Why I Love the Church Year (Even Lent)

A Liturgical Reflection for Ascensiontide

Do you have an emotional attachment to the Church year?

I certainly do. It’s probably why I could never be anything other than a liturgical Christian. Long before I understood the theology behind the Church calendar or consciously anticipated the arrival of feast days and fasts, I felt the pull of its seasons in my bones. And even before I had the vocabulary to articulate it, I knew the year by the Church’s annual cycle of birth, death, resurrection, and renewal.

After all, I spent my childhood as both an altar boy and the son of a bishop. That leaves its mark (as it were). Now, after almost 30 years as a priest, I navigate time not in fiscal quarters, sport seasons, or school terms, but by saints' days and festivals, penitential fasts and joyful alleluias. My mental calendar is mapped not with holidays and work deadlines but with liturgical signposts—Epiphany, Lent, Ascension, All Saints, and so on—as familiar to me as mountains and rivers depicted on a map of my home.

Not that this emotional attachment is always positive. Take Lent, for example. I confess that I always dread its arrival—not Ash Wednesday itself (which I love, oddly enough), but the day after, when the long, grey road stretches out ahead. Lent, for me, is something to be endured. That’s not just because of its penitential character (I’m not, by nature, a penitential sort) or my fast from much loved meat, but because it feels like an almost sadistic way to extend winter. No matter how bright the sun might shine, I can’t really welcome spring except with the “Khristos Anesti!” of Easter.

Still, the liturgical year brings far more joy than dread. Christmas and Easter are obvious highlights, even if I’m usually too worn out to enjoy them fully. Other days bring a more personal joy. All Saints' Day is one of them—solemn and celebratory in equal measure—a day when I can feel the “cloud of witnesses” drawing close. The beginning of Epiphany season has a distinct bouquet to it, like the difference between Côtes du Rhône and a Merlot. It’s not just another time of year; it has its own texture.

And then there are the feast days dedicated to Anglican worthies and pre-Reformation saints—familiar faces that return each year like old friends. I always feel a small pang when one is omitted because a feast of greater solemnity has taken precedence. These aren’t just names in a lectionary to me; they’re companions along the way.

Some days are meaningful not because of their theological importance, but because of the memories they carry. Most people pass by the Feast of St Alban without much thought. Not I. I served as curate and then rector at a church dedicated to him, and every 22nd of June, I would cook steaks for the congregation in the Maryland heat. It wasn’t quite the martyrs’ blood poured out, but it was our way of honouring his witness. A quarter century later, every St Alban’s Day, I can smell those steaks and recall the faces of the people in the first congregation I ever served. Many have since joined the cloud witnesses.

And then there’s hymnody. It redeems even Lent for me. I may struggle to maintain a proper fast, but the hymns hold me up. And Advent? Advent is all about the hymns, which I’ve come to prefer to most Christmas carols. I also can’t bring myself to follow the newer practice of dropping the collect for Advent Sunday after the first week. It feels wrong—like starting the day without coffee. Some things just need to be repeated. Indeed, I regret the loss of seasonal collects.

I mention all this because we’re now in a stretch of the Church year that I find more emotionally satisfying than any other: the closing weeks of Eastertide with their movement from Rogation Sunday (now sadly neglected), to Ascension Day (too often ignored), and on to Whitsunday with Trinity Sunday lurking on the liturgical horizon. This season hits all the right notes for me: theological depth, rich liturgical expression, good hymns, and a trove of personal memories. Even better, it’s a period the world leaves entirely to the Church, having utterly failed to commodify it.

Each of these feasts has a character all its own. Rogationtide invites us to remember the fruitfulness of the earth, to bless the land, and to pray for the world around us. Ascension Day marks the coronation of Christ—not his departure, but his enthronement. Whitsunday (or Pentecost, if you must) bursts with energy and colour, as we hear again that breathless account of the Spirit’s descent and the Church’s bold beginning.

These aren’t just theological mile markers. They’re days steeped in the sensory world of my ministry.

There’s the memory of planting apple trees—blessed during our Twelfth Night celebration—at my parish in North Carolina. There are the walks through English villages, blessing fields and symbolic landmarks during Rogationtide in north Oxfordshire. Year after year, I’ve organised spaghetti bolognaise dinners after the Ascension Day Eucharist—a quirky custom, I’ll admit, but it never fails to draw a crowd to an otherwise unappreciated holy day. I’ve grown oddly protective of Ascension Day; it feels like the liturgical calendar’s forgotten child left standing alone after Easter and Christmas have been invited to the party.

And then there’s Whitsunday, with its famously difficult reading from Acts. I impishly look forward to seeing how the reader handles the tongue-twisting names of ancient lands. I still chuckle at the memory of a dear parishioner who confidently read “Liberia” instead of “Libya.” (to be fair, it is in Africa.)

And of course, it doesn’t hurt that all of this unfolds in late spring (apologies to those Down Under), with creation itself blooming and singing. But my connection to the season goes deeper than sunshine and flowers. It’s not just that these feasts fall in springtime. It’s that, for me, they are springtime. I imagine baseball fans feel similarly about Opening Day. Whether I’m fully aware of it or not, I think I believe—on some pre-cognitive level—that spring is nature’s response to Easter, Rogation, Ascension, and Whitsunday.

Trinity Sunday, which follows Whitsunday, always feels like the true beginning of summer. I sense it instinctively, just as I know autumn has arrived not by the falling leaves, but by the Church’s commemoration of St Michael the Archangel.

This year, I wasn’t able to do anything for Rogation Sunday. Life and scheduling sometimes get in the way. But I did help organise another Ascension Day spaghetti dinner—another happy evening of worship, fellowship, and carbohydrates. And now I find myself looking ahead, once again, to Whitsunday, and to that delightful moment when the lector stands up to proclaim Acts 2. I should really check the rota to see who’s down for it.

There’s something beautiful about living life attuned to the Church calendar—not alone but in a church community. It’s not just a tool for marking time. It’s a way of sanctifying it. It helps us remember that all time is God’s time, that history and creation alike are swept up into the mystery of Christ. And for those of us who walk this path together year after year, it becomes more than a discipline. It becomes a way of feeling the world.

Even Lent.

Well, eventually.

---

Enjoyed this post? If you’d like to get more content like this straight to your inbox, hit that Subscribe button! It’s free, and it helps support my work. Thanks for reading!