Since moving into my office in the basement of Bohlen Hall last August, I’ve been slowly assembling a collection of icons. The many boxes of books came first, of course. But after that, I’ve slowly gathered icons, images, and holy cards I’ve received over the years on a common wall. It bears more of a resemblance to my friend Antonio Alonso’s grandmother’s altarcito than an Orthodox iconostasis.
At the center of the wall is Christ the Teacher, an icon my mother gave me when I received my Ph.D. from Notre Dame. There is also Saint Benedict, depicted with raven and book, presumably his Rule, a gift from the director of my spiritual direction program. There is John the Baptist and Augustine of Hippo. And there are also a host of contemporary saints: Oscar Romero and the Jesuit Martyrs of El Salvador, Ella Baker, and Pauli Murray among others.
I first learned of this practice of displaying the images of exemplars and guides as an inspiration to holiness while living at a Catholic Worker community in Atlanta, Georgia in my twenties. In the old house, since demolished, in Poncey Highlands, we had images of Dorothy Day, Fanny Lou Hamer, Martin Luther King, Phil Berrigan, and Peter Maurin. As we took to the daily, mundane work of hospitality – cutting vegetables for soup, washing laundry for the clothes closet, brewing another pot of coffee to warm our unhoused friends – these images imbued each act with a sense of significance that outstripped their apparent triviality.
I’ve come to develop a fuller theology of the saints since my early adulthood, seeing them not only as Christians who model faithful discipleship in all its radical, contextual particularity, but also coming to pray with them as agents working in their way to inspire, shield, and strengthen us as followers of Jesus. Concerns of idolatry often accompany the use of icons, see the Seventh Ecumenical Council of 787 and the twenty-second of the Thirty-Nine Articles. But we can leave iconoclasm behind to appreciate the devotional significance of these images. They point beyond themselves to the living Word made flesh that incarnates in messy human lives. Looking through them, we can witness the weird agency of these holy dead.
The newest addition to this cloud of witnesses is an encaustic icon from Izmir, Turkey of Saint Nicholas. A gift from Carol Myers, this icon displays an elderly priest, bald with gray beard, wearing a white and green stole over a simple red chasuble. Encaustics use heated wax to create luminous images, and the wax of this particular icon cracked as it dried giving it a historic look, even though it was written in 2005.
Saint Nicholas, as Dean Markham likes to point out, is the world’s most recognized saint short of Mary and the Apostles. He is especially remembered for his generosity, thus the traditions of gift-giving that emerged in his wake. Less well known are his purported role in defending orthodoxy during the First Council of Nicaea, his successful appeals to imperial officials for forbearance and justice, and his confrontations with the cult of Artemis. More than the saint whose legacy produced Santa Claus, Nicholas the 4th Century Bishop of Myra was a witness of faith with justice in a time of significant cultural change.
Looking at and through the icons of these faithful witnesses, Nicholas among others, we catch a glimpse of the rich variety of vocations that God might be calling us to in our own time and culture. We too live in a time of significant cultural change. We too are troubled by questions of truth. We too are challenged by injustice. For me, these disciples and witnesses remind me not to grow weary in well-doing. This perseverance can call forth courageous public acts. But more often than not, for me at least, they strengthen my mettle for the humdrum work of teaching and writing: finishing a syllabus, drafting a lecture, meeting with a student. This mundane work is the stuff of formation. Through these daily habits we create a disciplined space to witness the Spirit’s ongoing work.