Icons of the new creation.

My friend and I visited an Orthodox cathedral in Manhattan today — small, cozy, every surface finished in wood. We had come for the vigil of Pentecost, and the floor of the church was strewn with leaves, scattered for the feast.

The iconostasis towered over us. Behind it, against the apse, was an icon of the Platytera, the Mother of God more spacious than the heavens, and ranged around her stood the patriarchs and prophets to the right, the matriarchs and prophetesses to the left. At the very top, above her, a small semicircle had been opened, and through it a hand reached down in the form of a blessing — as though God were leaning out of his own light to bless the whole of his creation.

There were no pews, as in many Orthodox churches, so the people moved freely, praying, reverencing the icons, lighting their candles.

At some point during the liturgy, two small children — a brother and a sister, neither older than three — were crawling on the floor. They played in the leaves and babbled to each other, and eventually the girl began to cry, on account of her brother, most likely.

And without warning or intent, I began to weep. The tears came up and ran down my face before I had decided anything about them. Something in it seemed right — right in the cosmic sense.

I was surrounded by the icons of the saints, with Christ dwelling in the sanctuary behind the screen, the prophets and patriarchs gathered at the wall, the Queen of Heaven enthroned, and above it all that small aperture through which God looked down on the worship below. The sanctuary was set apart; the assembly moved freely in the nave. And in the middle of it, the children played in the leaves.

I imagined that God saw all of it and delighted in it, with a joy no human language can hold. His creation was doing what it was made to do. The men and women were being human at full intensity — worshipping, praying their needs and hopes and fears. The children were being human as children are meant to be: innocent, playful, making their small noise even through the chanting of the psalms. They played in the leaves. Just as the first man and woman did.

And I choked the tears back, and kept myself from weeping.

The whole of the cosmos was held in that icon that was the church and its liturgy. Everything was right.