I hate weddings.

There, I've said it. It feels good. Say it with me. "I hate weddings!" See? You feel better, too, don't you?

Funerals? I love them. At funerals people are shell-shocked by the ultimate realities of life, death, grief, and God. You can do ministry at funerals.

At weddings, though, goofy groomsmen in ill-fitting tuxedos try to outdo one another in sophomoric hijinks. The bride, a bundle of nerves, sweats off her make-up and frets about her gown, which is always a size-and-a-half too small.

The mother of the bride ricochets like a pinball from one emotional extreme to another, now collapsing in tears, now barking out orders as if possessed by the spirit of a Marine Corps drill sergeant.

I feel the most sympathy for bridesmaids, usually forced to wear dresses that highlight their worst features.

And the groom? At most weddings he's an afterthought, just one more prop on the stage, like the unity candle. Except everyone hopes he won't get lit before the benediction.

Do I sound cynical? ...