You know what’s great about the church?

[Everybody hear that? It sounds a little like cricket song. It’s actually the sound of many people clicking quickly away from this page, because there’s no way there’s anything great about the church, and even if there were, they’re not interested in hearing it. Hey, it’s cool. Stop in again sometime.]

Anyway, what’s great about the church is the way that the church acknowledges and marks the passage of time.

I’m struck by how many people, years out of school, still speak in terms of semesters. I think as human beings we crave a rhythm to the year?–

The brisk excitement of fall–a new school year, football games, packing as much as possible into the diminishing daylight.

The holidays–humanity pressing in on you everywhere you go, warm beverages, catchy jingles, spiraling down to the shortest, darkest day of the year, giving way to the endless plodding of winter.

The bursting of “just-Spring, when the world is mud-luscious”, emerging into late spring, sweaty graduation days and bittersweet goodbyes.

And finally, the barefoot days–sand and surf, picnics, the hum of oscillating fans.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

The liturgical year provides a rhythm that syncopates nicely with the rhythm of the seasons and complements our secular semesters, and more importantly, invites us into a life of authentic spiritual work.

Advent is the four weeks leading up to Christmas. It is the pregnant time, the waiting time, the could-be-who-knows-something-great-is-coming time, the time to prepare a space for peace to dwell.

Epiphany follows Christmas and centers around the story of the magi’s journey to the Christ child. The darkness is still present, but a light has shined amidst the gloom, and in the dark and cold of the days, we check our compasses by the light, we huddle around the light, we bask hopefully in the light, and we see the light flicker ever brighter.

Lent is six long weeks and begins with a smearing of ashes on the forehead, our mortality an unsightly and embarrassing display. Lent is the march toward Jerusalem and the dreaded wondering, will new life ever spring forth? And when it does, will we even recognize it, will we cleave to it? The ice is melting and the naked earth lays open and exposed. There is nowhere to hide, and the most heartbreaking drama is still to come.

Holy Week. Fidelity veers sharply into betrayal. Shouts of joy at the arrival of the king turn into shouts for execution. And the week passes slowly.

Easter is a sigh of relief and a jangling bell and a spent chrysalis and a shocking bloom of color on the landscape and a hearty chorus you can’t help but stand to hear and of course a gaping empty tomb and an incomprehensible hope that death is not the end.

Pentecost is the celebration of the birth of the church. It is not a season but a day, a single brilliant flare of energy and Spirit.

The church fills in the cracks between these seasons with (yes it’s really called) Ordinary Time. While the world clamors for novelty and excitement, Ordinary Time stands stubborn and resolute: Just be.

The liturgical seasons provide intentional times and places for preparation, dedication, reflection, confession, self-examination, celebration. It is hard labor, and yet this work strengthens us and inspires us to proclaim in our living that there is something deep and good in the world.