I am a vicar. Like many people in my role, this week became blurry at about Tuesday, by this morning (I think it's Thursday) I'm working out what I need to do before the next thing and I'm not entirely sure of where I am.

The organised among you may well roll your eyes at this point and say, 'Well you knew it was coming' – and you would be right. But knowing something is about to happen and getting ready for it are different things.

It was in this spirit of 'What's next?' that I found myself in a strange supermarket yesterday – looking for a cheap source of chocolate eggs. I walked in, immediately realising that this may be more of a challenge than I thought. Right by the door, I spotted my promised land of cheap eggs, but they were supplied by a company who would like to privatise global water supplies. I walked away, and went deeper into the store. I avoided the temptation to buy a cheap caravan cover (I don't own a caravan) or some nice pots for the garden, and homed in on the chocolate section (via a cheeky six-pack of hot cross buns).

I eschewed the bunnies (I'm too squeamish to cope with a child chewing the head off something forever associated in my mind with Watership Down). I found the most ethically acceptable (and cheap) eggs and tottered to the tills. I placed all the items on the conveyor belt, mentally working out how to restack them and get them to the car without getting caught up in the ignominy of having to buy a single-use plastic bag.

The cashier was sympathetic: 'Must be a busy time for you – when does it all get going?'

'Oh we're part way there, only nine services left until Sunday – these are for an Easter Egg hunt.'

I don't know whether that was a boast, or even quite where the figure came from because it's either 11 or it's five, plus one I will just go to. The detail at this point (as well as then) passed me by. Whatever it was, it elicited a look of surprise from across the conveyor belt, as the lady queuing at the next till looked vaguely horrified.

I bade my farewells (with just a smile as by now I had stacked the assembled seasonal goodies in a way that any Crackerjack contestant would have been proud of). As I got back into the car, I found myself pondering on what all of this means for our Easter celebrations.

As I looked around that shop, Easter was all bunnies and chicks, eggs and chocolate. There is a temptation to rush there, to get to the bit with the nice food and a bank holiday trip out.

In my local supermarket, it all looks a bit different. Before the Easter 'seasonal items' you walk past a big stack of matzos, wine and herbs, and a sign in Hebrew wishing us a 'Happy Passover'. It is the only place in the shop that acknowledges the death before the new life.

I find it moving and disturbing in equal measure.

All through this week I have been deeply moved as I have watched people turn out at lunchtimes and evenings to enter into a journey that takes in the whole of Holy Week. We have reflected on the anger of Jesus at those who would become rich from the faithful worship offered by the poor. We have identified with Judas' betrayal and tonight we will lay bare our buildings as a sign of Jesus being left all alone. We have met with God through Taizé chants, through solemn readings and we will meet with God again through silent walks and dark vigils.

The Church of England does this well. In parishes around the country there will be a huge variety of ways in which we enter into Jesus's passion. But we do it unseen. It's not just the lady in the shop who looks askance at what happens in Holy Week; many of our non-liturgical spiritual siblings barely pause in their programmes, or in fact cancel for the bank holiday. And even those who compile the central statistics of the Church of England only want to hear about who comes to our Resurrection services (Easter Sunday and the first service of Easter the night before).

While I understand that it is hard to make a dataset out of the very varied pattern of Holy Week services, this tiny example makes me wonder if we, as an institution, have gone the supermarket route. Yes, death is not the end, but if we only count the celebration of new life then have we really embraced our faith at all? For at the heart of the Christian story is that new life only comes through death.

Running in the background for many Anglican clergy and lay people this week is the damning evidence against our institution that was presented at the Independent Inquiry into Child Sexual Abuse last week.

We, as an institution, have sinned egregiously.

We are faced with a challenge of, 'What next?'

On a local level, efforts are made every day and in every activity to keep people safe. For many faithful people working with children and vulnerable adults, what has happened in our institution feels like a betrayal. And it is the innocent who have borne the brunt of this sin, carrying life-long scars.

I confess, I still fear that on an institutional level this is not seen. I fear that we may take the supermarket approach, trying to dash to Resurrection day without walking the whole journey. I fear that we will move on too lightly.

This Easter my prayer for the Church of England is that our structures will somehow remember the whole story. I pray that we will count and honour those whose walk with the church is a walk that has led to suffering. I pray that we will hear them.

I pray that we will take the rebuke of those who have set out to do justice, that we will not self-righteously seek to defend ourselves, but will let them write what they have written.

I pray that we, as an institution, will remember that we are asked to die to self, and that we will willingly lay down what remains of our earthly power and institutional privilege.

I pray that we will remember the Passover, in which the blood of the lamb was protection for the child.

On Sunday morning I will get up early and rejoice that because Christ is Risen everything can change. But I will get there through Holy Week, Good Friday and the silence of Saturday. 

Rev Jude Smith is the team rector of Moor Allerton and Shadwell in North Leeds. Follow her on Twitter @gingervicar