Wedded Bliss
A couple years ago (I don’t actually remember when!), two people I love very much asked me to marry them. Apparently, they told me, I could become a “minister” in three minutes over the Internet. If I did this, I would be able to legally marry them and any other couple (that is, any couple with the right to legally marry in this country). They aren’t religious, at least not in the strict sense of the word, but they are spiritual in a thoughtful, humanistic, practical way that I admire. They wanted somebody they knew well to be the officiate.
I was honored, and also a little terrified. As usual, worst-case scenarios sped through my mind. What if they wanted me to write the ceremony and found what I’d written terribly cheesy and meaningless? What if I ruined their wedding by having a panic attack right there in front of 100 or so of their closest relatives and friends? These fears were short-lived, but there were at least three other reasons that I waited a fairly long time before giving them an answer.
First, I felt like officiating a wedding was wrong somehow. I’m sure my Greek Orthodox background plays a role here, but I didn’t feel like I was really worthy of marrying anybody, even two people I loved and knew well. I didn’t have the right training. I can't imagine how difficult it must be to become a minister, much less to live with that title for the rest of my life. Ultimately, after praying over this for awhile, I decided that my friends wanted me to marry them because they loved and knew me and because I knew and loved them; I did not need to get caught up in the title I would have to take on to conduct the ceremony.
Second, while I had no doubt that they were meant to get married--they had been together for several years, and now, they wanted to celebrate their love for each other in a public, joyful, meaningful way--in some ways, I felt like I knew them too well. I had a sense of the things that kept them together, loving each other, and also the things that could be “Achilles heals” in their relationship. Ultimately, I realized through prayer that to think I had some right to even consider how their relationship would pan out was condescending, not to mention judgemental. Love is too mysterious and holy for anybody to understand, even the people involved in the relationship. They had loved each other for a long time; they knew what they were getting into by promising themselves to each other forever. They wanted me to be present _because_ I knew them. Knowing was not a liability; it was a strength.
There was also another conflict, one that required an even deeper level of prayer. I wondered whether it was right and faithful to legally marry two people when so many of my friends could not legally marry, when I myself could not legally marry. At the time, I wanted to marry my partner—to have a ceremony, nothing big or fancy, just our closest friends and some meaningful words and then a meal and maybe, OK, some dancing—but we never agreed on any details, not when or where or by whom, not who should be invited, if anyone, not even how we felt about entering an institution from which we were legally excluded, not to mention an institution that is rooted in heterosexism and sexism and the darkest sides of capitalism.
I knew straight couples who refused to marry in the U.S. because they had queer friends who couldn’t marry. I knew straight couples who refused to marry, period, because the institution is so deeply flawed. (This week, I even learned of a church in Minnesota that is now refusing to conduct legal marriages because to do so is to be a party to the heterosexism in our society, though any two people who love each other can receive a spiritual blessing). And so, as confused as I was about my own desire to marry, I was even more confused about my friends’ desire. It was not as if this contradiction was lost on my friends—they named it on the day they asked me, recognizing how strange it might be for a lesbian to marry a straight couple—and still, I wondered at times why they wanted to do it. They were by far the happiest couple I knew—so what difference would a ceremony make? Why bother?
Ultimately, however, I decided that to refuse to marry friends for whom I would do anything made little sense. I should be working to broaden marriage rights, not to deny them to friends who could enjoy a right that everyone should have. And so, on the same day that I agreed to marry them, I sent a donation to the Human Rights Campaign, and another donation to the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force, and I wrote a letter and sent it to all the government officials who represent me on the state and national level about how important marriage rights were for me and for so many of their constituents. One could read my actions as some kind of penance, but I just wanted to affirm all the ways people can love each other, and I figured the best way to do that was to act in concrete, albeit small, ways. Marrying my friends, who are about the most just and thoughtful people I know, was one action I could take to affirm inclusive, truly reciprocal love.
And then, one afternoon in May, I signed their marriage license nervously, worried I would make some careless mistake that would reveal me as the fraud I was. Afterwards, I read the words they had written in front of their families and friends. (They made it easy for me, allaying my fear that I might write something inappropriate--and I even managed to overcome my stage fright!). I listened to the promises they had written for each other. I gave them a glass of wine to drink from and stomped on the glass to honor the groom’s Jewish heritage.
It was probably the most meaningful thing I’ve ever done.
The next thing I knew, I was getting asked to marry people on a regular basis. I have said no a few times, mostly when I’ve felt I didn’t know the couple well enough (or when I was pretty sure they didn’t know each other well enough—so, I suppose I do hold some level of judgment over whether people’s relationships are likely to work out despite my conclusion that such a judgement is not right). But I have now conducted four weddings, all distinctly different, and while the most recent three cannot compare to the experience of marrying my closest friends, they were equally moving in their own way.
Last fall, I married a woman I work with, a feisty, short Latina who is deeply committed to social justice, whose entire life is dedicated to the work of equality, who is a fierce and loyal ally to GLBT people. I did not know her tall, white, serious and shy fiancé, but the way she talked about him and the conviction with which she lives her life convinced me that I wanted to give her the gift of being their officiate. She was especially concerned about having a non-sexist, non-heterosexist ceremony. I met with the bride, talked to her about what marriage meant to her and her partner, wrote a draft of the ceremony, and let the couple revise it to their liking. It was a beautiful outdoor wedding. As part of the ceremony, all of us who were present passed their rings around a circle, declaring that we all held them in love and friendship on that day and for the rest of their lives. Now, as the bride in this couple faces some deeply painful personal challenges, I remember that day, and I hold them in prayer and love, gently and carefully, the way I held their rings—and, right now, this is all I can do for them.
Two weeks ago, I conducted another wedding. Again, I knew the bride, but not her fiancé. Again, she was a woman for whom I have always had a great deal of respect. She grew up in extraordinarily difficult circumstances and raised a son, now in his 20s, mostly on her own. While raising him, she somehow managed to get a PhD without losing touch with her roots. Her research and teaching center on providing access to education for people like her, people who are not white, not middle class. Once, a few years back, I was helping her to paint the cupboards in the kitchen of her first newly-purchased home, and she asked me, “What do you think it takes to be a truly ethical person?” That conversation, like many conversations I’ve had with her, continued with a stark and brutal honesty—and also some humor.
In the small circle that included her grown son, her husband’s grown son, and her best friend, I found myself moved to tears as I read the words she’d written to mark this love she’d found (relatively) “later” in her life. I have faith that the two of them will walk together and continue to grow in love as ethical people.
Last week, I married two former students. I don’t know much about their relationship, but I know them both as strong, thoughtful leaders who are committed to creating positive changes in the world. I had the bride in class during her first semester at UMM. She came to Minnesota as an exchange student and stayed for college, overcoming overwhelming financial challenges to graduate. Her mother and siblings came from Argentina for the wedding; they were so grateful and moved and proud. I found myself choked up more times than I can count. That wedding was a kind of closure for me; I loved that I was playing a role in sending these two young people into the next phase of their lives.
I was worried about conducting these last two weddings because I am mourning the ending of my own relationship. I didn’t want my sadness to interfere with the joy of their day. Some days I feel like a failure; how could I have loved someone for six years without realizing it wasn’t meant to be? What gives me the right to decide whom I will marry and whom I will not marry when I am not even capable of sustaining the best relationship I have ever had? There is, of course, and even more embarrassing reality: being around happy couples is just plain hard right now. I don't want to be bitter, but sometimes, I am.
Instead of making me more bitter and depressed, however, the weddings had just the opposite effect. Somehow, while I was officiating, I felt this sense of complete humility and wonder wash over me. The ceremony was not about me. In a way, it wasn't even about the couple, or the couple’s children or parents or siblings or friends. It was about something so much larger, a coming together of two people’s pasts and futures in one, short, holy, poignant day. It was about faith in its truest sense—the faith that something lovely and whole and real can grow out of a world so deeply fragmented.
And, on a more personal (or selfish?) level, the weddings affirmed how blessed I am. Even without a partner in life, I am lucky to have so many loved ones who have led by example, who have taught me in small and large ways to ask the right questions, to keep moving forward even in the face of adversity, to work for a just, peaceful, whole world in every small and large way possible. When these people find other people with whom to share that vision, and they want me to be part of a ritual that binds them together spiritually forever, I can feel nothing except awe. If I can help people I admire to honor what is best in them—their capacity to love, to dream, to be real with another person—by marrying them—then why shouldn’t I do so?
I was honored, and also a little terrified. As usual, worst-case scenarios sped through my mind. What if they wanted me to write the ceremony and found what I’d written terribly cheesy and meaningless? What if I ruined their wedding by having a panic attack right there in front of 100 or so of their closest relatives and friends? These fears were short-lived, but there were at least three other reasons that I waited a fairly long time before giving them an answer.
First, I felt like officiating a wedding was wrong somehow. I’m sure my Greek Orthodox background plays a role here, but I didn’t feel like I was really worthy of marrying anybody, even two people I loved and knew well. I didn’t have the right training. I can't imagine how difficult it must be to become a minister, much less to live with that title for the rest of my life. Ultimately, after praying over this for awhile, I decided that my friends wanted me to marry them because they loved and knew me and because I knew and loved them; I did not need to get caught up in the title I would have to take on to conduct the ceremony.
Second, while I had no doubt that they were meant to get married--they had been together for several years, and now, they wanted to celebrate their love for each other in a public, joyful, meaningful way--in some ways, I felt like I knew them too well. I had a sense of the things that kept them together, loving each other, and also the things that could be “Achilles heals” in their relationship. Ultimately, I realized through prayer that to think I had some right to even consider how their relationship would pan out was condescending, not to mention judgemental. Love is too mysterious and holy for anybody to understand, even the people involved in the relationship. They had loved each other for a long time; they knew what they were getting into by promising themselves to each other forever. They wanted me to be present _because_ I knew them. Knowing was not a liability; it was a strength.
There was also another conflict, one that required an even deeper level of prayer. I wondered whether it was right and faithful to legally marry two people when so many of my friends could not legally marry, when I myself could not legally marry. At the time, I wanted to marry my partner—to have a ceremony, nothing big or fancy, just our closest friends and some meaningful words and then a meal and maybe, OK, some dancing—but we never agreed on any details, not when or where or by whom, not who should be invited, if anyone, not even how we felt about entering an institution from which we were legally excluded, not to mention an institution that is rooted in heterosexism and sexism and the darkest sides of capitalism.
I knew straight couples who refused to marry in the U.S. because they had queer friends who couldn’t marry. I knew straight couples who refused to marry, period, because the institution is so deeply flawed. (This week, I even learned of a church in Minnesota that is now refusing to conduct legal marriages because to do so is to be a party to the heterosexism in our society, though any two people who love each other can receive a spiritual blessing). And so, as confused as I was about my own desire to marry, I was even more confused about my friends’ desire. It was not as if this contradiction was lost on my friends—they named it on the day they asked me, recognizing how strange it might be for a lesbian to marry a straight couple—and still, I wondered at times why they wanted to do it. They were by far the happiest couple I knew—so what difference would a ceremony make? Why bother?
Ultimately, however, I decided that to refuse to marry friends for whom I would do anything made little sense. I should be working to broaden marriage rights, not to deny them to friends who could enjoy a right that everyone should have. And so, on the same day that I agreed to marry them, I sent a donation to the Human Rights Campaign, and another donation to the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force, and I wrote a letter and sent it to all the government officials who represent me on the state and national level about how important marriage rights were for me and for so many of their constituents. One could read my actions as some kind of penance, but I just wanted to affirm all the ways people can love each other, and I figured the best way to do that was to act in concrete, albeit small, ways. Marrying my friends, who are about the most just and thoughtful people I know, was one action I could take to affirm inclusive, truly reciprocal love.
And then, one afternoon in May, I signed their marriage license nervously, worried I would make some careless mistake that would reveal me as the fraud I was. Afterwards, I read the words they had written in front of their families and friends. (They made it easy for me, allaying my fear that I might write something inappropriate--and I even managed to overcome my stage fright!). I listened to the promises they had written for each other. I gave them a glass of wine to drink from and stomped on the glass to honor the groom’s Jewish heritage.
It was probably the most meaningful thing I’ve ever done.
The next thing I knew, I was getting asked to marry people on a regular basis. I have said no a few times, mostly when I’ve felt I didn’t know the couple well enough (or when I was pretty sure they didn’t know each other well enough—so, I suppose I do hold some level of judgment over whether people’s relationships are likely to work out despite my conclusion that such a judgement is not right). But I have now conducted four weddings, all distinctly different, and while the most recent three cannot compare to the experience of marrying my closest friends, they were equally moving in their own way.
Last fall, I married a woman I work with, a feisty, short Latina who is deeply committed to social justice, whose entire life is dedicated to the work of equality, who is a fierce and loyal ally to GLBT people. I did not know her tall, white, serious and shy fiancé, but the way she talked about him and the conviction with which she lives her life convinced me that I wanted to give her the gift of being their officiate. She was especially concerned about having a non-sexist, non-heterosexist ceremony. I met with the bride, talked to her about what marriage meant to her and her partner, wrote a draft of the ceremony, and let the couple revise it to their liking. It was a beautiful outdoor wedding. As part of the ceremony, all of us who were present passed their rings around a circle, declaring that we all held them in love and friendship on that day and for the rest of their lives. Now, as the bride in this couple faces some deeply painful personal challenges, I remember that day, and I hold them in prayer and love, gently and carefully, the way I held their rings—and, right now, this is all I can do for them.
Two weeks ago, I conducted another wedding. Again, I knew the bride, but not her fiancé. Again, she was a woman for whom I have always had a great deal of respect. She grew up in extraordinarily difficult circumstances and raised a son, now in his 20s, mostly on her own. While raising him, she somehow managed to get a PhD without losing touch with her roots. Her research and teaching center on providing access to education for people like her, people who are not white, not middle class. Once, a few years back, I was helping her to paint the cupboards in the kitchen of her first newly-purchased home, and she asked me, “What do you think it takes to be a truly ethical person?” That conversation, like many conversations I’ve had with her, continued with a stark and brutal honesty—and also some humor.
In the small circle that included her grown son, her husband’s grown son, and her best friend, I found myself moved to tears as I read the words she’d written to mark this love she’d found (relatively) “later” in her life. I have faith that the two of them will walk together and continue to grow in love as ethical people.
Last week, I married two former students. I don’t know much about their relationship, but I know them both as strong, thoughtful leaders who are committed to creating positive changes in the world. I had the bride in class during her first semester at UMM. She came to Minnesota as an exchange student and stayed for college, overcoming overwhelming financial challenges to graduate. Her mother and siblings came from Argentina for the wedding; they were so grateful and moved and proud. I found myself choked up more times than I can count. That wedding was a kind of closure for me; I loved that I was playing a role in sending these two young people into the next phase of their lives.
I was worried about conducting these last two weddings because I am mourning the ending of my own relationship. I didn’t want my sadness to interfere with the joy of their day. Some days I feel like a failure; how could I have loved someone for six years without realizing it wasn’t meant to be? What gives me the right to decide whom I will marry and whom I will not marry when I am not even capable of sustaining the best relationship I have ever had? There is, of course, and even more embarrassing reality: being around happy couples is just plain hard right now. I don't want to be bitter, but sometimes, I am.
Instead of making me more bitter and depressed, however, the weddings had just the opposite effect. Somehow, while I was officiating, I felt this sense of complete humility and wonder wash over me. The ceremony was not about me. In a way, it wasn't even about the couple, or the couple’s children or parents or siblings or friends. It was about something so much larger, a coming together of two people’s pasts and futures in one, short, holy, poignant day. It was about faith in its truest sense—the faith that something lovely and whole and real can grow out of a world so deeply fragmented.
And, on a more personal (or selfish?) level, the weddings affirmed how blessed I am. Even without a partner in life, I am lucky to have so many loved ones who have led by example, who have taught me in small and large ways to ask the right questions, to keep moving forward even in the face of adversity, to work for a just, peaceful, whole world in every small and large way possible. When these people find other people with whom to share that vision, and they want me to be part of a ritual that binds them together spiritually forever, I can feel nothing except awe. If I can help people I admire to honor what is best in them—their capacity to love, to dream, to be real with another person—by marrying them—then why shouldn’t I do so?
Comments
How often I have felt this over the past several years and struggled to explain it to others who would judge my love. And then you write it so simply that I read each word over and over again wondering how you put the deeper meaning somewhere in between the words.
Once again Argie you have moved me to tears with your humanity. I don't know why I keep coming and reading your wonderful and insightful thoughs when all they do is make me feel like I have so much more to learn. Oh wait... apparently I DO know why after all.
I can see, although I never took a single class from you, how you have become such a loved and revered teacher of young (and older) minds.
I have often said that I have no greater respect for a profession than that of teachers and nurses. Both risk the most precious of their personal possessions... the soul... when properly done.
It seems that each time I come to your wonderful thoughtyard I am again educated.
You risk your soul in educating us (me)... and at least for my part, it pays off with every visit I make here.
Efharistoume poli
Paul
Thanks so much for your words! I've received many responses via e-mail to my posts, but so far, you're the only one who has been brave enough to "publicly" respond.
Efharisto--and see you in August!
Love, Argie