Heh. Funny story. When I started entertaining the idea of becoming a Christian, but wasn’t sure where in “Christianity” I belonged, a friend took me to one of her services. She called it a Beptomethocostal church (i.e., Baptist/Methodists/Pentecostal). Needless to say, the “Methodist” aspect was extremely subtle. The Church was massive, I mean absolutely huge. But it had nothing in it that was obviously and recognizably a place of worship. The service was held in a gymnasium in which metal folding chairs had been set up. It was basically a giant community center. I looked around and saw no crosses, no statues, anything like that. It felt like stepping into a makeshift concert hall. I asked where all the Christian stuff was. She said “We don’t need them. They’re spiritual crutches.”
Well, I’m a spiritual cripple. I need crutches.
So I keep images and statutes around my room. I have a St. Michael’s statue, given to me by my wonderful and lovely girlfriend on the day of my baptism, since she knows I’m a big fan of his. A crucifix on my wall. Rosaries here and there. They are, indeed, crutches. They help me to coordinate my prayers to an outside object. The Protestant attitude here is extremely solipsistic and subjective; it’s all about their interior state. The Catholic emphasis on beauty, by contrast, is a good thing: it coordinates our senses to something that transcends us. The Protestant looks inward; the Catholic, upward.