Holy Week
- The Welcome Table
- 22 hours ago
- 4 min read
Dear friends,
This year, we won’t gather in person for Holy Week. But the invitation to walk with Jesus—from the table to the tomb—remains.
Below is a simple, meaningful guide you can follow at home, alone or with others. You won’t need much—just a bit of quiet, a way to read or listen, something to eat and drink (to celebrate Communion), a candle if you have it, and a heart ready to linger in the “in between.”
You can go through all three parts at once or spread them out over several days. Do what feels right.
At the Table – The Last Supper
Light a candle. Mark this as sacred time.
Read this invitation:
On the night before everything changed, Jesus gathered with his friends. He broke bread. He shared a cup. He reminded them that love would carry them through.
This table is for all of us—the weary, the doubtful, the hopeful, the hurting. No matter who you are or what you carry, you are welcome here.
Read Luke 22:14–20.
Celebrate Communion.
Use what you have on hand.
As you pass or take the bread and cup, say:
“The bread of life.”
“The cup of salvation.”
(Optional - Listen to this song while you eat)
Reflect or journal on one of these questions:
How does Jesus define power?
What “in between” space are you in right now?
Who else might need to know they’re welcome at the table?
At the Cross – The Crucifixion
Dim the lights or close your eyes. Sit in quiet for a minute or two.
Read Luke 23:26–27, 32–43.
Read these two reflections from the story:
Simon of Cyrene
Of course they chose me to carry a criminal’s cross. Because of my dark skin and foreign clothes, the soldiers mark me as a man no one will stick up for—at least not against Roman spears.
I’m not surprised by the crowd’s silence, but it still stings. No matter how many years I make my Passover pilgrimage to this land, they’ll never see me as fully one of them. Wherever I go, I’m a man torn in two: not Cyrenian enough for my homeland; not Jewish enough for Jerusalem.
And now, I’m not even human enough for the Romans, who look at me and see nothing but a body they can force into service.
Halfway up the hill, I’m not sure I’m going to make it. Is the beam getting heavier as it digs into my shoulder? But the soldiers’ whips and spears warn me what will happen if I stumble or stop.
For just a moment, the criminal whose cross I carry turns around and meets my gaze. There’s compassion in his eyes, as if he’s sorry for my pain—mine!—when we both know the agony he is about to go through!
Just when I think my legs will give out, the criminal pauses, forcing the soldiers to stop too. At last, a moment of rest. He’s stopped in front of a throng of crying women. What is he saying?… “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me.” He is comforting them, too!
Suddenly, I’m not so ashamed to shoulder a cross for this man, whom the poor and powerless love so well. A poor, battered, exhausted soul, just steps away from death—and yet, he radiates compassion. And yet, he is loved.
Truly that is power, beyond Rome’s wildest imagination.
The Criminal on the Cross
Paradise. That’s what my companion and I are guilty of: intent to bring paradise to our poor, oppressed people, no matter the cost.
That’s not how Rome sees it, of course; they charged us with robbery and sedition.
We’d heard Jesus was back in town, that he’d ridden in like a king of old in challenge to Pilate’s grand parade—and we’d thought he must be here to kick off a rebellion. After all his preaching about the nearness of God’s kingdom, and calling himself son of God in defiance to Caesar … what could he possibly be promising but revolution?
And how does revolution come about, if not with swords? So we ambushed soldiers to seize their weapons. Clearly, it didn’t go as planned. Clearly, Jesus never meant to lead an insurrection after all.
So here we are, about to die with him anyway, and I get why my companion feels betrayed, why he mocks the man we’d pinned our hopes on.
Still, I can’t bring myself to hate Jesus. All the way through my arrest, my trial, my struggle up this hill, I’ve been pondering…
Could Jesus know a different path to paradise? A way to hold yourself somewhere between violence and passivity as you fight for justice? A kind of revolution that refuses to use the Empire’s weapons and instead creates its own tools for dismantling oppression?
I shouldn’t have any hope left: not while hanging here between life and death, with no riot, no liberation, no second chance for me. The Messiah we thought would overturn Rome is slowly suffocating to death beside me.
Things are hopeless—and yet, absurdly, I hope.
Today I head for paradise.
Tomorrow others will take up the work for a better world—
until God’s kingdom comes to earth at last.
Listen and meditate
Pray this meditation
Jesus, When we side with you, we side with all who threaten the status quo. But when we refuse to see others’ struggles as our own, we abandon our kin to carry their crosses alone. Give us courage. Give us grace... Amen
Make noise. Then hold silence.
Stomp your feet. Pat your chest. Cry out, if needed.
Then, be still. Breathe. Let grief settle.
At the Tomb – The In-Between
Read Luke 23:50–56.
Read this closing blessing.
Even in death, love abides. Even in silence, God is near. Even in grief, the story is not over. Go now in silence, to rest. To wait. To trust that resurrection will come.
End in silence. Blow out the candle. Or leave it lit a little longer as a sign of hope.
May this Holy Week draw you deeper into the mystery of God’s love
— especially in the places between.