Some Easters are triumphant.
Some are reflective.
This one was… slapstick.
The world is in crisis, the news is a doom‑scroll obstacle course, and my nervous system has been held together with dental floss and iced coffee. So I didn’t need a sermon about victory or triumph or “joy comes in the morning.” I needed a sermon about how to keep going when everything feels like a group project where half the team dropped the class and the other half is emailing you at 2 AM.
I didn’t hear that sermon from the pulpit.
I heard it in the choir loft.
The Gauntlet: Easter Edition
I woke up overwhelmed — the kind of overwhelmed where even putting on socks feels like a multi‑step quest in a fantasy RPG. But I did the rituals: shower, steam, caffeine, existential dread, more caffeine.
Getting to church felt like crossing the finish line of a marathon I didn’t sign up for. But I made it. And the moment I walked in, something shifted.
Warm‑up started.
People smiled at me.
People were happy I was there.
Paul, the choirmaster, told me I sounded great — which is basically like being handed a Grammy by someone who does not hand out compliments recreationally.
That alone could’ve been my Easter.
But no. The universe had more planned.
Britten’s “O Deus Ego Amo Te,” or: The Soprano Trapdoor Incident
We sang Britten.
On Easter.
Which is rude.
Specifically, we sang O Deus Ego Amo Te, a piece that masquerades as a gentle devotional prayer until it suddenly demands a two‑octave drop from high A to the A below the staff.
This is not a melodic leap.
This is not a descent.
This is not a contour.
This is Britten pulling a lever and dropping the sopranos through a trapdoor.
Let’s be clear:
- High A is soprano territory: bright, ringing, angelic, “I am the light of the world.”
- A below the staff is… not. It is the basement. It is the emotional crawlspace. It is the note where sopranos go to question their life choices.
No one lands it the same way.
Every choir sounds like a bag of marbles being poured down a staircase at that moment.
And honestly?
It was hilarious.
There is something deeply healing about 20 people collectively thinking:
“Oh God, here it comes — GOOD LUCK EVERYONE.”
That’s community.
The Berran, the Composer, and the Surreal Joy of Not Being Alone
We sang the Berran Ubi Caritas with Jake in the room, which felt like performing your favorite song with the artist standing three feet away pretending to check their phone. Surreal. Beautiful. Slightly terrifying.
But mostly?
It was joy.
Real joy.
Not the polite, pastel kind.
The kind that sneaks up on you and reminds you that you’re still alive.
The Sermon I Actually Needed
The sermon I needed wasn’t about resurrection as a doctrinal claim.
It was about resurrection as a muscle memory.
It was this:
- Singing with friends after too long
- Being wanted in a room I wasn’t sure I still belonged in
- Laughing at the absurdity of Britten’s soprano trapdoor
- Feeling my voice disappear into harmony and realizing that was the point
- Remembering that joy is not frivolous — it’s fuel
The world is still on fire.
But for a few hours, I wasn’t carrying it alone.
After the Alleluias
When the service ended, I felt lighter.
Not because anything outside changed — it didn’t.
But because something inside did.
I remembered what it feels like to be part of a sound bigger than myself.
I remembered what it feels like to be wanted.
I remembered what it feels like to laugh in the middle of something sacred.
A part of me that had died has come back to life.
And honestly?
That’s enough resurrection for one day.
Scored with Copilot. Conducted by Leslie Lanagan.
Stories That Are All True 