February 17, 2009
I just went to church for the first time in India. Victoria is getting married and we have to act like we’re part of the community for a couple of months or, Father Something told us, he won’t marry them.
The mass wasn’t unlike a catholic mass: hymns, readings, sermon, pax christi, communion, more hymns. We were asked to pray for the Chief Minister, the Prime Minister, the President, the Superintendant of Police, the Jaipur Development Authority and the Chief Officer for Customs and Excise. I guess it was a kind thought.
The only part of the service that left me in a haze of wonder and disgust is the communion. We were all made to kneel down and, after taking the host, made to drink from the same chalice.
Now, hey, I am not one of these fussy little sissy girls. But drinking from the same glass than a whole church full of strangers?
On a Sunday morning: God only knows where people put their mouths on Saturday nights.
Then it was tea time with the community. We were agressed by some strange Danish man who looked high. He came up to the priest and started telling some story about Keith Richards and Mick Jagger. Then he sang.
I don’t know what.
I was busy telling Father Something that his preach was fa-sci-na-ting.