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Doubters and unbelievers are amazed to hear that streams of divine grace flow through your icon,
while we know that this is so with this icon of Sitka and that God’s grace will abide with it forever. Therefore,
standing reverently before it, we kiss it and venerate it as we would your very self; for the honor paid to icons passes to their prototype, and God’s grace acts through this icon in wonders and signs for those who run to you with faith and cry to God: Alleluia. (Kontakion Eight of the Akathist to the Sitka Icon)
On Friday night, the Sitka icon was at St. John the Wonderworker, an intown OCA parish in Atlanta. St. John’s is a story in itself: led by a Jewish convert priest, with a multi-ethnic, multi-racial congregation and numerous ministries directed toward the poor and homeless in their neighborhood. Last night it was packed with a respectable crowd of 300 people or so, all of whom had turned out to venerate and pray before the icon. There was a full night of services planned. The Akathist was sung at 7 p.m., followed by an unction service. That in turn was followed by a Romanian service of the Akathist to the Kazan Mother of God, after which the English speaking types picked back up for an all night vigil and Divine Liturgy at about 3:00 a.m.
It was interesting to look at the crowd. Once you hang around Orthodoxy a while, you start to recognize the different looks of ethnicities. We were all there last night: Russians and other Slavs, Greeks and Arabs and, this being American Orthodoxy, substantial numbers of converts: people with red hair and blonde hair, people of color, and people who were simply a mix of all of the above. I mention all of this because as the evening progressed, I found myself struck more and more by the people around me. It was in their faces that I was finding at least part of the answer to the question in my mind: what makes an icon into a wonderworking icon, a miraculous icon?
Obviously, the short answer to this question is God. But I suspect that the longer, more complete answer, also involves us. A wonderworking icon is the manifestation of God’s grace in response to the fervent prayers of the faithful. Some miraculous icons are nothing more than paper, printed copies of icons. Others, like the Sitka Theotokos, are extraordinarily beautiful: the Virgin is serene. The eyes are serious, deep pools of glimmering darkness, but her mouth contains the faintest hint of a smile. Still, regardless of any artistic merit, the common denominator of each of the miraculous icons is the fervent supplications of Orthodox Christians.
It was that fervency, that faith, that was evident in the faces around me last night. In the candlelit church, tears glistened on more than a few faces. Many people had photographs of loved ones to show the Virgin. There were many, many children, and they approached the icon as spontaneously and joyfully as they might approach their own mother. I was not so uninhibited. When I first prayed before her, I found myself tongue tied and halting. Unlike the children, I was deeply aware of my sin. Yet when I stood up, and venerated her, I was aware, on some utterly unknowable level, that I had been heard and that intercession would be made. My certainty was born of faith.
It is that faith which marks us. It is in faith that we approach the chalice, knowing it to be the real body and the real blood. It is in faith that we confess our sins, knowing that in confession we find cleansing. It is in faith that we struggle through the fasts, trying in accord with our strength to begin to take up our cross. And it is in faith that we approach icons and see, not wood and paint, but Christ and His mother and His saints. At bottom, it is the faith of the faithful that prompts God to send forth his grace in wonderful and miraculous ways. It is the two way street of love, of God for us, and us for God.
Last night there was evidence of faith and love reborn. During the unction service, a young family approached Father Deacon Athanasius and myself. In broken English, they asked if they could receive
anointing. They explained that they were Orthodox, having been baptized as children, and in turn had their own children baptized. They were not, apparently, active Christians. Still, in their question, and in their evident joy as they led their children to the priest, it was clear that God was moving in their lives.
Yet there was one thing that I saw that spoke more to me than anything else. As the Romanians started their Akathist, I approached the icon to venerate it one last time. In front of me was a man clutching an ultrasound picture. The baby in that picture, resting in her mother’s womb, is certainly known to God. But in tears, in faith, in love and in fervency, the man knelt before the icon, pressed the picture to it, and began to make a more formal introduction. He was a living icon, an icon of Orthodoxy.
What else could I pray? My prayer when I reached the Virgin was that the faith the man had shown, that the little kids had shown, that all of the faithful present that night had shown, would be the faith of us all. I paused. There was more my heart wished to say, but I could not find words for. It didn’t really matter, I thought. God can read our heart as easily as He can hear our words. For a minute I rested in that comfort, in the joy of openness. Finally, I arose from my knees, kissed the Virgin, and went out into the night.
I was expecting it. As soon as I heard that Harriett Meirs had withdrawn her name from consideration for the Supreme Court, I knew it would happen. The phone rang. I picked it up.
“Hey, Seraphim. Buddy. Your country needs your help.”
“Hi, Mr. President. What can I do for you?”
“I got a job for ya on the Supreme Court. Can you get up here right away?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President. I can’t be on the Supreme Court.”
“Why not. Yer a lawyer, aren’t you?”
“Well, of course. Its just that I’m busy. I’ve got a lot of irons in the fire.”
“Boy howdy, me too! But that’s no reason not to do what I ask you. Besides, we need one of you Jewish boys on the Court, what with you being Orthodox and all.”
“I’m not Jewish, Mr. President.”
“Then why in heck do you call yerself Orthodox. Don’t you know what you are?”
“Sure, Mr. President. I’m an Orthodox Christian.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so. I am too, being Methodist and all. But it doesn’t make any difference. We need one of them on there too.”
“I’m honored, Mr. President, but I’m just too busy. I’ve got all of my church work going on.”
“I’ll take care of it, boy. Tell me who yer boss is, and I’ll give him a call.”
“Well, I’m under my Metropolitan, and then the Ecumenical Patriarch.”
“The what? Where’s he at?”
“Constantinople, Mr. President.”
“Where? Hang on a second.” The phone plopped down. In the background I could hear him. “Hey, Karl. Where’s Constantinople? Turkey? Good Lord!” The phone was picked back up.
“You sure yer not Muslim? That might be OK, though, we need one of them too. Are you the peace loving kind or the Osama kind?”
“I’m not Muslim, Mr. President.”
“Well, I wish you’d make up your mind. Of course, that’s the kind of quality that would make yer confirmation a breeze.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President. I just can’t do it.”
“Well, @^(*$^%! Oh well. Do you have Margaret Thatcher’s number?”
“I don\’t think she can do it either, Mr. President.”
“Dang, yer a negative guy. All you lawyers are. Well, I’m going to call and ask anyhow.”
The President hung up. I leaned back in my chair and looked out the window. In my little town, there must be two or three dozen stories. Mine is one of them. But I still don’t know how I am going to explain this to my wife. Or to the Ecumenical Patriarch.
Ancient Church 