Staying with Jesus in Holy Week

Dear All Souls,

In all our talk of Jesus being our friend, I want to admit something honestly: I do not often stop to ask what kind of friend Jesus might be asking me to be. What kind of friend he might need.

It is easy, and not wrong, to speak of the comfort of his friendship. To speak of his nearness, his care, his faithfulness to us. But somewhere along the way, I have begun to sense that this is only part of the invitation. That there is another question, quieter and perhaps more demanding: not only is Jesus my friend, but what kind of friend is he asking me to be for him?

Last year, during Holy Week, I found myself in the early days of grief. A dear friend of mine—my age—had died only a few weeks before. I spent significant time with him toward the end, and in those final days, there was very little to fix, very little to solve. What remained was presence. Sitting. Waiting. Being there.

I did not realize it at the time, but that experience was already beginning to reshape how I understood this most holy week.

Because Holy Week is not simply something we observe. It is something we are drawn into.

The Church has always understood these days not as a series of disconnected services, but as one long liturgy—from Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday. A single movement. A single story. A single invitation. And at the heart of it is this: to be present with Christ.

Christ who is present among us when we gather.
Christ who gives himself to us at the Table.
Christ who suffers, who is abandoned, who dies.
Christ who is hidden.
Christ who returns.

Again and again, across these days, there is a quiet refrain: Stay with me. Watch with me. Remain with me.

Of course, we must say this carefully. God does not need anything from us. God is not lacking. And yet, in the mystery of the Gospel, Jesus does not hesitate to draw his disciples close and say, “Watch with me.” He calls them not servants, but friends. Not those who simply carry out tasks, but those who share in his life.

And friendship, at its heart, is not about usefulness. It is about presence.

Holy Week becomes something different when we begin to see it this way. Not primarily as a time to understand more, or even to feel more, but as a time to be with him. To remain with him when we do not fully understand. To stay when there is nothing to fix. To wait in the dark. To recognize him when he comes again.

Palm Sunday invites us to stay with him even when we misunderstand him.
Maundy Thursday invites us to receive his love, not earn it.
Good Friday invites us to remain when all we can offer is our presence.
The Easter Vigil invites us to trust him in the dark.
Easter Sunday invites us to recognize him—and to become a place where others can encounter him.

This is not something we accomplish. It is something we practice, together.

So I want to invite you, as simply as I can, to give yourself to these days. To come as you are. To bring your whole self including your questions, your fatigue, your grief, your hope and to place your body within this story.

Not to get it right. Not to have the perfect experience.

But to be present.

Because somewhere in the midst of it, often quietly and without spectacle, we begin to discover that he has been present to us all along.

And perhaps, slowly, we begin to learn what it means to be the kind of friend he is asking for.

Peace and all goodness to you this Thursday,
Bliss +