Stunned by Tragic Beauty

Stunned by Beauty

My jaw dropped. My eyes stared. I could not take my eyes off such beauty.

Such tragic beauty.

While writing this, I’m sitting in the Billy Graham Conference Center at The Cove. The speaker discusses the importance of endurance to all of us widows, who have endured much. The proof is that we are sitting right here, still upright, still alive, still with hope in our breath. We have made it this far.

It’s a good message. And yet, I’m distracted by exquisite beauty. All I can do is marvel at the imprint left by this beautiful bird. It’s as if the Holy Spirit Himself flew through pollen and slammed Himself upside this window. This photo doesn’t do it justice, but its striking nonetheless. Every feather, every swirl.

Such tragic beauty.

After marveling at the details this bird left behind, my mind fills with questions. Is the bird ok? Did he survive this assault against the window? And what does this mean? Because something this remarkable surely means something.

Surely he has borne our griefs
and carried our sorrows;
yet we esteemed him stricken,
smitten by God and afflicted.
-Isaiah 53:4

I can only see the cross in a new way. God Himself, walking the path of dust as a Rabbi, Emmanuel, God With Us. Slamming Himself up against that tree. And the nails and the scars. Do you see these nails? Do you see these scars?

The wood and the blood and the sacrifice of the cross feel heavy, and it’s sometimes hard to see the beauty above the tragedy. That is until we remember that three days later, Jesus was raised from the dead, conquering death forever, and when He ascended to heaven, He sent us a Comforter. The Holy Spirit. And this precious bird, slamming himself up against the glass… He’s so transparent. You can see straight through Him. You can see light and beauty and sacrifice all in one picture frame.

Such tragic beauty.

But somehow, from this perspective, I see the work of the cross as more beauty than tragedy. I see that the Lord Himself, as Father and Son and also as Holy Spirit, have given themselves up for us… to trade our tragedies, our sorrows, our griefs, our sins, our sickness… for levity, and peace, and beauty, and joy.

This is the holy exchange.

And I fall on my knees praising God for His glorious kindness. To slam himself up against glass, to make himself vulnerable, see-through, open, transparent. To allow his own bones to be crushed so that we can receive the anointing.

Look at the nails, His hands, His feet. By these stripes, we are healed. Even the lowly, the cast aside, the seemingly forgotten, the vulnerable. Even us. He sees and lays himself down for us. He endured the cross for us; we are the joy set before Him, those he delights to rescue.

And when I survey the feathers, the intricate design, the glory, the love, the sacrifice… I no longer pick myself up by boot straps to endure. And I’ve totally forgotten the call to “put on my big girl pants.” Because when you’re captivated by such beauty, you’re pressing toward that loving kindness with intrigue and wonder. It’s more like drawing closer to a fire to warm chilled bones than it is dragging yourself through the muddy trenches.

When we fix our gaze heavenward to the tragic beautiful love of Christ, the should’s and the mustering and the bootstraps of earth loosen their grip and we become compelled by His love instead.