I am generally pretty open to religious ceremonies, moved by their mystery. But this is my second encounter with Greek Orthodoxy, and both times I was left numb and turned off by the mumbo-jumbo.
I was the "dresser"--the one who undresses the kid before his dipping into olive oil and water, and then the one who, afterwards, takes the traumatized, squawking infant and dresses him in a white suit to show his sanctity.
I got peed on and thrown up on (by the priest!) (har, no, by the wee babe). It gave me an excuse to buy a new shirt afterwards.
The reception, at Symposium, was an ol' fashioned ethnic family funfest, with free-flowing wine, excellent lamb kebabs, and ol' Greek uncles forking over thick envelopes of cash to Cookie Boy.
It made me wanna be ethnic too, but I am just a mutt from New Jersey.
And thus ends my weekend of meaningless ritual.
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