Kissing rock: an unexpected meditation on icons

On April 16, 2002, I was in the living area of my dorm watching something stupid on TV when I heard my phone ring down the hall. It was my Dad. "Hey Dad," I casually answered. My dad has never stood on ceremony for much of anything, and this moment was no exception. "I have some bad news," he said. "Nani came home from running errands this morning and found Papa dead in his armchair." I was instantly breathless. "Oh, wow. Oh my goodness," I managed. In the moment, I was as stunned by the news as I was confused about how to converse with my Dad about his father having just died. I quickly resorted to logistics. "When is the funeral? Where is it? Do I need to fly to Corpus Christi?" I asked. My Dad responded with some details about plans that were in the works, but I was beginning to glaze over. I was having a vision of Papa greeting me as a little boy in his driveway when we'd arrive for summer vacation. I was thinking of his hugs (they were way too tight and always painful). I was thinking of his voice and the gap in his front teeth when he smiled. Then Death whispered to me: "He doesn't exist anymore." Mentally I rejoined the phone conversation at that point, but only to tell my Dad that I needed to take some time to myself. "I gotta go, Dad," I interrupted, my voice clearly faltering. "Ok," he replied, his own voice no longer strong. I hung up the phone, then fell on my face in my bed and wept aloud like I hadn't since I was a toddler.

My love for Papa matured in the ensuing days as I joined family and friends during the funeral and memorial process. I flew down to Corpus Christi with a childlike love for my grandpa, but I left with a profound respect for his humility in life and devotion to Christ. The remembrances offered at memorial services can have that effect.

Now many years removed from that episode, I find myself and my immediate family belonging to the Orthodox Church. One of Her practices--one that is off-putting to any grounded Evangelical Protestant trying to understand the Orthodox tradition--is the veneration of icons. For my own part, I didn't just struggle with this issue as an inquirer, but have continued to grapple with it as an Orthodox communicant. There are essentially two questions as it regards the Orthodox veneration of icons: 1) Are they idols? and 2) What is the purpose of venerating them? This reflection won't concern itself with the former. That's been answered and re-answered ad nauseam throughout the centuries and I can point to resources for anyone who's curious. It's the latter question that has continued to linger in my mind since becoming Orthodox myself. Initially, the act of venerating an icon (which involves kissing it) seems like a vain ritual. And let's be honest, for some practitioners of the act it probably often is. Even for myself, the process of integrating icon use into my family's spiritual economy has been mostly an act of rote conformity as opposed to my having received some new spiritual inspiration.

That changed on May 19, 2015. I recently returned to Corpus Christi with my wife for a few days of respite on nearby Mustang Island. It was a favorite weekend destination for my family in my early childhood and a mandatory agenda item during later vacations after we'd moved away. But I hadn't been to Corpus since Papa's funeral, so I felt it appropriate that I should visit his grave site with my wife who had never met him. When we arrived at his headstone, I was emotionally transported to his viewing thirteen years prior. I rather hate the morbidity of viewings. I know that's an immaturity of mine, but it is what it is. I also have great difficulty showing tears in front of others. In 2002, I had my big cry in the privacy of my dorm room. As far as I was concerned, I was done. Any family member who might have needed my tears to help them heal wasn't going to get any, the fact that I eventually did publicly break down notwithstanding. 

Now years later, I stood at my grandpa's grave feeling emotionally bland. I began to feel imagined pressure to emote and to cry. My wife unknowingly became symbolic of family during the funeral whom I had perceived were desirous that I should burst into sobs already. After three or four paltry minutes staring uncomfortably at Papa's grave, I thought, "Well I guess that's it," and took a step for the car. And that's when it happened. I felt an immediate, physical pull to his grave. In one swift, wholly involuntary motion, I stepped back, took off my hat, leaned over the headstone, grabbed it with two hands and kissed the top of it. I planted a heartfelt kiss on a hot piece of inanimate rock, and in that moment, felt closer to Papa than I had since the last time I'd seen him alive.

One of the common explanations offered by Orthodox to inquirers about icon veneration goes something like this: "When we kiss an icon, the honor (veneration) we pay to it is transferred to the prototype." It's a little dryly put, but it's quite the truth. No onlooker would've accused me a few days ago of "participating in vain ritual," or even more ludicrous, "worshipping an idol." My love for my grandfather instills a desire to honor him, and merely "remembering him fondly" or "sharing his example with others" just doesn't cut it. While those are right and natural things, touch is transcendent. That connective tissue between the physical and the spiritual, that need to kiss a gravestone or a photograph or an article of clothing worn by a deceased loved one is something the Orthodox tradition not only dignifies, but has woven into the fabric of its regular spiritual experience, and it is built on a vibrant belief in a living continuity between the Church in Heaven and the Church on Earth. Death had lied to me.

This is now the second experience I've had which has imbued with life some Orthodox practice that was otherwise only ritual to me. Thanks be to God. With each liturgical utterance of "Lord have mercy," I can recall my desperation in the cockpit of a crashing plane. Now with each icon veneration, I can remember the love for my grandpa that overtook me and led me to kiss a sun-baked block of granite with all the affection I have for my daughters when I kiss their faces. I'm sure it will still be a process, and I'm sure I will lapse into periods of "mindless ritual" on occasion. But I'm thankful right now for the capacity of ritual to reinforce truth, and to build anticipation for the day when two-dimensional icons are gone and we will embrace the prototypes themselves.

Maranatha!