An Epithalamion

We married off Calvus and Beka last weekend, and I thought the ceremony was beautiful. I, of course, couldn't possibly tell you much of why the ceremony was beautiful, just as I probably couldn't tell you any meaningful details about the bride's dress. (Ask, for example, J about the bride's dress; she'll tell you it was imperially-wasted with a silk faberge edging and a curville running down the back, a slight off-pearl smitching, and a high princess cut; I will tell you it was white.) I would, however, have enough sense to say that the ceremony and reception were wonderful and/or beautiful. I would never commit the sacrilege of saying that they were ordinary. (Here meaning, the sort of the ceremony and reception that most people have at weddings.) Now, in one sense, the ceremony and reception that we had last weekend were very much like thousands of other ceremonies and receptions; in some senses they were markedly different, which I'll get to in a moment; but even if last weekend's festivities were identically cloned from one hundred other couples, there would be no justifiable way for anyone to call them "ordinary." There are no ordinary weddings. There are no more ordinary weddings than there are ordinary symphonies. In fact, the most memorable and evocative symphonies (terms used here instead of the misleading word "unique") follow inflexibly strict guidelines. Beethoven wrote nine (or at least eight) pieces of orchestral music that follow a long patterned and imitated scheme; and I would argue to dueling with any man who would be so irreverent as to call them ordinary. Calvus and Bekah also followed a long patterned and imitated scheme. There were bridesmaids, ministers (despite the danger of having more than one), solemn music, dances, and cake (pie) cutting. And it was no more ordinary than the whole idea of marriage is ordinary.
If someone was unable to accept the trappings of the ceremony were somehow special, there will be no denying that those involved are quite something. To start, looking at the bride and groom from the back of the church, you would notice how many of those in attendance were there to support them both. I can't ever recall attending a wedding in which so many of the bride's family remembered the groom's first name. (Their DJ struggled with his last name, but I believe this was unrelated.) Nor had I ever seen a reception in which so many of the groom's family not only knew of the bride, but knew here deeply and personally; indeed, if they weren't Calvus' relatives, they would have come as Beka's guests! This is, I believe, a small taste of what ye olde community life used to be like. In a book I intend to review shortly (this means, according to my intentions, within two blog entries; according to my recent history, this may mean up to two weeks) called I Kissed Dating Good-Bye, the author discusses the importance of community involvement in a dating relationship. This, along with every other question raised in that book, Calvus and Beka answered resoundingly.
I've recently been reading N.T. Wright's volume on the historical Jesus, and have realized how foolish it is for me (or anyone else) to say of someone "he is like Jesus" without bothering about the necessary historical work to find out what Jesus might have actually been like. When used thus irresponsibly, all it means is "I like this person" or "I think he is good." But Calvus, if I understand even a fraction of who Jesus is, makes a striking resemblance. I do, of course, think he is exceptionally good, and for reasons of brotherhood among others, I love him very much. But the similarities run deeper. In addition to being a moral example and a fiercely loyal friend, Calvus has an enormous sense of vocation. His ministry, (or mission, or whatever you'd like to call it) especially since the important moment when he switched his college major from music (a discipline in which he possesses untold talents) to religion and philosophy has been commenced with vigor. He didn't simply stop attending music theory classes and start going to New Testament; he drove to the city to hand out apples to the poor, went on mission trips, plumbed the depths of great theological problems and considered seriously the problems of poverty, befriended those on the outer social perimeter, learned Greek, and (hopefully with his older brother), is planning on learning Hebrew. He is a fundamentally contented person, never affected by ennui, and always poring himself into some definite end, whether that be baking bread, gardening, or reading. He is always content because he's never suffered from that terrible selfish anxiety of "what will come and entertain me next?" He's delighted to pick up whatever God has offered him that day and that hour. Perhaps it it borders blasphemy to make anyone a comparison to Jesus; but I think that at this hour, the hour when Calvus is the bridegroom, I see, though veiled, some shocking truth to it.