04/03/2026
I grew up in Morton, Mississippi, in a Baptist church that took its faith seriously. Good people. Real faith. I am grateful for every bit of it.
But we did not celebrate Holy Week.
Christmas Sunday and Easter Sunday, yes. Those were on the calendar. Everything else, though? Well, the prevailing attitude in that tradition was that liturgical seasons were, to put it bluntly, popish fluff. Leftovers from Rome that serious Protestants had rightly left behind. Ash Wednesday? For Catholics. Palm Sunday? A little theatrical, don’t you think? Good Friday? We know Jesus rose, so why dwell on the cross?
And the Lord’s Supper. Once a year. One time. A single occasion in twelve months to receive bread and cup.
I did not know to question any of this. It was just how church worked.
Somewhere in my early-twenties, I started attending a Presbyterian congregation because they gave me a choir scholarship. I did not go there looking for liturgy. I was not on some quest for ancient spiritual practices. I just showed up, and what I found was a church that moved through time differently than I was used to.
They had a printed bulletin, which I recognized. But the bulletin referenced something called the Season of Advent. Then Epiphany. Then came Lent, stretching across weeks, with a particular texture to the worship that I could not quite name at first. Then Holy Week arrived, and it was like watching a story I had always known get told out loud for the first time.
Palm Sunday. Maundy Thursday. Good Friday. Holy Saturday. Easter Sunday.
Five days. One story. The whole arc of what happened in Jerusalem before the resurrection, spread across an entire week so you could actually feel the movement of it.
I remember sitting in a Good Friday service that first year and being genuinely unsettled. The lights dimmed. The sanctuary grew quiet. A single candle was extinguished. The service ended without a benediction, because the story was not over yet. You just walked out into the dark and waited.
I had never done that before. Never waited for Easter. I had always just arrived at Easter fully informed, knowing how it ended, skipping the grief and the silence and the not-knowing.
That Good Friday service cracked something open in me that has not closed since.
(Read the full reflection at the link in the comments below.)