One Baptist Wedding and an Atheist
Last weekend I attended my nephew J.B.’s wedding in Amarillo, which was a sort of ultra-Baptist affair. Most of my family are religious believers, but certain members such as J.B. take their Baptistness very seriously. My sister Sue—his mother—is also a true believer but not an ardent churchgoer.
J.B. reminds me of Doogie Houser, except for the gay part. A few years ago he became a physician and is now in private practice. The thing is, he’s 32 but looks about 14. He married a woman three years his senior, who therefore looks like his mother.
J.B.’s new bride has been married once before, and I applaud J.B. for marrying a divorcee, since not so long ago in the Southern Baptist world such women were considered to be sullied, unreliable hussies—just like Catholic girls.
There’s no question that J.B. remained a virgin until his wedding day. There’s nothing wrong with that, unless you happen to have a normal sex drive. Personally, I would never buy a car without test-driving it, but to each his own. I hope that neither J.B. nor his bride end up with a clunker, so to speak. At least she can give him driving lessons (nudge-nudge, wink-wink).
I hate it say it, but it was the dullest, most unromantic wedding I’ve ever attended, and I’ve been to a few Baptist weddings in my time. The ceremony was so focused on Jesus that I thought my nephew and his bride were preparing for a threesome—or if you throw in the whole Holy Trinity, a fivesome.
Their pastor actually used the word “helpmeet” to refer the wife’s role, which took me back… to the sixteenth century. I halfway expected J.B. to give the bride’s father a few donkeys in exchange for his daughter. I’m not certain whether the bride uttered the word “obey” in her vows, because by time it got to that point I was ogling her hot younger sister, who was one of the bridesmaids, and not paying much attention to the ceremony itself.
I freely admit that I’ve teared up at almost every wedding I’ve attended. There’s something moving about seeing a couple deeply in love making their earnest vows to spend their lives together. That love may die and divorce might be looming darkly in the wings, but at a wedding, the illusion of lasting love is usually strong. But I didn’t tear up at all at J.B.’s wedding because of its overly religious nature. I idly wondered from the overall tone whether they would be pronounced “master and slave” rather than “husband and wife.”
Don’t get me wrong, I respect other people’s religious beliefs. (Actually I don’t, but it’s the polite thing to say.) I could definitely have done without the long gospel song that was played after the couple made their vows and stood staring awkwardly at each other while the audience fidgeted. Whatever happened to “Close To You”? But the newly conjugated couple looked fairly happy as they were presented as Dr. and Mrs. to the audience, and that’s what counts.
After the wedding was over and the photographer snapped some group photos, I loaded my mother into the car and we drove to the reception, which was held in the backyard of some church member’s house in the 100-degree heat.
Once there, I saw a couple of my older brother’s friends, whom I’d known since I was a kid. They’re about six years older than me, and as devoutly religious as the day was hot. They eyed my shaved head suspiciously, as if I might be a member of some bald atheist cult—which I am. My brother’s friend Mike, who has always been obnoxious, asked me if I’d gotten shorter. Then, while staring at the flaws on my scalp, he asked how long I’d been shaving my head. To even the score I asked how long he’d looked like Sandra Day O’Connor.
My brother’s sons finally showed up, after wisely going home and changing into shorts and t-shirts. Much to my brother’s disappointment, his kids are not members of any church and do naughty things such as drink, smoke pot and get their girlfriends pregnant. One of them approached me, knowing that I am the “cool” uncle to whom he can freely speak.
“Is there any booze here?” he asked.
I laughed and put my hand on his shoulder. “Landon,” I said, “This is a Baptist reception.”
“Oh, man!” he said, and went off to get some fruit punch.
Southern Baptists tend to forget that Jesus allegedly turned water into wine, not Hawaiian Punch.
It seemed like several interminable hours passed while I mingled with my mom, siblings and nephews, sipped awful fruit punch and sweated a lot. Finally the bride and groom were ready to make their exit. We were handed lacy little drawstring pouches of birdseed to toss at the happy couple as they fled to their getaway car. No one told me I was supposed to take the birdseed out of the pouch before I clocked J.B. in the head with it, but he was uninjured.
The car dragged behind it a few soda cans tethered to the bumper, and its windows were decorated with a few very polite pronouncements in white shoe polish, such as “Just Married!” and “Bless This Couple!” So very Baptist. I wondered how J.B. would adapt to having a sex life, then pushed the thought quickly from my mind.
Which reminds me of an old joke: Why do Baptists not make love while standing up? Because they’re afraid people will think they’re dancing.
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