Don’t Pack Away the Hallelujah Yet

Easter morning looked a little different for me this year.

There were no sunrise services, no choirs robed in pastels, no dramatic “He is risen indeed!” echoing through stained-glass sanctuaries. Instead, I was tucked in bed, surrounded by mounds of tissues and blankets, battling The Crud and a melodramatic cough that made me sound like I was auditioning for La Bohème.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. As a composer of sacred music—someone whose two main seasons of work revolve around the birth of Christ and the Resurrection—you’d think I’d at least get to be there. But this Easter, I watched the livestream on my laptop, blowing my nose, and hoping the sound wouldn’t cut out during the good parts.

And yet, somewhere in the middle of missing it all… I didn’t.

Because the message of Easter—the Resurrection—isn’t confined to a single morning. It’s not dependent on a choir’s triumphant “Hallelujah” or how many lilies are stuffed into the sanctuary. It doesn’t even require us to feel well enough to get out of bed. Easter isn’t a day. It’s a reality we live in.

Which brings me to Eastertide.

I’ve been a church musician long enough to know the pattern. You blink after Easter and suddenly it’s Pentecost, or Graduation Sunday, or you’re knee-deep in VBS planning. Some church calendars linger in Eastertide. Others sprint past it like it’s the flat stretch between two hills. But I’d argue that for choir directors and musicians—those of us who have been steeped in Lenten rehearsals and Holy Week services—it’s especially important to sit in the afterglow of Resurrection for just a little longer.

Here’s why.

We’re so good at preparing for Easter. We’re less good at living in it.

Most of us began prepping for Easter sometime back in January. We programmed the anthems. We navigated Holy Week logistics. We crafted arcs of music that rose from the tension of Maundy Thursday to the somber quiet of Good Friday to the victorious release of Easter morning. We planned it. We rehearsed it. We sang it.

And now what?

If I’m honest, my tendency is to treat the Resurrection a bit like the credits of a movie. You reach the dramatic ending, the resolution hits, and the music swells—and then… the lights come up, and everyone grabs their coat and heads to lunch. But Easter isn’t the credits. It’s the launch point. It’s the “now what?” moment that flips the whole story.

Which means our role as musicians doesn’t stop with the final chord on Easter morning.

If anything, that’s when it starts.

Eastertide is the season of aftermath. And aftermath matters.

The Gospels don’t end at the empty tomb. There’s a garden conversation. There are locked rooms. There’s Thomas, still doubting. There’s breakfast by the sea. The risen Jesus doesn’t show up in dazzling thunderclaps—He appears in quiet moments, in the middle of everyday messes, and always with gentleness.

And that’s what Eastertide is about. The 50 days between Easter and Pentecost are not filler. They’re the slow, sacred unfolding of a new world. And as musicians, we are uniquely equipped to usher people into that unfolding.

Because Easter wasn’t just a one-time victory. It’s an ongoing invitation to walk in light and hope and purpose.

Even if our voices are hoarse and our folders are still cluttered with palm-frond anthems.

So what do we do with Eastertide?

I’m not saying you need to program Christ the Lord Is Risen Today every Sunday through May (though if you do, I’ll personally clap for you). But what if we, as choir directors and church musicians, intentionally carried the spirit of Easter into the rest of our spring?

• Choose repertoire that reflects resurrection themes—new life, hope, light in darkness, transformation.
• Let your choir know the Easter work wasn’t a climax—it was a beginning. Encourage them to sing with post-Easter vision, not pre-Easter pressure.

• Reframe your rehearsals. Remind your musicians that what we do now matters because we live on this side of the tomb. That joy, peace, and purpose aren’t just seasonal—they’re foundational.
• And most importantly – model the posture of resurrection. Even when we’re tired. Even when it’s allergy season. Even when we’re on week three of “Let’s try that one more time.”

This Easter, when I couldn’t sing, couldn’t conduct, and couldn’t even taste my food, I was reminded: Resurrection doesn’t require us to perform. It meets us in our weakness. It finds us in the quiet. It walks into our locked rooms, not to scold us for moving on too fast but to say, Peace be with you.

So maybe this year, even if your sanctuary is back to Ordinary Time and your choir is eyeing summer break, you can still keep Easter humming quietly beneath it all.

Because Resurrection isn’t a holiday. It’s the heartbeat of everything we do. And it’s worth lingering in—even if you have to do it from bed with a pile of Kleenex.