N.B. The Roman Catholic marriage, with an Anglican presence, took place as described below. The names of persons are changed, but the events and dialogue are authentic. Following the wedding, I wrote to the Roman Catholic Cardinal in Washington, D.C., protesting the regressive ecumenical climate. The cardinal did not reply, but a Jesuit specialist in ecumenical relations called me, offering a "Tough oats, but that's the way it is" explanation. Many clerical colleagues have performed Roman Catholic-Anglican weddings that were joint ceremonies. The policy of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese in Washington is one of benign exclusion of other churches.

"It is the one bread which we all share," Fr. Biaggi tells me on the phone. I had just described the large circular whole wheat hosts used by the celebrant at Notre Dame in Paris. Both he and I had spent time in France the previous summer. "I always use them. They represent our unity," he adds.

The subject is a mixed denominational wedding he will celebrate. The groom's mother, a devout Anglican, asked me to "represent her church" at her son's wedding. No easy task, it turns out. The mother is a quintessential super-WASP widow, deeply involved in multiple good works, elegantly dressed in understated blue silk, wearing the pearls her mother wore to hear Caruso sing at the Met. The son is a 35-year-old tightly wound investment banker. Twelve years at two of the region's oldest church schools have left him indifferent to organized religion. The bride, a.k.a. "Buffy," age 25, is the devout product of Roman Catholic schools, her father a successful Italian-American building contractor, her mother a real estate appraiser. When I met with Philip and Buffy a week before the service, Philip said he was seeing me because his mother insisted on it. His bride-to-be, who manages a fashion shop in a major hotel, was politely unyielding. There would be no Anglican aspect to the wedding.

Of the marriage service, Fr. Biaggi says, "I want to give you a warm welcome and make sure you are placed comfortably in a seat of dignity. Be sure and give me the correct spelling of your name. You can stand beside me while I receive the couples' vows. Since another priest will concelebrate with me, he will stand there too. I'm sorry you can't be at the altar; it would suggest a concelebration to people who didn't know better."

"Let's be up front with each other," I respond. "I'm here because the groom's mother asked me to represent her church. If I came on my own, I would decline because your position is offensive and demeaning to the ministry we both share."

I thought my candor would elicit a similarly frank response from Fr. Biaggi, who flawlessly fields the response and, in a "sorry about that" tone continues, "It's a nuptial Mass. If it wasn't, I'd have some flexibility but I don't. Catholics must do the prayers and lessons and I must do the service and blessing."

"If you come to our church, I can offer you more than you can offer me," I say, hoping for an opening and realizing instantly I should be playing hardball instead. A mellow laugh bubbles from the other end of the phone. Fr. Biaggi is close to the cardinal and will not deviate one iota from the party line. I review options: I could pull out with theology intact, the Reformation solution, and leave an elderly parish member distraught. Or tell the celebrant, who couldn't care less, he contributes to a worsening ecumenical climate. I decide not to prolong the wars of religion and watch the show from "the seat of dignity" instead.

The church building is one of several generic suburban Roman Catholic churches built in the 1950s when the city poured out into the suburbs. Its triangle-shaped shingle-and-cement walls could house an aircraft hanger. Inside, hardware store spotlights hang beside blue and gold non-figurative stained glass windows, the colors of a football team. I knock three times at the large metal security door, which rattles open, filled with Fr. Biaggi. The profile of a linebacker in a cassock, his full face alternates two smiles, an all-purpose version, and an intense model turned on to dissolve opposing viewpoints and melt contrary opinions as sunlight melts snow. No give-and-take here.

A folding cafeteria chair, painted with gold gilt radiator paint, is the seat Fr. Biaggi is offering. Since it is tilted away from the altar, I rearrange it to face the altar and couple. The groom's mother has made a nearby, exclusive club available for the reception, so the 200 guests are dressed in black tie and evening gowns. Some preludes on a balcony electrical instrument that needs a few new tubes are played by the parish organist. Two immense rotating fans, sounding like aircraft engines, spray music sideways in the humid evening air.

As the processional starts, the organist inadvertently hits a single chord sounding like the "all-clear" signal in a World War II film, followed by the "Arrival of the Queen of Sheba" from Handel's "Solomon." Angela "Buffy" Capretti is led in by a praetorian guard of brothers and bridesmaids, the latter wearing purple and gold shoulder scarves, Wonder Woman capes, over tight-fitting strapless purple cocktail dresses.

A homily about "the vocation of marriage," ends with the clear injunction to mix with other Christian (read Roman Catholic) couples, help them in troubled times, and raise children according to the laws of the church. The bride's high school principal adds a few thoughts, prefacing each with "as Fr. Biaggi states so eloquently ..." By now there is an audible shifting of flesh in the back rows as the faithful turn restless, anxious to move on to the Laurel Valley Hunt Club.

Communion time. Fr. Biaggi elevates the large host, "the one bread which we all share." Schubert's "Ave Maria" wafts from the balcony, scored for soloist, violin and auditorium fan. The concelebrant, who had flown in from Boston a few hours earlier, does not know the local parish's logistics. Fishing under an embroidered silk curtain for a key to return the unused hosts to the tabernacle, he sees a bony hand emerge, shaking keys from under the curtain, and uttering a "psst." It is the sacristan helping out. The wafers are deposited in a strong metal container with "Buffalo Safe and Storage Company" stamped below its door.

Closing moments. The musicians deliver a breathy "Panis Angelicus." Fr. Biaggi improvises prayers for "Buffy and Philip, that marvelous Christian couple." The Boston associate adds his own prayers and Fr. Biaggi leans over the couple, delivering a one-liner followed by a short, quick laugh from the nuptial party. I smile from the sidelines as if I heard the joke. Violins soar briefly above the fan. Suddenly all eyes are on me. Fr. Biaggi smiles munificently, nods my way quickly with his head, like a football coach ordering in a substitute. I have one moment ... to say what? By now the groom pumps adrenaline. Holding his cold, sweaty white-gloved hand briefly, I extend my right hand to the bride; she avoids taking it and leans toward me. "We'll see you at the club" she says with perfect command of the situation and, with a swish of lace, rises and turns as the organist hits the "Grand March" from "Aida."

The Rev. Frederick Quinn is a frequent contributor to TLC. He is a non-parochial priest who resides in Chevy Chase, Md.