Dear reader,
One of the challenges about writing about beauty is the problem of definition. Defining the terms is a foundational task of any research project, and yet beauty is a concept that notoriously resists definition. Numerous texts that I have read sidestep the challenge all together, by either assuming a definition that is never stated or explicitly declining to give one.
Another option is to demur from defining beauty, and instead describe it. Natalie Carnes takes this approach, choosing to give descriptions of beauty’s ‘contours.’ For her description, she takes two terms that resonant with the way beauty has often been defined in the Christian tradition: fittingness and gratuity. Fittingness is the quality of being fit, or well-suited; it is what it ought to be. Gratuity concerns excess: the beautiful thing demonstrates more than what is needed in order to be fitting. It is the gratuity of a beautiful thing that causes us to respond in awe or wonder.
In keeping with the season, I’m thinking today about the incarnation, about God-become-man—even an infant—and what we can say about it in terms of beauty. I think you’d be hard-pressed to find someone who would say the birth of Christ was not beautiful, but given the difficulty we have of defining beauty, I’m not sure that we often know what we mean by that.
In terms of fittingness, there might be much that seems un-fitting about the incarnation. When we consider the greatness of God, his transcendence above his creation in majesty and glory, to think of his taking on flesh is anything but natural. It is surprising—even shocking, as this reflection reminds us—that this God should become weak and helpless, subjecting himself to the humiliation not only of basic human realities but also to being born to a poor, young girl, not married at the time of conception.
And yet there is something beautiful about this, because there is a fittingness to the incarnation when we think of God’s purpose in it. As Jonathan King says, to take on the role of Messiah, Christ being born in the form of a slave was most fitting, as he was born under the law in order to redeem those under the law. He takes on our humanity in order to undo all that Adam had done and in order to live as the faithful Israelite. For the purpose of saving humanity, his incarnation is perfectly fitting.
But the incarnation also prompts us to wonder at what God has done in Christ–a prompting that signals the beauty of the incarnation. Although we can say that the form of Christ’s birth was entirely fitting for his mission, we also recognise that his birth was not necessary in the sense that God was required to send his Son, or that the Son was required to take up this mission. God’s project of salvation is entirely gratuitous in that he works it according to the depths of his mercy and love, not from any constraint to do so. He is free to show mercy, or not, and his resounding demonstration of mercy in saving us, not as one aloof from us, but as one intimate to us—to become our neighbour, as Augustine says—this is beauty made manifest.
What a contrast between the fittingness and gratuity of Christ’s birth and the veneer of fittingness and gratuity that so much of our cultural Christmas celebrations have become. We look for fittingness according to selfish purposes: we decorate to impress others, we give to solidify our social standing. And we seek a gratuity that closes in on itself: a generating of and hoarding of wealth that seeks lavishness for our own sakes’, rather than for those on the margins.
It is gratuity, in particular, that can cause the most angst for Christians as we celebrate. There is an age-old tension between extravagance and asceticism, exemplified most memorably by the woman at Bethany, who anoints Jesus with expensive oil, to the horror of disciples, conscious of the needs of the poor. But though Jesus was born in a stable, wrapped in swaddling clothes, far away from the wealth of the privileged, he does not scorn extravagance. He praises the woman for anointing him—he even turns water into wine to prolong the extravagant celebration of a wedding. The question is, in our own celebrations, is our extravagance a picture of the generosity and inclusion that we will find at the wedding feast of the Lamb?
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Luke–Prodigal God by Makoto Fujimura
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First Light
by Richard Bauckham
After all the false dawns,
who is this who unerringly paints
the first rays in their true colours?
We have kept vigil with owls
when the occult noises of the night
fell tauntingly silent
and a breeze got up
as if for morning.
This time the trees tremble.
Is it with a kind of reckless joy
at the gentle light
lapping their leaves
like the very first turn of a tide?
Timid creatures creep out of burrows
sensing kindness
and the old crow on the cattle-shed roof
folds his wings and dreams.
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I’ve got quite the summer reading stack that I’m looking forward to over the next five weeks of school holidays, but I’ve already burned through two that I have to tell you about: Foster and Small Things Like These. Claire Keegan is the author. She’s an Irish writer known for her short stories, and the first two novellas that I’ve read are perfectly written. That’s all I’m going to tell you–go and find out for yourself!
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A Nativity Prayer
Christ is born, glorify him.
Christ comes from heaven, go out to meet him.
Christ descends to earth; be raised up!
Sing to the Lord all the whole earth;
and that I may join both in one word,
Let the heavens rejoice, and let the earth be glad,
for him who is of heaven and then of earth.
Christ is in the flesh,
rejoice with trembling and with joy;
with trembling because of your sins,
with joy because of your hope.
The people that sat in the darkness of ignorance,
let them see the great light of full knowledge.
The old has passed away, behold, the new has come.
The letter gives way, the Spirit comes to the front.
He who is not carnal is Incarnate;
the Son of God becomes the Son of Man,
Jesus Christ the Same yesterday, and today, and for ever.
Gregory of Nazianzus
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On the road with you,
Laura