I met Evans the Barista at an airport Starbucks. I was standing in a long line. It was early. I needed caffeine. But this Starbucks played James Brown, and Evans danced and sang as he worked. “I’m sorry, people, I’m sorry,” he cheerfully shouted to the growing coffee-thirsty crowd. “But I just love this song! I love it! I’ve just got to sing and dance!”
Evans smoothly coordinated pouring our dark brews, mixing our caramel macchiatos and whipping our cappuccinos into his dance choreography. He greeted the customer in front of me, Alec, so warmly that, having not yet caught on, I thought they were old friends. “Hey, Alec,” Evans said. “Great to see you, man. I’m going to take care of you today. Don’t you worry. I got you covered.” Alec, who looked tired and grumpy, smiled when Evans handed him his iced coffee with cream.
When the cashier took my order, she wrote my name on the cup before handing it to Evans — his point of entry.
“Hey, Teri! How are you doing, Teri? Are you having a good day?”
How could the answer be “no” in the face of such exuberance?
Evans’ effect on customers dazzled me. He broke down our stoic, “I’m-in-public” inhibitions, allowing us to show a little joy, turn to our neighbor to share an appreciative laugh or help with the dribbly pot of creamer. Evans single-handedly transformed Starbucks into a community of shared joy and kindness. He was beyond happy.
In a 1914 letter to Ilse Erdmann, the poet Rainer Maria Rilke meditates on the difference between happiness and joy. Happiness, Rilke writes, is a more superficial state, one that both engages and worries us because we know this feeling as fleeting. Happiness comes and goes, often tied to our circumstances in a moment. Joy, on the other hand, is a “marvelous increasing,” according to Rilke, a “pure addition” that has the power to change and transform. Joy is “timeless from the beginning, not to be held but also not to be truly lost again, since under its impact our being is changed.”
Joy changes us.
On Easter, the joy of Christ’s resurrection transforms the despair of his death on the cross. The women who first encounter the empty tomb are forever changed by this good news and are told to go and share the joy. Easter Sunday, then, should be LOUD. JOYFULLY LOUD. Like James Brown playing loudly in Starbucks loud. Greeting strangers in the airport like reuniting with long-lost friends loud. The kind of loud you can’t make by yourself, with the organ cranking and the trumpets blaring and the people raucously belting, “Christ the Lord is risen today! Al-le-lu-ia!” Easter joy is meant to be contagious, uncontained, shared and spread as a “marvelous increasing.” Easter joy should lead us to turn to our neighbor, no longer a stranger, to say, “Hey, Alec. Great to see you, man. I’m going to take care of you today. Don’t you worry. I got you covered.”
Once I left the Starbucks, Evans’ effect on me didn’t stop. I smiled at strangers on my way to the airport gate. I offered a napkin to a man who spilled his coffee. I wasn’t irritated when a woman in the restroom jumped in front of me to use the clean sink I wanted. Even amid final boarding calls, beeping club cars and news-shouting TV screens, I felt more outgoing, positive and caring. The whole experience felt like church, when church is a place where community is created, and people are joyfully transformed into new and better versions of themselves — together.
I pray this Easter and every Easter might be such a joyful, transformative experience for us, for our community and for our world.
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