By Alethia Diener

In The Fellowship of the Ring, surprised at his trust for the mysterious Strider, Frodo tells the strange and rugged man he would expect a servant of Sauron to “seem fairer and feel fouler,” to which Strider responds, “I look foul and feel fair. Is that it? All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost.” Encapsulating one of the greatest themes of The Lord of the Rings—one that deeply rings true with the Christian gospel—Strider reminds us that sometimes truth and goodness are veiled in an unlikely form. From joyous Tom Bombadil’s power over the barrow-wight to Eowyn’s feminine power to destroy the Witch-King of Angmar, from the unkempt ranger’s role as king of Gondor to the humble hobbits’ role in the defeat of the Dark Lord, J.R.R. Tolkien emphasizes throughout his work that great honor is often due to the seemingly contemptible. This resonates with the heart of Jesus, whose birth was first announced to dirty shepherds, whose blessing was upon the meek, whose only harsh words were to prideful men who believed they had all the answers. In any discussion of beauty and aesthetic in Christian worship, it is imperative to remember that Our Lord Himself “had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him” (Isaiah 53:2).

Last spring, Clare Horvath published an essay in The Forum titled “A Defense of Beautiful Churches,” arguing that aesthetic beauty gives the human heart a taste of the beauty of God, leading one into deeper and truer worship. Aesthetic beauty should thus be prioritized in the making of a church because a beautiful place of worship brings greater glory to God. Her essay elegantly expresses the truth that we are made for beauty; mine seeks not to refute but to modify and add to this truth. Those who seek to glorify God in their churches must also remember that He is more honored by humility than by human glory, that He enters the most barren and broken hearts when they are opened to Him, and that extravagance can lead to a prideful attitude far more repulsive to Him than an ugly exterior.

Beautiful churches are good for us in a practical sense: they point us to the glory and majesty of Heaven, kindling a hunger for the eternal and perfect beauty for which we were created. They are thus in a very practical sense good for the worshipper, but they are unnecessary to God. He cares not so much where as how He is worshipped and appreciates a magnificent church only to the extent that it is a humble offering to Him, used to lift up the hearts of its members. There is no possible human expenditure of silver and gold, time and talent, that could provide a home fitting for His glory. “A church is not for us, but for God,” Clare argues; “If God is truly our Creator and the Lord of the whole universe, doesn’t He … deserve a beautiful house?” While this desire to glorify Him is admirable, we must remember that—precisely because He is our Creator and the Lord of the whole universe—we can never give Him a house as beautiful as He deserves. The reason religious art ought to be beautiful is actually for us: beauty draws the eye upward to God, reminding us of His glory, and is thus useful to lead us into worship. While it is good to create art that will remind its viewers of the glory of God, we must remember that its primary function is to serve our human weakness—for it certainly could never impress the Lord of the Universe. 

He cares not so much where as how He is worshipped and appreciates a magnificent church only to the extent that it is a humble offering to Him, used to lift up the hearts of its members.

The beauty of the Incarnation, in fact, is that Christ enters the darkest and lowliest of places to show His love to the undeserving. Even if it could, He does not expect this earth to provide Him a perfect home. He has that already in Heaven. The power of the gospel is that He was born in a dung-filled stable, healed the lepers, and ate with tax collectors. God’s presence in the lowliest places did not stop when He ascended to Heaven: the Lord who preached in fields and dirty marketplaces does not somehow now require glorious human ceremonies and artwork to appease Him. The same Word made flesh who spit on the dirt and healed a blind man’s eyes with the mud appears today on the altar—and does not care how gold-coated it is if the people receiving Him approach with hunger and faith. He lives now in a temple not built by human hands, living within broken people and calling them the temple of the living God (Acts 17:24, 2 Cor 6:16). In John 4, He assures the woman at the well that the location of worship is secondary to the heart worshipping in spirit and in truth. To worship in a cathedral instead of a gymnasium is a blessing to the believer because it forms the posture of the heart, but that humble posture is all that God is looking for. It is indeed possible to “look foul and feel fair,” just as it is possible to look fair but feel foul. As Samuel is told in reference to David, “Men look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart” (I Samuel 16:7). While it is true that, as Clare argues, we go into church not “to continue with everyday life, but to step out of it and partake in a heavenly mystery,” we must keep in mind that the only reason we can step out of the ordinary into Heaven is because Christ stepped out of Heaven into the ordinary. And if He was willing to be worshipped in a stable, He is perfectly comfortable being worshipped in a gymnasium.

The only reason we can step out of the ordinary into Heaven is because Christ stepped out of Heaven into the ordinary.

The great danger that concerns our own souls in the question of aesthetics in worship is falling into pride. As Hillsdale students, we discuss objective beauty often; most of us believe that certain paintings or pieces of music are objectively more beautiful than others, and that in some mysterious way this beauty reflects God. It is imperative to remember, however, that higher art does not always mean higher worship. What might be considered a trashy worship song, if sung in a heart of true faith, might be better worship than the most beautiful, breathtaking liturgy received in a heart of pride and judgment. Of course, the soul can be trained to appreciate beauty, and a spiritual life is enriched by high art, but this truth should never lead one believer to scorn another. If God does not hold in contempt any form of worship offered in a heart of love, neither should we. Clare is absolutely right that He deserves “the best that we can possibly give Him,” but the best that we can give Him is “a broken and contrite heart” (Psalm 51:17). In Mark 12, Jesus prefers the poor widow’s two small copper coins offered in faith to the lavish offerings of the prideful who give out of their wealth, and in Luke 18, He prefers the humble plea of the tax collector to the boasts of the regularly tithing and fasting Pharisee. He does indeed want our best, and our best is ourselves. While cathedrals are among my favorite places to be, and their beauty lifts up my soul to the Lord, some of the most powerful experiences of worship and healing I have ever witnessed took place in dirt-poor house churches in Mexico. Some of the happiest, holiest, most reverent people I have met worship on dirt floors rather than marble, under a flat, tin roof rather than a vaulted ceiling, with a portable keyboard rather than an elaborate organ. God takes whatever we have to offer; giving the best we have is not merely a financial or artistic exertion but is to fully, humbly offer ourselves in worship wherever we are. The prayer of a newly converted, sloppily dressed drug addict in a cinderblock church may well be more acceptable to God than the proud, complacent worship of a Pharisaical cradle-Christian comfortable in his dress shoes and slicked hair. 

God sees past exteriors. Throughout the Scriptures, He honors the hidden beauty, raises up the dirty, and speaks with the unclean. Like Aragorn, many churches—and, might I add, many Christians—appear impoverished on the outside but are full of life and goodness, power and healing on the inside. I challenge all those who appreciate high art to respond in humility and charity to those whose styles of worship they consider lower, remembering that Jesus made friends not with the pious, well-dressed, and well-educated Pharisees, but with the humble and lowly. With all love and respect for beautiful churches, I encourage all believers to remember that exterior beauty, while a good, is a lesser good—for God looks at the heart.

Alethia Diener is a freshman studying English and Religion.