To my right, eight seats down, is Martin Scorsese.
To my left, Valerie Bertinelli shares my armrest, and Wolfgang Van Halen sits beside her.
Mere inches from my face is the back of John Mulaney’s head. And three rows in front of me is Sandra Hüller, star of two of the Best Picture nominees.
Jimmy Kimmel walks across the stage, and the 96th Academy Awards ceremony begins.
Last March, I had the incredible opportunity to attend the Oscars ceremony at the Dolby Theater in Hollywood. My night was spent attempting to be cool in this sea of celebrity (did Zendaya just make eye contact with me?!), trying to keep my expression neutral when the cameras were pointed in my direction, and sitting for hours in the fanciest dress I’ve worn since senior prom. It was a surreal experience.
For years, the general public has become increasingly distant from the Academy Awards as the Academy has garnered a reputation for ignoring the general public’s taste. But I just can’t give up on the Oscars. I have always loved the art of filmmaking. Some of the most significant memories, conversations, and relationships of my life are inextricably intertwined with movies. This love has only grown as I now live in Los Angeles, where I attend church and enjoy friendships with people in the industry.
I am also on staff with Reformed University Fellowship at the University of Southern California, which is home to one of the most prestigious film schools in the country. My students are going to be part of the next generation of culture-makers.
As I watched the show, something felt familiar about this rare event. It took time to pin down what I was experiencing, but I can finally name it.
The Academy Awards felt like a religious ceremony.
That may sound absurd. But when you work in campus ministry in Los Angeles, you find yourself constantly discussing the intersection of faith and vocation, particularly when it comes to art and popular culture. I’ve benefited from the writing of James K.A. Smith, who introduced me to the concept of “cultural liturgies.” Across his work, Smith argues that our cultural institutions are not spiritually neutral.
He explains that when we participate in activities like going to a shopping mall, attending a football game, or even singing the national anthem, we are participating in a form of worship, a cultural liturgy. These activities form us spiritually. Like a church worship service, these repeated rituals have a liturgy that intends to shape the desires of our hearts. Nothing is truly secular.
For nearly 100 years, the Academy Awards have been a present feature of American culture, and therefore it is worth examining its liturgy. In the tradition of Smith, I want to consider the Academy Awards ceremony as a worship service. What do the liturgical movements of the ceremony teach us about the industry at large? Whether you are attending the ceremony or watching it on television, how is this liturgy trying to shape and influence who we become?
The Red Carpet
The people who walk the red carpet are the “set apart” people. Unlike a church, this show invites only those it deems worthy. The best of the best, the most beautiful, the most significant.
Only a special class of movie stars can rest on their laurels. For most celebrities, there is a constant, neverending hustle to prove one’s worthiness. I still matter. I’m still beautiful. The public still cares about me. I can offer something. It makes sense this is an industry of people who never retire, who often burn out or derail their careers with public meltdowns rather than willingly cede the spotlight.
Like church, people put on their Sunday best. In most of our churches, we rarely have a moment where we acknowledge what people are wearing. But clothing is hardly an afterthought to God. From the fig leaves given to Adam and Eve, to the robe given to the prodigal son, to the saints dressed in white in Revelation, throughout the Bible, clothing is a potent symbol of identity.
In “Desiring the Kingdom,” Smith writes that even the mere act of showing up for church tells us important things about the people of God. Like Hollywood, Christians gather as a set-apart people. But there are no barriers to entry when it comes to public worship. We are not invited on account of our worth but because God is worthy. We come with reverence, acknowledging the presence of God in our midst.
Opening Monologue
Once everyone is in their seats, the Oscars usually begins with a montage showcasing the year in film. This is a kind of “call to worship,” presenting the narrative or theme of the night. The montage centers everyone on the purpose of the ceremony. You are invited to lay your cares aside and to participate in a sacred experience.
After the reel, the host comes out and kicks things off with the opening monologue. The monologue is usually a half-toast, half-roast, with the goal of showing a level of self-awareness about this indulgent extravaganza.
The host usually takes gentle shots at the biggest stars in the room, cracks jokes about the nominated films, and tries to knock everyone down a couple of pegs by pointing out some unsavory features of the industry. During his monologue last year, Jimmy Kimmel made jokes about Robert Downey Jr’s history of drug use, the labor strikes, and AI.
This serves as the industry’s confession of sin. On behalf of the congregation, the host acknowledges and confesses both individual and systematic offenses. Of course, this begs the question: Who is the confession aimed towards? God? The watching public? The attendees? It is unclear. There is obviously an undercurrent of guilt in the room that needs to be addressed, but no one seems to know who deserves this repentance.
What then, is the answer to these various sins? What offers salvation? The answer is quickly revealed. It is the act of filmmaking itself. The host tells us that we may be sinful, and our industry may have a rotten core, but at least we have made these pieces of art that hopefully tell the truth, make society better, and represent the oppressed. Surely, that can be enough?
It’s works-based salvation. But if the opening monologue’s confession of sin has pricked any consciences, there is the assurance of pardon that a good, meaningful film can justify whatever transgressions have been committed.
The Awards
The rest of the ceremony is spent giving the awards to the nominees. I think of these moments as a type of baptism. The winner comes up on stage and gives a speech that sounds a lot like a testimony. They outline all the ups and downs of how they came to this life-changing moment, and thank people who helped them along the way. They accept the award, and they are ushered into the inner circle. They have been made part of the family. They’ve been baptized. They have a new identity that can never be taken from them: they are Oscar winners.
This Oscar baptism has no covenant, and it is formed on the belief that the person earned this by the virtue of their work. Unlike a Christian baptism, you must be of a certain caliber to deserve it.
In Memoriam
Near the end of the ceremony, there is the in memoriam segment. Clips and photos of industry people – both famous and not – flash across the screen while the orchestra plays. This is an act of lament. There is sadness and frustration expressed against death.
How dare death take away these beloved people? This question is unspoken but palpable as celebrities pay homage to their deceased saints.
Death was not part of God’s original design of humanity. It is a result of the Fall. In that way, death is expected, but it is not right, as the in memoriam montage recognizes. Yet for the Christian, we know that because of Christ, death has been conquered, and not only conquered, but has been transformed from our dreaded enemy into the friend that ushers us to our heavenly home. Furthermore, Christians claim eternal life is not dependent on the quality of a person’s life, but only on whether or not they hid themself in Christ.
The Oscars makes room for lament, but it has no room for hope. Death gets the final word. Our only ability to soften its sting is to memorialize these saints of the industry. Every film, every nomination, every Oscar win, is a brick on the road to immortality.
Curtain Close
After the Best Picture winner has been announced, the auditorium empties, the confetti is swept away, and the viewers turn off their televisions. What are we left with? What has been imparted to us? What, in the end, is the Academy Awards ceremony worshipping?
The industry celebrates its own brilliance, politics, and history of its own people and product. But I think the worship is actually aimed towards the act of moviemaking itself.
Moviemaking is an act of creation. It takes raw materials of location, lighting, costumes, sound, written words, human bodies, and emotions, and makes order and meaning out of them. It is an act of stewardship and cultivation. It is a bid at fruitfulness.
Everyone involved in a film is acting in the image of God. They are imitating his role of creator and making use of the materials he has given. God endowed these people with talents and gifts to make great art. That is a worthy calling and vocation, as I remind my students.
But it is always a mistake to worship the gift, rather than the gift-giver. The Bible calls this idolatry. It is by no means limited to Hollywood. We all constantly make the gifts of God into gods themselves.
The Academy Awards ceremony enables us to see what misplaced worship and idolatry look like in our culture. The hope that a collection of great films can atone for our misdeeds is woefully misguided. But common grace also means that even among such a mess, there is much beauty and skill to affirm and enjoy. The Oscars ceremony reflects back to us our own deepest struggles of faith.
I have no idea what the upcoming Oscars ceremony will look like, and since I’m not attending this year, I will root for my favorite film from the comfort of my living room. But I will also endeavor to do what all Christians must do as people who live in the world: observe this cultural ritual, resist letting it conform me to the world, and celebrate whatever is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, and praiseworthy.
Madeleine Dorst serves as RUF campus staff at the University of Southern California.