Wake Up Dead Man

 

Jo and I watched ‘Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery’ last night. It is excellent (and very long: we took a tea break part way through) and I enjoyed it thoroughly. The attention to liturgical detail is exceptional for Hollywood.

Some thoughts, hopefully not much by way of spoilers.

[1] The Whodunnit and How are pretty obvious to anyone with eyes in their head and a familiarity with misdirection. This is not a plot weakness. The Who and the How are always fairly banal in a good detective fiction. The real interest lies in motive, or motivation.

[2] While presented in the style of a cosy murder mystery, the story is more than a little inspired by JRR Tolkien’s majestic fantasy, ‘The Lord of the Rings’ (don’t let this put you off if you aren’t a fan of fantasy).

Monsignor Wick is a Saruman, a man who is — inevitably — corrupted by the burden of institutional authority, amplified by the ways in which questioning voices that might hold him accountable are silenced by such hierarchical structures. A man who has come to believe that the only way to defeat evil in the world is to play by its own rules.

Father Jud is a Gandalf, a man who possesses no structural authority and who is shielded from its corrupting influence by the repeated humiliations of needing to persuade unwilling others of his insight into the times they find themselves in. A man whose experience tells him to love the little people. A man who is, ultimately, powerless to save himself; who loses his priestly vocation only to have it restored to him by a ‘eucatastrophe,’ (Tolkien’s word for) the unrepeatable intervention of grace.

Dr Nat is a Frodo, a fundamentally decent man weakened by the pain of great loss; a ring wearer who, in the final instance, and despite having a greater insight into the corrupting power of the cursed talisman than other characters, succumbs to the temptation that in his hands it can be welded to restore the world that has been lost. A man who is only spared that fate by another eucatastrophe.

Benoit Blanc is a Tom Bombadil, a clown character, who has no interest in taking power (and so is free) but only in the beauty of truth. A man who sees the goodness in others (in stark contrast to the cynicism of many fictional detectives, and an even greater proportion of real detectives) and who strengthens them to do what is right.

[3] I have seen some reviews that suggest that the film is anti-Christian — or, at least, anti the Church — but pro-Jesus. This is not the case. It is pro-Jesus and pro-Christian, pro-Church. A thoughtful exploration of grace, that avoids simplistic or sentimental understandings of how grace works, does not spare us the wounds that remain.

What we are also given is a thoughtful exploration of the Church as institution and as community. The Church is full of complex characters. People who come in search of hope, of inspiration, of re-birth, of healing, of a place to belong, of community, of acceptance, of identity and purpose, of certainty in an uncertain world that has left them disappointed, of somewhere to find significance through service, in search of God. So many motivations, all compromised, some considerably less healthy than others.

And the Church welcomes all. Welcomes all; but hopes for their transformation. Hopes for their transformation; but cannot make it happen. (When we attempt to, tragedy is at hand.)

Transformation involves ‘poio’ — choices we make — and ‘pascho’ — that which is done for us that we cannot do for ourselves, only submit to being done to us, or resist. And it is that capacity to resist — both the choices we know we must take, and the grace we must welcome — a resistance that is a deep survival mechanism — that leaves the Church a deeply flawed community.

This is its greatest weakness, and, in the end, its saving grace.

 

Under pressure

 

I’m not a fan of F1—and I’m not interested in getting into a debate with those who are—but I heard a brilliant analysis of yesterday’s controversial end to this year’s championship, by David Croft, lead commentator for Sky. His view was that, under incredible pressure—not simply the pressure of the title race, but the burden of having kept the show on the road all season under pandemic conditions—race director Michael Masi made the wrong call. But, rather than vilify him, we should recognise that the burden is unacceptable; that this must not happen again, for Masi’s sake as well as for the sport; that the owners of F1, who make a lot of money from it, should provide Masi with a deputy to work alongside him. Croft also noted that Verstappen is a worthy champion, but that he should not have won in the way that he did—that was unfair on him as well as on Hamilton—and that the gracious magnanimity of Hamilton in congratulating Verstappen should silence his own critics—he, too, is a worthy champion of champions.

As I say, I am not a fan of F1. But I found Croft’s analysis incredibly important. Everyone who is working is working under a massive additional burden, under pressure to deliver business as usual in circumstances that are far from usual. At every level and in every sector, we are stretched to the very limit—sitting ducks on worn tyres, if you will—and under such conditions, extended over time, errors of judgement are inevitable. Some of which will have greater consequences than others.

We need to extend grace towards one another. Far more than we do. And the grumpier we all get, living with the pandemic, the more we need this.

We need to consider scaling down what we expect, at present—what we can deliver, and what we demand from others. We aren’t past this, or anywhere near past this.

And we need to have serious conversations about investment. In a society where the only value is money—where what is ‘good’ is profit (and wealth indicates virtue) and what is ‘evil’ is any constraint on profit (and not possessing more money than you can ever spend is seen as vice) and where all other values have been hollowed-out—we need to reconsider wellbeing in terms of the common good. What does it profit us if we grasp material riches, but forfeit our soul?

 

Kindness

 

I have a watch that it gives me a great deal of pleasure to wear. I bought it on a trip to America when Jo was pregnant with Susie, so I must have had it for about twenty-one years now; and a few days ago, the leather glue that holds the buckle gave out, and the watch fell apart, sliding off my wrist.

There is an amazing businessman here in England called Sir John Timpson. He owns a chain of over 2000 little stores where you can go to get keys cut or shoes repaired. They work with ex-offenders, offering 10% of their posts to people coming out of prison; and are generally considered to be a good employer. Along with his wife, who died a few years back, John Timpson fostered 90 children; and he remains involved in supporting charities working for child welfare.

I took my watch along to the local Timpson branch, to ask if they could repair it. The man who works there did, taking a stubby brush and painting the leather with glue, and blowing on it until it turned tacky, before pressing the leather together again.

It was a small job, using hardly any materials and taking only a few minutes’ time. But it meant a lot to me, a very great deal. I asked if I could give him anything for it, and he refused any payment.

That matters. It matters that there are people who are willing to do something, however seemingly small—small things often having great impact, as today—free of charge. It matters that people should not expect this—for, had I done so, it would not have been freely given—and that when we are given such a gift, we should find a way to honour the one who gave it—again, not out of duty, not paying a debt in order to be freed from generosity, but freely, so that the economy of grace is held together, not by leather glue but by the glue of kindness.

Those who live in houses of clay

At Morning Prayer at present, we are reading in the book of Job, a masterful piece of theatre exploring the tragi-comedy of existence. In the play’s prelude we witness the assembly of the council of the gods, before the sovereign Lord of the universe. The Lord engages one of the lesser, created, gods in conversation, the shadowy Satan (or, Accuser), a restless god who walks back and forth on the earth in agitation. They debate the righteous human, Job, and enter into a wager. Satan will test the limits of job’s righteousness; while the Lord will question the far corners of Satan’s agitation, for, we shall see, that the Lord is present and attentive to the pain of all creation.

The drama then shifts to Job and his friends. In his suffering, they are, at first, magnificent in their empathy, sitting with him in silence for seven full days. Then Job speaks (chapter 3), a heart-felt soliloquy giving voice to his pain, and the dam breaks. In turn, his friends offer their insight, conventional but deeply flawed wisdom. First to speak is Eliphaz (chapter 4), who recounts a vision he has had by night, in his fitful sleep as he keeps watch with his hurting friend. Eliphaz mistakes the spirit who appears before him for the Lord, when, in truth, it is the sly, sweet-talking Satan, insinuating seeds of doubt, of both human and divine nature: neither are to be trusted.

He does, however, come out with one of the most incredible descriptions of the human being ever spoken: ‘those who live in houses of clay, whose foundation is in the dust,’—speaking not of domestic architecture, but of the body, crafted from the clay of the earth, to which it shall return, and animated by the breath of God. For, contrary to Satan’s accusation, the Lord does not only put trust in human beings, but entrusts his very breath.

What impact does it have, what questions does it raise, for us to be those who live in houses of clay?

 

‘Then Eliphaz the Temanite answered:

‘If one ventures a word with you, will you be offended?
But who can keep from speaking?
See, you have instructed many;
you have strengthened the weak hands.
Your words have supported those who were stumbling,
and you have made firm the feeble knees.
But now it has come to you, and you are impatient;
it touches you, and you are dismayed.
Is not your fear of God your confidence,
and the integrity of your ways your hope?

‘Think now, who that was innocent ever perished?
Or where were the upright cut off?
As I have seen, those who plough iniquity
and sow trouble reap the same.
By the breath of God they perish,
and by the blast of his anger they are consumed.
The roar of the lion, the voice of the fierce lion,
and the teeth of the young lions are broken.
The strong lion perishes for lack of prey,
and the whelps of the lioness are scattered.

‘Now a word came stealing to me,
my ear received the whisper of it.
Amid thoughts from visions of the night,
when deep sleep falls on mortals,
dread came upon me, and trembling,
which made all my bones shake.
A spirit glided past my face;
the hair of my flesh bristled.
It stood still,
but I could not discern its appearance.
A form was before my eyes;
there was silence, then I heard a voice:
“Can mortals be righteous before God?
Can human beings be pure before their Maker?
Even in his servants he puts no trust,
and his angels he charges with error;
how much more those who live in houses of clay,
whose foundation is in the dust,
who are crushed like a moth.
Between morning and evening they are destroyed;
they perish for ever without any regarding it.
Their tent-cord is plucked up within them,
and they die devoid of wisdom.”

 

Grace and peace

This morning I led Morning Prayer at Sunderland Minster for the first time since March.

The Old Testament reading, Judges 15:1-16:3, part of the Samson saga, is a litany of abuse and violence, against women, animals, the natural environment and the communities that depend on the fruit of the earth, tribal rivals—the whole passage is concerned with the evils of ‘othering’—and even the built environment.

For some, this passage (and others like it) is reason enough to reject the Bible as worthy of shaping community, and to reject the community that holds it to be authoritative. Personally, I am glad that this passage is in the Bible, confronting me to recognise that there is nowhere I can stand outside of such a cycle of hostility, no community I can join that is above such things. I am not exempt.

Where is God in this passage? The spirit of the Lord rushes upon Samson to free him from his captivity; and, after Samson has routed his enemies, God responds to his thirst by splitting a hollow place and bringing forth water. We can see this as divine approval; or we can see it as grace: as the loving favour of God to even the most undeserving of sinners, or, those estranged from their neighbours and captive to destruction.

The passage is paired with Luke 18:15-30, in which we see Jesus interrupting the endless cycle of violence, just long enough to see whether others will step into the vulnerable space created. He interrupts his disciples in their intent to order people who were bringing infants to Jesus to stop; telling them that they must become as a little child if they are ever to enter into the kingdom of God. He interrupts a certain ruler (or, a man with enormous privilege in an unjust world) who is seeking even greater fulfilment through gain; calling him to give away his wealth to the benefit of the poor. In a world of enmity, calling him from a position of neutrality to be a peacemaker, one with God-given authority to participate in the active positive relationship between God and humankind, made possible by God’s initiative and revealed in the person of Jesus.

The ruler baulks, and walks away. The disciples don’t really get it, but stick with it, with wrestling with the call of Jesus on their lives—which is a call into community, the people of God, those who are in Christ.

The word of the kingdom is new every morning, always calling us afresh to know grace, and peace. However uncomfortable the reading from Judges; however barely-more-hopeful the reading from Luke; both readings this morning bring me back to this.

Rain, reign, rein

God walked on the unruly waters, and they cowered before him. On rain-slick streets I walk on water tamed, my steps displacing a film of wet still possessing just enough surface-tension to hold my footprints for a moment in my wake. To hallow, and to hound, my passing-by: “Here walks one of the human-kind, creatures with God-given authority to rule over the earth; will this one exercise their rule for good or ill, or abdicate all responsibility?”

You only notice, if at all, after the rain.

Grace, part 2

Every so often, the pavement is also stained by dark red berries. This, too, is grace. Fallen on concrete, they will never seed the next generation. Crushed, twice daily, under the feet of oblivious schoolgirls, they do not even serve for food for birds. These fruit are fruitless — except, their blood cries from the ground, “there is more than enough, abundantly more-than!”

Grace insists that there is always some part of our lives that is not productive, that serves no other economy, except that of grace. Call it a tithe, if you will; though it is a tithe we receive, not offer up. I bristle at the very thought that grace should insist on anything. It sounds so lacking in grace, the ego, wriggling, insists. But grace is all-or-nothing. You cannot have ‘some grace’. And so, I fall from grace, again and again; only to be graciously lifted up once more. Only to discover that grace does not only give me its tithe, it gives me all I have.

This is what the seeds scattered on the pavement tell me. Oh, my ears!

Grace, part 1

I leave the house for the first time in two days. Walking along the street, my eyes are drawn to every green tendril and tiny, perfect leaf that has pushed its way up through cracks in the concrete slabs — stained by the foulings of every neighbourhood dog; scarred by the memory of countless spat-out wads of gum; scattered with cubes of glass from a smashed-in car window, the car itself long since moved on...

Life, against all the odds. This is grace.