How I became an online reverend
Shouldn’t there be more to becoming a man of the cloth? James Walker investigates.
The last dance at the wedding reception was Take me Home,
Country Roads. It was the finale of the first wedding I presided over, which took place in West Virginia. My friends from university, a Brit and an American, had asked me to marry them. At the time they made the request, I remember being very enthusiastic. It was only after agreeing that I identified a major roadblock: I was not a priest. Nor could I readily become one, as I lacked necessary attributes like graciousness and forgiveness.
However, as I often do when faced with one of life’s challenges, I turned to a greater power for guidance: the internet. Through my keyboard, I discovered the UniversalLifeChurch.com (ULC), which appeared to be the most welcoming and open-minded of all the internet’s many religious denominations. Through the ULC, it seemed possible to become an ordained online reverend.
I was wary. After all, there should be a lot more to becoming a man of the cloth than providing a credit card number.
But an American friend who had also recently become an online reverend told me that the Church had been established in the United States to allow friends of couples to conduct their marriage ceremonies. This gave those who didn’t want a religious ceremony an alternative. While not entirely ‘‘traditional’’, he guaranteed me, it was ‘‘legitimate’’. ‘‘Well, legal.’’
ULC’s website provided further reassurance by recognising Lady Gaga, Conan O’Brien, and Dwayne ‘‘The Rock’’ Johnson as reverends of their church, as well. I decided The Rock’s inclusion in the ministry brought a real authority to the site.
After a four-minute registration process, I was accepted into the church. In its letter of congratulations, the ULC informed me that, as a reverend, I was also able to undertake baptisms and funerals. I decided not to share that with friends and family. I didn’t want to set any expectations that I was ready to take on a funeral for ‘‘mate’s rates’’.
I set off to America with my certificate of ordination and a couple of select items from the ULC website’s online store, including embossed business cards and a ministerial parking permit. At the time of ordination, I had not appreciated that entering the Universal Life Church also entitled me to universal free parking. (It turns out, from several subsequent parking tickets, that it does not.)
I flew with my parents, who had also been invited to this Southern wedding. At US Customs, the officer said to me, sceptically: ‘‘It’s not very often I see a man your age, alone, on vacation with his parents.’’
‘‘Well, I’m a priest,’’ I replied. ‘‘Who else would I be on holiday with?’’ Mum hurried me away before I could reach for my business cards.
Stateside, the couple-to-be and I visited the County Courthouse in Morgantown, West Virginia, to collect their wedding certificate. In a dank basement room containing the town’s records, we met the grizzly registrar.
I was certain, at this point, that questions would be asked about the authenticity of the Universal Life Church. However, the registrar only had two lines of inquiry, neither of them related to the fact that I was an online reverend from New Zealand marrying an American to a Brit, on American soil. That part she was entirely comfortable with.
What she was not happy about was that Jonny’s paperwork stated he’d been at university for nine years. ‘‘Did you get distracted during your studies, son?’’ she asked.
‘‘No, I was doing a PhD in philosophy,’’ Jonny replied.
‘‘How lucrative,’’ she said, as she looked at Courtney with an expression that said: ‘‘Are you really sure about him?’’
The registrar’s final question for the couple was: ‘‘And neither y’all are related?’’ According to a sign on her desk, she had the authority to require a blood test as evidence if she had any sense of shared bloodlines, but after looking the couple up and down, she decided they looked dissimilar enough to skip the bloodwork.
The ceremony was a success, and almost five years on, has held up, legally. So when my sister became engaged last year, she asked me to marry her to her fiance.
Back home in New Zealand, the Department of Internal Affairs (DIA) and, more importantly my mother, were more sceptical about the legitimacy of my ceremonial powers. Before DIA would recognise my ordination, they required me to prove that I had a local congregation of at least 10 parishioners.
I considered asking friends if they would become my followers, but my sister felt we were straying into a ‘‘moral grey area’’, which was ‘‘borderline Gloriavale’’ and she was ‘‘keen that her first marriage was officially recognised.’’
Aspiring for legitimacy, I decided to become an official celebrant through the Department of Internal Affairs. A further upside to that appointment is that, as a celebrant, my responsibilities are limited to weddings, so friends won’t be able to hit me up for a funeral.
The DIA process includes a criminal record check, multiple character references, an online exam, and an interview with a local registrar. In comparison to ULC, this did feel more robust.
In advance of my interview, Mum gave me an inspiring pep talk, telling me that I had better prepare thoroughly, ‘‘as you’re unlikely to be the sort of person they’re looking for’’. (She now denies saying this.)
At the interview, I was told that my application was successful, in part because I was one of the few males under 40 in the country who had volunteered to become a wedding celebrant. I understand that almost all the others are women in their middle age residing on Waiheke Island.
My sister’s wedding is in February. I’ve already had a dry run with another friends’ wedding in November. Again, it held up. They are happily married and I am relieved. I’m now two from two.