Ralph Waldo Emerson rhapsodized about nature (“Nature”), personifying and deifying it to the point where one can take his essay “Nature” and substitute the word “God” for “Nature,” and a reader little acquainted with Emerson’s writings might think that he was merely an extremely sentimental Christian. He was not alone in his idolatrous view of nature, for his position is centuries old. Nature has, to pagans, either held the allure and wonder of a lovely, mysterious deity, or the brutal, uncanny terror of an untamed force or irrational power. It has been worshiped, feared, studied and scorned in orthodox and pagan circles. It seems to be that if one is willing to look unwaveringly at the mystery, beauty and might of nature, one will be frightened and block it out, worshipful–and thus either idolatrous or attribute the glory to a higher being–or ignore the mystery and examine it with a quizzical passion that would lay bare the loveliness of the created world to the rules and calculations of science.
The Puritans, eager to see God’s glory and wisdom and beauty in all of the created world, delighted in the good things–food, possessions, knowledge, art, culture, etc. They saw good things as gifts from God, and believed that their job as His elect was to appreciate them in a redeemed manner, in a sacramental way. Good things of the world were not inherently bad, but inherently neutral. A perverted sinner would be bound to appreciate them in a perverted manner, but one who was “awakened” by the Spirit of God would seek to appreciate them in a manner that gave God the glory and would reveal something rich about Him to their souls.
Taking this a step further, the Puritan theologian Jonathan Edwards took the ancient approach to nature as a deity, and turned it on its head while still valuing beauty. His search for truth–and his discovery of it in God–lead him to see nature as glorious and full of mysterious beauty, but he did not allow himself to adore the good thing that beauty of nature is. His notion of the sacramental-ness of life wouldn’t allow him. Because he saw nature as sacramental, but not the Sacrament, he was able to freely delight in beauty, in serene landscapes, in gorgeous afternoons full of sunshine and stillness. His Emersonian-like raptures about nature in his Personal Narrative have a distinctly deeper tone of appreciation for the beauty he sees, because he sees God’s nature and loveliness displayed in them. For him, nature is seen in the Platonic sense, but enhanced by a close understanding of the Lord of Creation. Plato’s Nature is a shadowy reflection of higher, richer truths that are the true reality, and Edward’s nature is a clean, beautiful line pointing straight back to the Creator.
In C.S. Lewis’s “Meditation in a Toolshed,” he describes how he was shut in a toolshed, and a sunbeam cascaded in through a crack. He looked at the sunbeam, and it was bright and cheery, but it was not half as lovely as when he stepped into the sunbeam and looked along it, and through the crack saw the brilliantly bright summer day and the garden and the blazing glory of the sun itself. For Edwards, the good things of the world, and the beauties of nature in particular, were merely a sunbeam to be looked along to be dazzled by a glimpse of Christ Himself.
I’ve been thinking about this a great deal lately. Autumn is torching the trees along the walkways here at school and the frisky wind dashes the clean white clouds across a deep blue expanse stretched overhead. And I walk under it everyday. Most of my classes are all about the appreciation of words and how gifted people have used them to make beautiful things. I read these poems and essays and novels and stories, and their words permeate my existence. The other night I sat, transfixed, at the orchestra concert with tears brimming up and almost spilling over as the musicians played Holst’s Jupiter, and it was so beautiful I felt that my heart might break out of the fullness of how lovely it was. Monday night I was the honored beneficiary of a hug from a spritely, bright-eyed ballerina on her tiptoes–she and her slightly-more dignified sister giggled to find their babysitter in another setting. And just tonight I sat in the warm night air, musing into a bonfire under the stars while friends chatted and someone played guitar. Beauty and lovely things make up a great deal of the substance of life.
And I’ve been convicted to be deliberate in enjoying these good things, not just for themselves and the joy they can bring on their own, but to purposefully catch the moment, the sight, the taste, the sound, whatever it is, and to look along the beam–what is it that this points to about God? What can I learn or discover or remember? How can I consecrate the beauty as the Puritans did, and not shallowly idolize it like Emerson? I want to be sacramental in my view of the world. To see beauty and to see God in it and fall down in worship of Him because of it–that must be something quite close to His purpose in allowing us to have good things and beauty in the world. He redeemed us, and I think that it would follow quite naturally that He has also redeemed our ability to appreciate His world.
Eyes up. It’s time to look along the beam.
