I am told to arrive thirty minutes early because it gets crowded. I am old to wear comfortable shoes and dress classy but festive.

It is 11 pm and we are hoping to get a good spot in the church. I put my phone in Jenny’s cubby hole at St. Athanasius. It is Easter for those who practice the Greek Orthodox religion. Father Justin is pointed out to me, coming down the stairs, with a handful of papers in his hand. He reminds me of Robert Gipe in the face, and in his big, easy smile.

I am told the church will be unusually crowded. Everyone shows up for this event, even if they don’t come to regular Sunday services.

I am handed a small unlit beeswax candle upon entering. Jenny explains what she is about to do upon entering the nave, and invites to join, or refrain. I decide to join her. I prostrate twice. Jenny kisses the holy relic and the alter. I choose to kiss my fingers and lay them on the relic. There is some lingering pandemic-based fears in me.

Someone has been reciting the Acts since 7pm. They are nearly done. When the choir begins singing, the tone is somber. I am told, this is a funeral for Christ. The relic that I kissed with my fingers, is a splinter of the cross that Jesus Christ was crucified on.

The windows are cracked open and the cool night air drifts lazily through the crowd. The lights dim and leave us in nothing but candlelight from the alter and lamps from the choirs music stands. There are benches on the perimeter of the space but it is a standing room only. I start to feel it in my knees in back. I see mother’s and father’s holding their children through out the service and decide quietly, I have no right to complain.

There is activity behind the icon screen. I can see priests and alter boys. Father Justin emerges from the Beautiful Gates and carries incense. Alter boys carry golden fans and large candles. Father Justin picks up the relic and passes it to a bishop. They hold it high above their heads for all to see. Then the alter is carried above Father Justin’s head, as if Christ’s corpse is being carried through the crowds. They take the alter behind the icon screen and all the lights go out. Bells begin to ring. The singing changes tone. There is tension in air. Jenny leans in and whispers, “This is my favorite part.”

When Father Justin reemerges with a large wooden cross. The alter boy who follows him carries a single candle. Small beeswax candles are lit from it, and a fire light grows through out the room in seconds. The nave of the church is bright and we all file behind Father Justin and the choir to leave the church and go outside.

It is 1 am in Nicholasville, Ky. I am in a long procession circling the church. Jenny tries to get me a spot close to the choir, because she says the singing peters out at the end of the line. The bells being played are so loud, the alter boys wear ear muffs. Jenny tells me they get noise complaints every year. It is the most rock and roll thing I can think of.

The singing never stops. My candle is blown out by the wind but it is easy to find someone who still has a flame and the willingness to share it. Father Justin bangs on the front doors to the church with a large wood cross. When he forgets the words, he is assisted immediately and smiles spread on all of our faces. The singing only stops when he yells, “Christ has risen!”

The congregation yells back, “Indeed, he has risen.”

We enter back into the church and the choir has reinvented itself. It is upbeat and rhythmic. Those singing are smiling and laughing. It is an infectious joy.

They sing one song with a mounting volume and energy. They are singing it so fast, it sounds like a tongue twister. It goes:

Christ is risen from the dead,
trampling down death by death,
and on those in the tombs bestowing
life!

We aren’t done yet. I hear most verses and recitations in English, but some things I hear again in Romanian, Russian, Greek, Spanish, and even Mandarin Chinese, Swahili, French and Latin. The director of the choir raises a tuning fork, each time she begins to sing, to make sure she’s in the right key.

Children and infants are seemingly accustomed to both the late hour and the length of the service. I see children watching intently, and some in the floor with drawing material. Their parents are seemingly accustomed to both standing for three hours, and holding their infants for the entirety of the service.

My back and shoulders are feeling numb and my knees are stiff. When the congregation crosses their body and prostrates, it feels good in my spine to do so along with them. There is communion. I have already decided I would not take it. That might be too far for a gringo to go in this service. Jenny takes communion and grabs blessed bread for me to try. It is bland but pleasant.

By the end of the service, when father Justin yells, “Christ has risen,” I yell back, “Indeed, he has risen!” A gentleman approaches me and thanks me for coming.

He says, “Christ has risen.”

I respond, “Yes, Indeed.”

He corrects me. “It is, ‘Indeed, he has risen.”

He repeats, “Christ has risen.”

I say, “Indeed, he has risen.”

He gives me a thumbs up.

Jenny’s partner Houston, tells me there is debate on the exact translation. Houston prefers the response, “Veritably, Christ has risen.”

I stand in line with Jenny and Houston to kiss the relic again and collect our red egg. Jenny tells me, this symbolizes the cracking open of the tomb. It is a hard boiled egg that I may eat, but first it is customary to play a game. Jenny and I smash our eggs together and see who’s breaks first.

Mine breaks first.

It is 3 am and the congregation is heading to the basement of the church to eat food and drink wine that has been provided by members of the congregation. It is a multicultural pot luck. I am tempted but decide I have pushed my limit and will go home. I regret this in the morning.