That Olde Time Religion

The baptism that called me across the country was held in an old stone Episcopal church in Princeton, NJ. This is not the faux veneer of rock face that decorates churches west of the Rockies. This church, like Peter (inside christian joke), is constructed of rock.

Historically I've been fond of the Anglican church. Its creation by Henry Tudor gave a fat middle finger to the Holy Roman Church, often a top-down cesspool of hypocritical conduct. In these modern days I'm quite proud of the US branch of the Anglican Communi0n. It's one of the few Christian denominations that seems genuinely interested in human dignity. This is not to say that Catholics or other stripes of Christian are bad people, just that Episcopalians today (those in the news and those in my personal life) seem less interested in tilting at minutiae, and more interested at getting to the core of the human to human and human to G*d relationships.

Episcopal churches are heavy on ritual, maintaining many traditions from Catholicism. Service begins with a procession of holy items on parade. Incense was burnt, blue smoke wafting from the thurible, a metal incense container on a chain which is swung about to spread the smoke. Candles were lit.

All Saints Day (Nov. 1) or the first Sunday after is the day to baptize babies. There were EIGHT babies to be doused with water and sealed with oil, seven girls and one boy. The celebrant was thoroughly cheerful woman with a natural hand for babies. Parents named their children and handed them up, tiny fists and faces wrapped in white, yard-long christening gowns. Little noggins were bathed with a ladle of holy water from the baptismal font. No rude cold water imersion for these tykes.

Then we sang some songs, and had a tasty snack of wafer thin crackers dipped in thick, Amarone-style wine. After parading the babies in front of the congregation it was time to go home.