In her wedding profile, Rose alluded to an amazing wedding ceremony speech written by their friend that included zombies and bunnies. Here it is in all its inspirational entirety.
Our close friend wrote an awesome speech about us for the ceremony. It had zombies, robots, bunnies, and frogs in it: all of the most important things in life, of course.
Friends and family, peace be with you and welcome! On this occasion when we celebrate the marriage of Rose and Aaron, I'm honored to share some words with you from an enduring work of art: The Rambling Tales of Boxcar Pete. The particular scene I have in mind opens with a pair of waltzing zombies, and as Pete strums along on the guitar they sing to each other the following chorus: "Loving you is better / loving you is better / loving you is better than brains!" Yes, it may be the case that their limbs are decaying and that their hearts aren't really pumping blood anymore. But as one undead lover proclaims to the other: "Suddenly my life is not so mindlessly malicious. Suddenly the taste of human flesh is less delicious." This is because, as we witness in the union of Aaron and Rose, love really is better than brains.
Truly better than, though? Or does it make everything better?
Love doesn't loosen our focus on reality, but rather the focus intensifies. In Rose and Aaron we see a love that celebrates with abandon the joy of living — creating art, nourishing others with good food, reveling the kaleidoscopic variety of a universe full of frogs, bunnies, robots, and — yes — zombies. But all of this would not be as rich without another person with whom to share it.
Bunnies, frogs, bugs and ferrets will hop and scurry in a wild and mysterious frolic as part of the great dance, and we can certainly two-step alongside them in reverence for this earth we co-habitate with them. And yet love makes our contribution to the dance even more reverent, even more graceful, and helps us regain our balance when we miss the next step or two. Love does this, because it open our hearts to the knowledge that we are not alone.
Robots and zombies will take over the world eventually — let's be realistic. In their uncanny, heartless and mysterious ways they will wreck a perfect havoc on the human race, and we can cling to life as best we can, roaming the hillsides and nomadic grounds. And yet love makes our struggles even more worthwhile and strengthens our resistance to destruction with an even greater vitality. Love does this, too, because it makes a home for our hopes in the beating heart of another.
The ancient story that some of our ancestors told around campfires about the first human pair makes this point in a different way. Having breathed spirit into the earthling Ha'adam, a befuddled creator tries to think of how this being could be any better. The answer comes: a sustainer alongside. So here they come: the beasts of the field, the birds of the air, and even the creeping, crawling creatures. Somewhere in this vast, interconnected web of life there must be a suitable partner. Finding none, the creator has a light bulb moment — bing! — and makes two people out of the unsuspecting earthling. The exhilaration of recognition sings in the ancient poem: "Bone of my bone! Flesh of each other's flesh!" This is the human community into which each of us is born, the grandparents passed down to their listening grandchildren. This is the wisdom that Aaron and Rose embody here today: that love, rather than isolation, is the better choice.
And it is true that love is not easy. The work of maintaining balance is difficult, and in this age too often dreams of a nuclear family can sever people from their broader community, and even from the earth itself. Love is the choice that must be made again and again. Yet, it is also a gracious thing, this love — as the poet Hafiz knew. "Even after all this time, the Sun never says to the Earth: 'You owe me.' Look what happens with a love like that," the poet writes. "It lights the whole sky.