beauty that moves.

I read an article in the New Yorker this week about the choreographer George Balanchine, one of the founders of the New York Ballet. One thing he used to speak about was his frustration of people always needing to attach a meaning to art's expression. When they see choreography they always asks, "What does it mean?" There is this need the audience has to qualify what they see on stage by attaching it to a particular idea or experience.

He once compared dance to flowers, pointing out, that when we view flowers we are moved by their beauty, but we don't ask what they mean to tell us. They don't "mean" anything, but simply are beautiful. Balanchine suggested that viewers ought to see his dancers in the same way: to accept their beauty and be moved by it, without needing to make some kind of sense out of it.

Often I think art does ask us to attach meaning. Sometimes artists (musicians, choreographers, poets, sculptors, painters) have a point to make, a story to tell, a challenge to present. But other times, as Balanchine points out, the point and challenge may be to just let it move us. To dwell in its beauty as it is, without adding our interpretation. As humans I think we often struggle to accept mystery and beauty. It feels chaotic to us, and we want to boil it down to something we can make sense of. It seems there are very few times that we allow ourselves to be moved, without asking what the point was.

I think this is why things like meditation, mysticism and yoga have become so popular in the recent decades. There is a craving to dwell in the mystery and stillness. Often religion puts so much emphasis on teaching and preaching. We sometimes act as though religion and spirituality is all about learning the "right answers." But most of us know that's not all there is. We crave more of God; we long to be moved in a way we can't put into words. I think the Emergent Church and authors like Tony Jones have tried to emphasize this point. But as a whole, the church (even the Emergent Church) still struggles with knowing how to dwell in the mystery. We still look at God, or a dancer, or a painting, and produce an answer: "Here is what it means. This is what it is teaching us." And sometimes that's good. We have learned a lot that way. But it seems to me we're missing out on something essential too -- the kind of beauty that moves the way Balanchine described. What truly moves us, is often that which cannot be quantified or qualified. So, I guess the question for all of us, whether we be artists or pastors, teachers or friends, is how do we express the inexpressible? How do we dwell in truths to large to think about?