An Eleousa icon shows the Mother of God and Christ Child cheek to cheek. It’s called the “Virgin of Tenderness” because that’s exactly what you see, tenderness between mother and child, divine mercy made visible.
The word comes from the Greek eleos, which means mercy. When you stand before an Eleousa icon, you’re looking at God’s mercy in human form. The infant Christ presses close to his mother’s face. She inclines her head toward him. Sometimes he grasps her veil or touches her face. Sometimes she holds him with both arms wrapped around him. It’s intimate in a way that stops you.
This is different from other types of Theotokos icons you’ll see in an Orthodox church. The Hodegetria type, for instance, shows Mary holding Christ more formally, pointing to him as the way of salvation. She’s presenting him as teacher. The Eleousa shows something else entirely. Here she’s embracing him, and he’s embracing her back. It’s the Incarnation at its most human, God didn’t just take flesh, he nursed at his mother’s breast and rested his head against her cheek.
You’ll find an Eleousa icon on the north side of the iconostasis in most Orthodox churches, including here at St. Michael. It’s placed there deliberately. When the priest censes the icons during Matins, when we sing “Let us honor and magnify in song the Theotokos and the Mother of light,” we’re acknowledging her role as the one who shows us God’s mercy. She held mercy in her arms. She knows what it means to be human because she lived it fully, and she knows what it means to hold God because she did that too.
The theological weight of these icons is substantial. Christ wears a himation, an adult’s robe, even though he’s depicted as an infant. The iconographer is showing you that this child is the eternal Word. He’s the “Never-setting Sun” clothed in flesh. But he’s also genuinely a child, genuinely held, genuinely loved by his mother. The two natures, fully God and fully man, meet in this tender embrace. It’s Chalcedonian Christology painted on wood.
When you pray before an Eleousa icon, you’re asking for that same mercy. We say, “Through the intercession of the Most Holy Theotokos, O Savior, save us.” We’re not praying to Mary as if she were divine. We’re asking her prayers the way you’d ask your grandmother to pray for you, except she’s the Theotokos, the one who bore God himself. Her intercession carries weight because of who she is and who she held.
The most famous Eleousa icon is probably the Vladimir Mother of God, though there are hundreds of variations throughout Orthodox tradition. Ancient Faith sells reproductions if you want one for your home. But you don’t need to own one to pray before one. Just come to church. Stand before the icon on the north side of the iconostasis. Kiss it. Light a candle. Ask her to pray for you.
People from Baptist backgrounds sometimes struggle with this at first. It feels like too much attention to Mary. But we’re not worshipping her. The Seventh Ecumenical Council settled this question in 787. We venerate icons, we don’t worship them. There’s a difference, and it matters. When you kiss an icon of the Theotokos, you’re showing honor to the woman God himself honored by choosing her to bear him. You’re showing love to the mother of the one you worship.
The tenderness in these icons isn’t sentimental. It’s not Hallmark card sweetness. It’s the tenderness of the Incarnation itself, God so close to us that a young woman from Nazareth could hold him, feed him, sing him to sleep. That’s the mercy we’re asking for when we stand before an Eleousa icon. We want God that close. We want to be held like that, known like that, loved like that. And the good news is that he wants it too. That’s why he came.
