While Jesus was in Bethany at the home of Simon the leper, a woman came to him with an alabaster jar of very expensive perfume and poured it on his head while he sat at the table. But when the disciples saw this, they became irritated and said, “Why this waste? Surely this perfume could’ve been sold for a high price and the money given to the destitute.” But knowing this, Jesus asked them, “Why are you bothering the woman? She has done a beautiful thing for me. You’ll always have the destitute with you, but you’ll not always have me. (Matthew 26:6–11)
What do we mean by Liturgical Aesthetics?
The very term liturgical aesthetics might sound ambiguous. To some, it may appear overly narrow and technical; to others – overly broad and vague. Therefore, before approaching the core of the matter, it is worth sketching some boundaries – not as rigid definitions that constrain thought, but as initial orientations that help clarify the direction of our reflection.
In this context, liturgical does not refer exclusively to the Divine Liturgy, although that remains central. Rather, the term encompasses something broader: the entire liturgical reality in which the People of God collectively experience and express their faith.
Similarly, aesthetics in our discussion is not limited to the language of art history, which investigates the beautiful. We will touch upon its deeper meanings:
- In a philosophical sense – as an attempt to understand sensory perception not as something secondary or subordinate, but as a legitimate path to knowledge in its own right, one that complements – and at times even challenges – a purely rationalist worldview;
- In a theological sense – as the recognition of Beauty not merely as an aesthetic category, but as a profound ontological attribute of God, one through which God is revealed.
Thus, what is at stake are reflections on how the spiritual is mediated and perceived through the material – especially as this takes shape in the Ukrainian context of the Byzantine liturgical tradition.
Since I am not into dogmatic and automatic modes of thinking, I propose a format that privileges inquiry and invites shared creative exploration, rather than dispensing ready-made answers. For this reason, I will share living reflections rather than dry affirmations.
Form and Content
When we reflect on how our faith is expressed in the liturgical dimension, do we pay attention to what dominates our experience: form or content?
The problem is that, in actual church life, these two aspects often become separated. We either reduce everything to ritual perfectionism — where the main priority is not to make any mistakes and to perform everything according to the rubrics, even if this involves incomprehensible archaisms, such as prayers for the tsar before Matins — or, conversely, we simplify everything to the bare minimum, where what remains of the Liturgy is only Communion. And even this not as a shared remembrance of Christ’s event, but as an individual “act of consumption” — enter, queue, swallow, exit. Quick, convenient, efficient. And so it repeats, almost around the clock.
But perhaps the essence does not lie in choosing one and discarding the other? Perhaps true beauty is found in balance? For whenever one side dominates the other, distortion inevitably arises. And it is precisely here that the strength of the Byzantine tradition lies: it demands harmony.
One must admit that the Byzantine tradition is, in fact, quite demanding and impractical. So much is required for the full celebration of a single service — not to mention the sheer number and duration of all those services. Yet not everything in this world is to be measured by efficiency and utility. Pragmatism and rationality are, no doubt, powerful tools — but they are neither the only nor the self-sufficient modes of sober thinking, especially when it comes to realities such as personal relationships and liturgical art. And it is precisely these, I am convinced, that most vividly constitute the spiritual character of Eastern Christianity.
Insightful in this regard are the reflections of Fr. Dr. Yury Avvakumov on the place and role of various forms of art within worship, where he emphasizes their unity and harmonious integration within the liturgical cult. The fact that we now attempt to separate them, treating them as independent external elements that are merely combined in the Liturgy, is, in his words, “our imperfection, the result of a rupture in the original harmony of the cult, a consequence of its modern reconfiguration, reinterpretation, and secularization”1.
He argues that rite is not merely an outward expression of faith but an essential part of it; and that sacred art is not simply a secondary embellishment, a kind of “aesthetic form of expression2” for important theological ideas, but rather their direct embodiment and making-present. He vividly illustrates his point with metaphors that highlight the interrelation between rite and theology — where the rite is not “a wrapper for a candy,” but rather “a cabbage,” whose very leaves constitute its substance3.
I must note that this line of thought deeply resonates with me, especially when considered in light of the foundational principles of Hans Urs von Balthasar’s theological aesthetics, chief among which is the relationship between form and content — their essential correspondence and mutual expressiveness. Nearly the entire first volume of his Theological Aesthetics corpus is devoted to elucidating the claim that there is no essence without some form of outward manifestation, and conversely, every manifestation presupposes the presence of an underlying foundation4.
In other words, what we perceive (form) always carries within it something more (content). Without this inner essence, the outward appearance would be hollow; and without external expression, the essence would remain invisible and unintelligible. What is most crucial in all of this is how Eternal Beauty — that is, the beauty of God, His glory, His very essence — becomes visible to us through concrete form5.
The foundation and guiding reference for this is the Mystery of the Incarnation of Christ. Form does not surpass essence, nor does it obscure it, but it is proportionate to it to the extent necessary for perception to be truly possible. “One who is not illumined by the form will see no light in the content either”6 — this is not a threat, but rather an invitation to seek the middle path, both at the level of intellectual apprehension and of sensory experience.
In the same vein, I would like to point out a particular feature of liturgical art — namely, that the distinction between “high” and “applied” art is always inappropriate in this domain. Take, for instance, iconography or liturgical chant. These forms inevitably possess a functional dimension and cannot exist as ends in themselves. And yet their very purpose is of such a nature that it elevates them to the level of the truly sublime in an absolute sense.
What we are speaking of is prayer — communion with God and the knowledge of God — where these artistic forms function as mediators,a kind of wire bridges that help to reveal the divine presence and orient the faithful toward the Archetype. Thus, they become integral to this process. This is not to say, of course, that prayer is impossible without them; but to those for whom a Gnostic worldview is alien, it seems evident that under ordinary circumstances, these artistic mediators play a vital role in the liturgical life and spiritual experience of the Church.
Perhaps this will be especially evident to my fellow artists. The very act of creation is an inseparable part of prayer, an expression of faith by a person who is ecclesially rooted, who lives a spiritual life and maintains deep personal communion with God (though, of course, exceptions exist — but let us focus here on the ideal). When one’s subjective experience, reinterpretation, and expression of a given spiritual reality is shaped by the stream of ecclesial tradition, in accord with Scripture and Tradition, then it necessarily attains objective value. It becomes, in perception, a kind of resonator — amplifying and clarifying the dynamics of synergy, mutual exchange, and self-giving in communal prayer.
Let us be attentive
The question I now invite us to contemplate is this: how often — if ever — during the liturgy do we experience the feeling expressed by the apostles on Mount Tabor: “It is good that we are here!”(Mt 17:4; Mk 9:5; Lk 9:33)? And this is clearly not about mood, fantasy, or self-suggestion, but about the conscious experience of an authentic encounter. A calm and sober sense of reverence, gratitude, belonging, dedication, and awe. It is distinct from an overly emotional, agitated, or even fanatical exaltation.
Yet there is also an opposite extreme — when religious feeling is almost entirely absent or becomes very weak. The first type — emotional hypertrophy — is more often found in rural parishes, where people may engage with religious events in a deeply emotional way. The second type — dullness or loss of religious sensibility — is more typical of urban residents, where the rhythm and environment of city life often contribute to spiritual indifference.
This tendency is particularly characteristic of the modern secularized and pragmatic world, in which many people enter a church as though it were a service center, thinking in transactional terms (in case of more engaged individuals), or as a kind of cultural relic — to pay tribute to tradition or admire a historical monument. In each of these polarized distortions, perception becomes skewed, hindering proper expression — and vice versa. And this concerns the clergy no less than the laity.
I would hope that more communities would incline toward the “golden mean,” yet the very fact that such communities do exist is already a great joy in itself. At the same time — and somewhat paradoxically — it is precisely within such environments that certain new iconoclastic tendencies sometimes emerge. These are often motivated by good intentions: the rational optimization of liturgical life, an effort to make it more accessible, concise, and less burdensome for the modern person. It may also be an attempt to distance oneself as much as possible from Muscovite cultural codes (although it is absurd to equate the Byzantine tradition solely with those codes) and to identify more closely with Western ones.
Such tendencies are increasingly beginning to affect not only the stylistic expression but also the content and manner of performing the liturgy. Some perceive the chanting of stichera and troparia as superfluous; others worry that wall paintings may “distract” from highly spiritual prayer. Perhaps this is true for certain individuals. Yet more often such excessive rationalization merely limits the experience, and instead of a transformative and holistic encounter, the individual is left with a dry, moralistic lecture. Often, a single beautiful poetic sticheron communicates the meaning of a feast far more fully and vividly than another formulaic, prosaic sermon.
The argument in favor of “white walls” in church space deserves particular attention. It is true that in today’s world, visual culture has become dominant and aggressive. But does the elimination of visual elements in the church truly help to focus attention on prayer? It seems that both psychological and spiritual dynamics suggest otherwise. Researchers of the psycho-emotional impact of color claim that an overwhelming presence of white in one’s surroundings overstimulates and irritates the senses, hindering focus and sustained attention7.
This is confirmed by empirical experience: for most of us, a large white space may, for a brief moment, evoke a sense of elevation or detachment from the ordinary world. But with prolonged exposure, memory and imagination inevitably become active: instead of unobstructed focus on prayer, we find our attention constantly shifting between various memories, fantasies, concerns, and a mass of informational clutter that accumulates in our minds throughout the day — most of it in the form of images.
From a spiritual perspective, positive engagement is always more effective than negation. Therefore, it is far more fruitful to focus attention with the help of concrete, visible images that direct thoughts and feelings toward God, than by attempting to eliminate entirely any “external distractions.” Moreover, icons by their very nature and purpose are intended to ground rather than “launch into orbit.” This is why preference is given to natural colors and figurative forms.
The icon, like Christianity as a whole, is not about fanciful escapism or distraction from harsh reality. Rather, it is about a conscious, personal turning toward the Incarnate God (or a saint), and standing in truth before Him — in the body, in a specific context, here and now. And this, ultimately, is a foretaste of eternity.
Instead of a Conclusion
The topic of liturgical aesthetics in the contemporary Ukrainian context within the bounds of the Byzantine tradition encompasses a far greater range of aspects and nuances than can be addressed in full. In this article, I have been able to touch on only a few of the most foundational questions and challenges, seeking to remind us why beauty holds such significance for our rite.
Through these reflections on expression and perception, on the relationship between form and content, and on attentiveness to the essential details of authentic liturgical prayer, I hope to inspire and encourage readers toward their own contemplation and search. May discernment and sobriety, attentiveness and wisdom, love and generosity, and the harmonious relationship between theoretical knowledge and lived experience always serve as the guideposts and driving forces of that search.
Olha Subbotina
- Юрій Аввакумов. Чи є літургія «синтезом мистецтв»? «Обряд», «ритуал», «культ» у богословських та культурно-антропологічних дискусіях ХХ ст. // Καλοφωνια 4 (2008) 32.
- Юрій Аввакумов. Чи є літургія «синтезом мистецтв»? // Καλοφωνια 4 (2008) 35.
- Юрій Аввакумов. Чи є літургія «синтезом мистецтв»? // Καλοφωνια 4 (2008) 35-39.
- Cf. Hans Urs von Balthasar, The Glory of the Lord. A Theological Aesthetics, vol. 1: Seeing the Form, San Francisco – New York, 1989, pp. 494–495. Of course, Balthasar is a Roman Catholic thinker and thus not directly connected with the Byzantine tradition; however, in this case, I propose referring solely to foundational principles that possess a universal character.
- Cf. Hans Urs von Balthasar, The Glory of the Lord. A Theological Aesthetics, vol. 1: Seeing the Form, San Francisco – New York, 1989, p. 29.
- Hans Urs von Balthasar, The Glory of the Lord, p. 125.
- See Dagny Thurmann-Moe, How the colors around you impact your mood, TEDx Talks, www.youtube.com (accessed February 22, 2025).
