dioceses of Eau Claire or San Joaquin. However, I have traveled very widely across the Episcopal church, East to West, North to South, and although I have trained myself not to look at my neighbors when I am actually receiving, when I as the preacher am sitting behind or near the communion rail, I can't help noticing that the vast majority are dipping their wafers. (Generally speaking, the few that still drink from the chalice tend to be of a certain age.) I have also noticed that  the amount of wine poured into the chalice has greatly decreased. We used to fill up a chalice, or even two, at a Sunday service in a small-to-mid-size parish, in order to provide for all those who were sipping; now the priest puts in barely half a cupful for the dippers.

For 20 years and more, I have inquired from many people about this, The answer is always the same: GERMS. Sometimes the person giving this reply is being considerate of others, because he has a cold, or she is coughing. But the great majority who receive are not sick. They are afraid of contracting germs from others.

I have consulted two epidemiologists about this. Both of them said that sterling silver, interacting with wine, neutralizes germs (both of them were leery of porous ceramic or pottery!). They emphasized what everyone surely knows by now, that colds are spread on hands, and people sometimes get their fingertips in the wine when dipping. I believe it is the case that no one has been able to prove that disease is spread through the common cup in ordinary circumstances. If it was, the clergy would be the sickest people in the nation, since a good many of us consume the leftover wine; I did this without fail every time I presided at the Eucharist during the entire 21 years of my parish ministry.

I don't have a "magical" view of what happens to the wine when it is consecrated. Drinking a lot of leftover consecrated wine at the end of the communion can give a definite "buzz," as I can testify. Many recovering alcoholics, understandably, receive the bread only. I admit that in the case of epidemics of saliva-borne illnesses, such as SARS or--worse--Ebola, exceptions would have to be made. I think I remember that the Roman Catholic Church made such an exception during the SARS epidemic of 2003. I can't say that I would drink the leftover wine in the middle of an Ebola breakout. But these are exceptional circumstances.

I don't see this as an ontological question, but an ecclesiological one. When Paul rebukes the Corinthians because they do not "discern the body" during the Lord's Supper (I Corinthians 11:29), the context indicates that he does not mean the bread or wine themselves; he means the diverse members of the Body of Christ.  It is our mutuality, our union in the Lord that is the central focus.

Therefore the most significant problem with this shift in church practice, it seems to me, is that people are acting out of fear. Children and visitors from other denominations are instructed that they should receive by intinction because they might catch something harmful from a fellow Christian. Surely this undermines the central reality of the sacrament. When we are at the altar rail we are brought into the closest possible personal communion with other disciples of Christ in the fellowship of His conquering love, and "there is no fear in love; perfect love casts out fear" (I John 4:18). Should fear dictate our practice in this most intimate of all settings? It seems to me highly ironic, to say the least, that this precipitous decline in the use of the common cup should have coincided with the wholesale shift toward the centrality of the Eucharist in the worship of the .Episcopal church.