The Museum of Natural Beauty

"A Wheat Field, With Cypresses" by Vincent Van Gogh

   There was a town of great industry. For many years this place had thrived on the production of modern business; until the town was a vast city. After time the people of this city began to forget the beauty of a world left un-conquered; where no concrete made level all ground, and no steel made reachable all heights. Their lives were spent in a manufactured world, their paths were illuminated by manufactured light, and their hearts were only mildly stirred on occasion by manufactured passion.

   The cheap, pale substitutes for true beauty that they had created, became their only source and understanding of beauty itself. The rare blossoms on the weeds that fought their way up through the sidewalks, and the graceful flight of the birds that scavenged food in the streets, were perhaps the only reminders of what the people had set aside in favor of electric color, and mechanical movement.

   Then came an interlude in this march to uninterrupted modernity…

   A new building was erected at the very edge of the city. Its unexpected arrival was a mystery to the people, who waited in moderate interest to see what it would become. On the day that the doors were thrown open to welcome the first visitors, a dark shroud was removed from the face of the building, revealing the golden plaque over the entrance. The sign read simply:

“The Museum of Natural Beauty.”

   As the first few visitors to the museum crossed its threshold, they stood dumbfounded for a moment. They were caught up in the simultaneous euphoria, and melancholy of those who are experiencing a taste of true beauty for the first time. Indeed, many were embarrassed by their involuntary reactions. The welling of tears, the fluttering of the heart; those untamable, physical demonstrations of the human spirit when it is in the presence of something real, and meaningful. 

   On each wall of the museum, hung paintings that burst with every color of the spectrum. In every direction there were hallways adorned with more paintings, and staircases that ascended to more levels of similar quality and content.

   Those who entered the museum found it very difficult to leave. They feasted their eyes on the beautiful paintings, feeling on some subconscious level, that to depart from the museum would be to abandon beauty forever.

   And so, as its opening day wore on, the museum became more and more crowded, with people entering with greater frequency, and exiting very rarely.

   So, what did these paintings depict? In concept they were simple… They were landscapes. 

   Every painting in the museum was of landscapes portrayed in breathtaking detail. Their variety seemed to be infinite. There were mountains, fields, valleys, oceans, and islands. There were forests and gardens, wild savannas and frozen steppes, deserts and jungles. The paintings depicted every kind of weather one could imagine as well. There were paintings of magisterial storms, with dark windy clouds or sheets of flying hail. There were calm nights with fields of brightly painted stars, and foggy mornings with walls of rolling pink mist. 

   Everyone who saw the paintings was moved in their heart, though many couldn’t understand why. To those who had lived in the city for a long time, these beautiful visions represented nothing more than pleasant mythology. The colorful pictures of a seemingly idealistic world were simply something to be entertained by; a comforting lie to help one withstand reality. To others the beauty depicted was like a great mystery, something to be chased, emulated, and idolized, but never something one expected to experience for themselves.

   Finally, a young girl entered the museum. No one here recognized her, as she was a foreigner to the city. She walked about the hallways with an expression of genuine pleasure on her face, soaking in each of the beautiful paintings, and moving to the next. There was something different, and odd about how she was experiencing the museum however... 

   To the few who paid her more than a moment’s notice, they were astounded to watch her visit each painting. It certainly seemed as though she enjoyed them as much as any of the other guests, but none of them seemed to take her by surprise, or hold her captivated as they had for everyone else. It was as if the paintings were all familiar to her. They didn’t seem to have the power over her that they exercised on the older audiences. Most however, who watched these odd reactions, (or lack thereof) decided simply that; “Children simply don’t understand such things. She can’t be expected to understand masterful art when she witnesses it.” 

   Around this time, a considerable crowd had formed around one piece in particular. At the end of one of the halls, everyone who drew near couldn’t tear their eyes away from the perfect rectangle, which portrayed the most beautiful scene the guests had experienced so far. If the people’s reactions could have been described as “strong” when presented with the other landscapes in the museum, then the effect this sight had on them was overpowering, overwhelming, sovereign… 

   It was a vast field of golden grass, with trees in the distance, and a cloudless blue sky. At the first moment of one’s glance, it could have been called plain in comparison with the other landscapes in the museum; but after that first glance, the power of this sight took one prisoner with absolute authority.
   I cannot aptly describe its magnificence. Instead, I must allow the comments of the gathering crowd, and a recounting of their unbridled emotions to do the job. 

   Tears fell freely from every eye. Hands shook as they rose to cover mouths which hung open in unashamed awe. Some viewers; moving closer to the front of the crowd even fell to their knees, in weak oblivion when presented with such a masterpiece.

   “I’d forgotten what a blue sky could look like.” Said an elderly man, standing tall over the crowd.

   “I’ve never smelled grass before, but it’s almost as if I can.” Said a woman as she stared hungrily.

   “It’s a prodigy piece! Done by a masterful painter of light and soft shadows!” Said a young man who fancied himself an art critic.

   The comments came faster, as the admirers found voice to their emotions.

   “I would pay anything, whatever it cost to have this in my home for the rest of my days.”

   “It’s as if you could hear the wind in those far trees!” said a teenager, moving closer.

   “And birds, singing as they nest in the branches!” said her friend.

   “I want to climb into this scene, and spend the rest of my days living inside it.” Said a quiet voice.

   The last voice came from a man in a fine grey suit. It was the kind of garment that radiated the reassurance of the presence of wealth. He was just the kind of man that everyone in the city idolized. Someone with real power and purpose. Though, he looked quite powerless, and purposeless, as he strode forward, and like others fell to his knees before the beautiful scene. There were tears streaming down his face, and one need only look at him to realize that this was a man who was realizing with brutal finality; the bitter pointlessness of his life. 

   As the others surrounding him looked back to the painting, they realized that they felt exactly as he did. If only this perfect work of art could be “climbed into.” If only it was more than what so many believed it to be; a mere, comforting myth…

   It was at this moment of resigned silence, that a young, clear voice sounded at the back of the crowd. 

   “Excuse me.” It requested kindly.

   It was the little girl. The one so oddly less-effected by the other paintings in the museum. 

   The crowd parted, and watched as the child approached the rectangle of light and color on the wall. She stopped in front of it for only a moment. The sight did indeed seem to please her, but the crowd was aghast, some even were indignant as the girl looked away from the sight in some confusion. She looked around at the tears on the faces, and could feel the powerful draw everyone gathered seemed to have for the field and trees and sky beyond.

   The man in the suit looked with a bemused smile to the girl.

   “Isn’t it beautiful?” He asked, in a whisper.

   “Yes. Of course, it is.” The girl answered somberly.

   “I wish I could go into that painting, and live there for the rest of my life.” He said again, his voice cracking with deep emotion.

   To everyone’s surprise, and quite a bit more indignation. The girl looked confused, and then laughed; though not unkindly. Without a word she walked right up to the painting, seized the bottom of it, and before anyone could stop her she threw her arms upward as if to send the masterpiece careening upward through the air…

   The perfectly clear, and clean glass panel of the large window slid smoothly up. Letting in the warm breeze, and the sounds of birds calling in the distance. With the careless nonchalance only a child can have, the girl climbed up onto the windowsill, and hopped out onto the golden grass beyond. 

   The gathered crowd might as well have been carved from marble, as still as they stood. The shock and revelation was nearly tangible. For a solid minute, that might as well have been an hour, they all gaped at the window they had mistaken for a painting. 

   The first to move was the man in the suit. Where others now looked at the window with confusion or even distrust. He stood and climbed out through the window to join the little girl in the field. He ran with her, faster and faster, laughing as he discarded his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves in the warm summer sun. When they came to a creek, he kicked off his fine leather shoes without a moment’s hesitation, to wade freely in the cool water.

   Some of the crowd joined them after a while, and they too began to play and explore with complete abandon. Many others, for a wide variety of reasons they found easy to produce, left the window behind and returned to what they imperiously called, “the real artwork” in the museum, or to go out; back to their dim grey lives, in the dim grey city.

---

   Everyone that has ever lived in this flawed, broken, poisoned world, has found the strength to do so because something seemed worthwhile to them. The list is very long and I don’t have the capacity to lay all of it out for you, but for one simple example, think of the stories that we love.
   Mankind loves stories. They emulate and portray all of the emotions and experiences that we ourselves have or long to have in our existence. We entertain, and more importantly, instruct ourselves using the stories that we love. Everything from “The Iliad” and “The Odyssey,” to “The Avengers” and “The Office...” Since our creation, we have been lovers of story.

   While some stories are truth-less; useless portrayals of foolishness, or evil tools of perversion and darkness, the good stories are those that share truth and beauty. They give hope and purpose. They explain difficult concepts, and complex emotions. Those who have been stirred to inexplicable tears, or inspired to greater courage from a story that they cherish, have experienced this imparting of the power of story. 

   These good stories are like the paintings in The Museum of Natural Beauty. They are reminders, beacons, portrayals, imitations, and clues to a far greater truth. Like the crowd that gathers around the window, looking out over a beautiful place they are unfamiliar with, and longing to be a part of it; the world is desperate for genuine truth. Like the little girl, who guides the uninitiated into the reality that the world is seeking; the Holy Spirit is at work, guiding and opening the way for the world to find truth.

   And most importantly for us... We Christians who have been transformed by the blood of Jesus Christ; given the ability to choose to set aside vanity and worship of self... We must be aa clear window for the Truths and Beauty of God to shine through. Not a painting; imperfectly depicting the truths we are aware of, but drawing attention to ourselves as masterpieces. No, we must be windows; clear, and open to those who are desperate to find the reality beyond.