Colored sand. Doves. Unity candles. Swords. Flower petals. Satin pillows. Screaming young children. Bagpipes. String quartets. CD players. Complicated seating charts. Converse tennis shoes and tuxedos. Fainting groomsmen. Microphones inadvertently left live that pick up conversations more fitting for the honeymoon suite than the sanctuary. All of this and more I have experienced while presiding at weddings.
I used to say in a snobbish tone, “I much prefer funerals to weddings.” Funerals are about worship. Weddings, I would scoff, are about pageantry. I no longer ascribe to this false dichotomy. I have finally come to a place where I view weddings as rich opportunities for ministry.
I have come to see exchanges about music, animals, personalized vows, photographers, videographers and poetry readings as opportunities to educate ever so gently about worship and theology, covenant and compromise, adiaphora and essentials. I no longer care what brings couples to me or what they don’t know. I am grateful that they have sought me out and, on one level or another, want what the church has to offer. I pray our meetings and our discussions open up possibilities for relationship and future involvement. I sincerely want couples to feel welcome, wanted and valued.
Now, when it comes to weddings I start in a place of humility, grace and gratitude because these are the things, above all else, my marriage has taught me.
My wedding was small, simple and planned around the dates of my seminary spring break. We had few guests, but two preachers. Even then we knew we needed extra help, spiritually speaking. There was a prayer of confession and assurance of pardon. Even then we knew that sequence was crucial. We didn’t have a real honeymoon. One of the many things I didn’t know then was how hard it would be to take a trip in the future. This is where humility comes in — how much I didn’t know, couldn’t know. Who could know my father-in-law would only live six more years? Who could know a failed adoption was in our future? Who can guess the depth and breadth and manner in which hurt can be inflicted, endured and overcome?
Marriage has taught me humility. I recognize now that God alone knows what’s in store for the ones I join together. My role is to assure them God is in it all and the church will help make God’s presence tangible in better and in worse.
One of the few photographs I remember from my wedding day was taken at the reception. It was of the inordinately long head table. All the parents needed to be included — and that’s a big number when everyone is divorced and remarried. My husband, Grant, and I sit smack dab in the middle. My dad is standing giving a toast. In hindsight, I think about how little I consulted him about the wedding plans he funded. A few seats down my mom looks on. I realize now it likely hurt her that I didn’t include her when I shopped for a dress, chose a reception venue or picked out flowers. I was oblivious to these things and so much more. I look at those faces and realize the unfathomable grace I have been given. Their support, despite my selfishness, has never waivered.
My wedding was a demonstration of grace and all weddings are occasions for grace. My role is to extend the grace of Jesus Christ and point it out when I witness it.
After the reception we drove to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, for a few days. I had no idea I would eventually spend most of my marriage and raise three children in the Palmetto State. In that great state my husband and I have sat beside hospital beds, me beside his, him beside mine, both of us beside one or another of our children. We have broken promises and forgiven what we’d likely thought previously was unforgivable. We have prayed together, cried together, laughed together and, some days, wished we weren’t together. But we are still together, and for that I am profoundly grateful.
I presided at a wedding a month ago. There were rose petals, a disgruntled flower girl and a buried bottle of bourbon. As I looked at the young couple in front of me, I glanced up and saw my husband, standing at the back waiting for me, and I was flooded with gratitude for weddings and all they help me remember.
Grace and peace,
Jill
