The Day I became a Priest

There are many noble paths to the priesthood. Some people spend years in seminaries studying theology, philosophy, and the mysteries of the human soul. I spent about seven minutes on the internet. My journey into the clergy began when my friend and colleague, Dean Whiteside of Infosys, walked over to my cubicle with a request.

"Would you officiate my wedding? I’d rather you do it than some random priest I don’t know.”

Now, there are moments in life when a sensible person asks questions.

Questions like:

"Why me?"

"Are you sure?"

"Is this legal?"

I asked none of these.

Instead, I said, "Sure."

A few clicks later, I was ordained through the Universal Life Church. Somewhere in cyberspace, a server processed my request, and I was instantly transformed from corporate executive and amateur golfer into a fully qualified minister of matrimony. If Joey Tribiani could officiate over the wedding of Monica and Chandler, I figured I could. 

When I informed my father of this development, he reacted with considerably less enthusiasm than I had expected.

"You're what?"

"An ordained priest."

There was a long silence.

"What's wrong with Hinduism, kanna?"

I explained that I wasn't actually converting religions. I wasn't joining a monastery. I wasn't renouncing worldly possessions. In fact, I had barely finished the online application.

This did not seem to help.

I explained that the organization had a long and colorful history. During the Vietnam era it became famous for ordaining people en masse, allegedly helping some young men establish ministerial status while trying to avoid the draft. What had begun as a counterculture religious movement had evolved into something even more American: A mail-order business.

My father remained unconvinced.

A few days later, I received a catalogue welcoming me to my new profession. Apparently, ordination was merely the first step. The catalogue offered everything a modern clergyman might require: rosary beads, ceremonial stoles, purple surplices, bottles of rose water, ministerial identification cards, wedding certificates, and enough ecclesiastical accessories to launch a medium-sized denomination. All at a price, of course. The transformation was astonishing. One week earlier I was shopping for golf clubs. Now I was apparently in the market for liturgical garments. Martin Luther had the Protestant Reformation. I had a catalogue and a Visa card.

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Naturally, before I could unite two souls in holy matrimony, I had to participate in the sacred rituals leading up to the event. Specifically, Dean's bachelor party.

Now Dean's defining personality trait is golf. This is partly my fault. Years earlier, I had introduced him to the game. What I thought would be a pleasant recreational activity evolved into a full-blown obsession. Most bachelor parties involve bars. Dean's involved a golf course. Most golf courses feature golfers. This one featured strippers. Not in the clubhouse. Not after the round. On the golf course. Imagine standing over a delicate seven-foot birdie putt while a lap dance is taking place beside the green. The Rules of Golf are surprisingly silent on this situation. Dean, meanwhile, seemed perfectly happy. His two great passions in life—golf and questionable decision-making—had finally merged into a single event.

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A few weeks later, we arrived at Pajaro Dunes. There I stood. A brown-skinned Indian man who had become a priest via the internet. Waiting to officiate the wedding of a Scotch-American groom in a kilt. Who would be led down the aisle by a bagpiper. To marry a first-generation Chinese immigrant bride dressed in a traditional Cheongsam. 

Meanwhile, her parents had been staying with the couple for a month before the wedding, which every Asian person considered completely normal and every American considered a hostage situation. (Dean had been sufficiently indoctrinated by my company to take it in his stride.)

The audience was equally remarkable. Many of the guests were Dean's and my colleagues. These were people who knew exactly how I had become ordained. They had watched the entire process unfold. A week earlier I had been discussing software contracts, golf handicaps, and quarterly business reviews. Now I was standing in front of them officiating over a wedding.

As the bagpipes began to play, I looked around and realized that absolutely nobody in this scene was where history expected them to be. A Scotch-American groom in a kilt. A Chinese-American bride in a Cheongsam. Saree wearing guests. An Indian internet priest. A bagpiper. A beach in California. Somewhere a Scottish ancestor was wondering why an Indian minister was marrying one of his descendants. Somewhere a Chinese grandmother was wondering why nobody had started serving food yet. And my father was probably still wondering: "What's wrong with Hinduism, kanna?"

There was, however, one person who seemed entirely unfazed by any of this. Dean's father. A blue-eyed Scotch-American who had served in the Merchant Marine during World War II, carrying supplies across the Atlantic while German U-boats attempted to send him to the bottom of the ocean. This was a man from a generation that regarded hardship as a normal Tuesday. He just looked at me and said: "You better make sure the marriage works."

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The ceremony itself was beautiful. I had spent days rehearsing my remarks, practicing my look,and trying very hard not to accidentally marry the wrong people. When you're standing in front of family and friends, nobody cares that your theological education consisted primarily of filling out an online form. They expect confidence. So I delivered the vows with all the dignity I could muster.

The bride said yes.

The groom said yes.

Nobody objected.

Most importantly, nobody asked to see my credentials.

As I pronounced them husband and wife, I reflected on the absurd chain of events that had brought me there. One friendship. One golf addiction. One bachelor party that should probably never be discussed in detail. One internet ordination. And one unforgettable wedding.
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I have held many titles in my life: CEO, President, Co-Founder, Golfer, Commercial Pilot, Father. But none of them quite compares with the one bestowed upon me by the Universal Life Church. According to the certificate lying somewhere in a folder I can no longer locate, I am officially: Reverend Palamadai Ramachandran Ganapathy. It is difficult to describe how improbable those four words look when placed together.

The title suggests a man who has spent decades studying theology in a monastery. Not someone who became ordained between conference calls.

To this day, Dean and his wife remain happily married. Which means my batting average as a priest remains a perfect 1.000. More importantly, it means I successfully met the only professional standard ever established for me. Dean's father has not complained.

My father, meanwhile, eventually accepted my brief dalliance with the clergy as a momentary lapse of reason, also because I had resisted buying the $250 Deluxe Baptism Kit from the Universal Life Church catalogue.

So if you're getting married in California and want to save $150 on a priest, call me.

Reverend Palamadai Ramachandran Ganapathy is available for weddings, although theological depth, doctrinal consistency, and long-term marital outcomes cannot be guaranteed.​

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