In the middle of a small room with no windows, a book rests on a pedestal. Though it is merely a replica, it retains the air of antiquity of the original. If it is opened, one immediately sees that it contains writing characteristic of the medieval period-large, colorful letters to set off paragraphs, elaborate text, small illuminations dancing down the sides and along the bottom of each page. Each tiny drawing depicts a fanciful creature, something existing only in man's imagination. The fact that it is a work of art goes uncontested.

Or does it?

"What profit is there in those ridiculous monsters, in that marvelous and deformed comeliness, that comely deformity?...In short, so many and so marvelous are the varieties of divers shapes on every hand, that we are more tempted to read in the marble than in our books, and to spend the whole day in wondering at these things rather than in meditating in law of God." 1    Works like this book, appealing though they might be, do nothing to further the situation of man in the world, for in making man contemplate the imaginary, they force man to cease contemplating God-and after all, what is man's purpose in life, if not to contemplate the Lord?

So the blind would have us believe.

In the corner of this same small room sits another pedestal. On it rests a rectangular block of stone. Brown with age and weathered noticeably, it is nevertheless a remnant of what was once a detailed sculpture. Closer inspection reveals its finer points. On one side of the block, protruding slightly, is carved a misshapen figure. Vaguely human, it nevertheless sports wings on its back and haunting eyes without pupils. Its mouth was once carved into a natural snarl, but a cruel trick of aging has further weathered that mouth, and now onlookers are greeted with an unsettling, gaping maw.

On the side of the block opposite this deformed creation is another winged being. However, in stark contrast to its predecessor, this being is beautiful. Its body is proportionate, its face human and kind. All of its features seem created solely to soothe the viewer disconcerted by the more demonic creation opposite it.

In the middle of the block, between the two winged beings and touching only the front of the stone, rests the centerpiece of the carving. Though troubled and anxious-looking, this third figure is nevertheless a normal human being. The symbolism is clear-this human soul is being fought over by both the side of demons and the side of angels. Is this statue too, with its fascinating deformities, to be interpreted as a folly of man, something that distracts him from God? The blind have no comment.

Finally, in the middle of the wall lining the back of the room, there stands a small, unobtrusive statue. At first glance, it appears to be nothing more than a statue of any woman of a certain age-she is young, with plain features, the slightest hint of a serene smile, and a protuberant belly. Yet this is an important woman. Her stomach represents not the fact that she is pregnant, but that she has the potential to be so-appropriate, since many hold the belief that she is the mother of all human beings. She is Mary, the Virgin Mother of Christ, and a symbol for dozens of denominations of Christianity. Even the blind dub her beautiful.

When contemplating their responses, one realizes that the blind are not called so for no reason. Beauty is subjective, and one may find a particular work of art more attractive and beautiful than another. However, when beauty is found in art, by anyone, then that work of art can conceivably lead that person a small bit closer to the contemplation of God, who is the personification of all good things. It is not given to anyone to say what is the best way to find God-thus the blind, their vision deteriorated by closed-mindedness, ignore the potential for beauty in the world merely because it does not fit their parameters.

In a small room with no windows is scattered an array of art. In the array of art, the sighted man can see his God.