Iconography that resembled any kind of ancient forms and rigid traditions was the furthest thing from my mind six weeks ago. In the course of painting, or "writing" an icon of the parable of the prodigal son, I formed a profound and unexpected intimate relationship with an inanimate object. I assumed we'd be learning about the process of iconography from a theological and historical perspective, and then be required to complete a project that resulted in an icon-like object, maybe write a paper. I was prepared to output something with my well-practiced skills in the trinity of technique, appearance, and product. How naive! It's also naive to forget that, even in my cynical moments, behind that trinity stands the original, most holy. In any case, time and mystery and spirit won out, using technique, appearance, and product in the service of higher and sometimes confounding purposes which I grasp now dimly.

We began by following the prototype laid down by, as far as I know, an unknown French painter several hundred years ago. We did some trace work using paper and carbon (something we'd get in trouble for if this was super strict?). The surface is a gesso-treated icon board, calcium and acrylic polymer built up on a wooden board and sanded smooth, provided by an outside supplier. Traditional icons are painted in egg tempera on a calcium-and-rabbit-skin-glue gesso. In this case, our teacher said it was appropriate to use acrylic. The acrylic is slightly easier to work with, and the point was made that "painting media are a technology; perhaps one shouldn't give special mystical significance to one media over another" and "if Rublev were alive today, would he be working in acrylics? possibly; we know we can't say for sure he wouldn't." This reasoning sufficed for the novice. I am not good at making the "yogurt like consistency" and fluidity of the media. This only occasionally bothers me. As I write more icons, I'm sure I'll get better at it.

The process of writing an icon is supposed to usher the iconographer into the presence of the spirit of God. The instructor of our class writes

The icon reveals the image of the invisible God which is Jesus Christ made incarnate. “Christ,”says St. Paul, “is the icon of the invisible God” (Colossians 1:15*) (...)The church becomes the meeting place between God and humanity and where we experience God’s presence. We then take and live the Church everywhere we go in God’s creation; the Living Church. The icon functions and becomes a visible sign revealing the relationship between God and humankind.

*The relevant verse in Colossians reads οστις ειναι εικων του Θεου του αορατου, πρωτοτοκος πασης κτισεως

Lutherans don't believe all this stuff, generally speaking. However, I find little discord here. To me there's a fairly consistent line between Christ the "eikon" of God and the belief that an action of painting surrounded in prayer would reflect this movement of God, through incarnation, into the prayerful artist, and subsequently outward to the kosmos. This process is not sacramental to me, in the strict sense. However it is illuminating and meditative, a definite spiritual process of faith in the presence of the spirit, and acting on that to materialize the painting.

Ever present in this are reflections on the parable of the prodigal son. Which is really where the intimacy takes root for me. During the course of writing the icon we occasioned to discuss the parable. It interests me from a process perspective, because most icons are images of saints or once-living persons. Icons of the parables are subtly different. The parables are not literal--certainly they shouldn't be read that way. There wasn't ever a man "going down who was set upon by thieves and helped by a good Samaritan." There was no son who took his inheritance early (which is to say, he said "you're dead to me" to his dad, think about it) and spent it lavishly and had a change of life and was welcomed back with feasting. There wasn't! These are stories from Jesus' lips, see? The figures in parables aren't real. Except. Well, see, they're spoken into the world through the incarnate logos. That is to say, they are transformative words from the living Word. So they have a life of their own that is real. (Tolkienists, this is a kind of echo of what the man referred to in saying myths can be more real than history, or it prefigures it. He certainly was aware of the parables of Jesus when he went about talking about and making myths.) Inasmuch as they do, depicting them iconographically is an effort to illuminate the eternal light that animates and exteriorizes their lives.

I have always found the story of the prodigal son to be very moving. The text of it is wonderful and I especially feel the little details are beautiful. In the moment of the embrace, some translations render the action of the father racing out to greet his son and "falling upon his neck"--just imagine a furious, inexpressibly joyful and exhausting embrace between parent and child. "My son who was lost! who was dead! is found!" This excitement is the excitement of the kingdom of heaven over the embrace with any lone lost littlest and least person. I enjoy the phrasing of the moment the son, actually reduced to wallowing among pigs, "comes to himself." It's a profound turn, the presumed sinner not making a big decision for Jaysus, (puraise tha lawd, yes!) has an existential moment of coming to himself, naked and urgent. I've also taken comfort in the reading that, sometimes we are not the father or the son or even the jealous brother, but rather we are the nearby servants, incidental to the story, called to be ready and help facilitate the feasting at the end. Not a bad metaphor for the church, in my opinion (and a kind of linchpin in my own theological agenda). The power of this icon also lies in how it depicts this decisive moment, the reunion of the father and son, the embrace, on an empty and receding ground. No other embellishments, no other persons present, just the moment of connection, the hands upon the body, the fingers beginning to tangle in the robes. There's bursts of light for me, at the hands and faces, the moments of recognition and familiar intimacy. The father's face is a picture of compassion (despite my shortcomings of matching the placement of his eyes to their positions on the prototype, I should point out). I had an audible gasp when the gold leaf was applied to the halo; on each of the icons in our group. Ah. There! The burst of the divine is here, the center of the living heart of god is the expression of love for the lost, the expression of touch, the heartbreak of reunion. such. this. this is where we belong. Ah. Ah!

Throughout this entire experience, my wife's brother has been in jail. I'm not going to go into details, but he awaits trial for some terrible accusations. The worry, the sense of loss of her brother weighs heavily on her whole family. Over the course of about twenty five total hours painting, I have prayed and prayed for a "moment" like this, for something some burst of light about our bony structures, to illumine these dark times. I found myself hovering the brush over the board, some color on it, murmuring "come holy spirit" just aching for a presence to guide the hand, straighten this line, make that one suitably ragged, reveal the truth in this mix of color. It's been an Advent season of the most abject desperate longing for signs and above all for presence, for Emmanuel, God with us.

At the end, we held a brief private service in which the other instructor (retired seminary pastor) read a blessing over the icons. We don't venerate icons the same way in our tradition, or really any object--no "adoration of the host" for example, for those of you from a Catholic background. But we do often ask for blessings over things, and people, and times, and places; prayers of presence and faith that when we are gathered in the name, we are in the presence of God. This object I've made isn't holy, per se. I don't hold the craft of it to be particularly skilled--I'm no painter and it's a novice iconographer's work. But it is an object of journey, and of meditation and attentiveness and spiritual intimacy, made material. While not holy, it is bless-ed, and I keep faith that blessings will come of it. It will of course be given as a Christmas gift to my mother- and father-in-law.