Hidan polished his pike.
After every ritual, (and there were several per day) Hidan polished his pike. It was a tedious, time-consuming task, but the scriptures demanded that a consecrated weapon be kept clean and presentable, sharp and ready for use at all times. If it wasn't for that, he would have given up on this stupid routine years ago. But what were Jashinism's rituals, if not his routine? He hardly liked them, but there they were, and they filled his life. Boring, pointless, painful, mindlessly repetitive things, eating up all his time, daily stealing away most opportunities to do anything but worship.
But in some way, they were satisfying, these little acts of devotion. If Hidan could claim no other virtue, he was a devout man, a loyal man, one who would never forsake the god who had never forsaken him.
And so Hidan cleaned and polished and sharpened, humming hymns and occasionally breaking into low bouts of swearing as some damned heathen's blood refused to wipe off. He was Jashin-sama's weapon, the sword He reached for with His strong right hand. He was the most enlightened and exalted of all His followers, and if he was to be His most perfect weapon, then he needed to have perfect weapons, too.