ritual what?
“Wait, you’re a what?”
At a party recently, I had an entire conversation with someone who heard “virtual designer” after asking what I did for work. That sparked some chat, but after a few minutes we hit an impasse. With confused Scooby-Doo faces, we simultaneously realized we were on two very different topics. Having recently heard myself on a podcast, I was newly aware that I have a tendency to mumble (though why no one has ever told me this baffles me), so I repeated with exaggerated enunciation, “RIII. TUU. AAAL designer.” “Oh, okay,” he replied with a bit of relief before suddenly returning to Scooby face, “Wait..”
I continued with my elevator pitch that, though I’ve never actually delivered in an elevator, I’ve gotten lots of practice spewing in the wild. “Most of my work is in weddings–I work with couples who don’t have a tradition to draw on, want to do something intercultural or interfaith, or just want to do something original or non-patriarchal, or whatever reflects their experiences, identities, and values. We collaborate on designing a ceremony, and I often help them articulate or refine their vows.”
This is typically where I pause to read the room. If my trapped listener looks confused, I shift to more familiar things. “I usually officiate, but I coach officiants, too.” That usually gives the asker enough to figure me out, but if my listener is still engaged, I continue. “I like to bring a critical lens to how we do weddings. Most of the practices we associate with American weddings originated in very different places and very different times. I try to provide context for how different things originated and the messages they carry. That’s my starting point for a couple to discern whether those practices resonate with their values.”
By this time, most conversations wrap up, but others go deeper, usually following an utterance like, “I didn’t know you could do that.” Some folx are interested in details from past weddings, others about process. Often, I hear reactions like, “You must get so nervous” or “You must be really funny.” “Nope,” I respond quickly, spotting an opening to distinguish my approach. Some officiants have a script and a routine, some develop counseling relationships with couples, some are performers who come to life in a spotlight. Different couples need different kinds of support or want different kinds of ceremonies. I approach it as a facilitator–my job is to create and facilitate a moment, and I draw on the skills I’ve honed as a ritual designer, an educator, a campus minister, and as a student of religion. Unless I’m wildly underprepared, nothing about that makes me nervous. Or funny.
But I also deliberately draw on something (I hope) all wedding officiants do–joy. For much of my academic and professional life, I’ve struggled to find the right lane, the right space where my intersection of skills is useful. Largely because I have complete autonomy over my work, I’ve been able to develop a process that builds work around life (as versus the other way around, which defined my previous twenty years), and I can prioritize finding joy in my work. In what other job could I say that my work is facilitating beautiful moments that make people very happy? That’s lovely, but for me, the joy comes from knowing I can tap into my own unusual intersection of experiences and training to make a contribution. I find real joy in giving couples a more meaningful and intentional process. I find real joy in giving the communities that surround them a sometimes ever-so-slightly and sometimes vastly different experience of what a wedding can be. And, because of a lifelong sense of obligation to contribute something to the world (rooted either in authentic values or Irish-Catholic guilt), I find real joy in the possibility of making a contribution that moves the needle in American weddings.
To me, a wedding is about more than the couple at the center of it–it’s about changing the world. That sounds like a leap, but stay with me. Any ritual is an opportunity to shape culture, but weddings are particularly potent. People want to be there, and because they love (or hate) the to-be-weds, they pay very close attention to every aspect, and their total experience is heightened. That has a direct impact on perceptions of, feelings about, and engagement with weddings. The Wedding Industrial Complex is built on this–from the most intimate to the most lavish events, every detail, even–and especially–the choice to not do anything at all, communicates something. People who do choose to do weddings are hypercognizant of every minute detail, whether because of inspiration, ambition, or competition, and the WIC amply provides the ingredients they need. Fiscal profit, though, comes with repetition–in this case, the reuse of tried and true practices that are familiar and demand already-stocked supplies–not innovation.
As a result, American weddings have been working with the same recipe since Queen Victoria’s 1840 wedding. They’re a peculiar blend of European royal court culture (the pomp & circumstance and the “monarchs for the day” complex), 19th century Protestant liturgy (“To have and to hold…”, the middle aisle, the backdrop of a sacred space…oh, and a very specific philosophy and theology of marriage undergirding it all), and early 20th century capitalism (the modern hospitality industry made the grand banquet accessible for more than the Vanderbilts and the Prince of Wales, and DeBeers invented and for a century has heavily profited from the diamond engagement ring craze). Any variations to that recipe invited everything from added cost by vendors committed to the tried-and-true to scandal and social division. Add to that the role of visual media in how weddings are presented, how ideas are reinforced, and how cruel and dangerous expectations are set, and it’s easier to understand how the American wedding is caught up in extreme expectations for cost or gender conformity, in perpetuating religiously, culturally, or socio-economically exclusive standards, and in sustaining the pressure to perform or act in unnatural ways.
Think of how much American culture has changed since the late 19th century.
Now think of how much American weddings have changed in that time?
I happen to believe that when a ritual doesn’t resonate with its wider context, it dies. That’s as true for innovative practices that don’t catch on as it is for ancient customs that fail or refuse to adapt. Many folx are cynical about weddings, and I think at least part of that is rooted in weddings’ failure to keep up with the rest of the world. Some people point to the ever-rising cost of events and the amount of short-use consumption that comes with big parties. Some cite the performative nature of weddings, a sense that it’s just an elaborate photo shoot. Some protest archaic, heavily gendered, and inequitable practices. Yeah. I see all that.
But I still see something deeply valuable in the experience of a wedding. It’s a moment that humans have recognized as personally and socially significant (to varying degrees in various contexts) for thousands of years. We know it’s powerful because it’s actively controlled by modern governments–as it was by religious authorities before them, as it was by ancient laws of kinship before them. Marriage is an impactful and strategic partnership between individuals, families, and even nations, and the shape and texture of wedding rituals has always reflected both the local cultural customs and the governing authority’s ideals. In some places and times, those were feudal monarchs, and royal wedding practices were both imitated and enforced in all social strata, part of a larger program to maintain power or relevance. It follows that in democratic countries, wedding practices and dominant ideas about marriage reflect the beliefs of the majority (or at least the majority of the powerful), which is why the path to legalizing same-sex marriage over the last half century has been so volatile. Expanding marriage to non-hetersexual couples–as it did with intercultural and interethnic couples before that, as it did with interreligious and intertribal couples before that–reflected a change not just in a marginalized group’s rights but in wider assumptions about society.
Those assumptions don’t just happen. They’re the product of experience. They’re the product of specific experiences–of relationships, of expanding visibility throughout the culture, of conversations, of choices made. Weddings stand out among those experiences–they are the kitchens where we actually have time and impetus to think about who we are, what we want, and where we’re headed. When we keep making the same recipe, we’re going to keep getting the same meal. But isn’t it healthier and a lot more fun to mix it up? It was 1991 before we saw a gay wedding on TV–suddenly a new set of ingredients to work with. As more gay weddings popped up–as a backdrop, as a plotline, even as the butt of a joke–it got easier to understand queer relationships and to see commonality. And seeing what we all had in common made it more compelling–or at least more palatable–to expand legal recognition. In this light, legally-recognized queer weddings don’t just reflect more equitable social inclusion; they reflect broader engagement with a deeper understanding of what it means to be human.
And before you think I’m getting sentimental on you, the deeper understanding I’m thinking of isn’t the fatalist notion that we’re all just looking for love, that we’re all incomplete beings until we find “the one.” I don’t believe we’re all so fated, nor do I believe it’s a standard we should be imposing on others. Instead, I’m thinking of our very human instinct to gather to recognize a change in our lives. When people are born, when people reach puberty, when people marry, when people join a community, when people choose a name for themselves or others, when people seek healing or comfort, when people die, when people face a threat or recover from catastrophe–when there’s any change in the social fabric–we gather. This is at the root of any ritual. It’s not a cerebral, logical, or otherwise compartmentalizable encounter–it’s holistic. Our senses are piqued, our emotions are tapped, our bodies assume unusual costumes, poses, or juxtapositions with others, our intellects are charged. We as whole people, dare I say as “humans,” gather to recognize a change in other humans’ lives. By showing up, we commit (or at least open ourselves) to adjusting, to adapting to this new organization of our world. This impacts how we encounter others, how we navigate life, how we spend our money, and how we vote.
But here’s what puzzles (and ultimately motivates) me: if our assumptions and definitions of marriage have evolved, why haven’t weddings changed with them? For the record, I don’t blame to-be-weds. Unlike Elizabeth Taylor and Rue McLanahan, most people don’t get much experience at the center of a wedding, and most of the resources for couples planning weddings conform to old standards. Flip through a bridal magazine or scroll through Pinterest, and you’ll see that even the most creative, flamboyant, and artful wedding practices stay in the boundaries of the royal court, the Protestant liturgy, and profitability. Even those who claim to offer innovative or more equitable starting points ultimately only offer cosmetic changes without considering the bigger questions, the broader assumptions driving the experience.
Here’s an example: the phenomenon of the girl with the gay best friend is well known and documented. Sometimes the girl is known by a term I won’t use in mixed company–I prefer to know her as the “fruit fly.” When the fa-, er, fruit fly gets married, she faces a dilemma: she wants her bestie by her side, but tradition dictates a MAID of honor and bridesMAIDS and that the boys stand with the groom, the girls with the bride. For so long, most advice to those girls has encouraged the bold choice of appointing her GBF in the role she wants to choose for him. By naming him the “MAN of honor,” or even better, the “PERSON of honor,” she hammers a little crack in the wall of tradition, gives a middle finger to the patriarchy, and ensures a fabulous bachelorette party.
Sure. But that advice fails to pose the right question. The right question isn’t, “Tradition be damned, who do you want to be in your wedding party?” The right question is, “Why do you want a wedding party?” A wedding party composed of gender-exclusive entourages is rooted in royal court culture. If you aspire to absolute monarchy, absolutely invite a coterie of friends to wear outfits demonstrating their affiliation to you and to be at your beck and call (and yes, that’s the correct use of the idiom). But if not, if you don’t want to live in a world of kings and queens and monster brides (and with the rise of gay marriage, monster grooms), don’t. There are other ways to honor the relationships that shaped you and directed you to the moment of publicly declaring your commitment without resorting to feudal structures and the systematic infantilization of women.
We’re at an interesting juncture for the wedding industry, as we are for American and global culture in general. As Arundhati Roy wrote, “Nothing could be worse than a return to normality.” We face a portal to a new world, and we have the opportunity to choose what to carry with us and what to leave behind. Every time a couple includes something new that steps away from the trappings of the American wedding, I rejoice, because it’s another sign that we’re starting to recognize both the value and impact of weddings, that we recognize the anachronistic dissonance between our lives and our customs, and that we are taking the reins to create the world we want to live in.
I recently officiated my fiftieth wedding (well, as of writing, also my fifty-first and -second). Because this feels like some kind of a marker, I’ve been thinking a lot about how I’ve grown and about the structures I’ve developed around my work. My elevator pitch just kind of rolls out of me now–that’s a sign that I’m more confident in my approach to weddings–and I’m deeply happy when my process or my questions about how we do weddings resonate, both with clients and with friends or strangers who ask me what I do. I have developed a consistent process and have gotten better at anticipating the kinds of questions and concerns clients have.
What’s my favorite part of this work, you wonder? A day or two after a ceremony, I take time to review our materials to ensure that the marriage license is correct and complete, and I collate materials to return to the newlyweds, including their formal certificate and any pertinent paperwork that came with the license (information about family law in the state, how to change your name, that kind of stuff). I do love a good keepsake, though, so I also send a couple the script that I used during their ceremony. After packing it all into a giant envelope, I write a note to confirm submission of their license and to express my gratitude for joining them for a little part of their journey before venturing out to the post office where I–yes, in person at the USPS–drop the license in the outgoing mail slot and head to the counter to mail the packet to the (hopefully) happy couple. Last summer, one of the clerks clocked my weekly visits and asked me what I do–she didn’t get the full elevator pitch, just a quick “I’m a wedding officiant, and after the ceremony I mail in the license and send other stuff back to couples.” She paused, smiled, and said, “You know, that’s really nice” before completing our transaction. I’m disappointed if she’s not working–sure, I don’t get my regular check-in, but what I miss most is her parting message. She says it to everyone, but it’s become a coda, almost a closing prayer, for my process: “Have a blessed day.”
The inefficiency of this process might surprise you or make you want to scratch your eyes out, but what drives this isn’t the pursuit of efficiency or even sentimentality. Instead, this grows out of my commitment to processing and to personalizing. The way I wrap up a job gives me space to process the experience–I can step back and think about the experience, about the line from our earliest conversations to the conclusion of the ceremony and ensuing festivities and whether it was authentic and impactful, and I can identify the ways I grew. I ask clients to engage in deep reflection with each other to identify what’s important to them and ensure that their ceremony resonates with those values–so it only seems fair that I discipline myself to keep reflecting and refining.
These actions also nurture and help me cultivate and maintain an intensely personalized process. Passing #50 got me thinking about the scale of my work–how do I expand my work, how do I get my message to the world? Twenty years ago, I might’ve had the ambition to recruit a team that shares this vision, to build programs to invite people in and generate creative dialogue, or at least to pack my calendar with as many ceremonies as I could fit. But I’ve learned along the way that the more I do, the less I’m able to engage deeply. I’m not interested in scaling up if it means diminishing my connection with clients and my capacity to be fully present to them and to their communities, and I am definitely not interested if it means that my handwritten note has to turn into a form letter. Yeah, yeah, I understand. I’ll never make money from this business with this approach, but if I hope to see American weddings shed their royal, religious, and capitalistic trappings…well, to paraphrase the old motto, “Charity begins at home,” shedding those trappings begins with me.
There aren’t many folx who identify as “ritual designers” or “ritualists.” Several years ago, The New York Times featured a piece on the rise of ritual in corporate spaces and highlighted a handful of ritualists. Like the Muppet Gonzo when he finally confirmed his origins and found others like him, the fact that people who share my obsession and fascination with ritual were being featured delighted me, and I was eager to connect with them. But also like Gonzo, who ultimately chose to stay on earth with the Muppets, I resisted the urge to hop on the corporate ritual train. I was happy to know that they are disseminating the language and tools of ritual, but my heart was and is far from the corporate culture. If I have a gift to give, I’m not giving it to the business world. I’m sticking with my practice, even if no one ever really understands what I do and why I do it. As Gonzo explained his choice, “I love these guys. My life is here. This is my home.”
