Connubial Bliss

There were five people at my wedding: Me, my husband, two witnesses, and the minister—our roommate Eugene.

Eugene is a minister of the Universal Life Church, a group that supports freedom of religion and says they will ordain anyone. It takes three minutes and can be done over the Internet. But the website warns, “This is a serious matter and should not be used to play jokes on your friends. In our experience, people become very upset to find themselves ordained without their permission. It is not worth broken friendships, so just don’t do it please.” Because ordainment is so easy, and because there are no ritual requirements dictated by the state, the same process makes it virtually possible to marry people without their knowledge.

After being ordained, Eugene ordered a Universal Life Church ID card for $12. He brought the card to city hall and paid $5 to be officially registered in Ramsey County to perform weddings and other religious ceremonies. A week later, he married us in our dining room in a silent Buddhist ceremony, which was his idea. My husband and I entered the room between the two witnesses and bowed to Eugene. Eugene poured a glass of wine. We each drank from it, then bowed to each other. The ceremony was over; all that remained was to sign the paperwork.

Eugene’s friend Samantha has already married three couples. She became a minister of the ULC to help out some friends who wanted to get married but didn’t have the money to pay a real judge or minister. Her most recent wedding took place in the couple’s kitchen with the bride’s parents on speakerphone from Seattle. At her second wedding, which took place in a park in front of a large group of friends and family, she recited a speech she memorized 30 minutes beforehand, and then the couple jumped over a broom.

Samantha had some legal troubles before her first wedding. She brought in a printed email from the Universal Life Church to verify that she was an ordained minister, but this was insufficient proof for the county. She ordered a certificate from the church, which would arrive signed but blank, so she would have to fill her own name in, but it didn’t arrive in time for the wedding. She finally took a picture of the certificate from the ULC’s handbook, enlarged it at the copy store where she worked, and put her name on that one. The county accepted it. That afternoon she signed her first marriage certificate, in the presence of the bride and two witnesses. The husband was not there, but apparently he had consented beforehand, because he never contested the slightly questionable wedding. Whether he realizes it or not, he and his wife are legally married in the state of Minnesota.—Katherine Glover


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