Rublev’s Trinity, early 15th century (56” x 45”)
appreciation for icons was being carried to excess. St. Anastasius of Sinai complained, for instance, that some people were too busy kissing icons to pay attention to the Divine Liturgy. Such abuse, perhaps coupled with a defensive reaction to a ban on images by the rapidly expanding religion of Islam, led some Christians to advocate a return to immaterial worship. The early iconoclasts (literally, “icon-breakers”) argued that an icon, by its nature, purports to depict either Christ’s humanity separate from his divinity or divinity itself, both of which were impermissible. Under the Byzantine emperor Leo III, who reigned from 717 to 741, this view gained imperial force; decrees were issued forbidding the veneration of icons, and the episcopacy was purged of those who might object. Thus matters stood until the reign of the empress Irene (780–802), who herself practiced the veneration of icons.
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In 787, the bishops at the Second Council of Nicaea (the last ecumenical council of the undivided Church) affirmed the legitimacy of icon veneration, holding that the material image referred the beholder to the divine. today, discussions of icons generally center on the Eastern, and especially the Byzantine, tradition. By this I mean those churches that are historically derived from the Greek Church of Constantinople and whose customary Eucharistic liturgy is that of St. John Chrysostom: principally the Greek and Russian Orthodox Churches and their Catholic counterparts. There is a seriousness in the Eastern practice of praying with icons that surpasses the conception of the icon as a mere visual aid to worship. It is a kind of sacramental seriousness, in which the iconographer and the viewer collaborate in affirming
creation’s transparency to the divine in an offering of prayer and thanksgiving. Three of my favorite images, each in their own way, exemplify this experience. The icon I usually pray with is Christ the Law-Giver (page 29, right) from a sixthcentury monastery in Sinai. The visage is tempered with gentleness, but in it you see the primacy and authority of Jesus—O.E. Parker saw this too, in the “all-demanding eyes” of his Christ tattoo. You do not so much look at Jesus in this icon or even look past the image to a greater invisible reality—rather, Jesus looks at, and through, you. The experience is that of being seen, more than seeing. I also like this icon because Jesus is holding the Scriptures, which is common in Byzantine depictions of Christ. Their presence relativizes his physical presence, as if to say that Jesus is to be perceived less in the depiction of a face than in the fullness of the Word. The painting displays stylistic features common to many icons—the golden aura, representing divinity; the hand uplifted in blessing, with two raised fingers signifying the unity of divine and human nature; the thumb and two remaining fingers touching to represent the Trinity. Typically at the center of an icon, there’s a human face with a strong gaze. If not, there’s a dramatic event, such as the Resurrection or the Nativity. In a Nativity icon that I sometimes pray with, an early 15th-century rendering from the Russian Novgorod School (page 29, left), the central figure is that of the baby Jesus, whose infant size is accentuated by the elongated figure of Mary beside him. The contrast between the two dramatically expresses the paradox of the God who became small, celebrated by St. Ephrem in the fourth century. The absence of depth perspective lifts this icon out of mere representational history. With its flattened aspect, time and space are somehow timeless and placeless, which is to say that all that you see in the image is happening now, here in front of you, as you pray with the icon. Another appealing feature of this scene is the human interaction between Joseph and Mary, in which faith is tested but ultimately affirmed. In the lower left corner, Joseph has turned away from Mary, and
painting: © Scala /Art Resource