Funny someone should mention Los Angeles:
Posted on 07/17/2006 6:37:26 AM PDT by NYer
THE groom’s mother wore a peach silk suit and an expression of mingled happiness, anxiety and bemusement. The other groom’s mother wore a peacock-blue dress and a similar expression, one that seemed to combine “I can’t believe this is happening” with “What a beautiful day, what a lovely chapel, what nice well-dressed people — just like a real wedding.”
...I was a huppah holder at this gay Christian wedding, and our routine was intricately choreographed.
The huppah, in the Jewish tradition, is a canopy, often made from a prayer shawl, whose corners are held up on poles by four people close to the wedding couple. But these grooms, Randy and Michael, were Catholic — super Catholic in fact. Michael had been a seminarian, preparing for the Jesuit priesthood in a former life, and Randy a Benedictine monk, deeply steeped in prayer, contemplation and service.
So why, as my Brooklyn-raised father carefully asked, would they want a huppah? The thing is, when you put “Catholic” and “gay wedding” together, you come out with one inevitable conclusion: an extravaganza of rituals.
And that’s what this was. We started in a circle of 100 people, holding hands, blessing and thanking earth, sky and the four directions. We then moved into some Christian sacred dance, all about breaking bread and feeding one another. While the rest of the wedding party proceeded into the chapel, wearing burgundy and orange ribbon stoles and holding long-stemmed gerbera daisies, three fellow Jews and I struggled outside to mount the huppah.
In a typical Jewish wedding, our task would have been simple: Don’t let the huppah sag, and don’t sneeze during the ceremony. But this huppah was not just a huppah. First, it was a quilt, created by the grooms’ families and friends, with squares that read “Two Boys Dancing” and “I don’t even know how to think straight.” Then it was to become a kind of medieval coat of arms, which we were to carry folded to the altar where we would unfurl it into a backdrop for the ceremony. And later it would become an altar cloth, an anchor for the Bible and a robe.
.............
When the communion part of the ceremony rolled around, the priest in Michael took over; he grabbed the plate of bread and held it aloft.
“Bread! What does it make you think of?”
Answers poured forth: “Earth.” “Seeds.”
“Our bodies!” Michael cried.
And I realized why monastics can be so sexy. It’s not just the repression. It’s also the sense that the miracle is contained within the body, the body within the miracle. Seeing Randy watching Michael with the same realization written all over his face, I blushed.
“Michael and Randy don’t want you just to witness their ceremony,” said the minister, a petite lesbian with spiky platinum-tipped hair. “They want you to be co-celebrants with them, and they promise — we promise — that if you open yourselves fully to this experience, you will be transformed. Are you willing?”
“Yes!” the assembled roared.
AS greedy for transformation as the next girl, I held up my corner of the huppah as the first hour of the ceremony rolled by. A unity candle was lighted, hymns were sung, and a monk what kind of monk would that be ? with a beautiful tenor voice played sacred music on the guitar. Everything — the music, the decorations, the grooms’ outfits (black pants, white shirts imprinted with the motif of a sacred Hawaiian flower) — had been selected with exquisite care.
I snapped out of my reverie when the huppah changed roles to become an altar cloth for communion.
I had never taken communion, out of respect and also out of a vague fear that, as a Jew, I would be struck with thunderbolts if I did. But the minister and Michael and Randy said this communion was for everyone, that it could mean whatever we wanted it to, and after all it was challah. So I stood in line, dunked my bread in the cider, and was generously showered with a Jesus-free blessing by a minister friend.
....
Randy and Michael’s eyes were wet as they turned to each other to recite their vows. I stood behind them, conscious of beautiful masculine energy that was cascading between them.
They promised to cherish each other, fight side by side for justice and dedicate their marriage to protecting the earth. Then Michael looked at Randy and said, “Randy, I would die for you.”
I blinked back streaky mascara tears.
...
Rings exchanged, they turned and faced friends and family, a sea of loving faces. Not one dry eye in the house. We wrapped the huppah around them, so they were like two tall teddy bears swaddled in well-wishes. It would be nice if we could protect them this way, from the hatred and fear of those who might find their union abhorrent I'm not afraid, I'd find a wedding like this pricelessly funny under any circumstances, but we knew that was impossible. Linking themselves solidly and visibly to each other, they become twice targeted, and yet infinitely strengthened.
.....
Together, we all marched onward and outward to bright sunlight and chicken breasts in apricot sauce: the gay Catholics, the nominally straight Jews, the Midwestern families who had traveled long distances in more ways than one, the whole motley collection of pagans, ex-priests, Buddhists, actors and singers, each of whom had absorbed the ceremony in their way.
It wasn’t a legal wedding. Even so, it made me think the Right is correct in fearing same-sex unions. There is such power in this kind of brave and naked love that it may make the walls of Jericho come tumbling down. I am truly frightened! I swear, liberals really crack me up - they think we're just out there with the pitchforks, waiting to tar and feather them. And they're right. Just kidding.
Oh man!
"Here I am Lord" was the communion hymn for me this past Sunday. Still knew every word by heart.
I was definitely bummed when I saw, then Fr. Schutte, in a Speedo on that well known dividing line by the Bradford Beach House.
Funny someone should mention Los Angeles:
Egads. Talk about flaming.
The bishop appears to have been missing in action during all this, as usual. I've never heard of Bishop Lori, but he's obviously one of those shepherds who only wakes up when he sights lawyers on his doorstep. No diocesan audit for five years, hmmm?
Speedos seem to be the required garb for these guys. The current Bp of St. Pete's, Bishop Lynch, is known as Bishop Speedo because of his fondness for making male staff members pose for him in Speedos while he took photos of them...and of course he did have to settle out of court for an undisclosed sum in a male parish employee's sexual harrassment suit ...
Personally, I wouldn't care what Dan Schutte did in his spare time if he were just a musician, liked by some and disliked by others, better than some and worse than others. However, the fact that he is known to have "married" his boyfriend makes it clear that he's not in agreement with the Church, so he shouldn't be serving in an official post in a Jesuit university. Especially a job that makes it seem as if the Jesuits regard him as a role model.
what a fairy nice songwriter, I thought only bennys and pineys split the beach.
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