Read any Christian theology on the topic of beauty, and sooner or later, you’re likely to hear this anecdote from ancient Greece, a catechism-style query addressed to the philosopher Anaxagoras.
Someone once asked Anaxagoras, ‘To what end are you in the world?’ Anaxagoras replied, ‘To behold the sun, moon, and sky.’ 1
In our day, some might describe the desire to behold as the desire to be ‘fully present’ in and to the world. In truth, the philosopher spoke of a desire deeper than presence—he sought to perceive the whole of things, and in so perceiving, to be a witness to the wonder of the cosmos.
Anaxagoras may have sought to behold the beauty of the cosmos, but he did not perceive that creation is a temple–that all created things are means to glorify the Lord who made them.
Thirst More Intense Than Hunger
Being made in the image and likeness of God, we crave the beauty of the Lord. Paul Evdokimov notes that the Greek version of Genesis 1 conveys a different meaning regarding the word ‘good.’ In Hebrew each day concludes with ‘And God saw that it was good.’ But the Greek meaning of ‘good’ also means ‘beautiful.’ Thus, in Greek, one could say each day concludes with ‘And God saw that it was beautiful.’2 We crave the beauty of the Lord because this is our first nature. Each day had its own unique quality of God’s beauty. The first five days of creation were days of creating this beauty so that man and woman would behold a cosmos full of glory. Though our nature (and creation itself) became corrupted by the Fall, the craving for beauty was never lost.
Think of a child’s cry soon after birth. A child desires its mother—her voice, her presence, her embrace. And soon the child will feel the pangs of hunger. Then the child cries a different cry. As every mother know, different cries mean different needs. We yearn to be fed, not only to sustain our bodies. We yearn to be fed with the beauty of God in our souls.
But perhaps hunger isn’t the most accurate way to describe this yearning for beauty. In the seventh century, St John Climacus said, ‘Hunger makes itself felt only gradually and vaguely, but the raging of intense thirst is unmistakable and intolerable. No wonder the person who longs for God cries, ‘My soul thirst for God, for the living God.’3 St Augustine tells us that this thirst is not abstract. The eyes are a portal of spiritual thirst:
Your inward eye is preparing to see the light. Your inward thirst burns to be quenched at the spring.4
The Glance Is Not Enough
Our frenzied, hurried culture rejects the invitation to behold, seeking instead quick hits of wonder. We have become people who may glance at art or natural beauty, but seldom will we practice the patience required to gaze. We may have a jolt of wonder witnessing an autumn sunset, a ridge top view, a shimmering river, but we have been formed to think of capturing the moment rather than witnessing the sight. Snap a photo on the phone, maybe it’s Instagram worthy, maybe not. Can this be useful to me now? Wow, that was lovely, now what’s next? We glance at beauty, but we do not see.
I write this meditation at the height of autumn in Tennessee. I have been captivated by maples for the past month or so. As a woodworker, I’ve seen how the grain of maple has a loveliness altogether different from the strength of oak or walnut. The radiance of maple trees have captivated my eyes and my soul on walks through nearby forests and ridge tops. Have I ever noticed the stages of change—from green to light green to yellow to orange—in a sugar maple? There is a silent word (Psalm 19) spoken in these stages of transformation, and it draws my mind to St. Paul’s words to the Corinthians that ‘we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another.’5. Autumn gives us signs of a much greater transfiguration. St. Paul’s promise is not simply an idea, a word of truth. The same truth exists in parabolic form along McAnally Ridge, one mile from my home.
The Jesuit priest and poet Gerard Manley Hopkins spoke about the ‘inscape’ of created things. Inscape was a word Hopkins coined to speak about the interior qualities of a creature. The unique essence of a creature’s makeup—its inscape—reveals something of its Maker. This was an idea that wasn’t original to Hopkins; it was a profound teaching among the church fathers. Whereas Hopkins spoke of inscape, the Fathers spoke of the divine logoi. More on this in another post…
Perceiving the inscape of a tree, a bird, a river, requires patient attention. Deep seeing does not come instantly. Meaningful encounters cannot be commanded or forced.
Think about the most important conversations of our lives. These do not usually unfold in a single moment or even a single sitting. The most affecting conversations usually involve a slow turning over, a back and forth between speaker and listener. The etymology of ‘conversation’ derives from the Latin convertete, meaning ‘turn around, transform.’ Conversations are words and silence turning over, taking turns. The transformation takes place in the series of exchanges.
In the act of beholding beauty, I participate in a conversation with Christ, the First-born of creation, and one of his created works. As one who beholds, I seek to behold, not only for my own sense of wonder, a sentiment from which I benefit. I long to behold to adore Christ in his Creation.
Possession vs Worship
Apart from Christ, the desire to behold beauty can be a selfish instinct. After all, Dostoyevsky said ‘even nihilists love beauty.’ 6 Part of the problem with a culture of the glance is that we seek to possess beauty for our experiences rather than adorethe Maker of all Beauty. Seeking to possess something for our usefulness—even if that is a desire to relieve stress and have emotional uplift —falls short of worship. There is joy to be found in gazing on beauty, still waters will restore the soul, but beholding the grandeur and majesty of God’s beauty must transcend my own needs. We find our greatest joy and peace when we return the sights and sounds of beautiful things as offerings to worship Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
In Anglican liturgy, there is a brief call and response in the Liturgy of the Word that I’ve adopted when gazing upon beauty in creation. Before the deacon reads the Gospel, the congregation responds with the words, ‘Glory to you, Lord Christ.’ When I encounter the beauty of the Gospel in creation, it’s become my custom to speak that Gospel response to the Lord. Wherever I encounter his loveliness, my delight is not the highest good. Without praise, the encounter feels incomplete. I want to convert my delight into a sacrifice of worship, offered on the altar of my heart.
When I behold the stillness of a meadow moments after sunrise: glory to you, Lord Christ.
When I behold the soaring heights of elm trees; when I find delight in the new growth of maple saplings not higher than my waist: glory to you, Lord Christ.
When a breeze brings the gentle collision of limbs and I hear the applause of the canopy above: glory to you, Lord Christ.
When I behold a family of turtles enjoying the warmth of the sun along a fallen trunk, then leaping into the river for a swim: glory to you, Lord Christ.
When a draft of rosemary and lavender intertwine like harmony: glory to you, Lord Christ.
Anaxagoras had a good beginning, but he did not see the end of all beauty. For the end, the telos, the highest good of all Beauty is the Beautiful One, the Maker of All Things—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
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