So...Are You a Minister?
The Long Answer to a Short Question
This question almost never comes right away.
Usually I’ll tell someone what I do and they’ll nod politely, like they’re trying to be respectful while quietly deciding where to file that information. You can almost see the mental drawer opening and closing. Then, a few minutes later, they circle back. “So… are you a minister?”
That’s when I know we’re really talking.
The honest answer is yes. I am an ordained United Methodist pastor. That’s part of my life and part of my story. But here’s where it gets a little confusing. When I’m serving as a celebrant, I’m not standing there as a representative of a church or a denomination.
And that distinction matters more than people realize.
Most of us grew up with a very specific picture of how weddings and funerals are supposed to work. There’s a church, or at least a chapel. There’s a familiar order of service. There’s someone up front who represents a tradition and leads everyone through something we’ve seen before.
So when people hear the word celebrant, what they’re really asking is, “Where do you fit in all of that?” I usually answer by telling a story.
A couple once sat across from me at a coffee shop and said, “We don’t really know what we’re supposed to be doing.” They looked nervous saying it, like they were already behind somehow. I told them, “You’re doing it right now.” They laughed. They took a breath and relaxed. And that told me everything I needed to know.
They weren’t asking for a perfect ceremony. They weren’t asking for the right music or the right words in the right order. What they wanted was a ceremony that felt like them. Something honest. Something that didn’t feel borrowed from someone else’s life.
That’s usually the moment I explain what a celebrant actually does.
A celebrant builds the ceremony around the people, instead of asking the people to squeeze themselves into a ceremony that was written for someone else. Once people hear that, things start to make sense.
The same thing happens with families planning a funeral or a memorial service. They often start by saying, “We’re not really sure what we’re supposed to do.” And again, I tell them the same thing. You’re already doing it.
They’re telling stories. They’re remembering little things. They’re trying to figure out how to say goodbye in a way that feels real and meaningful and authentic. What they don’t need is someone who already knows the script. They need someone who’s willing to learn the person.
Who were they really? What made them laugh? What will people miss when they leave today? That’s the work.
Now somewhere around here, another question usually shows up. Sometimes it’s spoken. Sometimes it just hangs in the air. “So… what aren’t you?”
A celebrant isn’t there to judge whether someone qualifies for a meaningful ceremony. Life has already done enough of that. A celebrant isn’t there to read a script that could belong to anyone. If the ceremony could be swapped out with someone else’s and no one would notice, it probably doesn’t fit. And a celebrant isn’t the center of attention. If things are going well, people barely remember what I was wearing or where I was standing. They remember how the moment felt.
Also, just to make things slightly more confusing, the IRS doesn’t actually have a category for “celebrant” on tax forms. Even the government isn’t entirely sure what to do with us. Which feels strangely appropriate.
When I’m working as a celebrant, my role isn’t tied to one religious tradition. It’s tied to the people in front of me. Sometimes that includes faith language. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it includes pieces from different traditions. Sometimes it’s beautifully simple and completely non-religious.
The ceremony fits the people. Always.
At the end of the day, the simplest way I know how to explain what a celebrant is goes like this. I help people mark moments that matter.
Not in a rushed way.Not in a borrowed way. Not in a way that asks them to be anything other than who they are.
Just honestly. Just authentically. Just meaningfully.
And if you’re planning a wedding, a memorial, or a celebration of life and you’re wondering what that could look like for you, I’m always glad to sit down, listen, and hear your story.
That’s usually where it all starts anyway.
I have reached the age where I watch superhero movies differently than I used to. Don't get me wrong. I still enjoy the explosions, the impossible stunts, and the inevitable scene where New York is somehow once again hanging by a thread. But somewhere along the way I've become the guy who walks out of the theater thinking less about the villain and more about what the story says about being human. That happened again after watching the new Spider-Man movie, Brand New Day. As I thought about the movie, I found myself wondering what Spider-Man's greatest invention really is. At first, I thought it was the suit. It is definitely iconic, but I remembered his best suit wasn't even his own invention. That one? It was designed, built and provided by Tony Stark. So maybe it's his strength, except there are plenty of superheroes who are stronger. Or perhaps it's the ability to swing effortlessly between skyscrapers. As amazing as all of that is, I don't think it's his greatest gift. No, for me, the best, greatest, and yes, maybe even the holiest thing Spider-Man does has always been about the web. A single strand of a spider's web is almost nothing. You can brush it away with the back of your hand and never think twice about it. But strand after strand, woven together with patience and intention, becomes something remarkably strong. Maybe the web was never just a clever way for Spider-Man to get around the city. Maybe it was always pointing toward something truer about the way life actually works. Isn't it interesting? Spider-Man doesn't fly. Superman flies. Iron Man flies. Captain Marvel flies. Spider-Man can't. Every single movement forward depends on attaching himself to something outside himself. The more I thought about that, the more I wondered if the web isn't really a superpower at all. Maybe it's simply a picture of what it means to be human. For a long time, Spider-Man tries to carry everything by himself. He keeps people at a distance, convinced that if he just works a little harder, sacrifices a little more, holds on a little tighter, he can protect everyone he loves. It's a noble instinct. It's also an exhausting one. Eventually he learns what most of us spend a lifetime learning. There are some battles you simply cannot fight alone. Most of us have been taught that the strong life is the independent life. We admire the person who never asks for help, never leans on anyone else, never lets the world see them struggle. We confuse self-sufficiency with maturity. But that's not how Spider-Man survives. Even with all his strength, every swing depends on being connected to something beyond himself. Notice what the web is actually for. Yes, it blocks a punch. It disarms a villain. It restrains someone twice his size. But its quietest work is something else entirely. It keeps him connected to something solid when he has nothing else to stand on. And just as often, it's the thing that catches someone else before they hit the ground. Once I saw it, I couldn't stop seeing it. I've seen the web in hospital waiting rooms. I've seen it around kitchen tables after someone dies. I've seen it in churches, neighborhoods, baseball dugouts, recovery groups, and around backyard grills. And I've certainly seen it in the hundreds of funerals I've had the privilege to lead. I've never watched a family survive the hardest day of their lives because one person was exceptionally strong. They survived because someone brought dinner. Someone answered the phone. Someone took the kids for the afternoon. Someone sat in silence. Someone refused to let them grieve alone. That's what held them. We spend years weaving these webs without thinking very much about them. Then one day life asks them to hold our whole weight. That's when I realized something. Not all altars are made of stone. Some are woven. Maybe that's the Unlikely Altar. It's not the skyscrapers or the mask. It's not even the superhero. The Unlikely Altar is the web — the ordinary, almost invisible network of relationships that catches us when we fall, steadies us when we lose our footing, and quietly reminds us that none of us was ever meant to swing through life alone. Maybe that's the whole sermon, if you can call it that: Trust the web. And whenever you can, become part of someone else's.
The only ticket I could get to watch The Odyssey was for an 8:00 showing on a Sunday morning. I walked into a theater that seats at least a couple of hundred people, and for a time I had the place to myself. Eventually, I counted about 8 of us in that theater. I guess most of the city was either sleeping or getting dressed for church. As the credits rolled, I had a revelation that made me chuckle. I thought I was skipping church, but what I discovered was something different. I didn’t skip church at all; I was simply sitting in a different sanctuary. You see, the movie's message was similar to the one I had preached for some 30 years as a United Methodist pastor. Somewhere between the gods and monsters, the storms and shipwrecks, and one weary man rowing across a dark sea, something clicked. The Odyssey isn't really a story about a war. It isn't even a story about a voyage. It's a story about a man who wants to go home. Amazing! A story that has survived for nearly three thousand years is built around one of the simplest longings we know. Odysseus has already tasted glory, and it cost him almost everything. He doesn't want another victory. He wants his house, his wife, his son and his dog. He wants to lay his head on the pillow in his own bed. More than anything else, he wants to stop being away. He simply wants to go home. As I sat there, another thought surfaced. Christopher Nolan seems to tell this same story over and over again. In Interstellar , Cooper crosses galaxies trying to find his way back to his children. In Inception , Cobb cannot go home until he faces the guilt he's spent years outrunning. Bruce Wayne eventually discovers that saving Gotham isn't enough if he never learns how to live as Bruce Wayne. Even Oppenheimer becomes the story of a man who creates something so world-changing that he can never truly return to the person he once was. Different men and different genres of movies, but all with the same ache and yearning. Which made me wonder if this homesickness isn't really about geography at all. Maybe it's the oldest ache we carry. Maybe underneath our ambition, our fear, our success, our failures, and even our regrets lives one quiet prayer. I want to go home. However we define it. Whatever it costs to get there. This longing, this ache doesn't just show up in movie theaters. It shows up everywhere people tell stories, including some of the oldest ones we have. There's a scene early in the Exodus story where a fugitive named Moses, a man who has been running for decades, hides out as a shepherd in the middle of nowhere. One day, he comes across a bush that's burning without burning up. A voice tells him to take off his sandals. Most sermons I've heard focus on the holiness of the ground, and I think that's certainly part of the story. But I also wonder if something else is happening too. Think about what we do when we finally get home. We take off our shoes. We stop looking over our shoulder. We rest. We breathe. Maybe, after years of running, Moses wasn't just standing on holy ground. Maybe he was finally home. That raises a question that's been following me ever since I left the theater. What is home? For some of us, home is another person. Maybe it's a relationship that needs tending, or a conversation that has waited too long. Maybe it's reconciliation. Or maybe it's making peace with the fact that reconciliation will never happen this side of heaven. For others, home is something deeper than any single relationship. It's the quiet conviction that our lives were made for something, or perhaps Someone, greater than ourselves. As a celebrant, I've sat with hundreds of families after someone they loved has died. It's remarkable what they remember. They don't tell stories about promotions or investment accounts. They remember kitchen tables. Fishing trips. The old recliner nobody else was allowed to sit in. Saturday mornings making pancakes. The sound of someone's laugh coming from another room. In other words, they remember home. Not because of the house. Because of the belonging. Maybe that's the ache hiding underneath all our other aches. We chase it in careers, hoping the next promotion will finally quiet the restlessness. We chase it in relationships, believing the right person can answer every question we carry. We chase it in bigger houses, as though more square footage could somehow create belonging. And every once in a while, if we're honest, we chase it in stories. We sit in dark rooms and watch a man row across a sea for ten years, or a father claw his way through time toward a little girl's bedroom, or a fugitive stumble onto a bush that won't stop burning — and something in us leans forward, because some part of us recognizes the ache. We've felt it too. I didn't go looking for any of this. I just wanted to see a movie by my favorite director. But that's usually how it goes, isn't it? The sacred rarely makes an appointment. It doesn't wait for a sanctuary with stained glass and a bulletin. Sometimes it just shows up in a mostly empty theater at 8:00 on a Sunday morning, hiding inside a three-thousand-year-old poem about a man rowing toward home. An Unlikely Altar, if there ever was one.
There's someone I think about almost every time I pick up the phone. I don't know her. I've never met her. But she's out there somewhere, waiting in a future neither of us can see. Let's call her Susan . Susan might be your spouse. Your son or daughter. Your sister, your nephew, your best friend, or the neighbor who's always been more like family than family. She might not even be the person you'd name today. Life has a way of deciding those things for us. Whoever she is, she'll be standing in the room when the worst day comes. And it will come. Not because I'm trying to be grim about it, just because that's the deal every one of us signed up for the day we were born. None of us get out of here without leaving someone behind to clean up after we're gone. So pause for just a moment and picture her. It's the morning after you've died. The casseroles haven't arrived yet, and neither have the flowers. The phone won't stop ringing, and sleep, well, that's been impossible. Every conversation feels unreal. Then comes the call to the funeral home. Does she even know which funeral home to call? Does she know what you wanted? Burial or cremation? A church service? What music did you want played? Does she know where your important papers are? Then comes the question few people are truly ready for: "How will you be taking care of the funeral expenses?" Susan wasn't expecting that question quite so soon. And when someone asks that question, does she already have an answer? Or does she begin making phone calls she never wanted to make, hoping someone in the family can somehow pull everything together? I've seen that with more families than I can count, both as a pastor and as a celebrant. And it's not because families don't love each other. It's because nobody got around to it. After all, death always feels like a someday problem until it's a today problem, and by then it's Susan's problem, not yours. That's why I do what I do today. I still stand with families after a death as a celebrant. I also help them prepare before that day ever comes. Can I tell you something I don't say very often? Selling insurance was never part of my plan. For most of my life, I've met families after someone died. I've stood beside hospital beds, in funeral homes, and at gravesides. I've listened to stories, held hands, and tried to help people find solid ground when their world had just been turned upside down. This work came later, and if I'm honest, there are still days it feels like an odd fit. Not because I don't believe in what a policy can do, but because I'm afraid of becoming someone who sounds more interested in making a sale than helping a family. For a while, that fear got the better of me. I'd call people who had asked for information, and many never answered. Some insisted they hadn't filled out a form. A few cussed me out and hung up before I could even introduce myself. After enough of those conversations, I started wondering if anyone really wanted to hear from me. So I pretty much stopped calling. I told myself I'd get back to it eventually. Then I did a funeral. The family hadn't planned for any of it, and by the time I sat down with them, they were already scrambling to cover the cost. Thank God, the funeral home was willing to work with the family so they could move forward. As I listened to that family share their story, I realized something. When I pick up the phone, it isn't really about insurance. It never had been. It was about that family. It is about every daughter, every son, every husband, every wife, every friend who finds themselves sitting at a kitchen table trying to solve a financial problem while their heart is breaking. That's when I understood why I needed to pick up the phone again. The people who hang up on me aren't really the reason I call. The reason I call is the one person who answers. The one conversation that happens before a crisis rather than during one. The one family that gets to spend its energy remembering someone they love instead of wondering how they'll pay for saying goodbye. That's worth every unanswered call. So if your phone rings and you see my name, I hope you'll know something. I'm not calling because I see you as a policy. I'm calling because I've met your Susan. I may not know her name, but I know she'll be there. I'd rather have an awkward conversation today than watch someone you love carry a burden you could have lifted. Grief is heavy enough. Love can't stop death, but love can make sure the people left behind don't have to carry everything alone. So before we ever talk about insurance, here's the only question that really matters: Who's your Susan? Find that person. Picture their face. Then ask yourself, "If today were the day everything changed, would they be okay?" Not okay because they wouldn't miss you. They will. Not okay because they wouldn't grieve. They will. But okay because, in the middle of the hardest week of their life, they would know that one of your final acts of love was making sure they weren't left to figure it all out alone. That's what I believe this work is really about. Helping people love well, even after they're gone. After all, every story leaves someone behind.