Consider the Lilies

Picture this: It is the mid-1600s, and you are a lowly monk in Cuzco, the heart of Spanish colonial rule in the Andes. You are on mail duty, and in today’s pile, amongst all the mundane and usual correspondences from around the city, is something out of the ordinary: a letter from the Pope, sent to your superiors. You are curious, so you read the letter before passing it on, and you see the important new rule about Mass: no harps allowed.

How do you feel? Maybe you are happy – you never liked those meddling harpists, anyway. Maybe you are disappointed or angry, as you have seen the joy and community that the indigenous harpists bring to Mass. Or maybe you’re just puzzled: why does the Pope care about harps?

As a harpist myself, fully aware of the connotations the instrument has with celestial beings and heavenly choirs, my curiosity was piqued when I read about this decree. Who doesn’t love harp music in church? As I learned, however, this is not just as an odd historical footnote. It has a tragic story behind it and is part of a much larger pattern of people asserting and maintaining control over others through the restriction of beauty: In colonial Cuzco, the harp was an indigenous instrument associated with “revelry.” The banning of the harp was an act of colonial force.

The Church’s brutal oppression of the indigenous population had literally rendered the Church afraid of harps. It’s true: the church, rightly celebrated as patron and font of so much artistic expression over 2000 years, has also perhaps equally been a terrible censor and destroyer of beauty. The story of the harp in Cuzco is only a small blip in a much larger, much longer and complicated history of the Church and artistic expression. Whenever the church has allowed its anxiety or arrogance to morph into a quest for control, beauty has been seen as a threat rather than as a generous gift from God.

Why is that? Why would something as seemingly “frivolous” as music be seen as dangerous—dangerous enough to ban? What real threat could the sound of harps pose to the brutal power of a colonizing and oppressive Church? Perhaps it’s the same threat that authoritarian regimes have recognized throughout history—the same fear that has led to book bans, the defunding of the arts, and the takeover of cultural institutions by political appointees. Perhaps, on some level, they understand that true beauty is rooted in the sacred reality of human dignity—and human dignity will always be a threat to those who seek to dominate.

In the contemporary world, so deeply ridden with entrenched social inequality, beauty is often dismissed as a luxury, an afterthought, something to be appreciated only when practical concerns have been addressed. In the United States, for example, the arts programs are often the first on the chopping block when school funding is tight. Why would we fund arts programs if students aren’t up to grade level in reading and math? Yet in this excerpt from the Luke’s Gospel, Jesus presents beauty itself as an important teacher. The flowers? I can imagine the disciples thinking. What can we learn from a bunch of lilies?

The disciples, like many of us in these current times, were frequently anxious. They worried about provisions, their futures, and their adequacy in faith. They worried about who could be saved! But Jesus never responds with strategies for self-sufficiency or didactic lectures on how to survive in anxious times. Instead, he directs them to beauty. “Consider the lilies,” he says. Learn about God from them. Learn about yourself through them. In a world consumed by an illusion of scarcity, Jesus points his friends toward something unnecessary, extravagant, and fleeting. The beauty of flowers, he suggests, speak to the generosity of God’s provision and the ceaseless creativity of the Divine.

Jesus himself was a creative person, indeed, a master of metaphor. His disruption came in the form of stories and poetic suggestions. Through his parables, he painted an alternative version of reality where true power rested not in the ability to inspire fear and obedience, but in faith, hope, and love. He called his followers again and again to wake up to the beauty around them, whether in the appearance of flowers, the scent of oil from an alabaster jar (John 12:3), the sound of the wind in the trees (John 3:8), or the holiness of sharing bread and wine. The very act of paying attention to those “frivolous” things directly undermined the worldly powers that thought themselves higher than God. The Romans, after all, could force all kinds of indignities into everyday life through their occupation of Jerusalem, but only God could make the lilies bloom in springtime.

Jesus’ stories were not simply theological statements; they were imaginative acts of defiance. He spoke of a world in which the last became first, in which the outsider was the one who demonstrated true faithfulness, in which wealth and status held no ultimate significance. He used narrative to stretch the boundaries of perception, to challenge the assumptions of his listeners, and to introduce a vision of the Reign of God that stood in direct opposition to empire. His teachings did not merely inform; they transformed. And while I can’t say for sure, I’m guessing that Jesus didn’t suggest looking at the lilies because they might be a helpful distraction from everyday life, but instead because the consideration of beauty is a transgressive and transformational act in the face of empire.

In 2025, the world continues to be shaped by cycles of fear and division. Beauty is frequently dismissed as superfluous. Creativity is deprioritized or actively suppressed. Histories are selectively curated to conform to ideological agendas. Artists and storytellers are accused of being “too radical” when they dare to reveal truth. The church now faces the same crucial question it has faced so many times over the last 2000 years: will it embrace beauty as an act of faith? Will it cultivate creativity as a means of resistance and renewal? Will it support beauty-makers with its time and treasure, or will it succumb to the lie that tending to the human spirit is a “waste” of time and energy?

Beauty, in its demand to be in the eternal present, dismantles systems of anxiety upon which systems of oppression are built. To create—whether through music, literature, visual art, or worship—is to resist the grip of fear. Societies that limit artistic expression do so because they recognize that a people who can envision an alternative future cannot be easily manipulated. Liturgy and worship, when enacted with intention, serve as creative practices that reframe perception, resist despair, and offer glimpses of divine abundance. When churches invest in beauty—through architecture, music, and storytelling—they reject the dominant culture of consumerism and fear and offer a counter-reality rooted in hope.

It is human sin that chooses to be soothed rather than to be awakened. Empires count on this human frailty in order to build and maintain support. And it is so easy, so pleasurable, to settle for what pleases the eye over what stirs the soul, to choose what is tasteful instead of what is transcendent, to opt for the cheerful work of decoration over the hard work of revelation. But encounters with beauty arrest us and show what is at stake with such choices. Beauty makes us aware of something bigger than ourselves, and insists that we engage with Reality as it is, not as the empire declares it to be.

In a time where so many nations seem to be sleep-walking into authoritarianism, Christians are called not merely to acknowledge beauty but to actively cultivate it. The lilies, after all, will continue to grow, whether they are noticed or not. The invitation to see them, learn from them, and embrace their revelations is one that must be taken to heart in such a time. Does it feel frivolous, to invest in beauty in such a time as this? It might. Is that the point? Yes.

To create, to compose, to write, to construct something beautiful—these are decadent endeavors that are absolutely essential to human flourishing. They are acts of profound trust, creative acts that declare that scarcity is not the ultimate reality. They are, at their essence, acts of faith that refuse to be confined to utility, instead revealing the decadence of divine grace.

So, at a time when authoritarian regimes are on the rise all over the world, here is a radical suggestion: don’t let them take your humanity. Listen to some subversive harp music. Better yet, attend a concert where the music is unfamiliar to you, and learn to hear the beauty. Let the new harmonies and rhythms expand your understanding of yourself, of the world, and of God. Join the altar guild at church and learn how to arrange flowers and linens, then go a little overboard. Demonstrate God’s love for the world by using a free afternoon to paint your front door a joyful color. Stay up late at night just to look at the stars. Participate in the beauty that endures. When the world feels unstable and nothing seems clear, don’t just consider the lilies – believe them.