This icon of the Mother of God is found in the Church of Nativity at Bethlehem. Here, we see some of the pilgrims who have lined up to venerate the icon. There is a glass over the icon to protect it from lipstick, smudged hands, incense smoke and candle soot. But the glass provides another possibility. Did you notice, the glass acts as a mirror. The fellow who is second in line, sees himself even before he sees the icon. There it is: when I approach the holy, I see myself, invited to ask the essential question before God — Who am I?
I can settle for a host of exterior identifiers, some silly: I am an American, a parishioner, a denomination, the wearer of brands and labels, my likes and dislikes, a Democrat/Republican/Independent, a consumer, the driver of this or that vehicle, who abides at this address, my credit card limits, my stock portfolio, the roles I assume. Nah!
Here's a little meditation. I might imagine myself taking a place on the pilgrim line. And when I find myself at the head of the line, perhaps with candle in hand and a prayer to see myself clearly by its light, I ask...
Who am I?
I am imagined into existence,
conceived,
brought to birth,
passed through water a second time,
en-spirited,
gifted.
I am
God's child,
mirrored in divine eyes,
Christ's friend and sibling,
Mary's dear one,
treasured.
I am
without a mask,
known,
still standing and
leaned in, in a world of woes.
I am
an interior world,
forgiven and freed,
held up,
held close,
watched, but by loving eyes.
I am
spent and frayed,
healed and healing,
understood,
trusted,
invited,
created for light,
awaking.
