The Eastern church has long valued the significance of icons as sources of revelation in worship. With insights from the Eastern Orthodox churches, the theological rationale and traditional practice of iconography are described here in terms of its role in worship.
Windows on the Holy
There is an old story about a child in a Sunday School class who is asked by her teacher, “And who are the saints?” Thinking of the elaborate stained-glass windows lining the nave of the church, the child responds, “They’re the people that the light shines through.”
In a certain sense, that is the task of the liturgy: to be, like the saints (or the stained-glass windows), a means through which God’s light might shine, might reach us. And that has always been the primary role of iconography as well: to be a window, a doorway, a glimpse of the light of God’s kingdom.
Yet to Western eyes, icons can often seem dark, sad, primitive. Icons without interpretation are meaningless: flat paintings, mysterious, and filled with the unknown. They can touch us only when we learn to use their language; for while Western Christianity tends to be rational, icons speak directly to one’s intuition, to one’s heart.
Icons are not only illustrations of biblical stories but also are the embodiment of an ancient practice of meditation on these stories. The Western Christian’s experience of icons is similar to entering into a church where an unfamiliar liturgy is being celebrated: until the language has been learned until the meaning behind the words and the gestures has been absorbed, then indeed the observer is in foreign territory. One has to be educated, through usage and experience and love, until finally, the intrinsic values become meaningful; then one can fully participate.
But for both liturgy and iconography, once their meanings have been assimilated and internalized, they are transformed into gateways, new ways of expression, new ways of reaching out to God—and, for many, new ways in which God might touch us.
The Encounter
The icon is an encounter, a moment in time and space where everyday life connects with the holy. Entering an Orthodox church gives one, immediately, the impression of having entered into a different world. Strange and intricate metal lamps hang from the ceiling. The nave of the church is separated from the altar area by a high screen, called the iconostasis, covered with icons. Incense drifts about on the air. The dome overhead is painted with yet another icon, an image of Christ looking down from on high, raising a hand in blessing. Pillars that support the church are painted with images of the apostles, pillars of the church in a less literal sense. Nothing is gratuitous; nothing is superficial. The sense of being in a different world is intentional, for an Orthodox church is decorated to represent the kingdom of heaven. There is no disorder, but instead a sense of heavenly peace, order, and grace.
The Orthodox church is an important environment for the icons, for they too are meant to emphasize something much more profound than that which immediately meets the eyes. There is no sense of “looking at” icons in the same way that one might normally approach art. If anything, we do not look at the icons, but they instead look out at us. Icons are considered to be as much a medium of revelation as the spoken or printed Word. The grace and truth of God is not limited to the intellect; it can enter the soul through the eyes and the heart as well.
The liturgy, too, is a medium of revelation, a moment of encounter between the soul and God. There is a sense, almost, of being involved in a dance with the holy, a movement, a meeting, an experience.
The iconostasis separating the nave from the altar existed in Christian churches from very early times, as can be seen from some of the writings of St. Gregory the Theologian and St. John Chrysostom; it is thought by many that they were originally an adaptation of the curtain covering the ark of the covenant in Jewish temples. Although it is easy to construe the separation as representing elitism on the part of the clergy, who alone may be on the altar side of the screen, it is more in keeping with the Orthodox mind to see the screen as emphasizing the mystery of God. It divides the human world from the divine but also unites those worlds into one image in which all separation is overcome and reconciliation is found.
In the center of the iconostasis is a door, called the holy door, with a figured top; this is the entrance into the altar area. Only the clergy may enter, but, significantly, they may go through only at specific moments, as required by the liturgy. So we see the clergy not as a privileged class, but as the servants of the liturgy, the servants of God, the servants of mystery.
Immediately above the door is an icon of the Last Supper (often called the mystical supper), separating out the sacerdotal office of Christ expressed in his action as a priest. It brings the faithful into the mystery of the Eucharist, the primordial liturgical action, by providing an image for the action and a space in which that action takes place.
It is also significant that the screen can be seen as being punctured by the door: the smooth progression of icons is interrupted by this entrance into the altar area. It is not an incidental feature of the iconostasis, for it is important to see the many ways in which our lives and our world are punctured by the presence of God reaching through and getting involved with us. That too is the role of the liturgy: a particular, sanctified space in our lives where God can reach through and touch us.
An Expression of the Faith Community
The liturgy is composed of people playing different roles. The assembly, including the celebrant or officiant, the choir, the deacon, the director of music, the lectors, the preacher, the chalicists, all have specific, assigned roles within the liturgy which make it a complete, whole act. Each role is different, yet each role is vital to the whole. Without any single one, it becomes unbalanced, askew, diffused.
In the same way, many people take part in the creation and use of an icon. The icon begins with the idea, the need, the commission; centered and grounded in prayer, the concept for an icon is given birth. The parish priest, a parishioner, or the community of faith may decide that the need for an icon is present. The icon-painter, or iconographer (for icons are said to be written, not painted), is then engaged to take on a work of spiritual expression. This is a strictly liturgical art, combining all parts of the liturgy into a theology at a different level than that which is written and appeals primarily to the mind of the worshiper.
Just as the icon is seen as a means to an end, so too is the iconographer, fulfilling the work of externalizing a spiritual reality. The iconographer is the servant of God, the Orthodox liturgical tradition, and the sacred legacy of prayer that lies at the heart of the Orthodox church. Therefore the iconographer enters into a period of prayer and fasting, a time of preparation, before beginning work on an icon; for divine inspiration is necessary in order to produce something that will be inspirational.
The iconographer is not free to express his or her own thoughts or ideas; icons are part of a given tradition and must follow the rhythms of that tradition. The methods for painting the icons have been elaborated over centuries of practice; the gestures, the symbols, the faces themselves follow a prescribed pattern that does not allow for deviation. What is being depicted is not the power and mastery of the artist, but the traditional teachings of the church.
Similarly, the liturgy contains certain moments that allow for individual expression, but the liturgist, in general, is held to prescribed patterns, rhythms, cadences. The liturgy expresses the teachings of the church, not the dynamism of the celebrant. Christians are formed by the ways in which they pray: if prayer (and the liturgies and icons that flow from prayer) is sloppy, haphazard, or capricious, then so too will be people’s lives and their theology. Just as the community of faith has a right to know what to expect when entering into the worship of God in the church, so too does the community have a right to know what to expect when using icons in prayer and worship.
These patterns are a clue to the icons’ meaning and give us the key to touching and entering into their mystery. Holiness is depicted as it cannot be in earthly life, where saints pass by us daily without our knowing—by halos and bright colors. There is no source of light in an icon, for there are no shadows in the kingdom of God. Icons have no reflections, no point of view, no dramatic shafts of illumination. Iconographers call “light” the background of the icon and make it gold. Eyes are large and luminous, for they have seen God’s glory. The nose is narrow, the mouth small because there is less need for physical satisfactions. Figures are elongated, purposely, to prevent idolatry; they are clearly representations and not graven images. The Christ child is always shown as being larger than life, for he is not a helpless baby, but a crowned king.
The teachings of the church occur, again and again, in simple additions to the icons. After the Council of Nicaea, the Greek letters alpha and omega were added to icons of Christ in order to stress the teachings on his divinity. In the same way, Athanasius is always portrayed as holding the Scriptures which he fought so long and hard to preserve.
The liturgy, rhythmically and in simplicity, also upholds these teachings. The Nicene Creed is part of many liturgies. Versicles and responses contain Scripture passages, repeated week after week until they become intrinsic to the life of the worshiper. The Eucharist celebrates a belief held in common by the community of faith, and burial rites reflect the church’s teachings concerning eternal life.
So it is that liturgy and iconography weave together the story of the church, the story of the community of faith, held in common and repeated over the centuries in time-honored rituals. And all people—iconographers, liturgists, worshipers—have equal and important parts in them.
Glimpses of Truth
Icon comes from a Greek word that means “image.” This is the same word used in Genesis to describe God’s creation of humankind in God’s own image. It is the same word used by the Pauline author of the letter to the Colossians when speaking of Christ: “He is the image of the invisible God” (Col. 1:15). An image is an imprint, a shadow, a reflection of something that cannot be duplicated. An icon is an image, the image of something greater than can be understood in human terms.
If the icon can be seen as liturgy, then the liturgy too can be seen as an icon. Both tell us who we are in relation to God and the community of faith; both give us a point of reference. And when they “work,” when they are beautiful, haunting, and filled with a longing for God, then there is a crowning on the whole effort, the seal of conformity of image to prototype, of symbol to what it represents: closeness with God.
Neither liturgy nor iconography pretends to be anything other than an image; neither seeks to duplicate the splendor and majesty of the kingdom of God. Both give us glimpses of it; both give a space in which to reenact it; both hold out the tantalizing promise and assurance of God’s love here and now. Neither the icon nor the liturgy promises to be perfect, but both promise to be truthful. In a sense, the liturgy itself is an icon of God’s presence in the world, reflected back through our humanity, imperfectly, but always truthfully.
The Icon in Liturgy
Just as the liturgy can be seen as an icon, so too can the icon be seen as a participant in the liturgy, drawing the faithful, through its images, into closer union with God.
The people portrayed in icons do not gesticulate; there is nothing disorderly or chaotic about their movements. Rather, they officiate; there is always a liturgical character to movement in an icon.
They can be seen, therefore, in a real sense, as officiants at a liturgy, leading the community of faith into a closer, deeper relationship with the triune God. The icons fill the ache for beauty, for holiness, for grace, that is in all of us; and they do so by imparting the grace of the Holy Spirit, the holiness of God, the beauty of Christ. The icon is the way and the means; it is the prayer itself. Not surprisingly, therefore, icons are used in conjunction with meditative or contemplative prayer, complementing the prayer of the liturgy with the prayer of the heart.
There is the key. There is no reason why God cannot touch us in many different ways: through our minds, hearts, and senses. Just as the meaning of the gospels is hidden in symbolism, so too is the meaning of the icons understood only through the heart that takes them into itself. As Westerners, we have been taught that science and logic will explain everything. It is difficult for us to conceive that the language of intuition can lead to eternal truths. Yet this is the language touched on by the icons and the liturgy: the language that speaks directly to the soul.
As the various liturgies take place in the Orthodox church, the community of faith finds its eyes drawn to the iconostasis, to the images that glow with the light of God. It is all one whole: words, incense, music, icons. It is the soul speaking to God in a language that the intellect cannot hear.
If liturgy begins in worship, then it must continue in the world. For liturgy is not only an encounter in which God is revealed to God’s people, but also a response to that encounter: the people of God carrying out God’s work in the world.
Nor do the icons stay in church. A visitor to the home of any Orthodox family is struck immediately by the role of the icons in everyday family life: they adorn the walls, they are significant people who have special meaning in this particular household. A china cupboard, its doors flung open, holds icons and candles, a point of reference for the family’s prayer life. Small children run to it and bring out their favorite icons for the visitor’s inspection: this is my name-saint, one will say, and launch into a description of that saint’s life and attributes. I like St. Nicholas because I am engaged, and he was kind to young brides, shyly adds an older sibling. They are a familiar and almost cozy part of the household, and they serve to teach the children about the church.
Indeed, no one can visit an Orthodox church and look at all of the icons without coming away with a strong sense of that church’s beliefs. Gospel scenes are depicted. Parables are portrayed. Judas and the devil alone have their faces averted; all others are shown directly, glowing with the light that they have touched. Gentleness and strength shine through. It is an educational experience, and a humbling one.
The places in which we worship are important. As Christians, we can never divorce ourselves from our setting, since our theology is essentially an incarnational theology. This concreteness—we worship a God who became human—has always been a part of established Christianity. Just as we are challenged by the Incarnation, so too should we be challenged by the spaces that we choose for our liturgies, by our surroundings.
The icons are part of those surroundings, and they are part of that incarnational theology. God’s love is shown for us in our stories, our beliefs, and the lives of people around us: icons, images of who God wants us to be. They are not always comforting or comfortable, just as liturgy is not always comforting nor comfortable.
Icons and the liturgy are all doorways into stillness, into closeness with God. If we involve ourselves with them, we too can enter into that stillness. If we participate wholly, with our hearts and intuition, we just may discern the voice of God.