As the new life of spring blossoms, my body flares into protest, trying to reject, one sneeze at a time, any trace of these beautiful flowers. This has led me to reflect on the following:
It is natural to run from the things that cause us pain. But what if these things that cause us pain are beautiful? Do we never marvel at the clouds in the sky because the sun is so bright it hurts our eyes? No, and when there is a solar eclipse, we must be warned not to willingly stare into the sun. Do we drop classes that are difficult but extremely interesting? No, and when we try to take more classes, the Registrar must restrict us to eighteen credits. Do we turn our backs from the people in our life who give us trouble? No, and when they give us too much trouble, it is others who must advise us to back up. Do we resent the Christ of Easter because he is first the Christ of Good Friday? No, and during Lent we must be reminded to remain joyful and not to dwell always in gloom.
It is natural to run from the things that cause us pain, but we humans do not run from the beautiful things that cause us pain, because we humans are not only natural, but spiritual as well. I have never known a dog that would risk going blind to behold a solar eclipse—much less one who endures penitential liturgical seasons. I find it curious whenever naturalists presume the burden of proof lies on supernaturalists to indicate instances of the supernatural. As if the rational-spiritual dimension of humanity is not on full display all around us. Or are we to explain away our love of beauty with a shallow behaviorism or an abstruse epiphenomenalism? That won’t do. I’m afraid (no, pleased) that I’m preaching to the choir—not only to you faithful of Notre Dame, but also to the 92% of Americans who believe in some spiritual reality. Naïve materialism has run its course, and for good reason.
In our willingness to experience pain in order to experience beauty, our rational-spiritual dimension is on full display. We are evidently not concerned with our mere self-preservation, but with truth, beauty and goodness. So when our love for these transcendentals brings us thorns in our flesh, we simply remove the thorns and patch the wounds while unpausing the symphony. “For love is better than life” (Ps. 63:4)—that is, biological life, or bios. And love itself is constitutive of resurrected life, or zoe. Our restlessness for a zoe beyond bios is, again, apparent in everyday life.
And so while I walk in the spring air sneezing, I stop to smell the flowers and thank God for all this new life.
Richard Taylor is a senior from St. Louis living in Keenan Hall. He studies physics and also has an interest in theology. He encourages all readers to send reactions, reflections or refutations to rtaylo23@nd.edu.
