Glory to Jesus Christ, dear brothers and sisters in Christ!
Today, the Holy Church ushers us into the first Sunday of Great Lent—the Sunday of the Triumph of Orthodoxy. And this is no coincidence. At the very beginning of the spiritual journey of Lent, the Church reminds us of the most important thing—the truth of our faith.
There are Sundays that ring like a bell in the silence. It is as if the Church deliberately stops us on the threshold of Great Lent and says: before you start “correcting yourself” — remember Who you are and Whose image you bear. That is why the first Sunday of Lent is called the Sunday of the Triumph of Orthodoxy — and that is why it is so closely connected with icons.
At first glance it may seem strange: why at the start of Lent, when we expect to talk about abstinence, repentance and prayer, does the Church suddenly put an icon in the center? But this is only at first glance. Because an icon is not a “decor” of faith. An icon is a test of whether we truly believe in the Incarnation, whether Christ for us is not an idea, but the Living God, Who has become visible.
And, probably, you have heard (or thought yourself) more than once:
“Why do you need icons? Do you worship wood and paint?”
Let's try to figure it out - humanly, with respect for the question, but also theologically accurate.
The Sunday of the Triumph of Orthodoxy is a historical memory of the victory over iconoclasm and the restoration of icons in churches. After tumultuous decades in Byzantium, when icons were destroyed and their defenders were persecuted, in 843 the Church solemnly proclaimed the return of icons and established an annual celebration on the first Sunday of Great Lent. Since then, the main theme of this day has been “the victory of icons.”
But the Church does not simply “remember history.” She places this remembrance at the beginning of Lent, because Lent is not a marathon of self-control or a “detox.” Lent is a return to the truth about oneself:
I am created in the image of God—and this image within me needs to be restored.
One subtlety is important here: in the Christian tradition, there is a clear distinction between worship of God and veneration (reverential respect). An icon has never been a “substitute for God.”
The Seventh Ecumenical Council (Nicaea, 787) formulated a principle that became the key to the whole issue:
“The honor given to the image passes to the prototype” — that is, the honor goes not to the material, but to the Person depicted in the icon.
The Catholic Catechism speaks very simply and strongly: the veneration of icons is justified by the mystery of the Incarnate Word, for with the coming of Christ “a new 'economy' of images is established.”
In other words: an icon does not take away the glory from God. On the contrary, it testifies that God is so real that he entered into visibility and matter, and therefore can be depicted.
If you listen to this protest (“wood and paint”), often underneath it lies not anger, but the fear of making a mistake: “what if this turns you away from God?” This is very human.
But the Church responds unexpectedly:
An icon is needed not because God is “far away,” but because God is “near.”
Because Christ is not an abstraction. He has a face. He entered history, touched human pain, cried, suffered, and was resurrected. If He truly became man, then the image does not humiliate faith, but protects it from being diluted.
Therefore, the Sunday of the Triumph of Orthodoxy is the day when the Church proclaims anew:
Christ is true God and true man.
And we are not ashamed of what is visible, because salvation did not occur “in thoughts,” but in the flesh, in the blood, in reality.
A person gets tired of abstractions. We can repeat the correct formulas for a long time, but inside we remain cold. And here a strange thing happens: sometimes one look at an icon does what hundreds of words could not do.
Because an icon is not just a “picture.” It is a stop. It is the moment when the mind stops running, and the heart finally catches up with the soul. It is like a “window” through which silence enters our noise.
An icon does not replace prayer. It often becomes the place where prayer finally begins.
And here is the main twist of this Sunday.
The Church commemorates the victory over iconoclasm not to say: “We once won.” She says: the icon is you. Man is created in the image of God. But sin, trauma, insults, addictions, despair — all this can “smoke out” the image so that we do not recognize ourselves.
Therefore, the first Sunday of Lent is like a mirror:
What does God's image look like in me now?
Are my thoughts Christlike? Do my words heal or hurt? Is my outlook merciful or harsh? Can I tell that God exists?
Fasting is not given to make us “more correct,” but to make us more alive—to renew our hearts, to purify our gaze, to return us to the Father.
The triumph of Orthodoxy is not a museum memory. It is a triumph that either happens within me or it doesn't.
When we enter the temple and approach the icon, we seem to say:
“Lord, I want Your image to become visible in me again.”
And then worship before the icon becomes not a gesture “towards the board,” but a movement of the soul toward God.
That is why the Church places icons at the beginning of Great Lent:
so that we may begin the path of repentance not with self-blame, but with hope.
Because we can restore our image.
Because Christ came precisely for this purpose.
May this first Sunday of Lent be a quiet but strong beginning for us: not only to venerate the icons in the temple, but to protect and purify the icon of God within ourselves.
Amen. Glory to Jesus Christ!
