Grandeur and Simplicity: How God Speaks Through Both

This morning I want to do something a little differently from what we’ve done before. Rather than introducing an entirely new topic, I want to continue the conversation we began last week. What I plan to present today is a reflection on grandeur and simplicity—how God speaks through both.

Before doing that, however, I want to make sure we don’t lose sight of some important questions that emerged last week. As Don often reminds us, this class is more about questions than answers, so I won’t try to resolve these. Instead, I want to hold them before us as we think together.

What happens when we slow down and linger with an image, a sound, or a moment, rather than passing by it quickly? Is learning how to look or listen a skill, or even a spiritual discipline? Is beauty experienced differently when we create rather than merely observe? Why does something made by a child, or sung imperfectly by a family member, carry such deep value? Why do humans seem uniquely compelled to create and respond to beauty?

There were also questions about access. Does linking beauty too closely with spiritual experience risk excluding the poor or the oppressed? Can someone with little or no access to art, nature, or sensory beauty still encounter God fully? Do the Beatitudes challenge assumptions about beauty, privilege, and spiritual access?

Does constant exposure to beauty dull our capacity to notice it? If you live among mountains, by the sea, or under wide blue skies, does that abundance eventually numb the senses? Is sensory overload as spiritually challenging as sensory deprivation? Why do hurried people suddenly stop for a sunset? What does our response to natural beauty reveal about what we long for?

Finally, what is the difference between beauty we discover—sunsets, nature—and beauty we construct—cathedrals, music, art? Can silence and simplicity be as powerful as grandeur? If beauty begins not with objects but with attentiveness, how might learning to notice become an act of grace? And how do we discern when beauty draws us toward God versus when it distracts us from God?

With that framing, today’s theme is grandeur and simplicity: how God speaks through both.

Many of us instinctively associate holiness with scale and impact—with soaring music, large sanctuaries, stained glass, mountain vistas, or violent storms. Grandeur announces itself. It overwhelms us and reminds us that we are not in control. When we encounter something vast, our usual sense of importance is interrupted. Scripture is full of such moments: God speaks through thunder, appears in fire, and teaches reverence by reminding us that God is bigger than we are.

But Scripture is equally clear that grandeur is not the only way God speaks. Just as often, God chooses simplicity. Jesus is born not in a palace but in a stable. God meets Moses not only in fire but in a bush. God does not speak to Elijah through wind or earthquake, but through a quiet sound. Simplicity does not announce itself; it waits. It requires attention. You can miss it if you are moving too quickly.

If grandeur reminds us who God is, simplicity reminds us where God is. Cultures shape what we expect holiness to look like, and problems arise when we assume our preferences are God’s preferences. Sometimes we mistake what feels impressive to us for what must be holy. Other times we overlook what is simple because it doesn’t match our expectations.

This is where the idea of the untrained ear or untrained eye matters. Music we don’t yet understand may initially sound confusing or flat. With time, patterns emerge. The same is true of sight. A painting may seem strange until we learn how to notice balance, color, light, and composition. This isn’t failure; it’s formation. The same is true spiritually. Sometimes God is present, but we haven’t yet learned how to notice.

Perhaps the question is not whether beauty is enough, but whether we are attentive enough. God meets us in grandeur. God meets us in simplicity. Holiness is not measured by volume or complexity, but by presence. The invitation is not to choose one over the other, but to remain open to both.

That’s what I wanted to offer this morning. I’m happy to repeat any of those questions from last week if they’re helpful, and I’m equally happy to listen.

Don: You can take the teacher out of the classroom, but you can’t take the classroom out of the teacher. Donald’s pedagogy is brilliant and provides an excellent framework for discussion. There’s one sensory aspect he didn’t mention, though, and that’s habituation.

The question is whether repeated exposure changes our response. Does eating something you don’t like often enough eventually make you like it? My father used to say that if I ate enough broccoli, I would learn to enjoy it. Is there something similar in our sensory experience of God? Does repetition change the dynamic? More questions than answers—sorry.

C-J: I think that’s true, provided there’s meaning attached to the experience. If you can see purpose—whether it’s eating broccoli, working out at a gym, or enduring discomfort—then the effort becomes worthwhile. It’s not about like or dislike; it’s about value over time.

My father used to eat the same simple cheese sandwich for lunch for years, not because he loved it, but because it served a purpose. He saw it as one day in a lifetime, giving him what he needed to finish the day well. It’s like putting pennies in a jar. Individually they don’t amount to much, but over time they add up.

Donald: I think there may be a difference between music and visual beauty. People generally seem more willing to listen than to look. With visual art, many of us quickly say, “I don’t understand this,” and feel we need instruction before we can engage. Music, by contrast, feels more immediately accessible, and perhaps that’s why it has become such a pervasive way of approaching God.

That said, this raises unresolved questions—especially around worship music. Contemporary praise music is often viewed with suspicion when compared to classical sacred music or hymns. Yet we ended last week’s conversation by recognizing how deeply culture shapes these judgments. Reinhard made an important point about music in his culture: instruments often contribute just a single note, meaning the music only exists fully when played together. 

Appreciating such music requires learning. If we remain within our own cultural norms, we become less tolerant of unfamiliar forms. Whether we should be tolerant is another question, but many musical genres are clearly attempting to speak to the divine.

C-J: I don’t think art should function as persuasion—not in the sense of trying to convince someone of something. Art is personal. It can expand us when we begin to see the same instrument, or the same artistic form, used in different genres or contexts.

The more we widen our perspective—looking at brushstrokes, color, history, or intention—the more we move beyond our initial point of view. That’s what art is meant to do: enlarge perspective. Music works similarly, but it engages us viscerally. What I listen to depends not just on my age, but on what I’ve been exposed to. 

Art and music should be exploratory, not goal-oriented. Like walking through the woods and noticing a bird or taking a different path, art should lead us somewhere unexpected, not toward a predetermined end.

David: Is it really imaginable that repeated, genuine encounters with God would ever lose their impact? I don’t think so. I want to separate the cultural dimension of art from the spiritual dimension of faith.

I can say from experience that you do become habituated to beauty. I’ve lived in the mountains and in Hawaii with ocean views. You don’t get tired of them exactly—you just stop being aware of them. The awe fades. But I cannot believe that would happen with authentic encounters with God. That suggests to me that beauty and spirituality are fundamentally different.

My concern is that art—music especially—can make us feel as though we are having a spiritual experience when we may not be. That’s why I mistrust it. We can be misled. Just as people adapt to beauty or even to imprisonment, like Brooks, the old man in The Shawshank Redemption who committed suicide after his release. Habituation and institutionalization are aspects of human culture—but not, I think, aspects of spiritual reality.

So while music and art are beautiful and valuable within human life, they do not define or mediate our relationship with God. Losing sensitivity to beauty does not mean God has disappeared. That’s why I’m glad Don raised this topic. It exposes how many unanswered questions still remain.

Carolyn: I was thinking about how art and music intersect with our personal relationship with the Lord. I have daily devotionals, morning and night, and sometimes I feel God’s presence very strongly. That feeling can be prompted by something beautiful I’ve seen—or even by sad news.

But there are also dry moments. I know God is with me, yet I long for that closeness, that vivid sense of presence. I want the same exhilaration I felt the first time I saw a mountain vista or a sunset. Over time, a mountain becomes “just another mountain,” and sometimes God feels that way too—not in belief, but in emotional intensity.

I don’t say that lightly. I want God near. I want to feel that exuberance again. I experience this both through art and spiritually, and I struggle with the distance when it appears.

Donald: I think Carolyn has introduced two important ideas. One is dryness—those moments when we feel spiritually parched—and the other is searching. Searching matters. How we search matters.

One way is through Scripture, returning to the Bible to see if something speaks anew. Another is through music that has drawn us closer to God in the past. These can help move us out of a dry moment. But the key word here is search. Beauty is something we discover; it doesn’t force itself on us. If you aren’t looking, you can miss it entirely.

Connie used the image of noticing a bird while walking in the woods. You can walk the same path every day and never see anything—or you can walk attentively. It often helps to have someone walking with you. So the question becomes: how do we search for closeness to the divine? What practices make discovery more likely?

C-J: I think God deliberately gives us seasons of dryness, not as punishment but as formation. In every relationship there are periods of quiet. Waiting is essential. We’re not always meant to be like a child tugging at a parent’s knee saying, “Pick me up now.”

There’s learning in stillness. God reveals what needs to be revealed in time. I’ve learned more through waiting than through asking. Yes, I’ve cried. Yes, I’ve used music, Scripture, distraction, and conversation. But ultimately, it’s in the silence of waiting that understanding comes.

David: I would extend waiting even further—to acceptance. The idea of seeking God is very Christian, but in Daoism the Dao—the Way—is not something you seek; it’s already there. All you have to do is accept it. If you accept it, you won’t be disappointed. If you seek and don’t find, disappointment follows—and that seems unnecessary.

I find it troubling that Carolyn has to go through such anguish, because I’m quite sure God is with her all the time. I wonder whether Christianity sometimes tries too hard to find God when God is already present. For me, quiet acceptance is sufficient.

I say the Lord’s Prayer daily—silently, to myself—not because I doubt God’s presence, but as a reminder of my acceptance. I don’t experience the spiritual highs and lows others describe. Whether that’s temperament or my absorption of Taoist thought, I don’t know. But acceptance has been enough for me.

C-J: I agree with much of that. Walking with God can be like eating a meal—you don’t rush it, and you don’t demand it be extraordinary every time. Saying, “Here I am, Lord. I accept what you will reveal today,” is different from asking for something dramatic.

Sometimes walking with God isn’t like walking through shallow water. It’s slower, heavier, and requires trust.

Donald: I taught photography for twenty years, and although I developed the full four-year curriculum, I always chose to teach the introductory class. Why? Because those students weren’t required to be there—they wanted the experience. They knew they were beginning a journey.

On the first day, I gave them an assignment: photograph trees. They were confused—trees seemed too obvious. But that was precisely the point. No one could say they hadn’t seen a tree. What I was doing was narrowing their attention.

The results were extraordinary. With just a little guidance—light, composition, framing—students found beauty everywhere. I came to believe you could assign almost anything and discover beauty, provided attention was properly focused. Trees were simply abundant and accessible.

My point is that discovery benefits from guardrails. This isn’t about striving or forcing. It’s about recognizing that God has given humanity the capacity to discover and create, and that capacity is deeply enriching. Beauty does not have to be lofty. Most often, it is very simple.

Carolyn: That helps clarify something for me. There is a difference between searching and discovering. But Scripture also speaks about searching—like the parable of the lost coin. When something matters deeply, you look for it.

That doesn’t mean I believe God isn’t with me. I know God is. But I want more. I want that euphoric sense of presence—the way you feel when you see a breathtaking sunset or ocean for the first time. I want that experience with the Lord, and I want it often, even daily.

I don’t need art to get there, but silence matters.

C-J: Relationship with God is like a marriage—it evolves. What you see at the beginning is not what you see decades later. A marriage isn’t defined by what you get out of it, but by what the commitment itself produces. It requires two parties working together.

Sometimes that relationship is quiet. Sometimes it’s in conflict. Sometimes you have to say, “That approach isn’t working—let’s try another.” It isn’t always a high. Sometimes it’s cleaning up a mess. Sometimes it’s surrender—giving without receiving what you want in return.

Think about Jesus in the Garden. He knew what was coming. He knew betrayal and suffering were inevitable. He asked that the cup pass, not because he doubted God’s presence, but because he didn’t want the pain. Growth often happens there—not through independence or self-sufficiency, but through understanding. There is a time to walk and a time to sit. A time to be born and a time to die.

Maturity comes when we can look back and quietly support someone else—put an arm around them and say nothing. Great things happen in silence and darkness: a seed in soil, a child in the womb, even a person who dies alone but is not alone, because God is present.

Donald: Is it selfish to want a deeply meaningful experience with God every day? Or is it acceptable to simply live, trusting that God is there whether we feel it or not?

We talk about daily devotion, daily study. You likened faith to marriage. I don’t wake up every day needing reassurance that my wife still loves me. But I do need to pay attention to the relationship—to notice when something feels off.

My reason for introducing beauty into this discussion, rather than limiting it to visual art, is that beauty surrounds us constantly. God surrounds us constantly. If we notice.

David: The way Carolyn describes her experience echoes something many people say during hardship: “God, where are you?” Sometimes that question carries doubt that God exists at all.

On the Cross, Jesus’s cry was different. He didn’t ask whether God existed; he asked (in a way) where God had gone. That distinction matters. One accepts God’s existence; the other questions it.

For me, acceptance resolves much of this tension. I accept that God exists. I don’t understand God’s ways, especially in suffering, but I accept them. That acceptance prevents me from falling into despair when God appears inactive.

I think spiritual highs and lows are not healthy. The middle ground—steady acceptance—seems healthier to me. That’s why I can now enjoy music culturally without assigning it spiritual meaning. I can appreciate Ride of the Valkyries without confusing grandeur for grace.

This series has helped me articulate something I was grasping toward: the separation between human culture—our notions of beauty—and God’s nature, which is goodness itself.

C-J: With Christ on the Cross saying, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do,” I think about broken human relationships. If people truly understood the harm they cause, they might work more carefully toward repair.

Grace and faith have to be bonded together. Humanity often tries to replace God with beauty—grand cathedrals, elite music—sometimes forgetting the poor in the process. Beauty detached from humility becomes shallow. Cultural success doesn’t equal depth. Longevity comes from dedication and purpose, not spectacle.

We may be instruments in God’s hands, but we are not the hand of God.

Don: Scripture is filled with sensory encounters—thunder, fire, stillness. Even silent prayer is a kind of sensory experience. I wonder whether removing God from sensory experience altogether goes too far.

David: Sensory experience depends on physical senses. But spiritual experience depends on a different faculty altogether—a spiritual sense, if you like. That’s where God is encountered, not through the physical senses.

That’s why I feel comfortable separating music from spirituality. Music is beautiful. I enjoy it freely now. But spiritual experience occurs in a different realm.

Donald: Revelation unsettles people because it overwhelms the senses—trumpets, beasts, thunder. There’s nothing quiet about it. It’s the culmination of Scripture, and it’s intentionally disturbing.

David: I take those images to be metaphors pointing to spiritual realities. Much of Scripture makes more sense to me when read that way. Jonah in the fish, for example, isn’t about the physical experience—it’s about what it means spiritually to be enclosed, trapped.

Carolyn: Last night I read a passage in John that reminded me you can find joy in every season—grief as well as happiness. That realization felt like clouds parting. We live between Revelation and the Nativity, between terror and tenderness. I pray that God keeps us open to seeing joy in both.

C-J: Revelation is a metaphor for humanity’s chaos and failure of stewardship. It calls us to humility and accountability. Each of us is both student and teacher. Peace follows humility; suffering follows pride.

Reinhard: I think Revelation is the culmination of the great controversy between good and evil—the final chapter of human history. But returning to grandeur and simplicity: natural beauty is universal. Constructed beauty—art, music—depends more on culture and history.

Western art, especially since the Renaissance, became associated with wealth and power. Yet the talents of artists like Michelangelo or Picasso are gifts from God. Religious art helped tell biblical stories when people could not read.

Both natural beauty and human-made beauty can point us toward God. But they are accessories, not essentials. Scripture reminds us that we walk by faith, not by sight. Beauty may help us appreciate God’s creation, but faith governs our lives and salvation.

Donald: Reinhard raises an important point I overlooked: art as storytelling. Stained glass and sacred art allowed ordinary people to encounter biblical narratives visually. That’s worth pondering.

I don’t think we’ve answered everything today, but that’s fine. It was a rich discussion, and I’m grateful for it.

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