We prepare through Great Lent, forty days of fasting, prayer, and almsgiving, followed by Holy Week’s intense services that walk us through Christ’s Passion, death, and burial. It’s not a quick decision or a single act. It’s a slow transformation.
Great Lent starts on Clean Monday, seven weeks before Pascha. The Church gives us this time to do what we should be doing all year but often don’t: pray more, eat less, give to the poor, go to confession, and show up for services we usually skip. The fasting isn’t just about food. It’s about creating space. When you’re not planning meals around meat and cheese, not scrolling through your phone as much, not filling every evening with entertainment, you notice things. You notice your own heart.
The traditional fast means no meat, dairy, eggs, fish, wine, or oil on most days. Sounds extreme if you’re coming from a Baptist background where Lent means giving up chocolate. But it’s not meant to be punishing. It’s meant to be healing. Your priest will help you figure out what’s realistic for your situation, if you work offshore on a rig, if you’re pregnant, if you’ve got health issues, the fast adjusts. The point isn’t earning God’s approval through perfect rule-keeping. The point is learning that you’re more than your appetites.
Wednesdays and Fridays are stricter. Saturdays and Sundays are a bit lighter. You’ll hear people talk about “fasting from olive oil” and wonder how anyone keeps track of all this. Most of us do our best and confess when we blow it. Some folks at St. Michael will keep a rigorous fast. Others will be working twelve-hour shifts at the refinery and eating what they can. The Church is a hospital, not a courtroom.
The Services Change Everything
If you only show up on Sundays during Lent, you’ll miss most of it. Wednesday or Friday evenings, many parishes serve the Presanctified Liturgy, a beautiful, quiet service where we receive Communion that was consecrated the previous Sunday. There’s no full Divine Liturgy on weekdays during Lent because that’s too joyful for a fast. The Presanctified feels different. Darker. More penitential.
The first week of Lent, we read the Great Canon of St. Andrew of Crete. It’s long, really long, and it walks through the entire Old Testament calling you to repentance. Adam, Eve, Cain, Noah, David, every story becomes a mirror. You’ll hear “Have mercy on me, O God, have mercy on me” hundreds of times. It gets in your head. That’s the idea.
There’s also the Prayer of St. Ephraim, said with prostrations: “O Lord and Master of my life, take from me the spirit of sloth, despair, lust of power, and idle talk. But give rather the spirit of chastity, humility, patience, and love to Thy servant.” You go down on your knees, forehead to the floor, then get back up. Repeat. It’s physically humbling, which turns out to be the point.
Holy Week Isn’t Preparation Anymore, It’s Participation
By the time you reach Holy Week, you’re not preparing for Pascha. You’re living through the Passion. The services shift from anticipation to immersion.
Palm Sunday we bless palms (or down here, whatever greenery we can find). Then Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday evenings we serve the Bridegroom Matins, short, haunting services about Christ coming as a bridegroom while we sleep. “Behold, the Bridegroom comes at midnight, and blessed is the servant whom He shall find watching.”
Holy Thursday evening we read the Twelve Gospels, the entire Passion narrative, standing, with the lights dimmed. It takes a couple hours. Your feet hurt. You’re tired. That’s okay. So was Christ.
Good Friday afternoon or evening, we take Christ down from the Cross. The priest or deacon removes the body from the icon of the Crucifixion and places it in the tomb, a flower-covered bier in the center of the church. We process around it singing the Lamentations. People cry. It’s not theatrical. It’s just what happens when you’ve been fasting for six weeks and you’re standing in front of the tomb.
Holy Saturday morning there’s a Vesperal Liturgy, the strangest service of the year, where we’re still in Lenten mode but the readings are all about resurrection. The mood shifts. You can feel Pascha coming.
Then Saturday night, just before midnight, everything goes dark. We wait. At midnight the priest comes out with a single candle and sings, “Come receive the light from the unwaning light, and glorify Christ who is risen from the dead.” We light our candles from his, one to another, until the whole church is blazing. Then we process outside (or around the church) singing, “Thy Resurrection, O Christ our Savior, the angels in heaven sing. Enable us on earth to glorify Thee in purity of heart.”
When we come back in, the priest opens the doors and we sing the Paschal Troparion: “Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and upon those in the tombs bestowing life.” We sing it over and over. Pascha isn’t a somber memorial. It’s an explosion.
The Liturgy that follows is joy from beginning to end. Then we bless the Paschal foods, eggs, cheese, meat, all the things we haven’t eaten, and we feast. Because Christ is risen, and death is defeated, and we don’t have to be afraid anymore.
What About Confession?
You’ll want to go to confession during Lent, ideally before Holy Week. Most parishes set aside extra times for this. Confession isn’t a hoop to jump through before you can take Communion. It’s a chance to name what’s broken, hear the words of absolution, and receive the grace to actually change. If you’ve never been to confession in an Orthodox church, talk to Fr. Michael ahead of time. He’ll walk you through it.
If You’re a Catechumen
If you’re preparing to be baptized or chrismated, Lent is your final sprint. Historically, this whole season existed to prepare catechumens for baptism at Pascha. You’ll have classes, extra instruction, maybe some special prayers. And then at the Paschal Vigil, you’ll be baptized or received into the Church and you’ll take your first Communion as an Orthodox Christian. It’s worth every long service, every fasting meal, every moment of wondering if you can really do this.
The preparation for Pascha isn’t about working yourself into a frenzy of religious emotion. It’s about clearing out the junk so that when Christ says, “Come receive the light,” you’re awake enough to hear Him. The fasting, the services, the almsgiving, the confession, none of it earns the Resurrection. But it opens your hands to receive it.
If you’re new to all this, just start. Come to a weeknight service. Try fasting on Fridays. Read the Gospels. Ask questions. The Church has been doing this for two thousand years. We’ll help you figure it out.
