Wednesday of Holy Week.
I had the youth act out the passion narrative from the Gospel of Mark tonight. They seemed to enjoy the detail of the young man running away naked, and went for a little less than realism at that point (they also held back on the beatings and crucifixion.) One said, "Not the most cheerful story, Michelle," but that is the point of it, I suppose.
Spent all day fussing over the details of the bulletins for the rest of the week, and of the services. Changed my mind over the scripture to use for Sunday. It was suddenly clear that, much as I love the Gospel of Mark's version of the resurrection, John is called for this time. My sermon suddenly seems possible, if not riveting (I have a few days to get to riveting.)
After a full day and full night I slipped next door with my boys to put them to bed, reading a book about a man trying to trap and kill a beloved squirrel and another about the eating habits of sharks (am I worried about the violence of the passion narrative? Kids know this stuff) and then sang songs and had prayers. Then I went back next door where the sanctuary was all ablaze to go over the Tenebrae service details with Rich.
I walked in just as the brass was practicing "Christ the Lord is Risen Today." It's a few days early, really, I thought. But then the choir processed in, walking very carefully in their Wednesday night clothes. I sang along from the back of the sanctuary (who can resist?) Then Steve pulled out "The Hallelujah Chorus" and the sopranos waved me up so I joined them, standing behind the trumpets, straining to hit the A.
The moon is full, the night is almost warm, the air is fresh, and there is nothing like singing "The Hallelujah Chorus." It isn't Easter yet, but I can smell it.