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Ritual Waterboarding
December 14th, 2008The 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.










