Telos of Beauty

As with any aesthetic delight that temporarily nourishes the soul, beauty itself will not benefit us in the long run if it does not get us to its final end. – Matthew Capps

Being confronted with the wonderful thrusts us into the very center of the awe-inspiring. It is a journey—or rather, a rhythm—that every human being, I will later argue, ought to undertake. Yet so many of us take it for granted, or worse, reduce it to the level of a mere vacation. With so much to say, I should stay on the tracks: life is sensational, even euphoric. Seen as a gift from a Gift-Giver, life changes how we look at everything and everyone—a distinction that must be fought for in our modern times.

Human beings, among the very few creatures capable of experiencing wonder, beauty, and the sublime affectively and enthusiastically, often stop short of the destination. We miss what it’s all about. We miss the point—the telos.

Time spent in the outdoors is not for the sake of each moment; rather, each moment is for something else. These flashes of splendor are trail markers pointing beyond the sublime. To take “advantage” of these moments in the pejorative sense—reducing them to mere indulgence—is a moral failing. When fly fishing becomes merely about our own gratification, we stop painfully short of its true purpose. I don’t mean to diminish the healing that many of us first find through the sport. But even here, we often settle for less than the real reward. And to be clear, I don’t think the journey ever ends. No matter what conclusions we reach about anything, learning and growth and glory have depths we will never reach the bottom of.

I don’t have the space here—though a podcast series is coming soon—to dive deeply into the science and philosophy of wonder, awe, and beauty. But suffice it to say that those of us who have tasted anything in this extraordinary world intuitively know something about the sublime. And we also know that when these experiences hit us most profoundly, they awaken gratitude. But then arises a question: to whom are we grateful?

G. K. Chesterton once wrote that gratitude is the highest form of thought. And he was right: it is absurd to thank the forest, or the stream, or the universe. These things are not personal. They have no intentions toward us. There always seems to be—at least in my experience—a somebody behind the moment, a willful generosity that evokes gratitude. A trout does not voluntarily place itself on my fly. And anyone who has fly-fished honestly will confess over coffee that we’ve had entire days of effort with nothing to show for it. It seems trivial, then, to “thank the trout” when we do catch one.

Researchers in the science of emotion have uncovered something striking about wonder. In the book AWE, they admit that awe contradicts the dominant materialistic, evolutionary view that emotions are merely tools for propagating our genes. Why? Because experiencing awe reliably produces humility, gratitude, and a sense of the “small self”—not a self that is diminished, but one decentered from selfishness. This is perplexing within a purely materialist framework.

Taken together, this evidence forms a compelling argument: perhaps we were designed to recognize beauty and the sublime through the experience of awe. Perhaps these profound encounters are trail markers pointing beyond ourselves—indeed, beyond the physical. Is this what the ancients were trying to tell us? What Scripture has been declaring for thousands of years? Does the natural world proclaim the works of a Creator?

If this is true, then here lies the moral dilemma I mentioned earlier: we take these experiences for granted. We fail to ask the next questions. We accept the gift while ignoring the Giver. And in doing so, we stop short of the fullness of awe.

If this describes you, I invite you to think more deeply about those moments. Let them lead you where they are trying to point. And be willing—even if it feels unsettling—to follow them all the way to the Creator of the universe.