The following excerpt is adapted from Brianna Lambert, Created to Play (InterVarsity Press, 2026).
God named his children Beholders from the beginning. Before we accepted the position at our current job, held a diploma, or even learned how to write our name, we were first recipients of the glories of his world. He wove this truth into the fabric of our body at creation. Think about the five senses he fashioned within the human body. God created hands to touch and labor, yet sight, hearing, smell, and taste are gifts only to receive. These senses allow us to engage in the world purely by enjoying it. We get to breathe in the smells of the truffle cream sauce on our plate and delight in the smooth beat of the music coming through our earbuds. And each beautiful flower or star-filled sky we see reminds us that the chief end of man is not only to glorify God with action but even to “enjoy him forever” (“Westminster Larger Catechism”).
The desire to behold undergirds much of our play. It pushes us to abandon the skillet on the stove and race to the window when the flash of orange from an oriole sails onto the birdfeeder. It sends us to the theater for the showing of a film and prompts us to silence our phone while we listen undisturbed to a newly released album. We might call ourselves bird nerds, foodies, campers, film buffs, art lovers, travelers, or a dozen other names—but above all, we’re Beholders. We pause before the bright orange and purple sunset on the horizon and become speechless at the paint on a canvas, because beauty has captivated us.
This beauty we behold will fill us with delight. We’ll find laughter and joy in a movie after a difficult day or in the incredible flavors in a dark chocolate pistachio cookie. These bits of joy convince us that the Lord “richly provides us with everything to enjoy” (1 Timothy 6:17). Yet the greatest thrill of beholding lies much deeper than mere surface-level enjoyment. The reason we book a ticket across the globe or spend an evening transfixed by a Broadway play is because our hearts crave the opportunity to behold beauty far greater than we could imagine. We aspire to look on the unexplainable and even find ourselves a little bit afraid.
Philosophers throughout history have described this feeling as an encounter with the sublime. It’s the feeling of awe and grandeur we experience standing below a mountain range whose craggy peaks stretch toward the heavens. It’s the wonder that fills our heart when we watch a bolt of lightning strike the earth or the ocean waves crash against the shore. As Beholders we’ll feel the awe of the sublime extend even into our favorite hobbies—when we turn the last page of a gripping novel that weaves together characters and words with artistry, or when the reverberations of a symphony prickle our skin with goosebumps.
Beholders chase after this feeling. We kneel toward the coneflower and marvel at the way it sprung from a tiny seed and now opens its petals to the sun. We lean toward the chiseled marble sculpture and take in its craftsmanship. We might grasp the knowledge of the process, yet at the same time we can’t fathom how such beauty exists. This encounter with the sublime will leave us humbled by its greatness. Barbara Nicolosi noted that the experience of the beautiful “always involves a paradoxical mix of humility and euphoria” (“The Artist: What Exactly is an Artist and How Do We Shepherd Them?”).
Those of us who regularly stand before the presence of beauty must reckon with the inevitable feelings of discontent when we leave it. The stars are beautiful; the books, absorbing. Their beauty entices us and can easily lead us into feeling disenfranchised with the “ugly” parts of our days. Kids bickering at the table feels like a poor trade off to the engrossing novel we had to put down. Our small town and flat landscapes feel dull compared to the majestic canyons we just spent two weeks traveling though. Our simple home only reveals its flaws once we’ve spent an afternoon touring an estate or art museum.
When we leave the presence of the sublime and awe-inspiring, discontent settles in. It tells us our work meeting provides nothing but drudgery. It makes us see our life as nothing more than a list of burdens and limitations. This discontent sometimes prompts Beholders to view their hobbies as an escape. They decide to simply get lost in the stars instead of dealing with the list of responsibilities. They set all their hopes on the next trip or the next high they’ll feel at the foot of beauty. I admit I’ve caught myself adopting the same attitude of escapism by putting off sleep in exchange for late-night TV marathons.
Yet this response has sorely missed the message that beauty offers us. Far from breeding discontent, beholding beauty should elevate the ordinary. When we realize we belong to a God with all-encompassing beauty and power, every ordinary moment of our lives can take on greater importance. We’ll discover that our humble place comes with enormous worth, and in doing so we’ll realize that beauty doesn’t exist over there. It’s right here, in our world—where we do laundry, send emails, and break up fights between our kids. Our time beholding the great equips our eyes to see it within the small. And we’ll always find it—for if God is true beauty, then we can guarantee its presence, for he will never leave us or forsake us (Hebrews 13:5). That’s how we fight discontent.
This world can surely be discouraging. The curse of sin severed the perfection of beauty for us to behold. But sinking into a spirit of discontent will only leave us missing the hidden beauties of life. Instead, we must ask God to allow the awe-inducing to expand our vision for the beautiful.
For our ten-year anniversary, my husband and I set out across the country to the state of Washington to embark on a six-day backpacking trip. As we climbed along the trail, we came to a blackened, empty forest. Naked, charred tree trunks reached sadly toward the sky as the quiet of the forest mourned what was lost. Yet down on the ground, between each of the pillars of death, a tangle of bright pink flowers blossomed. Their radiant petals and tender green shoots snaked in and out between the destruction, and I marveled at this bright spot of beauty in such a desolate place.
Have you seen those petals, too? They bloom within the book on your nightstand, the speakers in your car, or the trees outside your window. They wind around inside your noodle bowl or in the theater seats as you watch a beautiful film. They ride on the notes of a song and can be spotted through the window of the airplane that takes you to visit mountains, cities, and landscapes you’ve never seen. They bring little bits of beauty in the midst of the charred earth. They speak of hope and of the God whose glory we cannot fathom.
This kind of wonder is available for Beholders no matter where we go or how much money we spend. It’s available in the activities you already love doing. Josef Pieper wrote, “A man who needs the unusual to make him wonder shows that he has lost the capacity to find the true answer to the wonder of being” (Josef Pieper, The Philosophical Act). Our beholding might lead us to the Louvre or an expensive trip to New Zealand, but it doesn’t have to. As Beholders, we simply need the eyes to see the sublime outside our window and to hear it in the song on the radio.
Our world began in perfect beauty, and God will one day restore it toward the same. In the meantime, his image-bearers will continue to seek after it. We’ll create beauty as a Maker, Nourisher, or Restorer. We’ll shout it out as a Herald or gather it back together as a Curator. But most often, we’ll simply slow down and receive the grandeur around us.
We wake up every day in God’s beautiful world—if only we would take the time to stop and behold.
Copyright (c) 2026 by Brianna Janelle Lambert. Used by permission of InterVarsity Press. www.ivpress.com