An Easter Morning Church
Farley Lord, Intern
September 20, 2024
St. John’s Episcopal Church, Wake Forest, NC
As part of my life-long quest to understand myself, I find comfort, and sometimes revelation, in taking personality quizzes. Myers-Briggs (I’m an INFJ), Enneagram (I’m a 9), and Strengths Finder (empathy is my #1) are a few well-known ones, but I secretly enjoy even the less consequential ones, like what Disney princess I am (Aurora).
I have a new theory that there are two kinds, or personalities, of churches: Christmas Eve churches and Easter morning churches. The distinction isn’t about theology or holiday preference, and neither is more or less faithful than the other. The distinction is about which part of God’s story a church is really good at telling, since together as all churches, as the body of Christ, we’re telling the whole thing.
A Christmas Eve church looks best in evening candlelight. It is a patchwork of earthy gray, black, and silver, a castle made of ancient stones and wise old tree trunks. Voices waft to the ceiling like incense, and the air always smells like candle wax. A Christmas Eve church has labyrinthian passageways in the basement and old furniture – mostly straight-backed chairs and rolling hymnal racks – stored in the rafters for reasons no one remembers. Its brooding walls retain year-round the energy of Advent, a mysterious, beautifully somber energy that seems to have the tragedy and tenderness of the world, and of the church, and of Jesus’ life, at the tip of its tongue.
If I were a church, I would be a Christmas Eve church. By nature, I am introverted and contemplative, and honestly, I’m always a little overwhelmed by the bells and noise and the expectation of giddiness of Christmas morning. For me, the opportunity to sit in silence for a long time is a gift, not a challenge.
An Easter morning church looks best in the bright, hopeful light of morning. It is a quilt of robin’s egg blue, crisp white, and new leaf green, a nest of pews on carpet soft as moss. Sound in the space hangs close because it wants to, and you can distinguish your neighbors’ singing voices. Its air always feels like, well, Easter: the freshest morning of the freshest start. In an Easter morning church, the light is confident, and it makes it seem like your face is always toward the sun. An Easter morning church necessarily remembers Good Friday and Holy Saturday, but only in that its experience of heartbreak and exile makes the joy of Easter Day all the more delicious.
St. John’s is an Easter morning church. For one thing, having a resident church cat who lounges in the grass under an oak tree before worship almost automatically qualifies you as an Easter morning church. Beyond Cosmo, though, St. John’s sanctuary is the sunniest – both in terms of lighting and of disposition – that I have ever seen. St. John’s is an Easter morning bouquet of wildflowers arranged by the Holy Spirit herself: wholesome, abundant, intricate, eager, and not too tidy.
My time with St. John’s is proving an immersion experience for my Christmas Eve spirit into a garden of Easter morning. For that I am so grateful.
