Marriage, I am still firmly convinced, is an incredible thing. (Doctrinally, there is much evidence to support this). Weddings, however, are another matter entirely.
I am a newcomer to this strange, strange world, where everything gleams with taffeta and twinkle lights, and those involved have a shorthand slang to rival the most texting-savvy teens. “Like, OMG, my MOB sent 500 STDs!” – nothing to do with organized crime or infectious diseases. Baffling? I know.
Social etiquette and propriety run rampant in this connubial realm, and carry the weight of generations of tradition, customs and expectations. Combined with a lavish frivolity, selfishness and pettiness that seems to possess so many brides as their nuptials draw near, it all sort of makes want to run screaming to the nearest courthouse. Or vomit.
I’ll admit, the most appealing option, to me, is to elope on a mountain somewhere, and forget all of the pomp and circumstance (it still sounds tempting). But there are lots of people that love us, and want to celebrate this covenant with us, and I want to honor that and love them by allowing them to take part. Mostly, I really want those people to be able to slap me across the face 2, 10 and 40 years from now and say “you made a holy covenant! I was there!”
I want a marriage, not an event. But if that event is a part of cutting covenant before God and community, of proclaiming the gospel and celebrating grace, I’m ok with it. We will get married in a church, and have a reception in a large dining hall, but I’m not going to feel pressured to observe a tradition for tradition’s sake. I want to have fun. I want people to hang out and laugh and dance and have a good time. But I don’t feel the need to do anything big or impressive, and I’m sure as hell not going to let my parents empty their bank account.
Ask me again in about four months, and see if I feel any differently. But come to see the gospel, not a grand gala. If you’re into that sort of thing, you might be disappointed.
And please – no taffeta.
