If you got it, flaunt it?

As a lifelong practicing atheist, I’m often asked to explain the reasons for my lack of beliefs. Once upon a time, when I was young and foolish (now I’m old and foolish) I would climb my soapbox and launch into a tirade, philippic or whatever you choose to call it. In time, the stupidity of my reaction settled in. The person before me didn’t seek enlightenment nor had a brain in his head to process anything I could say. The question was meaningless. Nonexistence doesn’t require proof, existence does.

Nowadays I change subject, smile, look a round in case I’ve missed the local talent or whistle a few bars of ‘There’s a Hole in my Bucket.’ People are entitled to believe what they want regardless of the opinions of others, even that Earth is flat.

Respect is another matter. I respect thieves and crooks, and pimps and anyone who lives by a creed regardless of its nature, but I abhor hypocrites and cheats. Take Hannibal Lecter. There’s a man worthy of respect; he is what he is and he doesn’t pull any punches about it. Oh, but he should be locked away to protect society! Of course he should, but that’s another matter.

I once endured the repeated attempts at proselytizing from a neighbor; a Jehovah’s Witness striving to fill his quota of converts. Out of civility, I listened to his ramblings until the day he confided that the end of the world was around the corner. How long have you know? I asked him. Four, five years, he answered. We departed in less than friendly terms. The bastard had bought his house on a 20-year mortgage just one year earlier.

This morning, on my way to feed the sparrows, I paused to look at a gathering of well-heeled men and women in their Sunday’s best, crowding the steps of a nearby Catholic Church, apparently waiting for a bride to make her appearance. So, I settled on a bench, fed the birds, and lit a cigarette.

After ten minutes—rejoicing at the display of shallow smiles and much fidgeting from the torment of untamed shoes and tight corsets—the crowd became more animated. A scout must have warned of the bride’s approach because a young man, cell phone in hand, jumped up and down as if he’d just discovered sex.

A Roman Catholic marriage is not for the fainthearted. Naturally, the contract stipulates ‘until death do us part,’ a joke merrily celebrated by divorce lawyers. But there’s more. The white gown is a symbol of purity, signifying that the bride presents herself virginal and innocent to the ceremony.

When the motorcade poured onto the square, I lit another cigarette. So much for her Little Flower. The bride’s pregnancy was advanced; she could barely negotiate the steps and I wondered if the idea was to let nature take its course on hallowed ground. No veil, no loose garments but a tight tube-like resplendent white dress that seemed painted on the mother-to-be. I scanned the crowd for paramedics on attendance.

What? Can’t a pregnant bride marry in church? Of course she can, or in the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro. But a Roman Catholic bride--at a Roman Catholic church and surrounded by a crowd of Roman Catholics--flaunting her hypocrisy is appalling.