Holy, Holy, Holy

Dad has wanted the kids baptized since Day One. (And Day Two, too.) Hasn't set foot in a church for anything but weddings and funerals in about forty years, but he's a man of conviction, and my kids need ritual to be saved. Or so he implies; push him and he can't really explain it. "So you think God loves George Bush more than he loves my kids, Dad?" He gives up.

Not that I think of God that way--as a pronoun, or a creature; not that I think of God as one to be assuaged or implored. I'm clearer on what I don't believe than what I do, and so my faith is as easy as his to poke holes in. And it's not nice to poke at other people's faith. But when they poke first--when they make unhappy noises about my kids' eternal happiness--well, hell, the barn door's open.

There are two dates at the local Episcopal church on which to be baptized. One is Easter, and one was today. And because I'm so affected by Mary Grace, the priest, I've committed to doing it at Easter. So today, while the kids were off learning about Ruth and Naomi in Sunday school, I saw "the three newest Christians" being dipped and dabbed and presented for applause. A little strange; I'm used to more intimate things--the priest and the immediate family, and then a big, booze-soaked bash at home. These families--you could tell right away--weren't off for a Guinness afterwards.

The most unsettling part was this declarative, scripted narrative between Mary Grace and the families: a series of questions about renouncing Satan and raising up the child in Christ, etc. Stopped my heart, because, of course, this was the moment when I saw clearly that despite Mary Grace's behind-closed-doors embrace of all things diverse--of all wacked-out theologies, of all bizarre-o notions of the divine--when it comes down to it, to play in the Episcopal church you'd better be able to recite the conventional faith narrative persuasively in front of the entire fricking congregation.

Which, to be sure, I have hypocrisy enough to do. But what about the Jews and Buddhist we've selected as godparents? How're they gonna face it down, I wonder?

Tonight Mom asks me if I want to try the Unitarians next week. She talks about the butterfly-wings shape of the roof there, and the glass walls, and the absence of classic liturgy. "But is there any gravitas?" I ask her. Yeah, seriously--I asked her about gravitas. She sighs and shakes her head; she was raised Catholic--she knows exactly what I'm looking for: all the weighty beauty without any of the conventional doctrine. I want the kids to soak in that confusing, heavy, beautiful murkiness for a few years. I don't want them soaking up the crap about who belongs and who doesn't. Especially not that. Do I get to have the gravitas and throw it out at the same time?

To baptize or not to baptize. That, my friends, is the question.