239 Loyalty to Death

In the corner of my room hangs an icon of the Savior with a lamp burning in front of it. I am used to it and rarely think about what place the icon occupies in my life. Orthodox interior decoration, something familiar to prayer, one of the ritual aspects of the Church, beauty, finally... This is what the icon means for everyday consciousness. But behind these colors, abysses open.

The first week of Great Lent is approaching. I am preparing for a sermon on the triumph of the veneration of icons, going over in my memory everything that I know about "theology in colors." Two things are remembered most vividly.

Medieval Georgia. A small Christian country is constantly tormented by various invaders. Brave right-believing soldiers and martyrs for Christ are the most numerous face of Georgian saints. Faithfulness to Christ is literally paid for in blood.

Another enemy, Prince Jalal-ad-Din, captures Tbilisi. He orders the dome to be removed from the cathedral and sits on top of it. Below, near the bridge over the Kura, there are icons - the same ones before which many generations of citizens prayed. The prince commands the inhabitants of the city to approach one by one and, spitting on the image, cross alive to the other side. Warriors with drawn swords stand near the icons, and imminent death awaits those who disagree. The first person approaches. He crosses himself, bows his head and kisses the familiar image for the last time. A sharp sword instantly cuts off the head, and the body of the first martyr is thrown into the river. The second one approaches, the same thing happens. Third, fourth. People stand in a long queue for death, trembling, praying, however, crossing themselves, kiss the icons and, beheaded, fall into the river.

Until late in the evening, Orthodox Tbilisi residents went to Christ, washed themselves with blood and went to Heaven. No one spat on the icons. Jalal-ad-Din looked with amazement at the martyrs whom he had captured, but not enslaved.

Medieval Japan. European navigators discovered this island people, and discovered European civilization for the Japanese. The harbors are full of ships whose sails are decorated with a cross. Outlandish goods flood the country. A new faith is being preached. Europeans study the Japanese language, translate the Gospel into it. Many natives respond to the preaching of Christ and accept the new faith. Shoguns (rulers) favor this and even allow services and prayers in their castles. But soon the Japanese smell something is wrong. The success of the Catholic mission threatens to colonize the country. Religion can serve as an instrument of politics. In addition, the missionaries who flooded the country are not an example of Christian life. Representatives of different monastic orders are at war with each other. The Japanese make a radical decision - they expel all Europeans and forbid them to appear on the islands in the future. Japan has deliberately isolated itself from the rest of the world for many centuries. In this way, it will avoid the fate of many countries of Indochina and will never be a colony. But there are still many Japanese Christians inside the country. What to do with them? They decide to identify and destroy them.

Christians are identified in a special way.

It is clear to the shoguns that there are things that a Christian would not do under any circumstances. For example, he will not step on the icon of Christ. And so armed detachments go around the country and in every village offer people the same thing – to trample the image of the Savior under foot. The calculation turned out to be correct. Believers immediately reveal themselves as a categorical refusal.

A painful death awaited them all.

For Georgians and Japanese, for Greeks and Russians, for Orthodox Christians of any nationality, it has always been clear that Christ is not only the Word of the Father, but also the Image of the invisible God. It is not only His Book that must be honored, but also His Image. The icon is not identical with the nature of the Depicted, but is identical with His Person.

In the corner of my room hangs an icon of the Savior with a lamp burning in front of it. I often look at this image and am used to it. But today, remembering the martyrs, I look at the icon as if for the first time — and I see in it a shrine for which one can die.