Any self-respecting churchgoer knows Easter Sunday is basically the Beyoncé of Sundays. Ushers in formation, hats on hats on hats, and Church Mothers wishing a nigga would sit in their pew; it’s a big deal, and rightfully so. Jesus was dead, chilled for a second, said hell nah, Xmen’d a stone, waved bye to his haters and rose again sans any CGI effects. Who does that? Well, besides Morgan Freeman, who at this moment is the true and living God.
Considering the aforementioned, coupled with Black people’s innate ability to be extra as ish, it’s only right that we celebrate Jesus’ ultimate Whodini move with praise in the form of bedazzled, dry-heaving preachers and little girls shrouded in more ruffles than Prince’s closet.
So for all you believers, saved and unsaved, who will venture into the House of the Lordt this coming Sunday morn, here are a few things to keep in mind during worship service. (Friendly reminder No. 1: The building fund is a pyramid scheme dipped in communion juice and loose change. Remember last Easter when you tithed an extra $10 to contribute to a new refrigerator for the Mother Ruth Jenkins Fellowship Hall? Well the fridge is still in layaway and Mother Ruth is actually a code name for the First Lady’s prayer cloth collection).
The First Lady will stunt.
This is her sanctuary and she did not come to play with you hoes. Any First Lady worth her fascinator knows this is the day the Lord has made to do the entire most. Don’t not acknowledge her fabulousness, don’t try to restrain her praise (because she will stand for the majority of the service simply to notice you noticing her), and don’t you dare sit in her pew. But for real, don’t even think about the sheer awesomeness of sitting in her pew. Stanning over this coveted seat, and heaven forbid you have the audacity to actually sit your self down in her spot, is basically the equivalent of telling a Black mother what you’re not finna’ do and thinking you’ll live to tell the story. Bottom line, there’s just some things you don’t do.
Despite what it looks like, Steve Harvey is not in attendance.
Considering the droves of comforter/sheet-set inspired, six button suits in the sanctuary, it’s easy to think otherwise but don’t let the lingering breeze left by deacon’s pants fool you. This is prime operating time for that one guy who sells suits in the parking lot of the barbershop and please believe your Uncle Titus is not his only client. Then there are the colors. From ROY to BIV, no pantone is left unbothered. There’s Skittles Green, Grape Jelly Belly Purple, Laffy Taffy Blue and my lifelong favorite, Peach Faygo Pink.
The choir is going to do the absolute most.
If your choir doesn’t hit the Dougie, Bankhead Bounce, Cupid Shuffle and stick a double pike half twist, all on the downbeat, they didn’t try. The step and sway is cute for a first Sunday, but this is when it’s perfectly normal and universally expected for the senior choir to Milly Rock down the aisle during the processional. Also know that the choir is going to sing any and every hymnal containing the word “blood,” and will likely put the sexually ambiguous members of the tenor section front and center due to their unique ability to shout on cue.
Lastly, beware of that one praise and worship leader you can’t stand who swears she’s the second coming of gospel Beyoncé. You see, she will actually be over the music ministry for the day and because of that, has intentionally paired her pink tutu with mid top Converse and her favorite Eleven60 work blazer. You’ve been warned.