An icon of Peace in a Violent World

It’s a time of war, violence, and social instability. The government is hungry to expand its land holdings and consolidate its power. People are gripped by fear; it is unclear how far the ruling powers will go in their quest for domination or who will get caught in the crossfire. Nothing feels certain.  

Such was life in 15^th century Russia, the time and place occupied by the monk and iconographer Andrei Rublev. He lived during a time of intense conflict between regional powers. Armies from modern-day Mongolia frequently marched through the Russian countryside, while Muscovite leaders worked to consolidate power through the conquest of other surrounding Slavic territories. Rublev and his contemporaries lived through immense social and political upheaval; it was a time marked by political instability and fragmentation. 

Not much is known about the details of Rublev’s life. We don’t know about his youth, his early family life, or the contours of his faith. We know that he was born around 1360 and died in 1430 at the famed Andronikov Monastery near Moscow, aged about 70 years old. He spent most of his life inside monasteries, living in the quiet, daily rhythm of work and prayer. 

There is one other thing we know about Rublev: he was an extraordinarily gifted painter. Even his exact artistic portfolio is uncertain, though he is thought to have contributed to the painting of frescoes at multiple monasteries across Russia, most prominently the Dormition Cathedral in Vladimir. But Rublev is most famous for his icon called The Trinity, depicting the three angelic visitors received by Abraham in Genesis 18. This icon survives today, nearly 600 years after its creation, and is currently housed in Moscow’s Christ the Savior Cathedral. 

In Rublev’s rendering, the angels sit in a semi-circle around a low table, inclined toward one another with seeming gentleness and mutual attention. The image radiates peace; the faces of the three figures are serene, their bodies at rest. It is an image of a God whose inner life is marked not by domination or chaos, but by self-giving love and hospitality.

It is left to our imaginations to determine how Rublev may have understood or related to the instability of his time. Like anyone living through difficult times, he must have fretted and feared for himself and his community. He, too, must have experienced the disorientation of rapidly shifting political circumstances. But the testament that he left is a powerful one; Rublev cultivated beauty by creating works that testified to the God of radiant peace. For those of us now living through another difficult and uncertain time, Rublev offers an important model. 

Where are the places where we are called to cultivate beauty?

I think of my own life; I think of the rhythms of work and prayer I stumble through each day. Where am I called to cultivate beauty? I do not have the artistic skill of Andrei Rublev. But I have other opportunities. 

I think of my family’s daily rituals, such as learning to pray together over dinner, of books at bedtime, and of long, winding conversations in the car about God and the world with my young children. How big is God? my daughter asks me. If God made the whole world, why do bad and scary things happen sometimes? I wonder the same thing. 

What is the story I tell my children about our faith, about the vulnerable, self-emptying God who is making all things new? 

How does my life show them that I believe that God is re-making the world, planting seeds of new life that we are given to tend? 

It’s a day-by-day challenge, but when I look at Rublev’s The Trinity, I am heartened. One of the most striking elements of this icon is the open space at the front of the table. It seems like an invitation to the viewer. There is so much we can’t control in the world, but we can create spaces—homes, churches, communities—where the self-giving love of God is practiced, and beauty is made visible in small, tangible ways.