We celebrate the Liturgy of St. Basil the Great ten times a year. It replaces the Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom on specific days when the Church marks seasons of intense prayer and fasting.
You’ll experience St. Basil’s Liturgy on the five Sundays of Great Lent (not Palm Sunday, that’s technically part of Holy Week, not Lent proper). You’ll also hear it on Holy Thursday and Holy Saturday, those solemn days when we stand at the threshold of Christ’s death and resurrection. It’s celebrated on the eves of Christmas and Theophany, though there’s a wrinkle: if either feast falls on Sunday or Monday, we use St. Basil’s Liturgy on the feast day itself instead of the eve. And finally, we celebrate it on January 1st, St. Basil’s own feast day.
That’s ten times. Count them up and you’ll see the pattern, they’re all days when we’re fasting strictly or preparing for something momentous.
Why These Days?
St. Basil’s Liturgy is longer. The prayers run about twenty to thirty percent more text than St. John Chrysostom’s, and they’re more penitential in tone. The anaphora, that’s the great eucharistic prayer, expands into more poetic, contemplative language. There are additional prayers woven throughout. The hymn All of Creation replaces the familiar Axion Estin we sing to the Theotokos.
It fits the character of Great Lent and Holy Week. When we’re fasting from meat and dairy, when we’re adding extra services and prostrations, when we’re trying to quiet ourselves before God, the longer prayers match what we’re doing. They slow us down. They make us pay attention.
Back in the fourth century, St. Basil’s Liturgy was the standard Sunday celebration. St. John Chrysostom’s shorter version came later and eventually became the norm for most Sundays because, frankly, it’s more practical for weekly use. But the Church kept St. Basil’s for these special occasions. It’s like keeping your grandmother’s china for important meals, you don’t use it every day, but when you do, it means something.
What You’ll Notice
If you’re new to Orthodoxy and you show up on a Sunday in Lent, you might not immediately realize it’s a different liturgy. The structure’s the same. We still have the Liturgy of the Catechumens and the Liturgy of the Faithful. The Gospel still comes after the Little Entrance. We still receive communion the same way.
But you’ll feel it. The service runs longer, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes more than usual. The prayers between the Great Entrance and the consecration stretch out. Father’s voice at the altar takes on a different rhythm. If you’re following along in a book, you’ll see prayers you don’t recognize.
Some folks find it harder to stay focused. Others find the extra length helps them settle into worship more deeply. When you’re working a twelve-hour shift at the refinery and you’ve been up since four in the morning, an extra twenty minutes can feel like a lot. But there’s something about those Lenten Sundays, maybe it’s the fasting, maybe it’s the knowledge that Pascha’s coming, that makes the longer service feel right.
A Word About St. Basil
Basil the Great died in 379. He was bishop of Caesarea, a brilliant theologian, a defender of the faith against heresy, and a man who organized hospitals and relief for the poor. The liturgy that bears his name reflects his theological depth. When you hear those prayers, you’re hearing the mind of someone who thought carefully about every word we say to God.
We don’t use his liturgy often, but when we do, we’re connecting with the Church of the fourth century. Same prayers. Same faith. Your Baptist relatives might not understand why that matters, but it’s one of those things that starts to make sense the longer you’re Orthodox. Continuity isn’t just a nice idea, it’s how we know we haven’t drifted into making things up as we go.
If you’ve never been to a Lenten Sunday liturgy at St. Michael’s, come find out what it’s like. Bring your service book if you have one. Don’t worry if you get lost in the prayers. Even people who’ve been Orthodox for decades sometimes lose their place in St. Basil’s Liturgy. That’s part of being human in the presence of God.
