Experiencing Holy Week through New Eyes

Celebrating Easter week with a new family I belong to through the fresh eyes of preschoolers and teens and an incredible wealth of friends and conversations

I’d never really done Holy Week before. Holy Week was never really a whole “week,” per se. It was pretty much just Palm Sunday and Easter, with a bit of contemplation on Good Friday and an otherwise pretty normal week. But Holy Week in the Anglican church is a bit more holistic. A bit more all-consuming, purposefully so, in a way I never understood before last week.

I’ve attended an Anglican church a few years now, the local one in Wheaton, Rez. But I was the introvert that slipped in the back, hoped for a good sermon, dreaded passing the peace, and left just as quickly. Honestly, the Holy Week stuff intimidated me. I purposely skipped Palm Sunday because I saw pictures of palms and singing outside and that was weird and a little scary. Rumors of an all-night vigil seemed silly. Just the 10am Easter service for me, thanks.

Some of my friends and coworkers at Rez would plan for Holy Week for weeks in advance. They always scheduled a day or two day off afterward, exhausted from everything. And I didn’t get it. How could one week be worth so much work? As a layperson I assumed they were doing all that work for, I wished they’d just chill, practice music a little less, skip a couple decorations, just have a lovely less-exhausted Easter. It was okay with me, really.

Fast forward a few years and I’m at City of Light Anglican in Aurora, a Rez church plant. And with my first City Holy Week looming a few weeks ago, I told my small group about my confusion and apprehension. I just didn’t get it.

Turns out, I was right. I really didn’t get it. My friend told me I was way off. I just needed to do it. Do all of it. And then I’d get it.

So I did.

It started with Maundy Thursday. I never even knew there was a Maundy Thursday service until a week ago. Heck, I never even remember what that word means (turns out: commandment). My church joined Rez for a joint Maundy Thursday service, which meant returning “home” to a church that never really felt like home to me.

But it was different this time. As I parked, a couple friends pulled up next to me, and another drove past and waved. People I knew! I went in and was greeted with smiles as always, but some of these smiles and waves actually knew me and were excited to see me! There was a little section for my City friends so we could all sit together. For once, I didn’t slink quietly into the back. I found my friends and settled in comfortably.

I found my family. What a weird, wonderful concept. Those were my people. My people. I belonged to them. When they mentioned us at the start of service, we all cheered goofily.

What a wonderful feeling — belonging.

In the Anglican tradition, Maundy Thursday service features feet washing. I’d never done that before. All service long, I kept looking at my friends around me, doing the math. The husband and wife on my right would surely pair up to wash one another’s feet. To my left was another husband and wife. In front of me were a bunch of my Sunday School kids. I’d be happy to wash all of their feet, but what if kids didn’t go up? What if I was actually still alone, even surrounded by all these friends and family?

The time came. I took my shoes and socks off and began to move to the aisle. The pastor said you didn’t have to, but I was doing all of Holy Week, and they said you could just get paired with one of the helpers at the front if you didn’t have a partner. “No big deal,” I tried to convince myself… “That’ll be fine.” I neared the front of the line.

“Brandon!”

I turned back to the voice behind me. My friend.

Did I have a partner? Could he wash my feet?

And so he did. I don’t remember much about the actual foot washing. The water was chilly. It happened quickly.

But I remember how it felt to be included. To be looked out for, always.

The next morning was Good Friday. Our church would be having two services, a lunchtime Stations of the Cross and an evening Good Friday service. I told them to count me in for the whole day and put me to work. Turns out that was 13 hours (and I got there late).

It was really lovely being part of all the preparations. The setting up, the taking down, cleaning, then setting up again. Serving one another. Driving all over town to pick up boxes and benches. Heavy lifting at times, setting up the food, hanging with the kids when I needed a break. Exhausting. And wonderful.

I’d never heard of Stations of the Cross. There were 14 cross stations around our church, and we walked quietly to each spot and heard a bit of the Passion story, from Jesus being condemned to death up to his burial in the tomb. Growing up in the church is a privilege I often take for granted. It also means that stories like Easter resurrection are too easily mundane since I’ve heard them my whole life. We always talk about finding something fresh and new.

On Good Friday, I found that through the eyes of two preschoolers.

At each station, our group of 30 or so walked quietly to the next cross and waited to hear the reading. At the first cross, I heard a little 4-year-old whisper to her father, “Daddy, can I touch it?” She moved in toward the cross, then put her hand on it and just stood there for a moment, then sat down at the base and listened to the reading. When it was done, she put a little check mark in her liturgy book on that page. Done! Next station. Each time we got to a new station, it was the same thing. The same little moment of wonder. Each time, she quietly walked up to the cross and gently touched it. Fourteen times, she experienced the cross.

Later that day, I had a chance to experience the cross. During Good Friday service, the cross is taken down from its display and carried slowly around the room, then laid at the front so people can come to the cross to pray. I was one of three cross bearers. After hearing the story of Jesus struggling to carry his own cross then dying upon it, I got to carry that cross myself.

When we laid the cross at the front, the pastor invited people to come forward a few at a time to spend time at the cross praying, to sit or kneel next to it, to touch it, to be present. I’d read in the bulletin that families were to go first since it was well past kiddos’ bedtime, so I sat back and waited my turn.

As a few moved forward, I noticed the littlest one of the family next to me start toward the aisle, another preschooler. I watched as his parents seemed to share my instincts — stop this little guy from going up on his own, lest he get in the way of a solemn moment for the others. I saw his dad reach out, then withdraw his hands, saw his mom half get up then sit back down. They both craned their necks as they watched him slowly walk up to the front.

And then he reached the cross, sat down quietly next to it, put his hands on the cross, and just sat there. He sat there while the others sat too, touching the cross, praying together. He didn’t distract or ruin anything.

He experienced the cross.

Later, I took my turn. Again, something new. I walked up, sat down by the cross, placed my hands on it, and waited expectantly for the emotion of it all to hit me. Instead, I felt nothing. I felt quiet.

In my head, I panicked a little bit. I’m a pretty emotional guy; where was my emotion? I tried to run through the Passion story, to drum up some emotional response. What was the thing that happened again after Palm Sunday? What were those words that Jesus said at the trial, on the cross? I couldn’t remember any of it. My mind was blank. I could only remember three words:

“It is finished.”

Right, but that was the end of the story! I flipped through the Rolodex in my brain, frantically searching for the rest of the story, but I could conjure nothing else. Just quiet, empty stillness.

“It is finished” echoed again through my mind. And then: “My grace is sufficient for you.” Just those two things, then quiet peace as the music played softly in the background.

It is finished.

It’s done. The cross happened. Jesus died. He died, and it’s over, and that’s enough. It’s enough for me. It is finished.

Saturday was my break before Easter after a few long Holy Week days. I scheduled a couple meals with friends but was looking forward to a long afternoon nap and an early evening.

Oops.

Lunch was with an old friend from Wheaton, a tradition started accidentally eight years ago, one she faithfully keeps alive year after year. Good Friday lunch with a pair of Andersons who don’t have much in common other than a surname and a faith. Dinner was with a new friend from church: guys’ night out at a sports bar, wings and nachos and Final Four basketball.

A couple simple meals turned into eight hours of friendship and conversation. Eight hours of talking about church and Easter and work and personal lives and real struggles and aspirations. Eight hours about life. And a little Thai and basketball in between. No nap in sight.

I returned home late in the evening, but my night was just beginning. I’d heard for years about the infamous all-night Easter vigil at Rez. I didn’t know much about it but I’d committed myself to all things Holy Week, so all things it was. My friend was preaching at the 10pm hour, and a church family told me I needed to stay for the midnight youth hour.

And there I joined a sanctuary of people young and old, many with pillows and blankets and backpacks full of snacks, ready to stay up all night waiting for the good news of Jesus’ resurrection to come at sunrise. There we sat deep into the night hearing from God’s word, worshiping together as a choir, praying, listening, waiting.

I didn’t stay all night, but I did stay through the youth hour. Youth hours, it turned out. For around a hundred minutes well past the stroke of midnight, the Rez and City youth led a sanctuary in teaching and worship and prayer. At the conclusion, they invited people to come to the altar to pray and be prayed for, and there must have been over a hundred that came forward, almost all of them teens. And they stayed there for 20, 30 minutes, kneeling at the altar, praying together, singing out for revival.

The family I sat with was just three youth friends, parents understandably too tired for the whole vigil, but the teens wanted to come so they took the train out and stayed almost ten hours. Another youth friend stayed all night, just her, before returning to our morning service to read Scripture on Easter.

The thought of that! It’s 1:30am on a weekend night and not only are these teens not out drinking and partying, instead they’re calling out together to God to make a fork in the road decision, to push for revival. They were still on the stage praying and singing when I called it a night and returned home, exhausted. How’s that for a lasting image?

And so, finally, Easter. Wonderful, exhausted Easter. There was the holy noise at the beginning, ringing bells and waving ribbons, clapping and shouting, celebrating our Risen King. There was Sunday school with fishermen “Pete and Little John” retelling the story of Jesus’ death and resurrection, with repeated interruptions from a couple adorable preschoolers that he’s NOT still dead and he DID it for us so WE could go to heaven and they SAW it in the movies!! There was more singing and celebration.

And ohhh, there was dancing.

I knew about the dancing. It was my very favorite part of Rez. Near the end of the Easter service, after all the long Holy Week days and nights, after the Easter sermon and after communion, they always released the kiddos to 15 minutes of jubilant singing and dancing and running and shouting. Fifteen minutes they wait all year for, to dance and act like exuberant children right there with everyone in church. Fifteen minutes of joyous celebration.

This year, as a Sunday school teacher, I got to dance, too. In any other scenario, in any other place, on any other day, that would sound terrifying. But on this occasion, it was the only right response, an outburst of Easter energy and celebration after a Holy Week roller coaster ride that was exhausting in all the right ways.

After service, there were snacks and conversations and more take-down and clean-up, an exhausted, satisfied feeling of a job well done. Then a surprise pancake lunch invite with more new church family and friends, and great conversation all hours of the afternoon. Then Easter dinner with an old roommate’s family and friends, and more conversation deep into the night.

There’s more to say about all of it. There are more friends to mention, more meaningful conversations. More little glimpses of Jesus amidst a busy week and an exhausting month. More Jesus for everyone.

There were more personal moments, too. And there will be more thinking and processing in the days and weeks to come.

I never did get that afternoon nap, no introvert getaways. I traded them Friday, then Saturday, then Sunday again for more conversations and laughter and time with church friends. More time with a church family I belong to.

There will be time to nap tomorrow.

And I better rest up.

Holy Week is only 51 weeks away.

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