Leadership Journal

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? Maybe it's because I've had some bad wedding experiences.

I was once roped into conducting a cowboy-themed wedding. The podium was decked out in saddles, bales of hay, and lanterns. The groom wore chaps and a ten-gallon hat. The bride's gown looked like a red and white checkerboard tablecloth lifted from the Y'all Come Back Saloon. The reception? In a stable. Yee-haw!

I narrowly avoided a medieval wedding. I handed that one off to a new staff member, but I did see the pictures. The bride wore something like a dunce cap. The groom looked as if he were auditioning for the role of Robin Hood at a community theater. He even rode up on a white horse. The preacher had to dress like Friar Tuck; earth-tone robe, fashionable rope belt, no shoes. Wherefore art thou, Miss Manners?

I'm a preacher. I write and deliver sermons. I bless babies and bury the dead. I counsel the confused, comfort the bereaved, confront the complacent, baptize the lost, and pray.

I hate being a religious decoration at the narcissistic cleavage conventions we call weddings. I'm mad as Gehenna, and I'm not going to take it anymore! I like what Jesus said when his mother suggested he help avert a crisis at the one wedding we know he attended: "Woman, why do you involve me?" (John 2:4).

At one wedding I conducted, someone set the candelabra too close to the baptistry curtains. When the air conditioner kicked on, the curtains billowed and the tallest candle ignited the fringe. A quick-thinking elder rushed the podium and dunked the flaming tapestry in the baptistry. An older lady sitting near the front patted her cheeks and said in a wonderful Southern drawl, "Oh, my! We've had a baptism of fiah!" Amen, sister.

Maybe we need a little more fiah in the weddings we conduct.

Imagine the prophet Malachi standing before a starry-eyed couple, sternly intoning, "'I hate divorce,' says the Lord God of Israel, 'so guard yourself in your spirit and do not break faith!'" (Mal. 2:16). A homily like that would ...