No One Arrives Empty: A Holy Week Pilgrimage of Spirit and Care

 

Every year during Holy Week, I try to take time where I slow down and root myself in reflection, presence, and the physicality of ritual. I think of it as a chance to step inside the story, not just in my head, but in my body. Over the years, I’ve come to treat this week as something that asks for my full attention, both spiritually and emotionally. I don’t just observe it from a distance; I move through it with intention. Part of that means showing up in a lot of different communities: Orthodox, Catholic, Episcopal, Protestant, and interfaith spaces, letting each tradition speak to something different in me. I love the way liturgy and ritual language can open up new layers of meaning, especially when I experience the same story through many lenses. Holy Week, for me, is not about doctrine or belief alone. It is about the feeling of incense in your lungs, the sound of wooden pews shifting, and the silence after a bell.

I’ve been doing this kind of Holy Week pilgrimage for many years now. Before I went back to school, I was a practicing ceremonial magician, and during that time, I found myself drawn to ritual in all its forms. I would attend as many services and traditions as I could fit into one week—Orthodox, Catholic, Protestant, and everything in between. It wasn’t about belonging to any one tradition. It was about witnessing the beauty of sacred space and language across different cultures. I loved sitting in unfamiliar sanctuaries, hearing old stories told in new ways, and feeling the rhythm of prayers I didn’t always understand. There was something deeply moving about seeing how many different ways people try to reach toward the divine. For me, it wasn’t about evaluating which version was right. It was about being immersed in the texture of devotion. That curiosity is still with me.

When I went back to school, my practices shifted. I leaned more heavily into personal ritual, especially through an occult and esoteric lens. I still went to Palm Sunday and Easter Mass most years, but the week became less about external observation and more about inner work. At the same time, I was also involved in activism, and Holy Week took on another layer. It became a time of protest, of marching and mourning and showing up for justice. The themes of death, betrayal, and resurrection felt incredibly close to the work I was doing in the streets. Some years, I would spend Good Friday at a church in the morning and then at a rally or vigil in the afternoon. Those experiences blended together. The sacred and the political were never separate. Holy Week became a mirror for both personal transformation and collective grief.

When I was called to UU ministry, I felt pulled toward this practice again. I find myself visiting churches and interfaith spaces throughout Holy Week, not just as a seeker but as a spiritual leader. It is a strange and humbling shift. I am no longer just taking in the rituals around me. I am also holding them alongside the services I am planning and leading within my own community. There is something really powerful about stepping into a sanctuary where I am not responsible for the liturgy and allowing myself to simply receive what is offered. It reminds me that I am still a participant in all of this, not just a guide. Being present in these spaces helps me reconnect with the deeper reasons why I do this work. It is a way of returning to the heart of ministry, not as performance, but as presence.

This year’s Holy Week journey was rich and layered, both spiritually and physically. I started on Palm Sunday with an early morning service at a nearby Episcopal church before heading to UUCE for our own gathering later that morning. On Monday, I visited a local Orthodox church for their morning prayers, which were deeply grounding in their rhythm and cadence. Tuesday became a quiet work day, a chance to rest and catch my breath. Wednesday’s morning Mass at a Catholic parish stirred something in me through the steady repetition of familiar prayers. On Maundy Thursday, I joined First Christian Church for a service that brought the intimacy and tension of the Last Supper into sharp focus. Each day held its own invitation, and I tried to meet them all with attention and care.

Then came Good Friday, and with it, an unexpected interruption. I pulled a muscle in my back, and though I managed to attend a noonday service at First Congregational Church, I had to let go of the other plans I had made for that day. What surprised me was not just the physical limitation, but the depth of disappointment I felt in myself. This journey through Holy Week is something I do purely for the joy of it, a way of tending to my spirit through shared ritual and varied traditions. And still, I carried this quiet self-judgment for not “doing it all.” It reminded me just how much I still need rest, not as something earned or postponed, but as a part of the sacred rhythm too. My body had been asking for care, and I’m learning to listen, even when it interrupts what I thought devotion should look like.

Leading UUCE’s Holy Saturday Climate Grief Lamentation service came near the end of a week that had already been spiritually rich and physically demanding. Each worship experience left its own impression on me, and by Saturday I was feeling the cumulative weight of it all. Planning the service with my fellow seminarians offered a needed shift. It was not just another task but a chance to be in intentional community. We began with a shared understanding that this week holds deep significance, not only in the Christian calendar but also in the context of climate grief and collective sorrow. We wanted to create space for lament without rushing toward comfort or resolution. Each of us brought something different to the table: structure, theology, poetry, and grounding presence. What emerged was not simply liturgy but a shared act of holding grief with care.

Being among my seminarian comrades helped me remember the importance of self care and the strength of showing up in community. I had been pushing myself to do more, to attend every service, to carry every emotion, and to stay fully present without pause. But ministry cannot be sustained through constant output. It requires moments of rest, moments of letting others help carry the weight. Planning with my peers allowed me to exhale, to feel supported, and to remember that I am not doing this work alone. The UUCE congregation reflected that same spirit of care, showing up for a service rooted in quiet reflection and shared vulnerability. Holy Week did not end there, but that day reminded me that tending to my own well-being is part of faithful ministry too.

By the time Easter Sunday arrived, I was carrying a deep kind of tiredness, one that had settled into my body and spirit. I had pulled a muscle in my back on Good Friday, which slowed me down more than I expected. While I had planned a more elaborate Easter for myself, I found I did not have the energy to do everything I had envisioned. Instead, I returned to the same Episcopal church where I had begun the week on Palm Sunday. There was something grounding about that decision. It felt honest to begin and end the week in the same space, with the same liturgy, even the same hymns. Later that morning, I joined the UUCE community for our own Easter service, where I preached about Mary. I brought with me the palms I had received the previous Sunday and used them in our sanctuary as part of the ritual. It felt important to carry something physical and continuous through the arc of the week.

Preaching about Mary helped me stay rooted in the emotions I had been holding throughout Holy Week. I wanted to speak about her not as a distant figure or symbol, but as a real person who stayed close to suffering and did not look away. She reminded me that resurrection does not always arrive with trumpets. Sometimes it looks like endurance. Sometimes it is found in memory, presence, and refusal to turn from pain. I spoke of Mary as a mother, a witness, and a truth-teller, someone who carried hope without needing to force joy. It gave me a way to stay connected to both grief and grounded hope at the same time. The symmetry of the day—hearing the same hymns with different meanings, carrying the same palms—offered a kind of quiet blessing I had not planned. It was not the Easter I imagined, but it was the one I needed.

This Holy Week has been heavy in more ways than I can easily name. Politically, the news has been full of violence, loss, and decisions that feel both cruel and overwhelming. Personally, I have been holding grief and exhaustion, and wrestling with more questions than answers. Moving through so many services, while also preparing to lead my own, left me feeling full and hollow at the same time. Each time I entered a new sanctuary, I did not arrive with a blank slate. I came in carrying everything I had already seen and felt. That grief was quiet but constant, tucked into my muscles and breath. I let it guide how I prayed, how I listened, and how I allowed myself to be held by ritual. On Holy Saturday, I felt that grief rise most clearly to the surface. It was in the stillness of the service, in the water we poured, in the words we chose carefully, and in what we left unsaid.

Planning and leading that Holy Saturday service with my fellow seminarians reminded me how essential it is to stay connected to self compassion and collective care. Being in that group, surrounded by others who were also tired and also deeply committed, brought me back to myself. It reminded me that I do not have to carry everything alone. At UUCE, I felt that same care reflected back to me in the way the community showed up, open and willing to be present with whatever the day held. I return to this rhythm each year not because I want something new, but because it helps me remember what matters. Ritual, especially in hard times, gives me something to hold onto. It teaches me to stay in my body, to stay in the story, and to keep choosing presence over perfection. The work of ministry is not just in what we offer others, but also in how we learn to care for ourselves along the way.