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One night in March, over twenty years ago, I slipped out of my dorm room, walked across the quad in silence, and snuck out the front door of our seminary. My heart was pounding with nervous excitement, though I had no real reason to be nervous. Still, it felt like I was doing something wrong—something forbidden—and I was glad to depart unnoticed.
As I walked through the streets of Cambridge toward Little Saint Mary’s Church, I considered how ridiculous the outing was. It was a little before four o’clock in the morning, but that night had been the time change, which meant my body felt like it was not even three. There I was, walking through the city in the darkest part of the night, thankful that none of my classmates had seen me, smiling uncontrollably at the thought of sneaking off to church.
Although the day had not broken yet, it was Easter morning. Liturgically speaking, it was still Easter Eve, but I was on my way to witness the mysterious and timeless transition from Lent to Easter—from death to life—as the church celebrated the joy of the resurrection with the Easter Vigil and the first Eucharist (they used the term “Mass”) of Easter. I had never been to an Easter Vigil before, and I was not sure what to expect.
I had grown up in the United Methodist Church, and, although one of our associate ministers thought it would be a good idea to have a “midnight mass” one Christmas Eve, I had never been to an Easter service in the dark. I became an Episcopalian in a decidedly low-church parish, where Morning Prayer was the normal offering on Sundays, and they would not have dreamt of holding a vigil.
The seminary I attended described itself as “open evangelical,” by which they meant classically evangelical yet open to other aspects of the Anglican tradition, including charismatic, broad church, and even catholic. Still, worship in the seminary was anything but high church, and I knew I knew better than to advertise my intention of attending the vigil in Cambridge’s truly Anglo-Catholic parish.
As someone preparing for ordination, I had read through the rite—the text of the service. I could see from the rubrics how everything was supposed to happen, but reading through the liturgy was as far away from experiencing the service as reading a textbook about childbirth is from standing in the delivery room. No amount of study could prepare me for what I encountered in the vigil.
When I arrived at the church, everything was dark—completely dark. I was handed a bulletin, though I could not understand why. I was not able to see the words on its pages. I literally groped my way into the church and down the aisle until I felt I had come to an empty pew and took my seat. Other than the sound of other people breathing, the room was silent.
I cannot recall exactly how the service started, but I remember being blinded when the light at the lectern was switched on for the first reading and then plunged back into blindness when the light was switched off again. On and off—light and dark—as each reading was solemnly proclaimed, the great story of salvation history took shape. We heard the story of creation, the story of the flood, the story of Abraham’s near-sacrifice of his son Isaac, and the story of Israel’s deliverance from slavery in Egypt. I cannot remember how many readings we heard, but there were lots, and, after each one, we sat in meditative silence, which was only interrupted by the startling illumination of the lectern lamp.
When it felt like the service was almost over, we got up and processed outside to the garden beside the church. There was more. In the garden, a fire was kindled. Prayers were said. Even though I still did not know what to expect, I could tell that something had shifted liturgically. After the flint had been used to start the fire, we stood and watched, waiting for the kindling to catch and the fire to reach full blaze. I felt caught up in the mesmerizing light, the smell of campfire beginning to envelop us. For a long while, we waited there in a silence that was only broken by the crackling of the wood. On that cold, damp, pre-dawn British morning, we were powerless to make that part of the service go any faster, and the length of the waiting did not seem to bother anyone.
Eventually, the Paschal candle was lit, inscribed with the Alpha and the Omega and the current year, and then adorned with five grains of incense. More prayers were said. Each person was then handed a candle, which was then lighted from the Paschal flame. Once all had received their share of the Easter light, we processed back into the church, not exactly sure which pew we had left a few minutes earlier. If I remember correctly, we heard more passages of scripture and responded to them with hymns and additional prayers.
Finally, the Deacon chanted the Exultet—the ancient sung prayer that praises God for the gift of the Paschal flame and for Christ’s victory over death, which the flame represents. Then, just as the Priest chanted the words of the Easter acclamation—the first time we had heard the word “alleluia” since Lent began—sunrise broke through the bottom of the east-facing window above the altar, and the full brilliance of the new morning began to shine on our faces as we celebrated the first moments of Easter. How they timed it so perfectly I do not know, but I knew that I had experienced something I would want to experience again.
The Church of England structures the Easter Vigil differently from us. We start by lighting the fire, and we hear the story of salvation by candlelight. At St. Paul’s, the service takes quite a while, but we do not spend too much time waiting in silence. We usually celebrate at least one baptism during the service, but in England they usually only renew their baptismal vows. Nevertheless, our experience of the vigil is a lot like that first one I encountered—overflowing with theological richness, more than I can process, layer after layer of mysterious experience, plenty of heightened spiritual emption, heart-quickening expectation, and joyful proclamation. There is nothing like it, and I hope you will join us this Saturday.
In my journey through multiple churches, St. Paul’s is the only one at which the Easter Vigil is a primary service of Easter. I helped bring the Easter Vigil to the previous two churches where I worked as a priest, but no amount of cajoling, pleading, encouraging, or hyping could convince more than fifty or sixty people to show up. Here, we usually have more than two hundred. Sure, for us, Sunday morning’s expression of Easter are also primary. All of our services will be full, but the privilege of worshipping with a congregation that knows the importance of the Easter Vigil is a joy that makes me want to race to church Saturday night to see how the service will unfold.
If you have never been to an Easter Vigil, come to ours this Saturday night at eight o’clock. I recommend showing up a little early to be sure that you can get a seat. And, yes, the church will be totally dark. Since we start only a few minutes after sunset, there is still a good bit of light coming though the church’s windows, but the effect of the glowing Paschal candle being processed down the aisle into a dark church that is full of people ready to receive the light and celebrate the joy of Easter is like nothing else I have experienced. I hope you will come and experience that with us this year.
Whether you are here in Fayetteville or travelling to see family, I hope you have a joyful Easter. Whether you prefer to celebrate the power of Jesus’ resurrection on Saturday night or Sunday morning, I trust your encounter with the risen Christ will be powerful. As we begin the Paschal Triduum tonight, may God sustain you during these three holy days and bring you to the light of Easter. When it comes, I will be glad to celebrate it with you.
Yours faithfully,
Evan D. Garner
