The Burned Icons

IC XC
✙
NI KA

AN ELDER SAT his cell praying before his icons. On the stand before him was a large piece of wood, scared but mostly empty, ancient wood. In the middle of the wood was what seemed like a face, although there was a slash through it. Towards the upper left, there was a flash of color, but it was burned. The elder turned as a knock was heard at the door. “Blessed be God the Word,” prayed the Elder. “He came to his own, but his own received him not. Lord, show me your image in all whom I meet today, that I may welcome them, and you.” He opened the door to reveal a novice named Daniel. He gave a blessing and the young man entered and kissed his hand.

They stood in silence for a while before the icons and then sat down.

“Father,” said the novice. “I am leaving this weekend to visit my family for my Mother’s birthday. Do you have a word for me to take with me?”

The elder chuckled. There was a time when a novice would not have been able to leave the monastery for 5 or 10 years. Certainly not for a party. Now the Desert was close to the City. The World and the Church were only a train ride apart. And the train is only a short drive up the Wadi.

“Your family is in Tel Aviv, yes?”

Close, Father. They will meet me at the train station there.

“And you will see, again, all the varieties of the world you left. What drew you away from there to here? Whatever it was you must hold that in your heart so as not to be drawn back into the world.”

Father, I left the world because it was filled with many evil things. My friends were deep into drugs and sexual impurity. The whole world seems to conspire to drown me.

It has always been so. But what drew you to the Wadi?

Here, I felt I could see Christ more clearly.

And did you not see him in the world, first, that he could draw you here himself?

No, Father. He was nowhere to be found out there. That is why I came here.

What do you see on that stand in the corner?

A burned piece of wood.

Draw closer. Tell me what you see.

It’s mostly empty, and charred. There is a slash here, and some… eyes! And up in the corner, there seems to be some fingers floating in space?

Yes, Daniel. So what is it, then?

It’s a damaged icon, maybe of our Lord?

Maybe. But sit down now and I shall tell you what I know.

In the days when our Fathers’ Fathers were here, refugees came from Russia. One family brought this wood with them. In the days of the grandfathers of their grandfathers, icons through which God worked miracles were decorated in gold and jewels. The wealthy offered strings of pearls and rings to our Lady, the All-Holy Theotokos. Our Lord and the Saints and even the Holy Bodiless Powers were honored in this way. In time the practice developed of sheathing these wonder-working images in gold or silver – often encrusted with jewels – so that only the face and the blessing hand appeared. Yet, beneath the sheath, the whole icon was present. After a while, though, some who sell holy things realized they could make far more icons – and sell them for more money – if they commissioned artists to paint only a face and a blessing hand. Then, using machines, they could press out different designs on sheaths, and, using the same faces – or else different faces with the same sheaths – they would make and sell many more icons.”

Daniel gasped at the idea of such blasphemy used for profit.

God is not mocked, however. In time these partial icons even showed up in churches and monasteries. God’s grace worked miracles even so. And so, in time, they too, were encrusted with neclaces and other tokens of thanksgiving. So, after a while, it became the style to buy a sheathed icon with jewels and neclaces that looked as if it were, possibly, a wonder-working icon. These were also donated to churches and monasteries by the wealthy.

God, though, had two laughs left. The Bolsheviks took all the wealth from the Churches so that they could be poor, like Christ. And this icon lost its sheath – so we will never know how valuable it was in worldly terms – then they burned it. It was rescued from the destroyed temple in a small town by a family. And, in time, they came here. As they passed through the lands occupied by the iconoclastic followers of Mohammed the icon was again desecrated with a slash across it. The family brought it here. Now I keep it in my corner and contemplate it, paying what I hope is some part of the honor due it.

How is honor due it, Father? Could it not be better treated as a flag that is too tattered and burned or, since it is wood, it could be buried and composted.

Son, have you not seen the divine image on the wood? Even if damaged, the honor paid to it passes to the prototype. How much more if we dishonored it? Although it is an icon of the divine image – as are we – it’s also an icon of something else. Something even more deserving of our reverence.

When we fall into sin, are we not like those partial icons dressed up in finery, but, inside, incomplete? And when we are stripped of all the jewels is it not so that we can finish the work icon? And when our addictions have damaged us to the point of failure, when like Ouroborus, we have eaten our own tail and there is nothing left but consumption and death, is not the Divine Image still there? And in, the final end, when the divine fires of love are too hot for us, and we feel them as pain, is it not the image itself that is still present? This piece of wood is the image of our life, and more so, it is a divinely painted icon of the lives we discard or disdain: the addict, the lustful, those lost in the world. It is every prostitute, drug addict, or sinner of every kind who has given himself over to being identified by his sin. The divine image is still there. Still worthy of reverence, still able to be completed. Still waiting to become a wonder-working icon.

When an icon painter begins to work on a new image, there is much prayer and preparation. It’s important that the work comes first so that the actual process of painting becomes a prayer in motion. So here is an icon of the beginning: the painter is preparing to work. He has done the eyes, taken a breath… and something new will arise.

How can we do aught but wait in holy expectation before the new incarnation of God?

So, when I am in the world, even the broken icons are really the divine image and I can see him everwhere.

By his light, Daniel. Only in his light. May that light will draw you back, my son.

The elder resumed his silence and Daniel kissed the extended hand and left.