My God

So my cousin asked me to be his Confirmation sponsor. I was honored, but a little confused: I am the least religious person in the family, except for maybe him. Maybe that was the reason: while the rest of my family is experiencing the divine in paradise, he and I will be drinking a long neck in the in-between, where Birkenstock sandals never went out of style and Bob Saget is funny.

Part of the confirmation ceremony involves picking a saint's name to go by. In theory, you are supposed to pick a saint that you admire, or have a connection with, or that you want to be more like, etc. In reality, most teenagers pick a name that is cool, or whatever saint their friends are going with (nothing like Catholic peer pressure). For example, I went with the archangel Gabriel, because I like the idea of an all powerful archangel, 'cause when the shit is going down, my patron saint could kick anyone else's saint in the ass. My cousin decided to go with St. Bartholomew. Why? He likes Bart Simpson.

There is always a rehearsal of the confirmation ceremony the day before, so that the sponsors can figure out what the hell they are doing and so the confirmation "takes" on the first try. But, since I do not live in the same state as my cousin and I am a busy, busy girl, I could not attend the run-through. So on the holy day, my aunt gave me a sheet of paper with my instructions on it. Before we walked up the aisle, she whispers to me "Oh, by the way, the bishop might ask you a few questions. Good luck!" What kind of questions? Religious questions? Theology questions? Math questions? As we sat in the pew, I asked my cousin. He said he didn't know, he hadn't paid attention during the warm-up, his mother was taking notes and he had brought his Gameboy. When it was finally our turn to go up, I felt like Eve after she had eaten a bit of the Red Delicious: very exposed and very naked. We got up to the bishop, who was wearing a pointed hat with flames (he would have done well in punk band). I placed my hand on my cousin's shoulder. The bishop said "What name have you chosen?" "Bartholomew" "Bartholomew, receive the holy spirit" "Amen". It was over before you could say original sin. As we turned to walk away, the bishop said "Why did you choose the name Bartholomew?" We both froze and turned back to face the bishop. I tried to rack my brain for some tiny bit of Catholic knowledge, but all I could come up with was a yellow cartoon character and an exclusive island resort. My cousin glanced at me, his eyes pleading for an answer. I know he was thinking the same thing I was: can the holy spirit be taken back? I could see it now: the Bishop, throwing his pointed hat to the floor in disgrace, drawing an upside down cross on my cousin's forehead and saying "Tirips yloh eht eviecer" while the man who holds the Bishop's crozier used it as a hook from an old Vaudeville act to haul my cousin and I off stage. Finally, my cousin piped up "He was an apostle." The sad part was I didn't even know if this was correct. "An underrecognized one" I added. The bishop nodded and said "He lived for his faith and he died for his faith, you should do the same." With a slight bow, we both hurried down the aisle before the bishop recruited us for martyrdom.

It's always a good idea to start your adult life as a Catholic with a lie. To a Bishop.