Except the Crowning Act

They say the human form — the natural beauty God made — must be covered, because of the corrupt and selfish heart of man. It sounds plausible. Responsible, even.

But where else in the human experience does that logic hold?

The sunset bleeding across the sky. The morning birds. The smile and laughter of an innocent child. A sky thick with stars. Which of these do we turn away from, for fear of how the corrupt heart might respond?

No — they tell us to behold them. They tell us beauty like this lifts the soul toward God. Isn’t that the whole point of it? Isn’t every beautiful thing made to pull us back toward the One who made it?

All of it. Except the crowning act. Every created beauty lifts the mind toward God, they say — except the one thing He made in His own image.

But maybe that’s the wrong place to lay the blame. A man can look at a sunset and feel his chest open toward heaven, or he can look at it and think only of what he’d pay to own that view. Same sunset. Two hearts.

Maybe the corruption was never in the thing at all — maybe it was always in the looking.