I was chatting earlier with a student who has recently become my
research assistant. The subject came up of wedding announcements in the
Press. I have long enjoyed wedding announcements in the local rag, which
seem invariably to be given a comic effect due to the blunders - or deliberate
mistakes? - of the layout department, so that a page of photographs will appear
opposite a headline such as "Local Disaster". But read the
listing in the New York Times, or the Times of London, and the announcement
seems to be about so much more than a mere wedding. Indeed, as others have pointed out before me, even
getting the announcement in the paper is, in itself, a complex game, mostly a
comedy but perhaps slightly tragic, depending on how you view it. It may well be
that the couples who appear in the Times are embarking on
a lifelong, happy marriage, but too often the unfortunate impression of the
announcements page is that the wedding is yet one more prestigious addition to
an already glittering array of social achievements.
Possibly the most beautiful wedding I ever presided over was
between a couple who had sweated and talked and agonised over whether marriage
was "right" for them, and whether a *Christian* wedding in particular
was right for them. Their discussions were not about cakes or coach-and-horses,
but about the meaning of marriage, the depth of commitment, and whether they
were ready to enter into the social and personal reality of it all.
In the event, they decided they were - and I married them, very
quietly, at the far end of King's College Chapel. It was already dark as we
entered the chapel at five o-clock on a January evening (the latest moment in
the day, as you can't get married after 6) and it was a crisp, cold night, with
clouds gathering overhead. Inside, by candlelight, the service was dignified
and beautiful, but surprisingly simple and understated despite the reputation
of the building. Readings reflected their intensely thoughtful approach to
their life together, just a few of their friends supplied music, and I preached
on Shakespeare, the Beatles, and Rilke --and the Bible, of course--before they
made their vows.
As the service came to a close we did what was our usual
tradition at King's - we arranged for the immense, heavy West Doors to be
opened. On a summer's afternoon these open to reveal a view across the lawn,
with punts drifting slowly down the Cam, and a host of tourists who turn to
admire every beautiful, fairytale wedding that emerges on to the steps. On a
freezing January evening, however, we knew it would be dark, cold, and probably
raining, with no tourists, no punts, and no more than 20 feet of a view.
I followed the couple down the full length of
the aisle, which takes about 5 minutes. As the doors slowly rolled back
before us, as if by magic it had begun to snow - big, soft,
confetti-like snowflakes, catching our eyelashes and blurring the photographs.
The Narnia-like lights were shrouded in a wintry mist, and the couple emerged
to this dream-like scene under-announced, not for show or prestige, not just
for the wedding itself, but unmistakably to mark the beginning of a
marriage.
If I ever get married, I hope it will be deep,
quiet, witnessed by those who matter, and preferably on a snowy evening. And I
will not post it in the paper.