Bad news: this weekend I had to go to a wedding. Good news: the service was sublime in its overwhelming awkwardness.
I don’t really know how to begin to describe the strangeness of this particular ceremony. Suffice to say, the priest involved was greatly pleased with his own singing voice. As he was delivering the homily (a quite generic, “The bride and groom met each other at [fill in the blank] and felt an immediate attraction”-type deal), he would finish a thought and then pause. The silence would linger in the air for a moment until he began to sing unaccompanied. His song of choice was a particularly saccharine country song by Lee Ann Womack called “I Hope You Dance.” He would sing three or four lines at a time with a soft, pleasant smile on his face. Meanwhile, the congregation averted their eyes in horror.
The third or fourth time he started in with the singing, I leaned down to Bridgette and whispered, “This is going on my blog…” At this point she began giggling uncontrollably. As others looked on disapprovingly, Bridgette’s shoulders spasmed and she buried her face. The priest sang on and on, blissfully unaware of our cynicism. Surely in his head, he was positive that he was absolutely nailing this message.
As the service mercifully ended, and we were filing out of the pews, my brother Brian leaned in and commented, “I bet he’s planning to send in a videotape of this mass to American Idol.”
“I hope you dance… I hope you dance…”
Worst wedding ever.