So...Are You a Minister?

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.