Cowboy Confessional

The priest flinging water in my face was a little disconcerting.

I attended the baptism of a neighbor’s new daughter, in part to be neighborly. In part because the chain of life, family and belief systems still warm my cynical ticker. Also because the mother is Pilipino, the father is one of those gigantic Swedes, and the two merged families are an interesting gaggle (it is too early to tell what the kid will look like when she gets older, but with that set of genetic material she will likely open a nail salon for WNBA players).

I also attended because I had never witnessed a Catholic baptism before. Comparative theology is another of my odd hobbies. Since Catholicism is overstocked with symbolism, any Church ceremony is an entertaining exercise in that guessing game called “What Dark Part Of History Caused Them To Canonize That?”

Something has happened to the Catholic Church in America over the last few decades. Yes, their churches are still foreboding tombs with the interior decorative warmth of inquisition chambers (a bit more so in California given Spanish theological-architectural contributions). But American priest have devolved into semi-stoned love muffins. Their dispositions resemble new age sentimentality inflicted with residual summer of love psychedelic sensibilities.

A softer, gentler crusader recruiting post.

My biggest disappointment was the ceremony itself. I had been expecting something more energetic, along the lines of a Catholic wedding I once attended, which to date is still the best one hour aerobic workout I have ever endured (stand, sit, kneel, sit, kneel, rise, genuflect, kneel, sit, spin, hop on one leg …). A California Catholic baptism is a quick and quaint affair whereby the priest — with a perpetual smile seeming caused by severe neurological trauma - grills the parents on why in the Sam Hell they brought the kid in to be baptized.

Unlike Baptists - who by definition and name sake take the act seriously - Catholics do not require consenting adults to come to baptism/salvation by their own accord. The Church prefers to get ‘em while they’re fresh. It is easier to wash the sins off someone whose only sin is soiling their diapers and keeping their parents up at night (which, incidentally, is what caused conception in the first place). This is why Catholics get by with sprinkling water on the baby’s head while Baptists have to dunk the whole body into the nearest river. By waiting for adult participation, Baptists have a bigger load of sin to scrub. Baptist also prefer the near death experience of having a preacher drown them. Attempted theological homicide puts the fear of God into a man real fast.

Give the non-consent of the infant, the priest must interrogate the parents since the most cogent answer he could expect from the baptizee would be “goo goo”. Baptizing a body that has not consented to such is against theology and could also get a friar arrested for running an illegal bath house.

At one point in the ritual, the priest uncorks two bottle of olive oil and proceeds to baste the baby. The cleric didn’t mention if the olive oil was extra virgin, but given that the little girl wasn’t even a year old we can safely assume she was. The oils are blessed by a higher primate in the Church hierarchy on some sorted holy day (incidentally, if the Church disclaims evolution they should avoid calling one caste of the priesthood “primates”, though the mental vision of an orangutan in a mitre is amusing). The parents strip the infant to the waste while the priest slathers scented and unscented oil on the kid’s chest and back. As if kids weren’t difficult enough to keep a grip on.

After a few more passage from scripture, auto reflexive answers from the assembled Catholics and a final spritz, the priest loudly shouted in an overjoyed, high pitched, fan crazed schoolgirl voice “We have a new Christian!”

He should read the opt-out clause and check back with the baby in twenty years or so.

His proclamation was frightening in its eagerness. Granted, as a priest he is dedicated to expanding the ranks of the faith, but his delight held a blue note of surprise, as if the excitement of winning one was a great achievement in a world where Satan seems to be ahead on points. It is like a bottom rung baseball team that is thrilled when to their surprise they are not skunked.

During today’s baptismal ritual, the priest palmed a small clam shell dish to hold the holy water, which as best as I can tell is tap water over which that some top-tier ecclesiastic waved his hand. What transformative power this has remains a mystery, but one would think that we should be drinking the stuff instead of dripping it on cherub foreheads. Perhaps holy water should be issued to fire departs since it appears to have prophylactic properties over Hell fire.

With the baby now sufficiently moistened to protect it from eternal damnation, the padre turned to assault the audience. Enraptured by baptismal conquest and from tallying a new tither, and with holy water dish in hand, he finger flicked droplets in my direction, simulcasting unsolicited blessings. If I understand this all correctly God allegedly perks up when a vicar precipitates and prays simultaneously, and I’m the beneficiary thereof.

Hmmm. My lotto numbers didn’t hit today, so this theological theory seems flawed.

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Irony should be classified as a life style. It may be the missing element — the fundamental substance that unites humanity.

That and religious stupidity.

With all Western eyes turned to Islam and the radical extremes therein, we stare gape-mouthed at some of the odder interpretations of that faith. Indeed, aggressive practitioners in the Taliban and the Saudi Commission for the Protection of Virtue and Prevention of Vice would provide us non-stop belly laughs were humans not being maimed and killed. These packs of Gawd’s self-appointed spokesmen make American Shiite Christians look positively saintly by comparison.

The Middle East is where extremism meets blood and comedy. It appears that some Israelis have adopted the norms of their Islamic neighbors. Haredim hostility to secular sensibilities has whelped “modesty patrols” who engage in hot home invasion, public stoning and torching storefronts where MP4 players might tempt the downloading or porn.

What’s next, Kristallnacht in Karmiel?

Though not a ministry within the Keneset, the Israeli government provides wink-and-nod approval of modesty patrols in order achieve what all politicians crave — a secure voting block. As long as religious violence is only wrought upon people in Orthodox neighborhoods (including those passing through) the government sees advantage in allowing Abrahamic assaults.

Especially assaults against women and doubly so against those who dare to wear red. One poor gal in a crimson top was cursed, spat upon and stoned for the offense of being colorful. Heaven help a gay man wearing a rainbow tunic in Tel Aviv.

Ironic then is the contrast between these Jewish fundamentalist who are under perpetual assault by Islamic fundamentalist because both groups despise the color red, unless of course it is from the spilled blood of their enemies.

The Saudi Commission for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice is particularly persnickety about ruby hues and rectitude. They recognize red as the color of passion and routinely remove red merchandise from stores as Saint Valentine’s Day approaches. Like their Jewish counterparts, Saudi’s Virtue and Vice Squad enforces dress codes, segregates sexes, and beats women guilty of being seen in public with unrelated men.

Some claim the Palestinians are the Lost Tribe of Israel, but Islam was born in the desert through which the Jews may have wandered, undoubtedly leaving behind a few Hebrew stragglers. If their descendant’s demeanors are any indication, Moses and Mohamed may be related.

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