Perhaps you, like me, have participated in discussions regarding beauty in the liturgy. Perhaps, also, it has been your experience that these conversations often devolve into superficial arguments about the right vestments to be used, the type of music that is appropriate, and whether or not we should hold hands at the Our Father. Of course, these discussions have a place, as nothing in the Christian liturgy should be seen as incidental. However, when the argument deteriorates into the “progressive” Catholics accusing the “traditional” Catholics of being out-of-touch, materialistic, and stodgy and the “traditionals” accusing the “progressives” of being touchy-feely, modernist, and iconoclastic, the point has been missed entirely.
In considering the role of beauty in the liturgy, I would like to look at beauty as more than merely aesthetics—rather as an unseen reality that finds expression in the visible. The invisible God is in Himself, Truth, Goodness, and Beauty, and yet we only know of these things through concrete manifestations. The Vatican II document Sacrosanctum Concilium states that within the Church “the visible [is directed and subordinated to] the invisible” (§ 2). The document does not say that what is visible is unimportant, arbitrary, or unnecessary, but only that what is visible must be ordered toward the invisible.
Humans are both physical and spiritual beings. It is natural for our brains to respond positively to that which is aesthetically pleasing, but we also know instinctively that true beauty is something that goes deeper than externals. If you were to show this picture of Mother Teresa to any number of people and ask them if them if it is beautiful, I think you would be hard-pressed to find someone who said no, not simply because people are afraid of being perceived as wicked, but because they actually perceive something beautiful in it, even if they have difficulty naming that beauty.
If this image is beautiful to us, we must concede that external beauty (at least as it is commonly defined by society) is not the only measure of true beauty. What we see here is a moment of love–a tender embrace, a concerned expression, a certain humble simplicity. And, of course, most people who see the iconic face of Mother Teresa immediately call to mind what they know of her: a life of service that witnessed to a great inner beauty.
If you were to perform a similar experiment with a picture of St. Damien of Molokai, you would perhaps have a different experience.
The natural instinct when looking on this picture of the leprosy-stricken Damien is probably pity, perhaps even disgust. While his story is somewhat known among Catholics, his face is likely not recognized by most (in contrast to the image of Mother Teresa). If, however, one is to learn Fr. Damien’s story–how he devoted his life to the care of the lepers of Molokai, how he offered hope to the outcast, how he sacrificed himself in service to others–perhaps, then, one would admit the image to be beautiful. The horrible deformities on his skin, the pained look on his face, the cage under his clothing, are all marks of love. As we learn his story, our idea of beauty shifts. The internal, invisible reality of sacrificial love that Fr. Damien lived out became incarnate through the scars borne on his body.
Beauty, then, it seems can present itself paradoxically. That which at first does not strike as beautiful can become so when paired with Truth and Goodness. This is what Christ shows us in the Eucharist; there is nothing spectacular or eye-catching in what appears to be a small circle of bread. And yet, we know in faith that it is through the liturgy that “the work of our redemption is accomplished” (SC §2). The invisible reality of our redemption, the highest love, the most beautiful Truth, is made visible in Christ.
This image is, by most standards, repulsive. There is nothing externally beautiful about a man covered in wounds, nearly naked, suspended by nails in his hands. Those of us who know the story, however, and have been touched by the reality it expresses, recognize the most profound beauty of this image. It is Beauty incarnate.
Christianity, in its own paradoxical way, asks us to reexamine our paradigm of beauty. It does not ask us to abandon what we know by instinct is beautiful–the symmetrical, the proportional, the grand. Rather, it asks that we expand our definition of beauty. It is not a matter of either/or, but both/and.
Is beauty necessary in Christian liturgical practice? If, by beauty, is meant our feeble (though admittedly important) efforts to add material beauty to the liturgy, then no. We should always strive for the externals of the liturgy to worthily express the unseeable reality; however, even the most transcendent painting, the most ethereal singing, the most beautifully orchestrated motions cannot amply express the beauty inherent in the work of our salvation. The most ornate and the most sparse liturgies are both beautiful, by virtue of the fact that we have partaken in the work of our salvation.
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