No Methodism to their Madness
Yesterday was WG and my niece's christening.
A little backstory:
WG's sister used to work in a Presbyterian church some months back, a youth counselor or something. She stopped going to church at all once she'd decided to return to work, before our second niece was born. Her husband only goes for special occasions and is solidly opposed to religion.
This proposed a bit of a quandary for the little one's baptism---where to go?
One would presume they would elect to do it either at the Presbyterian church she worked at and used to attend, or perhaps at the Presbyterian church WG and her sister grew up attending.
WG's sister said she didn't care, and WG's mom chose the United Methodist church she used to attend back inna day.
We discovered this, of course, when the directions went out a couple of days before the ceremony.
So we dutifully dressed in Sunday clothes and headed out to the country (having attended Mass that morning, of course). We arrived a few minutes early to find people milling about in the church sanctuary, running around, shouting, etc. People were friendly, though, and immediately welcomed us as visitors. The assembled masses represented both ends of the demographic bell curve with a gaping whole in the middle represented, as far as I could tell, by WG and myself, her sister, and her sister's husband. Everyone else was either in the 60s or under 20. It was rather like attending a service during the battle of Verdun.
People wandered to their pews at something like the appointed hour and the choir appeared, wearing the traditional blue and white robes we recalled from our nearly yearlong sojourn in the United Methodist church up the road from our home. Tradition. Excellent.
There then appeared a fat twentysomething man whose blonde highlights, trendy glasses, and soul patch, when combined with his garish Siegfried and Roy Spectacular! stage ensemble, nearly bowled me over with his fabness. Done right, you get Bootsy Collins. Done wrong, Elton John. He looked like Elton John.
Don't let him be the pastor....don't let him be the pastor...don't let him be the pastor....
"Hey everybody, any announcements?" inquired Rocket Man, now ensconced in the big chair near the choir. Goodbye, yellow brick road.
People shouted things at random from all directions about this and that. Honky Cat then regaled us with a charming tale about how one parishioner had stuffed something down his shirt and pants the day before.
This didn't sound Methodist to me.
Suspicion set in once I spied the electric guitar and drum kit set up next to the covered baptismal font. Surely not a praise band! Sadly so, as the treacly Christian rock soon demonstrated.
Once the fifth repeat of the doggerel chorus subsided, and Brother Elton of John ordered us to great our neighbor. WG and I exchanged the usual peace sign, before noting that the usual nicety of shaking the hand of the people within leaning reach had been dispensed in favor of some sort of speed-greeting game. People milled about like parents at a school dance. Nice and all, I suppose, but more Shriner's convention than high church.
The choir director, a no-nonsense sort in a crewcut and sensible shoes then took her revenge by firing up an old school hym FROM AN ACTUAL HYMNAL with the choir. From the sullen look on the pastor's face as he contemplated his manicure and his gaudy watch one presumed he was thinking of the lyrics to "The Bitch Is Back".
The traditional part of our program now over, our 3-year-old niece loudly called out "Music's done. Can I go play now?"
Pastor Metrosexual thought this would be a good time to toss the program out the window and move the christening to the front of the line, liturgy be damned.
The parents brought the baby to the front, and we shambled forth soon after, invited by the siren song of the preacher's voice sonorously saying, "...and anyone else who would like to come up can too."
A prayer was said, although the cue was so muffed I missed a chance to give my in-laws a heart attack right then and there by crossing myself in front of all the heretics. The best I could do was bring my arm partway up ready to make my Trinitarian allegiance plain before letting it flop as the Auctioneer's Prayer flew by. I waited for the hisses of "Papist!" but the "Amen" followed too quickly on the heels of the "Let us pray" for any hissing to escape the confines of one's mouth. I did cross myself at the end, but everyone seemed to be focused on the baby looking at the pastor with unmitigated horror as her parents surrendered her up to the Vic Taylor of Christ.
He anointed her in the name of the fathersonandholyghost and pronounced her "cool" for not crying. There was some golf tournament clapping.
Then the interrogation of the parents began, read out of a book. When asked whether they would raise our niece as a Christian, and instruct her in the ways of Christianity, WG's sister looked as though she'd swallowed a golf ball. The congregation was likewise asked whether they would ensure that our niece was properly raised, despite not knowing her, nor her parents, nor her grandparents, and despite Father Whatever's still not knowing her parents' names or her surname. They heartily agreed, and thus our little niece gained 83 godparents.
Seats were taken, and scripture was read, an entertaining little diversion from the fluff. The pastor reflected a moment on the meaning of prayer, and shared a guide to prayer involving the fingers on your hand he'd seen on the Schuller show from the Crystal Cathedral on TV. He then shared that he'd been on a 14-mile hike the day before (an accomplishment for a guy outweighing my Bagginsy self by a good 30 lbs) and threw himself on the ground because he wasn't sure he was a Methodist anymore and wanted God to tell him what he was. Now, I'm not sure how this sat with a congregation he'd been preaching to for 4 1/2 years, but fear not: God told him he was a Methodist, and should attend seminary after all. He then checked to make sure there were no Lutherans in attendance before sharing that he knew he wasn't a Lutheran because he attended one of their services and it was boring. One presumes they didn't set up an Electric Drum Fund in advance of his attending.
The choir director was allowed to exalt God one more time with a hymn and then the processional strolled up to the back of the church, although they didn't exit. WG took this opporunity to correct the pastor on one theological point: Schuller stole his "prayer hand" thing from C.S. Lewis.
WG's mother then interrupted to explain that she had gone Presbyterian for awhile, but was now happy to be home amongst the Methodists.
Or the Anarcho-Methodists.
Whatever.
A little backstory:
WG's sister used to work in a Presbyterian church some months back, a youth counselor or something. She stopped going to church at all once she'd decided to return to work, before our second niece was born. Her husband only goes for special occasions and is solidly opposed to religion.
This proposed a bit of a quandary for the little one's baptism---where to go?
One would presume they would elect to do it either at the Presbyterian church she worked at and used to attend, or perhaps at the Presbyterian church WG and her sister grew up attending.
WG's sister said she didn't care, and WG's mom chose the United Methodist church she used to attend back inna day.
We discovered this, of course, when the directions went out a couple of days before the ceremony.
So we dutifully dressed in Sunday clothes and headed out to the country (having attended Mass that morning, of course). We arrived a few minutes early to find people milling about in the church sanctuary, running around, shouting, etc. People were friendly, though, and immediately welcomed us as visitors. The assembled masses represented both ends of the demographic bell curve with a gaping whole in the middle represented, as far as I could tell, by WG and myself, her sister, and her sister's husband. Everyone else was either in the 60s or under 20. It was rather like attending a service during the battle of Verdun.
People wandered to their pews at something like the appointed hour and the choir appeared, wearing the traditional blue and white robes we recalled from our nearly yearlong sojourn in the United Methodist church up the road from our home. Tradition. Excellent.
There then appeared a fat twentysomething man whose blonde highlights, trendy glasses, and soul patch, when combined with his garish Siegfried and Roy Spectacular! stage ensemble, nearly bowled me over with his fabness. Done right, you get Bootsy Collins. Done wrong, Elton John. He looked like Elton John.
Don't let him be the pastor....don't let him be the pastor...don't let him be the pastor....
"Hey everybody, any announcements?" inquired Rocket Man, now ensconced in the big chair near the choir. Goodbye, yellow brick road.
People shouted things at random from all directions about this and that. Honky Cat then regaled us with a charming tale about how one parishioner had stuffed something down his shirt and pants the day before.
This didn't sound Methodist to me.
Suspicion set in once I spied the electric guitar and drum kit set up next to the covered baptismal font. Surely not a praise band! Sadly so, as the treacly Christian rock soon demonstrated.
Once the fifth repeat of the doggerel chorus subsided, and Brother Elton of John ordered us to great our neighbor. WG and I exchanged the usual peace sign, before noting that the usual nicety of shaking the hand of the people within leaning reach had been dispensed in favor of some sort of speed-greeting game. People milled about like parents at a school dance. Nice and all, I suppose, but more Shriner's convention than high church.
The choir director, a no-nonsense sort in a crewcut and sensible shoes then took her revenge by firing up an old school hym FROM AN ACTUAL HYMNAL with the choir. From the sullen look on the pastor's face as he contemplated his manicure and his gaudy watch one presumed he was thinking of the lyrics to "The Bitch Is Back".
The traditional part of our program now over, our 3-year-old niece loudly called out "Music's done. Can I go play now?"
Pastor Metrosexual thought this would be a good time to toss the program out the window and move the christening to the front of the line, liturgy be damned.
The parents brought the baby to the front, and we shambled forth soon after, invited by the siren song of the preacher's voice sonorously saying, "...and anyone else who would like to come up can too."
A prayer was said, although the cue was so muffed I missed a chance to give my in-laws a heart attack right then and there by crossing myself in front of all the heretics. The best I could do was bring my arm partway up ready to make my Trinitarian allegiance plain before letting it flop as the Auctioneer's Prayer flew by. I waited for the hisses of "Papist!" but the "Amen" followed too quickly on the heels of the "Let us pray" for any hissing to escape the confines of one's mouth. I did cross myself at the end, but everyone seemed to be focused on the baby looking at the pastor with unmitigated horror as her parents surrendered her up to the Vic Taylor of Christ.
He anointed her in the name of the fathersonandholyghost and pronounced her "cool" for not crying. There was some golf tournament clapping.
Then the interrogation of the parents began, read out of a book. When asked whether they would raise our niece as a Christian, and instruct her in the ways of Christianity, WG's sister looked as though she'd swallowed a golf ball. The congregation was likewise asked whether they would ensure that our niece was properly raised, despite not knowing her, nor her parents, nor her grandparents, and despite Father Whatever's still not knowing her parents' names or her surname. They heartily agreed, and thus our little niece gained 83 godparents.
Seats were taken, and scripture was read, an entertaining little diversion from the fluff. The pastor reflected a moment on the meaning of prayer, and shared a guide to prayer involving the fingers on your hand he'd seen on the Schuller show from the Crystal Cathedral on TV. He then shared that he'd been on a 14-mile hike the day before (an accomplishment for a guy outweighing my Bagginsy self by a good 30 lbs) and threw himself on the ground because he wasn't sure he was a Methodist anymore and wanted God to tell him what he was. Now, I'm not sure how this sat with a congregation he'd been preaching to for 4 1/2 years, but fear not: God told him he was a Methodist, and should attend seminary after all. He then checked to make sure there were no Lutherans in attendance before sharing that he knew he wasn't a Lutheran because he attended one of their services and it was boring. One presumes they didn't set up an Electric Drum Fund in advance of his attending.
The choir director was allowed to exalt God one more time with a hymn and then the processional strolled up to the back of the church, although they didn't exit. WG took this opporunity to correct the pastor on one theological point: Schuller stole his "prayer hand" thing from C.S. Lewis.
WG's mother then interrupted to explain that she had gone Presbyterian for awhile, but was now happy to be home amongst the Methodists.
Or the Anarcho-Methodists.
Whatever.
Labels: Religion
posted by Teflon at 4:54 PM
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