We use incense because the Bible tells us to, and because our prayers need to rise somewhere visible.
When you walk into an Orthodox service for the first time, the smell hits you before anything else. That sweet, smoky scent clinging to your clothes afterward. The priest swinging what looks like a golden lantern on chains, smoke billowing out in clouds. If you grew up Baptist in Southeast Texas, this probably feels foreign. Maybe even a little uncomfortable.
But incense isn’t some medieval addition we can’t shake. It’s woven straight through Scripture, from the tabernacle in Exodus to the throne room in Revelation.
What the Bible Says
God commanded Moses to build an altar specifically for burning incense in the tabernacle. Not optional. Not decorative. Required. Exodus 30 gives detailed instructions about keeping incense burning continually before the Lord. The Psalms make the connection explicit: “Let my prayer be counted as incense before thee, and the lifting up of my hands as an evening sacrifice” (Psalm 141:2).
The smoke rises. So do our prayers.
In Revelation, St. John sees this same reality from heaven’s side. The elders hold golden bowls full of incense, “which are the prayers of the saints” (Revelation 5:8). An angel takes incense and adds it to the prayers of all the saints on the golden altar, and the smoke ascends before God (Revelation 8:3-4). We’re not making this up or being theatrical. We’re doing what Scripture shows us.
What It Means
The incense does several things at once. It represents our prayers rising to God, you can see them going up, which matters when you’re trying to teach your heart what prayer actually is. It purifies the space, sets it apart, makes the church building what it’s supposed to be: holy ground. When the priest censes the icons, the Gospel book, the altar, he’s honoring Christ present in these things. When he censes the people, he’s honoring the image of God in you.
It’s also just beautiful. And beauty isn’t extra in Orthodox worship. God told Moses exactly how to make the tabernacle beautiful, down to the colors of the curtains and the design of the lampstand. We’re not Gnostics who think the physical world doesn’t matter. The incense engages your nose, your eyes, your body. You can’t pretend you’re just a disembodied soul when the smoke is making you cough a little.
There’s something else. In the Old Testament, incense was used for atonement. When plague broke out among the Israelites, Aaron ran into the middle of it with his censer, and the plague stopped (Numbers 16:46-47). The incense stood between the living and the dead. We don’t think about this much, but it’s there in the background every time the censer swings.
What It Isn’t
Incense isn’t magic. It’s not there to create atmosphere or make things feel mystical. We’re not trying to manufacture an experience. The prayers said over the incense are specific: “We offer Thee incense, O Christ our God, as an odor of spiritual fragrance.” It’s an offering, like everything else in the Liturgy.
And we’re not innovating. The early Church used incense from the beginning, taking the practice straight from the Jerusalem temple and understanding it through Christ. St. John Chrysostom wrote about it. So did St. Ephrem. This isn’t some Orthodox quirk. It’s what Christians did before the Reformation convinced Western Christians that simpler was holier.
In the Service
You’ll see the priest or deacon (usually the deacon if the parish has one) put incense on hot coals in the censer before key moments in the service. He’ll cense the altar, walk around censing the icons, cense the people. The smoke rises in clouds, catches the light coming through the windows. If you’re standing in the right spot, you can watch it climb toward the dome.
It gets in your hair. Your coat will smell like it for days. Some people love this. Others find it overwhelming at first, especially if you’ve got allergies or asthma (talk to the priest if it’s a real problem, we can work with that). But over time, that smell becomes the smell of church. The smell of prayer. You’ll catch a whiff of it somewhere random, a Catholic funeral, maybe, or a Greek festival, and something in you will recognize it as home.
The incense is doing what it’s always done. Rising. Filling the space. Making something invisible, our prayers, God’s presence, the reality of heaven touching earth, just visible enough that we can’t pretend it’s not happening.
Next time you’re at Liturgy, watch where the smoke goes. Up toward the dome, toward the icon of Christ Pantocrator looking down. That’s where your prayers are going too. The incense just lets you see it.
