Post 156.

A Love Supreme as Spiritual Ascent through Creation, Suffering, Sound, and Silence

            The 1965 album A Love Supreme is a radical work of art. Across four movements, John Coltrane purifies bebop language beyond modal innovations toward a singular, freer, relaxed and mystical grammar. The suite is built from simple elements—variations on a four-note motif—communicating structural unity with zealous and unyielding, as well as reflective, consonant and dissonant improvisations. The fourth movement renders a musical narration of Coltrane’s psalm. Printed in the liner notes, the poem begins: “I will do all I can to be worthy of thee, O Lord. It all has to do with it. Thank you, God. Peace. There is none other. God is. It is so beautiful.” As I listen to this album, I resonate with it and hear something akin to Bonaventure’s seven-step ascent toward beatitude in The Journey of the Mind to God: first noticing His vestiges in the universe, then in the sensed world, then His image imprinted on our natural powers, then his Image reformed through the gift of grace—Being itself, which is the divine unity, and the Good—the Trinity, and finally receiving rest. In this short essay, I reflect more deeply on the first two steps and then briefly describe how the rest of the steps are present in this music. 

            In the opening of Acknowledgement, a gong reverberates with cymbals and piano, without shape or form. Dissonance. The sax cries loudly: disorder. Genesis reads, “In the beginning, when God created the heavens and the earth—and the earth was without form or shape, with darkness over the abyss and a mighty wind sweeping over the waters—then God said: Let there be light, and there was light” (Genesis 1: 1-3). Order materializes from simplicity. The bass, drums, and piano establish rhythm, and Trane begins crying again. Like Genesis, this first movement, in the space of two minutes, provides a vestige of creation—and the fall—condensed and sounded here. Not justified. Just this. It is.

            The Lord’s vestiges materialize in the sensed world. The piano, drums, bass, and saxophone shape the motif through improvisation. Trane’s timbral choices are harsh. Listening imaginatively, I hear another story from Genesis. The favored son of Israel, Joseph, was betrayed by his brothers, who plotted to kill him out of jealousy but instead sold him into slavery. Through his intelligence and gift for interpreting dreams, Joseph rose to a position of leadership in Egypt. God used him to prepare humanity for a seven-year famine. When his brothers later approached him seeking food, Joseph spoke harshly to them—and understandably. Trane’s tone color reminds me of Joseph’s voice before reconciliation. And when Joseph learns he has a younger brother, he demands to see him. Finally, when his brothers show remorse, Joseph welcomes them into Egypt. This becomes a home for the people of Israel. Joseph explains, “Even though you meant to harm me, God meant it for good, to achieve this present end, the survival of many people” (Genesis 50:20). The roughness of the saxophone’s timbre emerges from the suffering of Coltrane’s people. After centuries of slavery and Jim Crow, the highest love, which can be harsh, gestures toward hope and a possible future reconciliation. Hope and change begin with a change of spirit.

            A Love Supreme’s improvisations reveal the human mind in active imagination. Technique, discipline, and invention become signs of the image of God imprinted on human powers. In Resolution, Coltrane’s saxophone steps forward, gently embodying his psalm with prayerful intention. “God breathes through us so completely, so gently, we hardly feel it. Yes, it is our everything. Thank you, God. ELATION—ELEGANCE—EXALTATION—All from God.” The image is reformed by grace. The music stretches outward while remaining grounded in its simple motif. Multiplicity returns to unity again and again. Being is grounded in this. The Trinity is expressed through distinct voices—saxophone, piano, bass, drums. Unity in multiplicity is sung. “A love supreme; a love supreme; a love supreme.”

             Ultimately, the album ends with the Psalm, choosing contemplation and rest—sound and silence at cessation. On a record, the album stops, the needle needs to be replaced. This silence is also part of the music, which resonates in the silent soul who allows it space to do its work. 

Daniel J. Shevock (video essay version below)

Link to the image: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:AQC0439_-_C-_minor_-_Reflexions_4_-_By_Arnaud_Quercy.jpg 

Post 155.  

Each Springtime, I introduce my 5th and 6th graders to the Japanese folksong, Sakura, and a haiku by Hokushi. I found the pairing of this song and haiku in one of the many general music method books I keep at work. Like much of my teaching, this lesson emerges from a mixture of sources including music education and ecomusicology articles, conferences and workshops, and songs I have discovered or developed over time, including lessons in my 2025 book, Music Lessons for a Living Planet. However, because I am a philosopher, this mix is never eclectic. Rather, diverse activities are to be held together within a stable grammar of essence meaning, moral meaning, and growth meaning; with one pedagogical emerging in my life as a teacher, creative meaning.

            Cherry trees flower each Spring, delightfully present for a day or maybe a week, and then drop as the tree puts on its yearly leaves. Sakura presents cherry blossoms as they are—momentary, rich, but already vanishing the moment that they appear. Spend the wrong week indoors and you might miss them. The song dwells in the fleeting abundance, lingering inside their appearance. Essence meaning emerges as we—teacher and students—dwell in an unfamiliar timbre and curious melody, singing in imperfectly pronounced Japanese. Moral meaning develops as song forms restraint. The limits of one tree’s profuse beauty cultivate in us a recognition of the rhythm of seasons, years, growing and dwindling. The message: Accept beauty without owning it. This is fit. Encountering Sakura each year, its growth meaning, forms patience and comfort with incompletion. Attentiveness even when recompence is short-lived.

            Hokushi’s haiku reads:

            Ashes my burnt hut
            But wonderful the cherry
            Blooming on the hill.

The essence meaning we uncover is that this author’s home has burned down, and all that remains is ash. Children are already aware of disaster; many adults mistakenly attempt to shield them from it. However, hiding tragedy does not protect children from it. It leaves them unformed to truth, and ill-equipped to endure it. How does Hokushi respond to tragedy? There’s no explicit lesson. He notices the abundant cherry blooms. As noncompetitive truth-telling, the blossoms do not override or correct the ashes. Both are here, now. Both float on the wind and are temporarily profuse.

            Hokushi’s “But wonderful” leads us to the moral meaning—how must we reply? Of course, there are many ways Hokushi might reply. He might close his eyes and inhabit loss. He might grow irate and chop down the cherry tree. He might pretend to not be distressed. Hokushi teaches us to be honest about suffering, refuse despair’s domination, and admit gratuitous beauty where it materializes. Moral meaning restrains verdicts and awaits truth.

            What sort of person is formed by this haiku accompanying Sakura? Its growth meaning is a kind of enduring without hardening. Remaining sensitive to pain but not allowing it to dominate us. To allow catastrophe to be temporarily unresolved without acting too quickly or falling into the void and not acting. We must be faithful to perception when it hurts, because endurance needs resilience and presence.

            Suffering is not explained to the children. It is presented. Only after this grammar is well-known is creative meaning possible. Students compose their own haiku, including three lines (I refuse pushing syllable counts as the American haiku tradition ignores syllable counting) about nature, and a turn (the kire) that expresses an unexpected reality of the poem. We sing these haiku with percussion accompaniment and then create a cherry tree on the classroom wall, sharing the various haiku. 

Daniel J. Shevock 

Link to the image: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Cherry_blossom_festival_2018_-_Yoyogi_Park_-_Tokyo,_Japan_-_DSC05549.jpg 

Link to the video: https://youtu.be/eZJ3TOKIy-Y?si=3hAxLYfQ5d8Egqc1 

Post 154. 

Medieval authors, including St. Bonaventure, engage a three-sense grammar to read the twin books of nature and scripture. The first sense, the allegorical (which I name Essence Meaning) reveals specific occurrences in nature and passages of scripture in Christ and the mysteries of faith. Unlike modern readers, when Bonaventure uses the term allegory he is not referring to mere symbolism, but to ontological—essential—participation. Essence Meaning discloses the True. 

            The second sense, the tropological (which I name Moral Meaning) relates nature and scripture to the formation of the soul—to virtue, conversion, and love. Moral Meaning discloses the Good. 

            The third sense, the anagogical (which I name Growth Meaning) draws the reader toward the future as ultimate fulfillment in God—the soul’s ascent into divine life. In hope, the Growth Meaning of nature and scripture reveals Beauty. Read together, Essence Meaning, Moral Meaning, and Growth Meaning offer a repeatable grammar that illuminates our relationships with nature and scripture, as well as logical and psychological experience. 

            To illustrate this grammar in action: awakening, beneath the severe sound of wind, I hear robins, juncos, and cardinals singing in this icy winter predawn. 

            Essence Meaning, revealing the True. I attend to the birdsong, lingering with the counterpoint and charm of what I receive gratuitously. These birds live and sing to the glory to God in their own ways—ways partially, but not wholly, graspable by my human ear. I recall the words of Jesus: “Look at the birds of the sky; they do not sow or reap, they gather nothing into barns, yet our heavenly Father feeds them. Are not you more important than they” (Matthew 6:26)? These birds must suffer—at least in some measure—in this cruel weather, and yet they sing. Like Christ on the Mount of Olives, vulnerable to the elements, these birds participate in Christ’s hope to enact the Father’s will, imparting their intelligence to me, an attentive eavesdropper. 

            Moral Meaning, revealing the Good. I sympathize with these birds’ discomfort and hope. Within my heart, I bear the paradox of distress and trust—that one cannot trust without first encountering distress. This virtue must be started and tested; otherwise, no opening to trust exists. Just as a fractured mirror may reveal a rainbow, the distressed being is given an opportunity to express trust amid doubt; hope rather than cynicism and anger. Jesus prays, “Father, if you are willing, take this cup away from me; still, not my will but yours be done” (Luke 22:42)—and in harmony with Christ, these birds sing. 

            Growth Meaning, revealing the Beautiful. In a state of awe, I am astonished. Beyond our control and presumed self-reliance, there awaits an abundance of God’s care, disclosed to me in this birdsong counterpoint. The Spirit breathed life into each creature’s body at the dawn of time (Genesis 2:7) and sings into being now a compelling and brittle sound, elevating my mind toward immeasurable Beautying. This is an echo of the faultless in the limited, the timeless in the fleeting, the mighty in the fragile. All creation may partake, in diverse ways, in the eternal Word’s suffering, hope, and resurrection. 

Daniel J. Shevock 

Link to the image: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Fran%C3%A7ois_Lombard_-_Le_Miracle_de_saint_Bonaventure.jpg 
             

Post 153. 

In The Journey of the Mind to God, written in 1259, Bonaventure reasons that the triune deity’s perfect light is imperfectly reflected in creation. The process operates in the same way that a person might be presented with an unfamiliar Mozart symphony or Georgia O’Keefe painting and infer who the artist is, considering elements such as form, texture, color and the like. By examining the natural world, our minds can ascend, as climbing a ladder, to a fundamental consciousness of God. Bonaventure suggests that created things contain vestiges of their creator, and while the creator is eternal, sovereign, and faultless, created things are temporal, contingent, and flawed. I have come to believe these flaws, like cracks in Bonaventure’s mirror, offer unexpected beauty: sunlight, upon entering a prism, diverges into the colors of a rainbow. From one, many. With this in mind, I write this poem:

            Father’s light, alight divine
            Creator, Word, and Spirit, love
            In these fissures, spectral signs
            Mirror broken, image appealing
            A beauty less-than Beauty above
            Word and living Breath and feeling
            Through these fractures, shine, shine, shine!

            In a short essay, Chance, Simone Weil writes: “The vulnerability of precious things is beautiful because vulnerability is a mark of existence.” This suggests that the faults in the mirror are part of the plan of creation. The Father’s creation, ex nihilo, was of existing things. Existing things are vulnerable. This vulnerability is beauty. We seem most vulnerable the cracks in the mirror of ourselves through which we attend to God’s light. Weakness, if we attend to it, can become beautiful sites of understanding.

            When we look at our world today, we cannot avoid noticing its wounds. Standing in a park, the water in this creek must be purified if I would drink it; the trees in this park have been planted in the decades since they were cleared for logging; this soil has remnants of lead, arsenic, and PCBs from the land’s coal and farming history; and my skin must be guarded from the sunshine itself using sunscreen. Yet it is this light through these leaves glowing on this soil by this water where I glimpse residues of my Creator. We aren’t afforded the opportunity to be born in the Garden of Eden, but we remember it in these faults, here.

Daniel Shevock

Link to the image: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Red_Canna_(1923)_by_Georgia_O%27Keeffe.png
 

Post 152.  

This week, I read the chapter, Beauty, in the 1952 edition of Brittanica’s Syntopicon, a collection designed by Mortimer Adler and Robert Hutchins at the University of Chicago for a collection called “The Great Books of the Western World.” The idea of a syntopicon, or a collection of topics, is distinctive to Brittanica’s project, though consistent with the ideas of encyclopedias and dictionaries, and is similar with more modern keywords projects, such as books by Raymond Williams, Cary Nelson, Stephen Watt, Evelyn Fox Keller and Elisabeth Lloyd in disciplines like culture, higher education, and evolutionary biology. The syntopicon offers a broad introduction of 100 keywords that are central to Western thought, from the perspective of Western philosophy and literature. Any criticisms more recent scholars pose to eurocentric and androcentric scholarly writing will necessarily be relevant to the Syntopicon, and with that in mind, Syntopicon entries can provide a base understanding of one intellectual tradition’s established understanding of a keyword—in this case, beauty. 

            Beauty is discussed with two other keywords, truth and goodness, but where truth and goodness are most often argued as being objective, beauty is widely, though not univocally, regarded as subjective in the Western intellectual tradition. Some authors, such as William James, have argued for an objective understanding of beauty, while others, such as Immanuel Kant, suggest beauty is a subjective but universal concept. Truth, goodness and beauty together make up the essential transcendentals of the Western tradition. As such, truth, goodness and beauty transcend the material world—you cannot touch or smell or hear truth itself, goodness itself, or beauty itself, but you are able to use these transcendentals as standards by which to judge true things, good things, and beautiful things as true, good, or beautiful. Plato would suggest these are primary ideas that transcend material reality. This idea can be found throughout Western history.

Daniel J. Shevock 

Link to the image: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Great_Books.jpg

Post 151. 

This watch, I read the explanation of the Parable of the Sower in the gospel of Mark. In it, the Word is the seed, and we are the soil in which the seed lands. Satan, stealing hope and instigating despair, whispers to me that I am the rocky soil, and that in me the Word is received with joy, but with tribulation and hope for earthly riches my Faith withers and dies. Satan is the prince of lies. This lie works because, despite my growing closer to the Word in my suffering—in my professional failure as an academic, my financial fragility, my oft fruitless workdays, my lack of distinction, and lately in my shoulder pain—I persist in cultivating my marriage with the Lord. Even on days when passion is weak, I have meditated upon scripture, prayed for divine help, and lived as if Christ walks with me.

            Comparison is the thief of joy. It’s an old saying, I suppose, for a reason: It holds truth. Comparison plans a seed of envy, increasing expectation for earthly riches. My expectation of earthly riches does not come in the form of money—certainly capital would be welcomed if the Lord sent it my way—but in earthly riches. Thomas Hardy’s last novel, Jude the Obscure, was originally titled the Simpletons. In it, the poor, rural Jude Fawley teaches himself Latin and some Greek and works hard to gain admittance to Christminster College, dreaming of becoming a scholar, a Doctor of Divinity, and maybe even a bishop. Hardy, the realistic and insightful author, never portrays Jude as faultless—in fact, his faults provide the novel with much of its deepest insights. Often readers of Hardy come to this novel with preconceptions, especially having read Hardy’s previous novels like Tess of the d’Urbervilles, where the pure and inherently noble Tess suffers misfortunes by an unjust society.

            In comparison, Jude is complicated. He misunderstands much of what he reads, is boastful and self-centered, is filled with self-pride and persistent melancholy that leads to worsening of his situation. But is this critique even fair? Does he really worsen his situation from a penniless, unwanted child through his study and hard work, even if he never gains admittance to Christminster, is terrible at relationships, and fails to reach the proverbial stars? One could argue that when you start in a ditch, even if you don’t fully drag yourself from it, you have made some headway in a life of imperfect effort.

            Some have suggested Jude is such a complex character—sometimes likeable but oft unpleasant—because Hardy modeled much of Jude on himself. Hardy was able to clutch the mirror of truth, holding it to himself and scrutinizing every defect and error while grasping only some of his virtues, and those with discernment into how even these are flawed. Many people who lack self-understanding, those today who are ignorant to original sin—at least their own—cannot empathize with Jude. When he, after pulling himself from being nobody, stands in a tavern reciting better than Christminster’s students, he exposes how the alma mater is nothing like the real mother Jude lived without. Hardy was right in changing the name of the novel from the Simpletons to Jude the Obscure, even if it places too much focus on one figure, Jude, and not enough to other interesting characters like Sue and Arabella. To call Jude, Sue, Arabella and the other simpletons, even in their most foolish, idiotic, and oafish instances, misses something important. We are these characters who scheme our successes, fail, hurt those we love most, compromise, and even in compromises fail, hate ourselves, and continue to push on, praying our efforts will one day be fruitful.

            Our efforts never bear fruit, particularly when we were born in a ditch and pull ourselves out. This is because there is an implicit Bible verse that unlocks the mystery of this novel, Ephesians 2:8-9. Paul admonishes Christians that grace is a gift from the Lord, and that we cannot boast about our works, because they cannot save us. Jude, however hard he works, will never overcome the fallen society into which he was born and brutally raised. It is deformed to instill the hope for a golden crown but offers the poor only tin. But never fear because consecrated to the Lord are the poor in spirit (Matthew 5:3). The Christian who was, like Jude, born poor and worked fruitlessly accepts failure in the social world, because it is infused with diabolical iniquities and seemingly beautiful vices.

            Through the grace of the Holy Spirit, hope in that which is undying can replace our defiled hope in acknowledgement, appreciation, and eminence. Love can replace defiled love. Goodness can replace defiled goodness. Truth can replace defiled truth. Beauty can replace defiled beauty. 

Daniel J. Shevock 

Link to the image: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Hardy_-_Jude_the_Obscure,_1896_(page_163_crop).jpg

Post 150. 

Within the Catholic intellectual tradition, Catholic music can be perceived as classist, which contrast with the motto of the current Church, “a church that is poor for the poor.” Pope Francis used this phrase in 2013, and this motto is embodied today in the work of the Society of St. Vincent De Paul with the poor and homeless, the Dismas Ministry in prisons, Pax Christi working to end nuclear proliferation, and many others. But this is not only a modern motto. The  Church founded the earliest hospitals in the 4th Century, the first schools in Europe in the 11th Century, and restricted the rights of slave owners through the Theodosian Code of 438, banning then widespread Roman practices of concubinage and rape, as well as protecting abandoned infants from this (https://droitromain.univ-grenoble-alpes.fr/Codex_Theod.htm). 

            On the musical arts side of this paradox, Pope Pius XII wrote extensively on sacred music, including rejecting the “outworn dictum ‘art for art’s sake’,” confessing that music is the servant to sacred liturgy, that Gregorian chant ought to be upheld, and that an artist’s freedom ought to be “ennobled and perfected” by divine law. In his encyclical Musicae-Sacrae, the Church is cautioned “to protect sacred music against anything that might lessen its dignity,” and “take the greatest care to prevent whatever might be unbecoming to sacred worship or anything that might distract the faithful in attendance from lifting their minds up to God” (https://www.vatican.va/content/pius-xii/en/encyclicals/documents/hf_p-xii_enc_25121955_musicae-sacrae.html). 

            It seems that today three figures are revered uppermost: St. Hildegard of Bingen (1098-1179), acknowledged as the master of plainchant and as a doctor of the church, Giovanni da Palestrina (1525-1594), endorsed as perfecting Catholic polyphony, and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791), conceivably the greatest genius of Catholic sacred music. Other Catholic composers, William Byrd, Monteverdi, Vivaldi, Haydn, Beethoven, List, Dvořák, Edward Elgar, and Olivier Messiaen, are the significant figures in Western Music history. These figures can dominate discussions of Catholic music, and, as a result, dominate our understanding of Beauty. However, the Catholic musical tradition isn’t limited to classical music. Jazz artists Mary Lou Williams, Dave Brubeck, and Vince Guaraldi each composed poignant masses. Rather than offering a strong contrast with the classical mass tradition, these jazz masses are more high art than common.

            Today, Catholic music using more popular stylistic elements are portrayed as contentious, while Classical musical forms are endorsed. This seemingly contrarian viewpoint might best be summed up in a recent post on the well-known website, Catholic Answers, in which old-fashioned standards like On Eagle’s Wings are described as “cheesy.” The post then produces of list of songs, calling for the elimination of these popular Christian songs from mass, which may not be unfounded (beside the point I am making here), and finally advocates that Gregorian chant “be given pride of place in liturgical services” (https://www.catholic.com/audio/cot/these-worship-songs-need-to-be-abolished). Whether or not one appreciates Gregorian chant, or Renaissance polyphony upon those plainchants, and I certainly do, this is not the common music of the poor, who the Church aims to be.

            This is more the music of monarchs, capitalists, bishops, and the cathedrals in urbane cities than the music of the poor who might attend the small parishes serving the rural and urban poor. And therein lies the paradox, a church that is poor for the poor cannot be the church of the that is perfect for the perfect alone; that is cultured for the cultured alone; that is intelligent for the intelligent alone; or that is elite for the elites alone. A church that is poor for the poor, the church of St. Francis of Assisi, St. John Bosco, St. Teresa of Calcutta, St. Katharine Drexel, and Dorothy Day’s Catholic Worker Movement, that fully serves the poorest of the poor by meeting them where they are, this church, must at times be poor in music.

Daniel J. Shevock

Link to image: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Mother_Teresa_by_Ariel_Quiroz_-_Portrait.jpg

Post 149. 

Beauty is imprinted on children as we first experience the world. An infant beholds the world in awe with untainted innocence. Children hold on to an enchanted environment through play, especially outdoors. Thinking back to my childhood, hours were engaged playacting with toys in the grass, watching the clouds form figures, or listening to birds, crickets, and the wind. I did not have an idyllic childhood, and basic needs were not always met, but innocent to the extensiveness of society’s depravity, I spent much of my time in oblivious awe. With age both innocence and awe degrade—the work of Satan in the world—and we gaze, feel, and listen deeply less to the beautiful things God has immersed us in, and attend more to the ugly.

            Gradually, children notice parents fighting and offensive language; schooldays filled with long hours indoors, testing regimes, discipline and failure; violence and drug addiction. Today children are distracted from awe by unwitting adults providing addictive technologies—the screen replaces the universe and the child’s senses are blunted. As these addicts age, they would prefer the simple numbness of videogames, social media, and artificial intelligence to experiences with other people or the natural world. People and nature are both complex, hazardous, and sometimes vicious. But they are also where living beauty is unearthed—in the thoughtful eye of a beloved, a song of waterfall deep in the wood, a hug, a pink sunset, or a discussion on a favorite old novel. All these things that bear awe in young children gradually vanish in the face of years spent living in the social world in which we find ourselves and later partake in. We learn to fear that which inspired awe and admire that which is simulated.

            A word I seldom write or speak, but which seems fitting in the context of awe is sublime. Simply stated in my understanding of it, the sublime refers to those great beautiful things that are both attractive and frightening. An example that was used when I first heard the term was the Grand Canyon, which I visited nearly a decade ago. Standing near the ledge—even if you’re ten feet from the ledge—a fear inserts itself your gut as you look at the vastness of God’s creation, knowing your own smallness. You are aware that a wind gust, if it had a fraction of the power of this canyon, could fling you to your death, not dissimilar to the fear of the bully that schoolchildren realize after being flung into a locker, choked, and given a bloody lip for the first time or, to use a contemporary example, finding lies mixed with half-truths about you on classmates’ social media account receiving hundreds of likes. Here you are, tiny and powerless to do anything to stop your defenselessness. While there is no beauty in school bullying—an essential part of school which drives us away from awe—the sublime is both attractive and frightening. We want to behold with all our senses the breeze, the birdsong, the rock, the space of the canyon. We search for the river at the center and for animals in the distance. We move our attention from the vast to the minuscule and back again. When I visited the canyon, this experience is disturbed by my wife admonishing me to back away from the ledge, perhaps not grasping I left ten feet between me and it. She is having the same experience further back.

            As people age, maybe we are less likely to spend hours in awe than in fear. The recipe of the sublime goes sour when we mix in too much fear. We fail to rise to the Beauty we might know.

Daniel J. Shevock 

Link to image: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Dicken%27s_works_(1890)_(14779159911).jpg

Post 148. 

This morning, I read St. Oscar Romero’s reflection from December 31, 1977 (published in The Violence of Love, Orbis Books), in which the good bishop explains why the Church resists torture and other abuses. He writes, “The church, entrusted with the earth’s glory, believes that in each person is the Creator’s image and that everyone who tramples it offends God,” and later in the same contemplation, “There is no dichotomy between man and God’s image.” 

            The question, Why Beauty, has a relative, Why Beauty Matters. For St. Oscar, Beauty exists for God’s purpose. In the 19th Century Romantic aestheticists argued effectively that art is for art’s sake—that is, Beauty is for Beauty. Immanuel Kant had previous argued for the intrinsic value of human beings because every person would want to be understood as intrinsically valuable—this is the categorical imperative, which is his extension of the golden rule. But what does this mean for art? Non-human beings (animals/plants) and objects exist not because they are intrinsically valuable, but because they have a purpose—they are of use value.

            This dichotomy, picked up by the Romantics, extended intrinsic value to certain arts, especially those found in museums, opera houses, and concert halls frequented by the nobility, aristocracy, and wealthy capitalists. These high arts become intrinsically valuable. The contradiction becomes obvious when we ponder that the same persons that in the 19th Century employed child labor and fought workplace safety laws, were aggressively negating the intrinsic value of other human persons, the working poor, while disseminating the intrinsic value of Beauty. This type of aesthetic theory found voice in 20th Century Music Education through the philosopher Bennett Reimer, who trained numerous music teachers and professors to begin from the position that music has intrinsic value, and insisted we teach music for music’s sake, rather than for any extrinsic ends, be those ends political, spiritual, economic, or social. 

            In response to the aesthetic movement, specific to Music Education, praxial philosophers such as David Elliott, Christopher Small, and Thomas Regelski dominated scholarly writing beginning in the 1990s. Praxialists argue that music is not a thing at all, but an action which people do. They reject the intrinsic/extrinsic dualism, and open space for today’s scholarship, which includes much that is political, spiritual, economic, and social. Both aesthetic and praxial music educators and scholars remain active today. 

            I was trained to be a music teacher in the 1990s, when the aesthetics/praxialist conversation was at its most heated, and earned my Ph.D. in 2015, firmly placing my scholarship in the praxial faction, which allowed me to research music improvisation and ecological literacy—topics which would be understood as extrinsic to music itself from the aesthetic perspective. More recently, my understanding of ecology has led me to my current enquiry into Beauty, an idea that tends to find greater expression in aesthetic theory than praxial. A synthesis is needed.

            The Christian perspective is something quite different than most conceptions of the aesthetic or the praxial. As St. Oscar revealed “There is no dichotomy between man and God’s image,” and if there is no dichotomy then intrinsic value does not lie there and not here—in art and not factory workers; in a sonata and not in a country hit; in the mental image of beauty and not in this mere performance, here. The aesthetic position as it has been argued in Music Education scholarship is vacuous because God says each person—the disabled, the homeless, the illegal alien, the trans, the cashier, as well as the business owner, the monastic, and the internationally recognized scholar--is the image of God. There is no dichotomy to be found because God, who is trinity—perfect relationship—has not chosen to dichotomize reality into those of his creation having intrinsic value and those having mere use value. Rather, ever creature of God has intrinsic value as well as use value, when we choose to put ourselves to the use of others in Christian love. The most beautiful lives have been the lives of saints—though often not lives filled with wealth, length, or lack of suffering. People are unfulfilled when we are not of use to our friends, family, neighbors, communities, and humanity—but we are unhappy when treated as less-than others of God’s creation and not given the time to explore with our bodies, minds and souls the beautiful things at within our grasp, whether in silence and solitude or together with others.

Daniel J. Shevock 

Link to the image: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Beatificacion_Monse%C3%B1or_Romero_(17984373076).jpg