When the Dream of Reason Terrifies

When we look at something, the first thing we do—consciously or unconsciously—is ask ourselves if we recognize what’s in front of us, what it looks like, or what it reminds us of. That recognition triggers emotions associated with the stimulus. We then construct our own narrative and evaluate the experience.

The world is not neutral. It enters us through the senses and elicits a response. The mind identifies an emotion and, through memory and intelligence, transforms it into a feeling and interprets it. As Byung-Chul Han points out, “Feelings are narratives. Emotions are impulsive.” (“The Salvation of Beauty”).

When faced with a stimulus, we experience pleasure or pain, and the option to fight or flee arises almost automatically. We interpret reality from our own perspective and, based on that, regulate our behavior and our relationships with others and with the world. Paying attention to this process creates a pause between the stimulus and the reaction and allows us to decide whether to react or respond.

Fear and the Limits of Reason

Fear is one of the most primitive emotions and arises almost immediately in response to certain stimuli. The fear of the dark is one of the first fears we experience. Where understanding is lacking, the imagination can fill the void with threats. Reason then acts as a light that allows us to discern and understand the unknown.

But there are experiences—such as death or pain—for which reason does not always provide answers. When faced with something that overwhelms us, we can run away, hide, or give up.

Running away is the most instinctive response. Hiding means protecting oneself, putting on masks, playing roles, or putting up walls. The third option is to surrender. This does not mean giving up, but rather acknowledging that we are facing something beyond our control and accepting the limits of our ability to understand.

The Contemplation of Art and the Coexistence of Opposites

Something similar happens when we encounter a work of art. When we stand before it, we seek to identify and understand what it depicts, what it means, what it resembles, or how it was made. The mind quickly tries to construct an explanation and bring the experience to a close. Contemplating it requires allowing the work to affect us before we rush to interpret it.

Art can do something different with the things that frighten us. It sheds light because it plays with shadows, with what is broken and with what is ugly, without hiding or shying away from them. It looks at them and transforms them, bringing together the beautiful and the terrible, light and darkness, what we understand and what remains a mystery. In this way, it seeks a lost unity among opposites.

Surrendering to a work of art does not mean giving up reason, but rather allowing reason to come later. It means accepting that not everything has to be interpreted. Standing before what we do not understand can give rise to a question and become a form of knowledge.

Digital Noise and the Value of Silence

To do that, we need a break. And a break requires silence.

We live in a time when silence makes us uncomfortable. Images, words, notifications, and information fill every void. Algorithms detect what captures our attention, and fear, outrage, and confrontation are often more effective than calm at holding it. While we believe we’re choosing what we see, we can become trapped in narratives that feed our fears, polarize our perspectives, and erect walls between us and others.

In that void, we can regain the distance needed to observe what is affecting us, what we are believing, and where our attention is being directed. Where noise seeks to provoke an immediate reaction, silence introduces a pause. And in that pause, we can take another look.

Learning to Be Attentive: Lessons from the Breeze and the Water

The account of Elijah in the First Book of Kings conveys this powerfully. The prophet comes out of the cave and seeks God in the wind, in the earthquake, and in the fire. “But the Lord was not there.” Then comes “the sound of a gentle breeze,” and it is there that Elijah recognizes His presence.

What is essential doesn't always come on strong. Sometimes it requires us to pause, listen, and stay put.

Something similar happens to Peter when he walks on the water. As long as he keeps his eyes on Christ, he moves forward. But when he feels the wind and becomes afraid, he stops surrendering. He tries to take control and begins to sink. Fear has shifted his focus to his heart, where he seeks a foundation in reason.

Elijah and Peter speak to us, in different ways, about the same attitude: learning to listen. Not everything that is important demands our attention with a clamor. Some things can only be perceived when we are silent.

The revelation of what is essential, without domination

Contemplation requires silence. To stand in the presence of what we do not understand is to accept that beauty, goodness, and truth can reveal themselves when we stop trying to control the experience.