Apologetics in the Lion City

Why does beauty move us?

Why does a sunset over the ocean, a symphony in D minor, or the fragile bloom of a wildflower evoke awe, longing, and tears? Why do we speak of things as “sublime,” “transcendent,” or “breathtaking”—as if they point beyond themselves?

Beauty, unlike utility or survival, is gratuitous. It is not necessary for existence, yet it suffuses existence. It is not reducible to function, yet it often accompanies it. And it is not merely subjective, for we argue over it, teach it, and recognize it across cultures and centuries.

This essay explores beauty not as ornament, but as evidence. Not as decoration, but as revelation. It proposes that beauty is a signpost pointing toward God.

Beauty as a Transcendent Quality

Beauty resists reduction. Attempts to explain it purely in terms of evolutionary advantage or neurological response fall short. Why should symmetry, harmony, or complexity evoke joy? Why should we find meaning in patterns that serve no survival function?

Philosopher Roger Scruton wrote, “Beauty is not just a subjective feeling, but a call to recognize something beyond ourselves.” Beauty invites us to contemplate—not just consume. It awakens a sense of the numinous, the sacred, the eternal.

If beauty is real and not merely illusory, then it must be grounded in something beyond the material. It must reflect a deeper order—a transcendent source.

Beauty: Subjective Taste or Shared Recognition?

It’s often said that “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” And to a degree, this is true. Our preferences vary—one person swoons over baroque cathedrals, another over minimalist design. Cultural context, personal experience, and even mood shape our aesthetic responses.

But this subjectivity has limits.

There are moments when beauty seems to break free from personal taste and assert itself with a kind of objective force. Consider the haunting strains of Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings. Played at funerals, memorials, and moments of collective grief, it evokes sorrow and transcendence across cultures and generations. Even those unfamiliar with Western classical music often find themselves moved—sometimes to tears—by its aching, ascending lines.

Why?

Because beauty, at its deepest, is not merely preference. It is recognition. It is the soul resonating with something that feels true. And when that resonance is shared—when people from vastly different backgrounds respond with awe to the same sunset, the same requiem, the same act of sacrificial love—we glimpse beauty’s claim to objectivity.

This doesn’t mean beauty is a rigid formula. But it suggests that beauty is not merely projection. It is perception—of something real, something given.

And if beauty is not just in us, but before us—then perhaps it comes from beyond us.

The Naturalist’s Dilemma

A purely naturalistic account of beauty must explain it in terms of evolutionary utility, neurological wiring, or social conditioning. Beauty, in this view, is a byproduct—a trick of the brain, a survival mechanism, or a cultural construct.

But this account struggles to explain the depth, universality, and gratuitousness of beauty.

Why should humans weep at music that has no survival value? Why should we create art that costs resources and yields no evolutionary advantage? Why should beauty evoke longing for something eternal, if we are merely temporal?

Naturalism can describe the mechanics of aesthetic response, but not its meaning. It can trace the neural pathways, but not the ache. It can explain why we see, but not why we weep.

In contrast, theism offers a richer account: beauty is real because it reflects the nature of a Creator who is Himself beautiful. We are moved by beauty because we were made to recognize it. We long for the eternal because we were made for it.

Beauty as Reference to the Ultimate

Every experience of beauty is a reference—a pointer. It gestures beyond itself, toward something greater. When we say something is beautiful, we are not merely expressing preference; we are measuring it against an ideal. We are invoking a standard.

But where does that standard come from?

Plato spoke of the Form of Beauty—an eternal, perfect archetype of which all earthly beauties are mere shadows. Christian theology goes further: the ultimate Beauty is not an abstract Form, but a personal God. The One in whom all perfections dwell. The One whose glory is the source of all radiance.

In this view, beauty is not self-contained. It is referential. It awakens longing because it echoes the divine. It evokes awe because it reflects the infinite. It stirs the soul because it is a whisper of the One who made the soul.

Just as moral truths point to a moral Lawgiver, aesthetic truths point to an aesthetic Source. Beauty is not merely a human construct—it is a divine communication.

And if every beautiful thing is a reference, then the existence of beauty itself implies the existence of the Referent.

Beauty as an Invitation, Not an Accident

Beauty feels like a gift. It surprises us, overwhelms us, and often arrives unbidden. It does not demand utility—it offers delight. And in its most profound moments, beauty evokes longing: a desire for something more, something fuller, something eternal.

C.S. Lewis called this “sehnsucht”—a deep yearning that beauty awakens but cannot satisfy. It is as if beauty is not the destination, but the signpost. Not the feast, but the aroma.

This longing, this ache, is not meaningless. It is the echo of a voice calling us home.

Theism as the Best Explanation

If the universe is purely accidental, beauty is inexplicable. It is a cosmic coincidence—an evolutionary glitch. But if the universe is created, beauty makes sense. It reflects the nature of its Creator.

Christian theism holds that God is not only true and good, but beautiful. That creation is an overflow of divine artistry. That beauty is a signature—a whisper of the divine.

In this view, beauty is not proof in the mathematical sense, but evidence in the experiential sense. It is a clue. A trail of breadcrumbs. A gentle summons to consider that behind the veil of nature stands a Creator who delights in glory.

Final Invitation

If beauty is real, then it is not random. If it is transcendent, then it points beyond. And if it awakens longing, then perhaps it is meant to be followed.

The argument from beauty does not compel belief—it invites it. It does not demand assent—it opens the door.

And perhaps, in the quiet moments when beauty breaks through, we are not merely moved.

We are being called.