This is the first in a series meant to let the Christian tradition speak for itself, the way it has carried Christians through long winters, confusion, and joy for centuries.
Before anything else is said, the word itself must be named. Liturgy comes from the Greek λειτουργία (leitourgía) — a “public work,” a service carried out on behalf of the people. In the Church, it names not what we do for God, but what God does for us, publicly, openly, and faithfully, when he gathers his people around his gifts.
Long before there were hymnals or printed orders of service, there was a pattern that was not devised by human imagination, but given by Divine action.
The Church did not invent the liturgy in a back room, nor did she assemble it out of habit or nostalgia. She learned how to worship by watching what God does when he gathers his people. Long before there were hymnals or printed orders of service, there was a pattern that was not devised by human imagination, but given by Divine action.
When the Lord summoned Israel to himself at Sinai, he did not ask them to decide how worship should proceed. He spoke. He revealed his name. He exposed sin. He forgave. He fed. He blessed. And he sent his people on their way bearing what they had received (Ex. 19: 24). The same movement unfolds wherever God draws near. Ezra opens the Book, the people stand, the Word is read aloud, hearts are cut, tears fall, comfort is given, and the people depart strengthened (Nehemiah 8). Isaiah sees the Lord enthroned, cries out in confession, receives absolution from the altar, and is sent with the burning Word (Isaiah 6). On the road to Emmaus, Christ opens the Scriptures, breaks the bread, reveals himself, and sends his hearers back rejoicing (Luke 24).
Christians noticed this early. Writing in the second century, Justin Martyr simply describes believers gathering on the Lord’s Day, listening to the Scriptures read, praying, and receiving bread and wine, not as a novelty, but as something already settled, already received. The Church was not inventing worship; she was recognizing a gift.
This is what the liturgy remembers, not as distant history, but as living action. In Scripture, remembering is never mental recall. The Hebrew zākhar means to remember in a way that makes present. What God once did, he does again. The liturgy remembers because God works through remembrance.
The Church does not summon God. She stands where he has promised to be.
This is why the Divine Service begins where it does, with the Name: “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit” is not an opening sentence; it is an arrival. The Name spoken over the waters of baptism is spoken again over the baptized. In Greek, ónoma is never merely a label; it carries presence and authority. Christ promises that where his name is placed, he himself is present (Matt. 28:19; Matt. 18:20). The Church does not summon God. She stands where he has promised to be.
And whenever God draws near, the truth follows. Light reveals what darkness hides. St. Peter falls at Jesus’ knees: “Depart from me, for I am a sinful man” (Luke 5:8). Isaiah cries, “Woe is me” (Isa. 6:5). The Church answers in the same way. Confession is not introspection; it is honest speech before a holy God. But confession is never the final word. Christ breathes forgiveness on his Church and gives her authority to speak it aloud (John 20:21–23). The absolution does not describe mercy; it delivers it. The Greek aphíēmi means to release, to let go. What is bound is loosed. What weighs heavy is lifted.
An old bishop of Milan, Ambrose, once said that when the Church cries Kyrie eleison, she learns how to pray before she learns how to sing. The cry comes first. “Lord, have mercy” — Kýrie eléēson — is the prayer of blind men by the road, of lepers standing at the village edge, of beggars who know they have nothing but need (Mark 10:47; Luke 17:13). That cry rises, and heaven answers. The song of the angels — “Glory to God in the highest” — is placed on the Church’s lips (Luke 2:14). Earth learns heaven’s reply.
Then God speaks again, not in fragments, but in fullness. The Scriptures are read aloud, as they always have been among God’s people (Deut. 31:11; 1 Tim. 4:13). The Word that once called light out of darkness now calls faith into being (Rom. 10:17). Christ himself stands at the center of what is read. The sermon does not add meaning; it uncovers him. As he did on the road to Emmaus, he opens the Scriptures and reveals himself as their heart (Luke 24:27).
What has been heard is then confessed. The Creed gathers the whole story — creation, redemption, sanctification — into one voice. This is not private opinion but shared speech. “With the heart one believes, and with the mouth one confesses” (Rom. 10:10). An Anglo-Saxon monk, Bede the Venerable, once said that the Creed teaches the heart by repetition what the mind could never learn all at once. To speak it is to dwell where God has placed you.
All of this moves toward the table. It always does. In Scripture, when God reconciles His people, He feeds them. Israel eats before the Lord at Sinai (Exodus 24). The risen Christ is known in the breaking of the bread (Luke 24:35). St. Paul calls the Supper a koinōnía — a real participation in the body and blood of Christ (1 Cor. 10:16). Here the gift can no longer be mistaken. Christ does not describe himself; he gives himself. The liturgy does not explain the mystery; it hands it over.
This was the great concern of Martin Luther as well. He insisted the Church keep the liturgy not because it was old, but because it was full of Christ’s promises. The service, he said, is not ours to offer, but God’s to give. Where the Gospel is delivered, there the liturgy belongs.
And when God has given everything, he does one last thing. He blesses. The ancient blessing spoken by Aaron still rests on God’s people (Num. 6:22–27). Christ lifts his hands and sends his disciples out with joy (Luke 24:50–53). The service ends the way every Biblical encounter ends, with God’s name placed upon his people and his promise carried into the world.
This is why the liturgy endures. It remembers what God has done. It reveals what Christ has fulfilled. And it gives that gift now in words you can hear, water you can touch, bread you can taste, and wine you can drink. Scripture is never flat. It is layered. It is living. And in the liturgy, it gives what it proclaims.
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