The gospel narrative attributed to Matthew boldly begins by proclaiming Jesus as a newborn future king, attesting to an earthly and heavenly birthright. As would be the case, those already with regional and religious authority conspire together to confront this would-be threat to their reign. Even Satan makes an early appearance to thwart the Savior’s mission, offering up every earthly power possible.

While wise, foreign magi rejoice with great joy at the arrival of Jesus—who they clearly identify as a divinely destined king—others who have benefited from the preexisting power structures quickly respond to the newborn threat. The gospel narrative attributed to Matthew wastes no time in letting us know what forces Jesus will be up against. (Matthew 2:1-4:11) First, we are introduced to the regional authorities (namely Herod and his son Archelaus).

The birth of Jesus as told in the gospel attributed to Matthew focuses on a family fleeing a horribly oppressive political regime that is threatening to kill their newborn. Matthew’s murderous telling of events makes the birth narrative in Luke look merely pastoral—which is saying a lot since Luke’s version of events is also quite grim at times. (Matthew 1:18-2:23; Luke 1-2)

Only two of the four gospel narratives share stories of Jesus’ birth: Luke and Matthew. Each book gives us a decidedly different perspective on our Savior's birth. Many of us, knowing the stories so well, have come to overlay the two narratives together. In so doing, we have muddied the payload intended by each gospel when studied alone. Since this new Church Year is centered around the text from Matthew, I’d like to zoom in on that origin story regarding the Christ Child.

If we were to ask “what is the political agenda of the gospel” we might examine the gospel narrative attributed to Matthew. Indeed many squirm at the thought of the gospel having a political agenda. Those claiming a Christian identity might say the gospel is above politics, while those of a more secular-mind might say religion should be kept out of politics.

Our perspective of time, for the most part, is confined to our shared mortal experience of circling around the sun on this terrestrial ball. While reflecting on the Church Calendar and its seasons over the past year, I have thought about this occasionally. Our ability to understand the infinite is extremely limited. The concept of time—and thus by association the invention of the Church Year—helps us glimpse at the endless spectrum of eternity within the constraints of our human abilities.

The Church Year comes to a close with the final Sunday being dedicated to Christ the King. It is one of the newest holy days on the calendar, having been added after World War I as a way to remind us that the kingdoms of this world are temporal and that the only Kingdom we should pledge everlasting allegiance to is the one Eternal Kingdom—that of our Lord Jesus Christ, the King of the Universe.

My interest in the Church Calendar and its seasons started a bit by accident. From childhood through my college years, I attended evangelical and non-denominational churches which really only concerned themselves with select seasons of the Church Year (primarily around the Christmas and Easter holy days). When I started attending a Lutheran church, I just went along with the flow and didn’t think much about the seasons, until one day a church member asked me to help change the paraments on the altar after church.

If Martin Luther had never nailed (or mailed) his 95 Theses, it would have remained a personal journal entry at most. Action was required.

The aspiration to live biblically is often at the expense of living out biblical aspirations.

For nearly a year, I have been writing blog posts about the Church Calendar. It has been a mix of reflections on the seasons of the Church Year, ponderings on particularly special days, and more recently exhortations regarding church-life (during this long period of Ordinary Time). There are still a few church-life topics I’d like to touch on before the current year is over (end of November), and there are also a few final especially notable days to commemorate—this past week being one such date.

As far back as we can understand history, music has been a constant companion for humankind. Countless melodies, chants, hymns, and songs have provided hope, comfort, encouragement, and challenge to each generation. When it comes to worship experiences, it is often the form of worship that has the greatest “staying power”. Long after sermons, prayers, and spiritual meals have ended, we find that songs continue on repeat within us.

Our worship services need to revolve around the core understanding of the gospel, and should consistently celebrate and share this gospel plainly.

Much of society has come to celebrate the role of the individual. We love stories that revolve around the solo renegade, the superhero, the maverick, the main character. Meanwhile, the ideals of community and togetherness, while not necessarily destained, rarely receive the same spotlight treatment. Institutions like churches often struggle in this environment. That is, unless the institution pivots to a focus on an individual.

Throughout the year—both the Church Year and any other calendar year—there are many holidays that have been established over time. Some are truly holy days and others are celebratory in different ways. Some are personally or nationally relevant, and some are simply silly and fun. It is likely neither good nor bad to either partake or abstain from celebrating the great many holidays of the year.

As I have personally come to genuinely love the traditional Church Year and its seasons, I have also come to appreciate how it complements the natural seasons of the year. Of course, this observation has been from my Northern Hemisphere (Midwest, United States specially) perspective. I’d be very curious to learn more about how other parts of the world feel the Church Calendar fits (or doesn’t) alongside their annual weather patterns.

Let me begin this post with a bit of a personal confession: My last post was about a month ago and at that time I intended to take only one week off from writing this current blog series. I’d like to say that my unintended, more lengthy pause from writing was a needed rest period, however it was mostly due to summertime laziness.

The season of Ordinary Time has arrived. Nowadays though many liturgical cycles call this time of the Church Year “the time after Pentecost” since that sounds more lively and less, well, ordinary. My personal preference is for the old, boring phrase though, and let me explain why. First, the work that God is doing in our midst is often done in ordinary, inconspicuous acts.

Wedged between the festival season of the liturgical calendar and Ordinary Time is a Sunday devoted to the concept of the Holy Trinity. This day acts as a theological seam between the two halves of the Church Year. The Holy Trinity is the concept that God has been revealed to us in three distinct ways, yet as one unified God. There is God the Being, God the Begotten, and God the Spirit—often referred to as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

The midway point of the Church Calendar is marked with the holy day of Pentecost. On this day, Christians that honor liturgical traditions celebrate the receiving of the Holy Spirit. The most common story told on this day comes from the gospel writer Luke’s sequel: The Acts of the Apostles. The gospel text attributed to John also has a Holy Spirit story that seems to come before Luke’s in the timeline.

The season of Easter ends with a celebration of Jesus’ ascension. It’s another mountaintop moment of the Church Year and a fitting transition into Pentecost and the mindset that we should live with during the long stretch of Ordinary Time that lies ahead. The various gospel narratives all handle the last moments of Jesus’ earthly time differently. The journalistic writer, Luke, gives the most detail of the ascension event with Jesus finally taking off in Luke’s second book, Acts of the Apostles.

The liturgical three-year cycle of gospel readings centers on the synoptic gospel texts of Matthew, Mark, and Luke. Meanwhile, the gospel account attributed to the apostle John gets spread across all three years, with particular devotion designated annually during the seven-week season of Easter. Among the varying gospels, John is the most debated—from who really wrote it, to what is included and what is excluded, to when it was written, to whom it was written, and to the very point of the book overall.

The resurrection stories present quite a mysterious Jesus—familiar in so many ways to the Jesus we hear about before the crucifixion and yet often unrecognized by even the closest followers. In the gospel accounts, the resurrected Jesus is revealed by different means. To start, in the gospel of Mark we are simply told Jesus appeared in multiple forms, without really any further specifics provided.

One of my favorite “Easter eggs” of Eastertide is Good Shepherd Sunday. Nowadays often the fourth Sunday of Easter, this Christian sabbath day is all about the imagery of our Lord as a shepherd and we humans as the sheep. It is imagery that is rooted in the Old Testament scriptures (most famously, Psalm 23) and that Jesus returns to frequently in teachings.

Disbelief gets a hard rap, and sometimes for good measure. Jesus critiques the disbelief of the disciples quite often in the scriptures. However, the resurrection narratives found in the gospels remind us that not all disbelief is the same. After Jesus is buried in the tomb and all hope seems lost, the disciples are overwhelmed with fear. As they discover Jesus is (or might be) alive the feeling of fear does not immediately dissipate.