Liturgical year
Based on Wikipedia: Liturgical year
Time Itself Becomes Sacred
Here's something remarkable about the way Christians have organized the calendar for nearly two thousand years: every single week tells a different part of the same story. Not just Christmas and Easter, but every Sunday, every feast day, every quiet Tuesday in Ordinary Time—all of it arranged like movements in a symphony, building toward crescendos and settling into contemplative passages.
The liturgical year is essentially a narrative device stretched across twelve months. It takes the life of Jesus, the stories of saints, the great themes of salvation, and distributes them through time so that believers don't just read about these things—they inhabit them. You don't merely remember that Christ was born; you wait for him during Advent. You don't just acknowledge the resurrection; you trudge through the darkness of Lent to get there.
This is why walking into different churches throughout the year feels different. The colors change—purple for penitence, white for celebration, green for the long stretches of growth between the major seasons. The scripture readings shift. The hymns transform. Even the mood in the room varies, from the hushed anticipation of Advent to the explosive joy of Easter morning.
Before Christianity: The Jewish Roots
To understand the Christian liturgical calendar, you have to understand what came before it. The Jewish calendar—which Jesus himself followed—was already deeply liturgical, marking time not just by agricultural seasons but by the rhythm of divine encounters.
The oldest Jewish calendar was tied to agriculture. The first month was called Aviv, which simply means "green ears of grain." It had to fall in springtime, when the barley was ripening. Later, after the Jewish exile in Babylon—that catastrophic period in the sixth century before Christ when the Babylonians destroyed Jerusalem and deported its people—the Jews adopted Babylonian names for their months. Nisan replaced Aviv. The other months got Babylonian names too: Iyar, Sivan, Tammuz, all the way through to Adar.
But the real structure came from the feasts.
Passover, celebrated on the fourteenth of Nisan, commemorated the exodus from Egypt—that founding story of liberation when the angel of death "passed over" the homes of the Israelites. Seven days of unleavened bread followed, a reminder of how quickly the Israelites had to flee, with no time to let their bread rise.
Fifty days later came Shavuot, the Feast of Weeks, celebrating the wheat harvest and later associated with the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai. This is where Christians would eventually get Pentecost—the word literally means "fiftieth."
In autumn, the mood shifted. Rosh Hashanah, the Feast of Trumpets, began the Jewish new year with solemn trumpet blasts. Ten days of repentance followed, culminating in Yom Kippur—the Day of Atonement, the most sacred day in the Jewish calendar, when the high priest entered the Holy of Holies and the whole community fasted and prayed for forgiveness.
Then came Sukkot, the Feast of Tabernacles, when families built temporary shelters to remember the forty years their ancestors wandered in the wilderness. Later additions included Hanukkah, commemorating the rededication of the Temple after the Maccabean revolt in 164 BCE, and Purim, celebrating the deliverance of the Jews as told in the Book of Esther.
The early Christians, most of whom were Jewish, didn't abandon this rhythm. They transformed it.
The Western Calendar: From Advent to Ordinary Time
In Western Christianity—meaning the Catholic Church and most Protestant denominations—the liturgical year begins not on January first but on the first Sunday of Advent, typically falling in late November or early December. This might seem counterintuitive. Why start the year in near-darkness, four weeks before Christmas?
Because the story being told starts with waiting.
Advent—from the Latin word meaning "coming"—is a season of anticipation. Traditionally, it has a double focus: preparing for Christmas, yes, but also contemplating Christ's promised return at the end of time. The mood is restrained. The color is purple, signifying penitence and preparation. Many churches strip away the Gloria and other joyful elements from their worship. You're meant to feel the ache of longing.
Then Christmas arrives—not as a single day but as a season, running from December 25th through the Feast of the Epiphany on January 6th. The word "epiphany" means manifestation or revelation. Epiphany commemorates the visit of the Magi, those mysterious wise men from the East who followed a star to find the infant Jesus. In the Western church, it marks the moment when Christ was revealed to the Gentiles—to the wider world beyond Judaism.
After Epiphany comes Ordinary Time—but don't let the name fool you. "Ordinary" here comes from the word "ordinal," meaning numbered. It's simply the counted weeks between the major seasons. The color is green, suggesting growth and life.
But this first stretch of Ordinary Time is short, because Lent is coming.
Lent: Forty Days in the Wilderness
Lent begins on Ash Wednesday, when many Christians receive a cross of ashes on their foreheads and hear the words: "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." It's a stark beginning to a stark season.
The forty days of Lent—not counting Sundays, which are always feast days even within Lent—mirror the forty days Jesus spent fasting in the wilderness before beginning his public ministry. The number forty echoes throughout scripture: the forty days of Noah's flood, the forty years the Israelites wandered in the desert, the forty days Moses spent on Mount Sinai receiving the law.
Traditionally, Lent is marked by fasting, prayer, and almsgiving. The purple returns. The alleluias disappear from worship, sometimes quite literally—some churches conduct a ceremony of "burying" the alleluia at the start of Lent, only to dig it up triumphantly at Easter. The mood becomes reflective, even somber.
The final week of Lent is Holy Week, beginning with Palm Sunday, when Jesus entered Jerusalem to cheering crowds waving palm branches—the same crowds who would call for his execution five days later. Holy Thursday commemorates the Last Supper. Good Friday marks the crucifixion. Holy Saturday is the silent day, when Christ lay in the tomb.
And then: Easter.
The Feast of Feasts
Easter is not a day. It's a season—fifty days running from the resurrection to Pentecost. And in the ancient church, this was always considered the central celebration, more important even than Christmas. The Eastern Orthodox still call it Pascha—derived from Passover—and refer to it as "the Feast of Feasts and the Triumph of Triumphs."
The color is white or gold. The alleluias return with a vengeance. The mood is unrestrained joy.
Forty days into the Easter season comes the Ascension, when Christ returned to heaven. Ten days after that comes Pentecost, when the Holy Spirit descended on the apostles as tongues of fire, empowering them to preach in languages they'd never learned. This is often called the birthday of the Church.
After Pentecost, the longest stretch of Ordinary Time begins, running through the summer and fall until Advent arrives again. The green vestments return. The scripture readings work through the gospels week by week. It's a time of growth, of deepening, of the slow work of becoming.
The East Syriac Calendar: A Different Architecture
But this Western pattern isn't the only way Christians have organized time. The East Syriac churches—including the Chaldean Catholic Church and the Syro-Malabar Church of India—follow a dramatically different calendar that dates back to the earliest centuries of Christianity.
Where the Western calendar divides the year into seasons of varying length, the East Syriac calendar is almost mathematically elegant: eight seasons of roughly seven weeks each, adjusted to fit the solar year. Each season focuses on a central event in what they call "salvation history"—the grand narrative of God's interaction with humanity.
One of the oldest descriptions of this calendar comes from a handwritten manuscript from the fourteenth century by a scholar named Rabban Brick-Iso. The document is called the "Preface to Hudra"—the Hudra being the great liturgical book of the East Syriac churches—and it lays out the seasons as a journey through time toward what Christians call the eschaton, the final fulfillment of all things.
The journey begins with Subara, the Weeks of Annunciation. This season starts in late November, like Western Advent, but its focus is different. It commemorates the entire sweep of Old Testament expectation—all those centuries of prophecy and longing that preceded Christ's birth. The faithful practice what they call the "25 Days Lent," abstaining from certain foods throughout December in preparation for Christmas.
After the Nativity comes Denha, the Weeks of Epiphany. The word denha is Syriac for "sunrise," and the season focuses on the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan River—the moment when, according to the gospels, a voice from heaven declared "This is my beloved Son," and the Holy Spirit descended like a dove. The East Syriac tradition sees this as the first public revelation of the Trinity: Father, Son, and Spirit all present at once.
Each Friday in Denha is dedicated to a different group of saints: John the Baptist, then Peter and Paul, then the evangelists who wrote the gospels, then Stephen the first martyr, then the Church Fathers, then the patron saint of the local church, and finally all the faithful departed.
The Great Fast: Deeper Than Western Lent
The East Syriac Lent, called the Weeks of Great Fast, is more demanding than its Western counterpart. It begins on what's called Peturta Sunday—the word means "looking back" or "reconciliation"—and the preceding Friday is devoted to remembering the dead. Death and resurrection are linked from the very start.
The fasting is comprehensive. Traditionally, the faithful abstain from meat, fish, eggs, and most dairy products—not just on certain days, but throughout the entire period, including Sundays and feast days. Before European colonization brought different cultural practices to India, the Nasrani Christians (the ancient Thomas Christians of the Malabar Coast) ate only one meal a day during Lent, and that meal came after three in the afternoon. Even marital relations were suspended.
This isn't punishment. It's training. The idea is to weaken the body's demands so the spirit can grow stronger—to create space for prayer and contemplation by removing the constant hum of appetite.
Qyamta: The Season of Resurrection
Then comes Qyamta—the Weeks of Great Resurrection. Like the Western Easter season, it runs fifty days from Easter to Pentecost. But the emphasis is slightly different. The first week is called the "Week of Weeks," and it celebrates not just that Christ rose, but what his rising means: victory over death, over sin, over suffering, over Satan himself.
The subsequent Fridays commemorate the post-resurrection appearances of Jesus—his visits to the apostles, his breakfast on the beach with Peter, his encounter with Thomas who doubted. The second Sunday is called "New Sunday" or "Saint Thomas Sunday," remembering the moment when Thomas touched Christ's wounds and cried out, "My Lord and my God!"
Summer and Harvest: The Church Matures
After Pentecost, the East Syriac calendar enters Slihe—the Weeks of Apostles. This season meditates on the birth and early growth of the Church: the fellowship of believers, the breaking of bread, the sharing of possessions, the spread of the gospel to new lands. The first Friday is called the "Friday of Gold," commemorating the first miracle performed by the apostles—when Peter and John healed a lame beggar at the Temple gate, saying "Silver and gold have I none, but what I have I give you."
Then comes Qaita—the Weeks of Summer. The Syriac word literally means summer, but the theological meaning is harvest. The Church has sprouted and grown; now it's producing fruit. And what fruit? Holiness and martyrdom. The Fridays of Qaita are dedicated to saints and martyrs—those who lived the faith so completely that they were willing to die for it.
Toward the End: Eliyah, Sliba, and Moses
The strangest-named seasons come next: Eliyah-Sliba-Moses. These names come from the Transfiguration, that mysterious gospel episode when Jesus climbed a mountain with three disciples and was suddenly transformed before them, his clothes becoming dazzling white, his face shining like the sun. Moses and Elijah—representing the Law and the Prophets—appeared and spoke with him.
Sliba means "cross" in Syriac, and the pivot point of these seasons is the Feast of the Glorious Cross on September 14th—a celebration of the cross not as an instrument of torture but as the means of salvation.
The season of Moses, which follows, takes a darker turn. Its theme is the end of time and the last judgment. Where the earlier seasons celebrated beginnings and growth and harvest, Moses contemplates endings. It's a sober few weeks.
The Dedication: Where Time Meets Eternity
Finally comes Qudas Edta—the Weeks of the Dedication of the Church. This is the last season of the East Syriac year, running about four weeks before the cycle begins again with Subara.
The theme is eschatological—a theological term meaning "concerned with the end times." The Church, having journeyed through Christ's life and the apostles' ministry and the harvest of saints, is now presented by Christ as his eternal bride before the Father. The earthly church becomes a sign pointing toward the heavenly one.
This season has roots both in the Jewish Feast of Hanukkah (the Feast of Dedication, when the Temple was rededicated after being desecrated) and in a seventh-century reform by Patriarch Isho-Yahb III, who separated it from the season of Moses to give it proper emphasis.
The Eastern Orthodox Difference
Meanwhile, the Eastern Orthodox churches—Greek, Russian, Serbian, and many others—follow yet another pattern. Their new year begins on September 1st, not in Advent. They call it the Indiction, a term borrowed from Roman tax cycles.
Like the East Syriac and Western churches, the Orthodox organize time around the great feasts, with Pascha at the center. They maintain twelve "Great Feasts" alongside Easter, and their fasting practices are extensive—the Orthodox observe more fast days per year than feast days, with Wednesday and Friday fasts throughout the year in addition to the major fasting seasons.
But the fundamental insight is the same across all these traditions: time itself can be sanctified. The year can become a journey. Every week can carry meaning.
The Lectionary: What Gets Read When
One of the most practical effects of the liturgical year is the lectionary—the schedule of scripture readings assigned to each day or week. If you've ever wondered why churches read particular Bible passages on particular Sundays, the answer is the lectionary.
For centuries, Western churches—Catholic, Anglican, Lutheran—followed roughly the same pattern, with assigned readings for every Sunday and major feast day. After the Second Vatican Council in the 1960s, the Catholic Church revised its lectionary substantially, adopting a three-year cycle for Sunday readings (labeled Years A, B, and C) and a two-year cycle for weekday readings. This meant that over three years, Catholics would hear vastly more scripture read aloud in church than under the old one-year system.
Protestant churches, seeing the wisdom of this approach, adapted the revised Catholic lectionary for their own use, eventually producing the Revised Common Lectionary in 1994. This ecumenical lectionary is now used by Methodists, Presbyterians, Lutherans, Anglicans, and many other denominations. On any given Sunday, millions of Christians across different traditions are hearing the same scripture passages.
There's something beautiful about that. A Lutheran in Minnesota and a Methodist in Mississippi and a Catholic in Madrid, all reading the same story of the Good Samaritan on the same Sunday morning. The liturgical year creates a kind of unity across space as well as through time.
Colors as Communication
The colors associated with each season aren't arbitrary decoration. They're a kind of visual language, communicating the mood of the season to anyone who walks through the door.
Purple (or sometimes blue) signals preparation and penitence—Advent and Lent, times of waiting and repentance. White and gold mark celebration—Christmas, Easter, feast days of Christ and the saints. Red appears on Pentecost (tongues of fire) and on the feasts of martyrs (blood). Green, the color of growth, fills the long stretches of Ordinary Time.
These colors show up in vestments—the robes worn by clergy—and in paraments, the cloths that drape altars and pulpits. Some churches change everything: banners, altar frontals, stoles, chasubles. Others are more restrained. But the principle is the same: the space itself should reflect the story being told.
Why This Matters
You might wonder why any of this matters, especially if you're approaching it from outside the tradition. What difference does it make whether churches follow a liturgical calendar or not?
The answer has something to do with how human beings experience time.
Without structure, time can feel like an undifferentiated blur—one week flowing into the next, one year indistinguishable from the last. The liturgical calendar imposes pattern onto this flux. It says: this week is different from last week. This season is for waiting; this season is for celebration; this season is for reflection.
It also roots abstract ideas in embodied practice. Repentance isn't just a concept you think about; it's forty days of fasting, of simpler meals, of foregoing things you enjoy. Joy isn't just an emotion you're supposed to feel; it's fifty days of alleluias, of white vestments, of music and feasting. The body learns what the mind might forget.
And there's something about the cyclical nature of it—the same seasons returning year after year, but you're different each time you encounter them. The Advent you experience at twenty is not the Advent you experience at fifty. The Lent you observe during a year of grief is not the Lent you observe during a year of abundance. The calendar stays the same, but you grow into it.
For the Exhausted Ones
All of this brings us back to something simple.
If you're tired—and who isn't, after the kind of years we've had—the liturgical calendar offers an alternative to generating meaning from scratch. You don't have to decide what to pray about or what to focus on or how to feel. The calendar has already done that work. You just have to show up.
Light a candle on Advent Sunday. Read the scripture passage assigned for that week. Notice the purple changing to white on Christmas morning. Let the ancient rhythm carry you for a while.
The exhausted don't need more decisions to make. They need a current to flow with. The liturgical year, in its patient way, provides one.