When I first saw an icon, I immediately wanted to touch it. At the time, I was a graduate student at the University of Oregon, studying medieval poetry and, specifically, medieval myths about creativity. There is an art museum on campus that is, blessedly, right next to the library, so that when one’s eyes get tired of scanning page after page, you can easily hop over to look at some art. I didn’t take advantage of the museum as much as I could have, but when I heard that there was an exhibit on religious icons, I headed over immediately.

Now, I’m sure that I had seen icons before, so this wasn’t really the first time I had been in the presence of this particular type of religious art. Maybe it was all the medieval art I was studying, or that medieval literature is so far away in time and is mostly kept in museums in Europe (which, from Oregon, is pretty close to being halfway across the world!), but whatever the case, I was struck by the wall full of icons – all gold, red, yellow, and brown – covering the walls of a relatively small room in this museum. I was also struck by the fact that they were not behind glass, which surprised me as a student of medieval art that, too often, was destroyed because too many people got too close.

_{My personal wall of religious icons and other religious art}

I got too close, I’m sad to say. Nothing happened – no alarms went off, I didn’t smudge the icons with dirty fingers, nothing like that. But I think I got too close to things that should have been treated with more respect. I got right up close to them, so that my nose was almost touching them. I wanted to reach out and touch them, to feel their surface, to hold them in my hands and feel their weight. The fact that there was no glass or even much distance between me and the icons made me feel like I could. And this feeling and this closeness made these pieces of religious art only more real to me. And by “more real” I mean “more holy.”

I had a similar experience when I went to the Morgan museum to see the art pieces of J.R.R. Tolkien. Most people know Tolkien for his fantasy novels, but Tolkien was also a fairly accomplished painter. He was not much for drawing figures, but he excelled in landscapes, calligraphy, and geometric art. I particularly like his blues. Now, while most of Tolkien’s pieces (especially his written journals) were under glass, some of my favorites were not. Again, I got very, very close to these pieces, so close that I wonder that someone didn’t pull my away and chide me that I should treat these pieces with more respect. I remember the orange color of Smaug the dragon (a color that is never reproduced perfectly in books) and the blues of his original cover of the Hobbit and his painting of Taniquetil. These were not pieces of religious art, and from what I know of Tolkien, he probably would have been horrified at the idea of his work being compared to icons, but for me, who was in part called to a mature faith in God through Tolkien’s written work, getting a centimeter away from these paintings was a religious experience. I’ll never forget it.

_{The exhibit guide for the Morgan museum with Tolkien’s painting showcased on the cover}

There’s a part of the Eucharistic prayer when the priest is must touch the bread (or its container) and then the chalice or cruet containing the wine. This is actually one of the most important parts of the prayer and is one of the few places in the entire BCP’s liturgy where the priest is specifically directed to do something with their hands. It’s tradition, for instance, for the priest to hold their hands out at their sides (called the ‘orans’ or ‘praying’ position), but there’s nothing in the BCP that suggests that this must happen. A priest might as well put their hands on their heads or stand on one foot for all the BCP cares; but at a certain time the priest must touch the bread or bread container and must touch the chalice or cruet.

Part of the reason for this is that Christianity is, in part, a very material religion. God was incarnated as a human being, Jesus Christ, thus hallowing the material world in some way. Physical matter was shown to be able to bear the weight of God’s Glory. In fact, the reason we have icons and other depictions of God at all (unlike our Muslim siblings) is because of the Incarnation: pieces of art are little incarnations of God and the spiritual life. God was incarnated; therefore we are allowed incarnated art.

There’s something else, though. We Christians don’t just want to talk about Jesus. We don’t want to just think about him or pray to him – we want him right here, right now, for us to touch, hold, embrace. The mystics are adamant that they want to be in physical contact with God’s Incarnation. And we want this – to literally touch God – because that’s so often how we humans discern reality. Seeing isn’t believing; holding is believing.

Kids are like this, too. They show us what we adults might not always be comfortable admitting. When children come up to the Altar for Communion, they’re eager to take the bread into their hands. I can see it in the eyes of those children whose parents want them to wait until the age of reason to receive the Sacrament: they’re eager for it. Not just to see, but to hold. And not even just to hold, but to stick the bread in their mouth. Some children even reach out a grab the bread, and I’ve had to fight not a few babies away from sinking their fingers into a basket full of wafers! And it’s not just because the kids know this is food, and you eat food. They want to hold this bit of matter that has become divine.

Is that going too far? Am I assuming too much? I don’t think so. I think children recognize the divinity of the Sacrament. I’ve seen kids dive into bowls of candy around Halloween, and I’ve seen children turn up their noses at even the most mouth-watering plates of glorious desserts. I know when children are reaching out with their hands because their stomachs are thinking for them.

That’s not what’s going on with kids at the Eucharist, and I don’t think it’s what is going on when adults show the same eagerness. There is a reverence in how children and adult both approach the Altar. Kids might be giggling, or unsure, or shy, or trying to stand on their heads, but when they see the bread their eyes change. They know that they’re in the presence of something different. And whether that difference is the internal transformation of the bread into the essence of Jesus Christ or that Jesus is somehow “present” in that bread in another way, kids recognize this. And their first response is to want to reach out and hold that which they see: which is the full presence of their Savior and their eternal brother, father, parent, Creator in Heaven.