A Moment in Malibu: How Edmund Burke Explains the Unexplainable

"And indeed the ideas of pain, and above all of death, are so very affecting, that whilst we remain in the presence of whatever is supposed to have the power of inflicting either, it is impossible to be perfectly free from terror. . . . But pain is always inflicted by a power in some way superior, because we never submit to pain willingly. So that strength, violence, pain, and terror, are ideas that rush in upon the mind together. . . . That power derives all its sublimity from the terror with which it is generally accompanied, will appear evidently from its effect in the very few cases, in which it may be possible to strip a considerable degree of strength of its ability to hurt. When you do this, you spoil it of every thing sublime, and it immediately becomes contemptible."

—Edmund Burke, A Philosophical Enquiry Into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful, pp. 59–60

When I first read this passage, I was reminded instantly of an experience I had this past November. I was in California for my friend's wedding with my mom, and that night, after all of the festivities had finished, her family invited us to come spend the evening at the beach house they were renting out for the week. My mom and I drove through the rolling California hills toward Malibu as the sun set and the sky turned a glowing shade of purple. It was breathtaking. The smell of Eucalyptus trees hung in the air and I rolled down my window to breathe it in. Even though it was November, the air wasn't cold. The sky was clear and the stars were beginning to emerge.

After we got to the beach house, I walked out the backdoor and down the wooden steps to the beach. My mom didn't want to get sand in her shoes, so she stopped at the steps and sat down to send some overdue text messages. I slipped my shoes off and walked into the cool sand.  I couldn't believe how close it was. It stretched in both directions, and, as far as I could see, I was the only one on the beach that night.

I walked right up to the ocean. I was almost beyond the stretch of the porch light from the beach house. I stood on the wet sand and waited for the waves to come up and wash over my feet. I stared down at them until I saw the water and sand swirl around them, touching the tips of my jeans. Then, for the first time, I looked up. The ocean was black and the thunderous rhythm of waves shook me to my core. The stars covered the sky like God had thrown sugar into the heavens. They reached all the way down to the horizon, kissing the mass of salty water that churned and brooded beneath their pearly glow.

I had never felt so small in my entire life. The power and vastness of the ocean made me feel frail and humble. I realized that no matter how big of a boat I built, or how strong of a swimmer I was, I would never be able to conquer this ocean. The darkness only added to its mystery, compounding my sense of awe and submission in the face of this power that has stood since the dawn of time.

I stood there on that beach and I started to cry. As I gazed on the endless expanse of ocean and stars, I was overwhelmed with a sense of both my own nothingness and my own eternal nature. It was clear to me in that moment that there is a power that extends far beyond anything I can understand.

It was difficult for me to pinpoint what exactly had caused these emotions. But after reading this Burke quote, I understand it more fully. The sense of the sublime I felt that night was in large part created by the enormous power I saw before me. My own helplessness in the face of this power, the mystery and beauty that confronted me induced, as Burke noted, a sense of terror and this terror is what propelled me into the sublime.

Why does terror cause us to feel a sense of the sublime? What relation does this have to "fearing God"? Is this God's way of helping us cultivate a sense of awe and reverence toward Him?