Useless beauty

When my wife and I (along with the great Zachary Guiliano) published “10 tips for domestic beauty,” I was most surprised by one stream of criticism. Namely, there were quite a few complaints in various places about our fondness for ironing. For some the concern was straightforward: Ironing is just one of those things I hate to do. For others it was an unfortunate casualty of being busy: There just isn’t time.

For others (and this is the group that intrigued me the most), ironing posed an ethical problem that impinged on the other tips as well: Smooth pillowcases represent a willful negligence of other duties. If I am wasting time at the ironing board, my neighbors aren’t receiving the love that the gospel compels me to give them. Likewise, why would I waste $400 on single oak, leather soled, Goodyear-welted, premium calfskin Oxfords when I could wear flip-flops and feed a poor family for a month? (This stream of criticism was less surprising but, I think, equally misguided.)

Judas complained in John 12 that Mary of Bethany dumped 300 days’ wages on Jesus’ feet. The traitor is the iconoclast whose pragmatism is thrown back in his face: “The poor you always have with you.” Jesus expands his defense to the rest of his disciples in Matthew 26:  “She has done a beautiful thing to me.” In the reality of God on earth, time and money are not just means to ethical ends. Even in an intimate scene at home, what may seem like extravagant waste can be sacred. It’s for Jesus, people!

In practice, one person’s decadence is another person’s innocent delight. What matters to me is worth it. What matters to you may be suspect. While I am whittling away my precious time listening to Pet Sounds or reading Chesterton, you are doing the New York Times crossword puzzle or walking your German Shepherd. Generally, it’s all well and good until we take certain activities out of the realm of leisure. No one should object if I say that ironing is a subjectively therapeutic experience for me. But to say that ironing is useful in a life lived for Jesus or that it inherently proclaims the kingdom of Heaven may be beyond the pale.

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And what about the monetary cost of beauty? Is it worth it? Must we justify our aesthetic decisions in terms of usefulness? If we must, then the Church faces an unnatural situation. I found this series by the often very insightful Baptist minister Ed Stetzer slightly puzzling. He is pondering a rationale for a broadened aesthetic goal in modern Protestant church architecture (specifically the goal of a third space, or third place). But surely, churches have been both the most beautiful and most useful buildings in most communities for centuries. They are otherworldly and therefore the most appealing places for spending time with others on earth. (Where do the tourists go in the great European cities?)

American churches are too often built with “use” above beauty, and are therefore not nearly as useful. That this fact is lost on a large swath of Christians reveals how far we have to go in understanding and championing theological aesthetics. And the point is simple: Beauty is an end in itself. As such, it is incalculably useful for our souls. And beauty is an expensive proposition, both in money and time. It is entirely worthwhile.

Liturgy works the same way. It is both unfortunate and necessary in our culture that Christians must explain their practices like never before. But as we teach, we should shy away from falling into the faux-ethical trap of modern pragmatism: Like beauty more generally, liturgy doesn’t mean anything, but is an end in itself. Alexander Schmemann writes of the aesthetics of the Holy Eucharist in his classic volume For the Life of the World:

We are beyond categories of “necessary,” “functional,” or “useful.” And when, expecting someone whom we love, we put a beautiful tablecloth on the table and decorate it with candles and flowers, we do all this not out of necessity, but out of love. And the Church is love, expectation and joy. It is heaven on earth … it is the joy of recovered childhood, that free, unconditioned and disinterested joy which alone is capable of transforming the world (p. 30).

Cloth-of-gold chasubles and hand-painted icons, for example, are not just fancy add-ons, but part of the life-giving fabric of Christian habit that is for the benefit even of the poor who need and deserve charity. If ordinary people on tight budgets chose to sacrifice for decades to contribute to the most extraordinary cathedral on earth, it would be a good and holy use of their resources.

To return to ironing: The aesthetics of everyday life must go hand-in-hand with a larger vision of the beauty of holiness in public life. Beautiful churches are useful “third places” because our homes — with our carefully curated wardrobes, record collections, bookshelves, tea sets, and crisp cotton sheets are, to varying degrees, embassies of the kingdom of Heaven. A shanty hut with a single (barely affordable) flower in a vase is a victory for Christ and a sign of his new creation. Even a morsel of beauty is to the benefit of rich and poor alike (both of whom will exist in varying proportions until Christ returns).

So iron those pillowcases without apology. It’s for your benefit, and everyone else’s too. And wear those recraftable cap-toe balmorals with abandon. It’s a beautiful thing for Jesus.