God 39;s Bankers Book

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Foundedat Holy Trinity Brompton (HTB) in Knightsbridge in 1991, Alpha has grown from an initial four churches to operate in more than 55,000 locations in 164 countries. It is estimated that more than 16 million people have taken the course worldwide. Jonathan Aitken, Geri Halliwell, Sir Ian Blair and Bear Grylls are all regulars.

While the course draws those from all walks of life, its heartland in the UK is leafy west London, and the wealthy, youthful (average age: 27), 4,000-strong congregation of HTB is the model upon which its success is built. Rumours circulate of Alpha demanding a tithe from its richest members; wilder stories suggest it is a brainwashing cult. What is clear is that while traditional Anglican churches have seen their congregations dwindle dramatically over the past several decades, the packed pews of HTB and its sister churches attest to Alpha's remarkable spiritual pulling power.

The Alpha course is presented as a friendly, accessible introduction to Christianity aimed specifically at non-churchgoers. Led by charismatic barrister-turned-priest Nicky Gumbel (also vicar of HTB), the course is made up of 10 weekly get-togethers where the members eat dinner, listen to a talk, then discuss the week's topic in smaller groups. It twins sermons and Biblical exegesis with more happy-clappy practices such as speaking in tongues (where members pray in a "heavenly language"), and it includes a weekend retreat during which members are encouraged to fill themselves with the Holy Spirit.

In 2008, as the financial panic took hold, more and more evangelicals began to come out of the woodwork. It seemed as though the crash was causing City workers to flock to the nearest religious get-together, desperate to repent of their sub-prime sins. The truth, however, is a little different. The evangelical Christians had always been there, but the uncertainty of the crisis made them feel more comfortable about revealing their faith, according to Marcus Nodder, the chaplain of St Peter's Barge, a church which bobs on the Thames's tide in the shadow of the Canary Wharf skyscrapers. "We didn't see any increase in numbers during the credit crunch," he reveals. "If anything, numbers fell as people were fired and those who stayed felt less able to leave their desks given the pressure and focus upon them. What we did see was that the crisis gave Christians working in the City the opportunity to speak about the hope their faith gives them."

Jeremy Crossley, the rector of St Margaret Lothbury, the centre of the Alpha course in the City, tells a similar story: "I was never very conscious of people rushing to church as a result of the crash who weren't coming to church already. But the interesting thing was that it was much easier to talk about your faith because the realities were being shaken. The things people thought they could rely on were suddenly not there. People were less likely to ridicule convictions."

High-flying City bankers such as Ken Costa, Stephen Green or Baron Griffiths of Fforestfach (the vice-chairman of Goldman Sachs, who made headlines last year after telling the press that inequality was good for us) are able to discuss their faith openly and honestly. Costa's God at Work courses attempt to "equip Christians in finding purpose in their everyday work"; Griffiths, in a recent interview about globalisation, said: "It is very clear that the Church is an expression of something unique, because it is the spirit of Christ. I have found over 40 years that this is most relevant to our current economic challenges." And Green's unintentionally hilarious book about the credit crunch, Good Value (opening passage: "Lake Como. Spring 2008. April. Eliot's cruelest month.") sets out his views on the financial mess "through a Christian prism".

"I did a course called Christianity Explored in 2006. It's basically Alpha without the [speaking in] tongues. One of the guys on my desk asked me to go along to a service at St Helen's Bishopsgate on a Tuesday lunchtime. I did and now I'm a regular. We get hundreds of people most weeks. Huge crowds on Sunday nights."

"Are you joking? Of course not. It'd make things very difficult. The City isn't immoral any more, it's amoral. But if my boss thought I was relying on prayer to get me through the day, he'd look down on me. It would make me seem irrational. I tell him I'm going to physio when I go to church."

"It's sometimes very tough. When you have to entertain clients and they want to go to strip clubs or whatever, it can be awkward. That's why Christianity Explored is so great, because you go there and there are others facing the same dilemmas. You can support each other through it."

Christianity Explored was founded 10 years ago by Rico Tice, a former Hewlett-Packard executive, and now operates 5,000 courses across 54 countries. One of its trustees is Jeremy Marshall, the chief executive of venerable British bank C Hoare & Co, whose illustrious clients have included Samuel Pepys, William Gainsborough, Lord Byron and Jane Austen. Marshall agrees to meet with me in the bank's Fleet Street headquarters. k

A softly spoken, thoughtful man, Marshall leads me along corridors lined with the bank's ledgers from centuries gone by. We sit down in a meeting-room and Marshall tells me about his background: his father was a pastor who took his children on Bible-smuggling trips into the Soviet Union for their holidays; Marshall joined the City in 1984, worked at Barclays and Credit Suisse, and has been chief executive of Hoare's for two years. He believes the rise of evangelical Christianity in the City is down to its focus on spreading the Word: "People are looking for something that has rules they can believe in, not something wishy-washy. We talk about our faith to anyone who wants to hear about it, just as if you were a customer whose business I was trying to win for the bank, I'd tell you about all the great things we're doing."

Marshall speaks with bluntness about the seeming discrepancy between life as a money-man and life as a Christian. "It's a matter of stewardship," he says. "If you're given lots of money, there's nothing inherently good or bad in it. It's a question of what you're going to do with it. Practise philanthropy, take care of those who don't have much. This is one of the reasons that people are quite rightly angry with the City: 'Unto those who much is given, much will be required.' Jesus said it's impossible for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven and I believe that."

I suggest to Marshall it is easier for him as a Christian working at a family-owned bank like Hoare's than it would be at, say, publicly owned Goldman Sachs. "I think that's true. [Hoare's] has strong Christian roots. Our statement of purpose is to treat customers as we'd wish to be treated, which is an extension of the Christians' golden rule."

Eve Poole is a theologian who teaches business ethics on the MBA programme at Ashridge Business School. Describing herself as a "totally paid-up God squadder", Poole worked at Deloitte Consulting before completing her doctorate on capitalism and Christianity at Cambridge last year. She is full of strong faith, yet with none of the smugness that sometimes seeps from believers. I tell her about my interviews with City Christians, how the younger among them find it difficult to combine their faith with their jobs.

James Featherby, a partner at big-five law firm Slaughter & May, is closely involved with the London Institute for Contemporary Christianity, which tries to break down the divide between secular and sacred life. "One of the problems for people in the City is loneliness," he tells me. "If they're not married by the time they get here, or in a close relationship, it's tough to build a family life and a network of close friends as they're working so hard. So by the time people reach 30, they're looking around and saying, 'Hang on, how do I connect with other human beings?' At Alpha, or Christianity Explored, you find a bunch of guys and girls who will connect with you on an emotional level and share your journey."

William Taylor, the rector of St Helen's, is a tall, dashing fellow. An army officer before becoming a priest, he speaks in the relaxed tones of the mess hall. There is a reading from Luke's Gospel, then Taylor carries out a detailed analysis of the text, peppering his talk with whimsical anecdotes and corny jokes. The audience leaves knowing a little more about the Bible, but it strikes me that what was really useful for these City workers was to escape from their desks for a while. Groups cluster outside after, chatting in the spring sunshine.

I speak to Jeremy Crossley again, asking him why young Christians seem to find such difficulty opening up about their faith. "Ken Costa and the like have nothing more to prove; they can be open. The younger guys are in a more competitive environment. But Christians are becoming more confident. As they get into their thirties and forties they are much more relaxed about talking about their faith than they were when I arrived [at St Margaret Lothbury]."

Alex Preston worked in the City for 10 years. He is the author of the novel 'This Bleeding City' and the business and finance columnist for the 'New Statesman'. His next novel, 'The Full Fathom Five' (Faber), will be out in January 2012

You can't score one of finance world's highest positions without knowing how to talk a good game. But since the start of the financial crisis, CEOs for some of the country's largest banks seem to be famous as much for their rhetorical flubs as for their sobering financial assessments.

As leaders of four of the nation's largest banks prepare to be grilled Wednesday by the Financial Crisis Inquiry Commission -- a Congressionally appointed panel charged with examing the causes of last year's historic economic tumult -- we take a look at some of their more colorful quotes.

Former Morgan Stanley CEO and current chairman John Mack may not share some of his peers' penchant for frequent public wisecracks (see Lloyd Blankfein and Jamie Dimon on the following pages), but he's not afraid of tough -- and, at least on occasion, profane -- talk.

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