Ice covers everything today. The grass, the air, the trees, all of it is frozen and tinged blue. Powdery snow crunches under me, my breath a vapor as I cross the campus full of brick buildings and now-bare hickory trees to my first day of work as a library aide as a college freshman, a dream come true. Although I am looking forward it, my soul is downcast. Where are you, Lord? I wonder.
For the two years I had been living as a Christian, God existed intangibly for me as Spirit. I threw myself into faith life - reading scripture, praying to God. These were the safe (only) ways to encounter Him, we were told. After all, God is like the wind - even if you can't see Him, you can feel Him. He is always there.
But where? In Psalm 139 I read about never being able to escape His presence, but where was He? I searched the skies, our simple sanctuary, the scriptures. We lived in an invisible world - Christ is invisible, the Church is invisible. Everything existed intangibly, invisibly upborne. Yet, I longed for more, like the woman reaching out to touch the hem of Christ's garment, a longing to reach out for something in hopes of grasping something tangible - but what that "more" was I did not know. I would read Psalm 27:4 frequently. In many ways, it was a prayer: One thing I have desired of the Lord, that I will seek: That I will dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the Lord...
But Lord, I would ask. Where do I behold Your beauty? Where can I find it?
In quiet moments, I think of verses from Rilke:
You come and go...
Of all who move through quiet houses
You are the quietest.
Someday, I'll find you, Lord, I think.
-
I arrive at the library and walk past the dark bookshelves to greet the librarian, my employer, Barb, in her office.
It is small and cozy, with full bookshelves and plants. Her stained glass lamp gives off a warm light. Outside her paned window the sun is already starting its descent, casting long shadows through the bare branches outside in the snowy cold (although it is barely early afternoon). Looking around, I am suddenly struck by a piece of art that catches my eye.
It is a painting of our Lord. I had never seen Christ depicted before. The background of the painting is a shining gold, made more luminous by the light of the lamp. Christ's eyes are a warm brown. I am mesmerized by His face, depicted without emotion, yet clearly gentle and kind while also authoritative; there is an ineffable sweetness and warmth. I have the sensation I am being beheld by Him as much as I am beholding this image. Christ's hand is raised in a gesture I know instinctively as a blessing, an offering of peace (to me?) and He is holding a book in His other arm; I imagine it to be the Scriptures. The colors - the golds, the blues, the reds, are breathtaking. I stare at the painting, unable to tear my eyes away. As I gaze at this image of Christ, a line from a Mary Oliver poem floats through my mind: Beauty walks so freely, and with such gentleness.
Here in this office, with Christ, there is a quiet, a depth, a stillness, a sobriety, an ancient timelessness that I had not experienced before in my entire Christian life. It brings a holy hush to my soul. I am underwater, where all earthly cares are muted, all sound has ceased. I have found Him.
One thing I have desired of the Lord, that I will seek: That I will dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the Lord.
Truly, He is beautiful to behold.
"Your art is incredible," I breathe to Barb.
"It's an icon," she tells me matter-of-factly. She is shorter than I am, with bifocals and short silver hair. "I'm an Orthodox Christian."
"Orthodox?" I ask puzzled. Catholics, I knew, but I had never heard of Orthodoxy.
"Mhm," she responds. "If you want, you can come to our Vespers service, they're every Wednesday." She points out her window. "We're just a few blocks away. You can come if you want."
I give a noncommittal reply as I look at Christ's face again. I think of Christ encountering the two men from Emmaus as they later exclaimed with astonishment: Did our hearts not burn within us?
-
In that moment, although I could not know at the time, I had glimpsed the Incarnation - something that I had always understood intellectually, but had never felt in a "heart" sense until that moment. The mystery and majesty of Christ clothed in earthly flesh, as St. Ephraim of Syria writes: "Our body became Your garment..."
I later purchased that icon and placed it on my fireplace mantle, the most prominent place I could find. I would be consoled by seeing my Lord as I passed Him throughout my day, by praying in front this depiction of Him. He was with me, in my dwelling, in my midst, constantly. Christ became real to me in a way I had never experienced before - through that mysterious "window to Heaven", I could prostrate before, touch, and kiss my Lord. I could draw near to Him and weep as I whispered my deepest sorrows to that kind Face, knowing the Man of Sorrows beheld me with love and understanding. I could sit with Him and feel the companionable silence of two friends who did not need to speak to enjoy the other's company. Christ being present in such a way, an offer to regularly encounter and engage Him, deepened my prayer life and my awe of the reciprocally incarnate life. Just as He came to participate in our life, I came to realize He also invites us to participate in His ("His Spirit became our robe"), the journey of becoming fully and truly human by the grace of God.
-
Icons, I learned over time, were breathtakingly full of human expression. Perhaps it is why, in my decade-long journey to Orthodoxy since that initial encounter, they were the part of the Church I loved the most. They were silent witnesses to the heart of our humanity.
All of our most difficult dilemmas were depicted, stories we all in some way experience ourselves. These icons served as ways we could touch our faith, our own humanity, and lean into that Great Story, too:
The disciples sleeping in the Garden of Gethsemane, failing to keep watch, as Christ is on His knees, praying.
Elijah fleeing to the desert, overcome with fear, sorrow, and exhaustion from persecution as he begs God: "Now Lord, take my life." A raven appearing to him and offering sustenance, encouragement.
A sheep lost in the brambles, Christ leaving the others, running to the lost one to free it, embracing it tenderly.
Mary Magdalene weeping before the tomb where her Lord was buried - where did He go? Christ appearing before her with nail-scarred hands as she kneels before Him in disbelief.
An angel appearing to the Theotokos in the Annunciation, a single white flower offered to her in benediction. Her bowed head, reverent and wondrous, of the invitation extended to her. May it be unto me according to Thy word.
Fear, anger, failure, sorrow, joy, wonder. The whole of humanity's heart is depicted here in iconography, a visual psalter; a grace of our Lord. There is nothing here that has not been felt by the holiest of men and women, nothing experienced that has been unable to be soothed or embraced with utmost gentleness by our God.
By beholding them, we are reminded we have never been, and never will be, alone.
-
I still gaze at that icon of Christ that started my journey to Orthodoxy. I have since learned that Beauty and Faith are tangible and visible, felt: we can gaze upon, hear, smell, taste, and touch them and reach out for more. Holiness and grace are the breath of God animating the world, the mystery of Christ, in which we live, move, and have our being.
In the morning's dewy light, in the setting of the sun, I feel my Lord's gaze upon me as I pray. He sees me. Day by day, through the medicine of the Church, as I work out my salvation, I find healing as I sing the Liturgy with the faithful as we are censed and blessed, as I meditate upon the holy icons, as I genuflect, as I swallow the Gifts of the Body of Christ. I am being healed in a world that, I realize now, is more real, more fully alive, than the one I had known before.
Beauty will save the world.
It is most certainly saving me.
Kelly Annestrand is an Orthodox Christian chaplain and writer living in West Virginia. She holds a Bachelor of Social Work from Tarleton State University and a Master of Divinity from Baylor’s Truett Seminary along with three units of Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE). Kelly is deeply passionate about the intersection of pastoral care, trauma, and beauty from an Orthodox framework; her work has included serving vulnerable populations such as the unsheltered homeless, hospital patients, domestic violence survivors, and sex trafficking survivors.
