Beauty

I want to follow on from my last reflection on creativity by reflecting on the theme of beauty.

For much of my early life, beauty was not a quality that my faith recognised or understood very deeply. I grew up in an active family, and my home church was more pragmatic in its approach to buildings. The only flourish of beauty in the church building was an off-white colour on the walls and a few banners with scriptures stitched on them. I don’t mean to deride this, but it was all I knew, apart from seeing the occasional stained-glass window on the rare occasions when we visited the parish church.

That began to change in my late twenties, when I started to appreciate beauty more in relation to my faith. I was visiting Zurich and seeing some of the Reformation churches, two of which stood out to me. The first was very plain, with clear glass windows. The second had stained-glass windows made by Marc Chagall in 1970–78. In seeing the contrast, I was captivated by Chagall’s windows, and in that experience, I began to understand the place of beauty and art in my faith.

Soon after, this was reinforced when I read NT Wright’s Surprised by Hope, which reflects on the theology around beauty, the place it can have in Christianity, and the place it has held over millennia.

Wright picks up the theology of Romans 8 and offers a vision in which Christian art can draw on both creation and new creation: ‘we are committed to describing the world not just as it should be, not just as it is, but – as by God’s grace alone! – one day will be.’ In other words, Christian art need not ignore the wounds of the world, but neither should it leave us without hope. He suggests that the nail marks in Jesus’ hands and feet after the resurrection offer an insight into Christian art: when both the wounds of the world and the promise of resurrection are expressed, it can offer a fresh new vision to the world around us.

For me, one striking and interesting example of this is the Knife Angel (below), which is touring the country and is made from confiscated and surrendered knives.

In seeing this sculpture, I’m reminded of Isaiah’s hope:

In the last days

the mountain of the Lord’s temple will be established

    as the highest of the mountains;

it will be exalted above the hills,

    and all nations will stream to it.

Many peoples will come and say,

“Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord,

    to the temple of the God of Jacob.

He will teach us his ways,

    so that we may walk in his paths.”

The law will go out from Zion,

    the word of the Lord from Jerusalem.

He will judge between the nations

    and will settle disputes for many peoples.

They will beat their swords into plowshares

    and their spears into pruning hooks.

Nation will not take up sword against nation,

    nor will they train for war anymore.

Come, descendants of Jacob,

    let us walk in the light of the Lord.

Though this artwork wasn’t created by Christians, it does provide a good example of artwork that holds together the pain of the present world and a positive hope for the future. For that reason, I think it is something we, as Christians, can appreciate and be inspired by.

Of course, many reading this reflection may already belong to a church or spiritual tradition that has given space for art and beauty, and that is wonderful.

Increasingly, church buildings are now designed for more than just functionality. Many try to include aesthetics that, at the least, connect with the beauty of creation, which points us to God. I even know of a church in Cambridge that has appointed a resident artist for one day a week to paint in the Wetherspoons Pub next door and exhibit in the church.

Very few of us have the resources to shape our buildings in this way or to appoint a resident artist. Yet perhaps there are smaller ways we can make space for beauty: in what we display, in how we use colour, in the words we choose, in the welcome we offer, or in the moments of stillness we create. These outward expressions matter, not because beauty is an end in itself, but because they can reflect something of God. Ultimately, the deepest beauty we have to offer is not found in its buildings or artwork but in lives shaped by the presence of Christ through the Holy Spirit.

So, as we enjoy this summer, may we also delight in the beauty of God's presence as he shapes and transforms us. And may we discover fresh ways to reflect that beauty—and the hope of God's new creation—to our communities and to everyone we meet.

Sam Abramian

Director, East of England