Angels are fascinating creatures. According to the Catechism of the Catholic Church, they are “non-corporeal beings … spiritual creatures [with] intelligence and will: they are personal and immortal creatures, surpassing in perfection all visible creatures, as the splendour of their glory bears witness” (CCC, 328, 330). But we are not angels. We are corporeal beings. We have bodies and we have senses and we need to use them. When we forget this, we miss much of the joy not only in our natural life but in our spiritual life as well.
Perhaps the most startling truth in Christianity is John 1:14: Verbum caro factum est—“the Word became flesh.” That means that Almighty God, the great “Other,” came into this world as a man and related to us in and by the flesh. So we now share something with God that not even angels share. Rather exciting, isn’t it?
Reality comes to us through our senses, and so whatever affects our bodies can affect our perception of reality. It can bring us closer to reality or distance us from it. The arrangement of a room, its order or disorder, can affect our ability to concentrate or even relate to others. The size and spacing of the text on paper, the feel of the paper itself (if on paper at all), affects our attitude toward the message. Whether you recite something out loud (and how loud) or just “in your head” can make a profound difference on how well you learn it. How a handshake is offered, how directions are given, the sounds around us—or within us—make imperceptible perceptions (if I may use the phrase) on our hold on reality.
When we use our body and senses, we use something God wants to share with us, and when we neglect them, we neglect a connection God wants to have with us. God is the ultimate Reality, and our senses, properly used, put us in touch (pun intended) with reality and God. Notice how often senses are invoked and involved in Scripture. The Jewish Shema, the central declaration of the Hebrew faith, begins with an appeal to the senses: “Hear, O Israel!” (Deut. 6:4). Why “hear” and not “believe”? Because you hear something that is real, whereas you can believe just about anything. Psalm 34 tells us to “taste and see that the Lord is good.” Psalm 19 tells us that God’s word is “sweeter also than honey and drippings of the honeycomb,” not more intellectually comprehensible than a Euclidean proposition. Of course we must use our minds, but not at the expense of our bodies. We are not just brains on stilts.
Several scenes in the life of our Lord are very sensuous. When Mary breaks open the jar of nard to pour over our Lord’s feet, St. John notes that the aroma filled the whole room (John 12:3). (And who complains? Judas.) Our Lord also was sometimes graphic with the senses when performing miracles. To heal a deaf man, he puts his fingers in the man’s ears and then spits and touches the man’s tongue (Mark 7:32-37). To heal a blind man, he spits on the ground, makes some mud and then smears it on the man’s eyes (John 9:6-7). As proof of his Resurrection—his bodily Resurrection—he doesn’t give an academic lecture; he eats a piece of fish. He tells Thomas to touch him; to put his hand in his side. The senses are not an impediment to Faith. They can be the gateway to it. It’s why each sacrament in the Church must have a physical aspect. It tells us something real has happened.
Significantly, we use the expression “out of your senses” to mean insane. The more we get away from our senses, the more we lose touch with reality. Even worse, we can start to believe that we can create reality. “All good tends toward incarnation,” said G. K. Chesterton, an eminently sane man who also said that, “The startling wetness of water excites and intoxicates me.” As opposed to that, we have the bumper sticker that reads “Question reality.” Try running full speed into a brick wall and see how far that goes.
We should use and hone our senses as much as possible. We need to become more aware of what things—real things—feel like, taste like, sound like, look like, and smell like; of not only what we do but how we do it. This requires time and patience. It’s been said that a contemplative is one who tastes his coffee. He is also one who could, I imagine, gaze at a rose, listen to a cardinal, sniff basil, and rub his hand through wool with equal reverence. By using our senses, we experience something not of our own making but something of creation’s—and the Creator’s—making. This is important; it puts us in our place. To gain wisdom and knowledge—as opposed to simply gathering information—requires humility and docility.
Is this an exhortation for hedonism? No. The senses work best when there are limits to them, even, at times, restrictions. Hence the saying, “Hunger is the best sauce.” It’s why we instinctively close our eyes when we’re asked to taste a wine. It’s why silence is necessary to appreciate a landscape or painting. It’s why a ghost story is more frightening when told in the dark. It’s why stillness is imperative.
It’s also why our current environment of “sensory overload” is making us zombies and sucking us into artificial worlds of our own making. When you “up the ante” on your senses, they require more and more just to maintain equilibrium. You need more and more sugar in your orange juice for it to taste (supposedly) like “orange” juice. You need higher and higher decibels or more and more “remastering” in order to hear something. You need more and better “special effects” for something to seem “real.” But when you overload something, it eventually breaks down. It can cease to function. Eventually, you don’t know what a real orange tastes like, or a real violin sounds like, or the real Milky Way looks like. You fail to appreciate what is simple and authentic.
“You see but you do not observe,” said Sherlock Holmes. (And, as Yogi Berra said, “You can observe a lot by watching.”) The same distinction could be made with all our senses: touching but not feeling; hearing but not listening; smelling but not scenting; eating and drinking but not tasting. We perform the act, but we don’t observe; and when we don’t observe, we don’t learn.
The very physicalness of who we are, what we are, should be something we notice, appreciate, and use. Even those aches and pains that are so manifest to our bodies can be wholesome. A bed never feels so good or a beer taste so satisfying than after a long hike or day’s work in the yard.
This world is good (Gen. 1:31), but how well we perceive this goodness depends upon how we use our bodies and our senses.
Try this: Get three or four varieties of a given natural item—say, four different cheeses. Then, knowing which variety you are dealing with, first, smell it with your eyes closed. Then, taste it; really taste it. Feel its texture in your mouth. Notice its after-taste. Do the same with each variety. (It may help to sip water in between). Then, blindfolded, have someone hand you bites of the different cheeses in random order and see if you can identify them. You can also do this with apples, wine (!), chocolate (!!), and many other things. Try it with different fabrics: cotton, wool, linen, and silk. Different herbs: basil, thyme, oregano, and cumin. Don’t go out of your senses. Get into them.