The Easter Vigil

For those of you from different traditions, the Easter Vigil is the ancient service of the Resurrection that takes place between sunset Saturday and sunrise Sunday. It's awesome, in every sense of that word.




It is sunset. The evening is cool and the breeze makes it hard to light the big candle. We are quiet; even though we’re outdoors, any necessary conversation is whispered. It’s been a hard week, and we’re tired. We’ve been through betrayal and suffering and death and absence; we’ve been here every night. We kept watch until it was all over.

The deacon lifts the candle out of the backyard grill that someone brought for the new fire. He holds it out and we crowd around, wanting our share, lighting our smaller candles, passing the flame around until everyone carries one, even children. Especially children. The deacon enters the shadowy church, holds the candle high, and sings.

The Light of Christ.

We sing back.

Thanks be to God.

He sings it again, then again, as he makes his way to the altar. We follow him, shuffling into our pews, quietly, quietly. The church looks foreign. It’s dark and so very clean. There are no flowers, no candles on the altar. The choir, deacon, and priest wear only black cassocks. No hangings, no incense, no sacrament in the ambry. The church is as bare as a rock-hewn tomb.

The deacon places the candle in its stand, and by its light he sings again.

Rejoice now, heavenly hosts and choirs of angels, and let your trumpets shout salvation, for the victory of our mighty King.

The first little tingle of anticipation sparks in our bellies.

This is the night when you brought our fathers, the children of Israel, out of bondage in Egypt, and led them through the Red Sea on dry land.

It’s a very ancient hymn, so it’s very long. We shift from foot to foot and take our children’s candles away before they hurt someone. But the words still move us there in the darkness.

This is the night when Christ broke the bonds of death and hell, and rose victorious from the grave.

The excitement tingles a little less subtly now, but we know we have a long way to go. We finally sit, and prepare ourselves to hear the Story. Reading, psalm, collect. Reading, psalm, collect. Reading, psalm, collect. They’re long readings, and the plainchant of the psalms is sometimes difficult. It’s hard to see our service booklets in the dim light. The children grow restless, so we take them out, then bring them back in, and still the Story goes on. It is our story, the story of how God gave us this night.

We have a baptism tonight. An adult, a middle-aged woman, is taking her place in the Story. This is not a Sunday morning baptism. This is no sprinkle on a baby’s forehead, with silver shells and dainty purificators. The font is as big as a trough, in fact it is a trough draped with white cloth, and she kneels in the water, soaking her clothes. Quietly the priest scoops up water into his big hands and pours it over her head. Then he pours oil over her, so that its fragrance fills the church. It runs down her cheeks and her neck.

The deacon and another helper assist her out of the font and pat her with big, soft towels. She’s by no means dry, but she’s no longer dripping. She turns to the priest, and we can see her tears in the candlelight. The priest robes her in white, then leads her to her place in the front row.

We are silent, tense, expectant. We can hardly breathe.

The priest and deacon kneel on the steps in front of the bare altar, and the priest begins the Litany of Saints, another ancient and long prayer. He starts slowly, chanting into the darkness.

Holy Mary…pray for us.

Members of the altar guild rise from their pews and enter the sacristy. We barely see what they are doing, we are chanting.

Saint John…pray for us.

Silently, flowers bloom in the darkness, golden candlesticks glow with the light of the Paschal flame. The altar is adorned with white. We don’t really see this, it’s dark, and we are chanting.

Saint Mary Magdalene…pray for us.

The rhythm picks up, faster and faster, until there’s barely time to say pray for us before the next saint is invoked. Anticipation is building. There is a rumble beneath our feet, it’s so low we almost can’t hear it. The earth seems to be shaking. Slowly it builds, coming out of the organ and up through the floor, up through our bodies and out of our mouths as we nearly shout, pray for us pray for us pray for us.

The earthquake crescendos and the priest leaps to his feet on the last breathless note. As he rises, so does the light, and we gasp at its presence.

“Alleluia! Christ is risen!”

The priest shouts it….we’ve been building to this moment all week, all year, all eternity.

“The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!”

He shouts it again, his fists raised in triumph.

“Alleluia! Christ is risen!”

“The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!”

The glory of it all rolls out of him and over us. He proclaims it again, his voice breaking with joy, challenging us to match him.

“Alleluia! Christ is risen!”
“The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!”

He shouts again and again, and we answer again and again. His hands are raised, his face is flushed. Many of us are crying. Our voices are going hoarse.

“Alleluia! Christ is risen!”
“The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!”

Finally, the organ picks up the cry, swelling from under the priest’s voice, until we are all singing out at the top of our lungs, “He is risen, he is risen, tell it out with joyful voice!”

The priest and deacon leave, and return a moment later in vestments of gold-on-white. The deacon lights the incense and we are soon breathing in what we’re singing about. The newly baptized woman is being hugged by everyone in the church as we all continue to sing. Every sense is alive.

“Death is conquered, we are free! Christ has won the victory!”

The priest stands in front of the altar, framed by candles, surrounded by an overflow of flowers. Lilies and azaleas, gold and silk.

Some of us are still crying, hugging, humming. We can hardly sit still, we can hardly be quiet. It is Easter, and Christ is risen.