Recently, I stayed after class to talk with a professor about a possible research topic concerning the influence exerted by patrons on their commissioned art, and a historical episode came to mind.

In 1909, Americans were blessed with a new penny, designed by accomplished sculptor Victor David Brenner. The design of this penny’s obverse persists to this day, with slight modifications, but something about the coin’s reverse sparked national outrage the day of its release. Gracing the lower rim between two wheat ears were three letters: V.D.B. The problem was not that Brenner had placed his initials on the penny—previous engravers had done the same—but that the large initials occupied too prominent a location in the coin’s field to be considered a humble artistic acknowledgement.

These claims may or may not have been justified, but the public’s protest won out and the initials, denounced by some as free advertising, were removed. After barely a week, altered coins were rolling off the mint’s conveyor belts. In 1918, the initials were restored, this time on the obverse, in miniscule letters below Lincoln’s shoulder. Today, 1909 pennies with the initials claim a pretty premium. For example, in the case of a coin minted in San Francisco, the no-initial 1909 penny can be bought for less than $100, whereas a V.D.B. costs at least $500, with choice examples worth 5-digit figures.

I bring this incident up not as an entertaining tale about the power of democratic protest or modern prices for coins, but as a segue into a commentary on the humanizing beauty and value of numismatics. The latter esoteric term for coin-collecting is my one-word answer to questions such as “What are your hobbies?” or “Do you have a job?” From its entrance into my life as a childhood hobby, involving awkward bank visits to find the elusive Alabama state quarter, to its noble residence as the focus of my online business, numismatics has been a lifelong love, whose value I will perpetually acclaim.

It seems that at a Catholic university, we should give some value to St. Paul’s words to the Philippians: “Finally, beloved, whatever is true … whatever is pleasing … if there is any excellence … anything worthy of praise, think about these things.” When I think pleasing, I think coins. When I think excellence, I think skilled engraver. It was numismatics that planted in me a yearning for beauty. Some may look at me strangely, questioning how coins can really be pleasing, but until they have held a toned Mint State Peace dollar in their hands, tilted the face of an encapsulated deep mahogany 1909-S V.D.B. under a desk lamp, or gazed intensely at their reflection in a proof state coin, they miss a valuable expression of true beauty. Numismatics adds a unique historical and tangible perspective to the abstract idea of beauty many of us know.

Not only have coins instilled in me a love for art of the past, but they link me to the present and the future as well. Coins are one source of meaningful connections with friends in the present. From playing chess for the stakes of a Swiss aluminum coin to business negotiations of friends consigning coins to me, I have found numismatics to draw me closer to people. The joy of possessing a beautiful coin in one’s hands is so powerful as to demand to be shared with others.

Numismatics also brings a more meaningful light to the future. One can set goals and persevere to complete a “type set”—a collection of dates and mints for a particular series. Or one might simply collect coins as a financial hedge due to their potential to increase in value over time. I will also point out that in the midst of the initial chaos following an election year, rare coins tend to perform well. Regardless of who is inaugurated, many believe that the next president will bring anything but certainty to the economy. In the face of this unpredictability and anxiety, people sometimes turn to the tangible, certain value of numismatics, a practice that others would do well to imitate.

When I say I am into numismatics, people either look at me in dismayed ignorance or rattle off how the copper in a penny is worth more than a cent. My instinctive interior reaction to the latter response is, “Please say something original, and by the way, that’s only the case for pre-1982 (and a fraction of 1982) pennies.” Numismatics is so much more than these facts our media spews out—although I do act on them, and I have over 70 pounds of copper pennies in my closet. Numismatics is about history, beauty, and art. It is about the elderly dealers who sit in their swivel chairs in coin shops behind mesmerizingly loaded glass cases of struck planchets, waiting for young people to walk in and show interest in a dying hobby.

If there is anything which like love, according to Anne Hathaway in Interstellar, “transcends time and space,” it is numismatics. Our pocket change may have passed through Donald Trump’s hands in exchange for a gumball. Older coins may have sat in a jar on Abraham Lincoln’s desk. Coins’ transcendence extends to space as well, since through them we find ourselves face-to-face with aesthetics, a sort of fifth dimension not measurable by the physical. We see great men and women engraved on our coinage and feel ourselves to be holding more than just the matter of a metallic disk, but an artifact imbued with beauty. Such is the value of numismatics that even Augustine, who had not studied beautiful coins, could have benefited greatly from this alternate beauty.

Luke Cannon is a freshman studying business and economics and a member of the men’s rowing team. Disappointed by the lack of a numismatics club on campus, he would be ecstatic if anyone with a numismatic interest or inquiry would be bold enough so as to contact him at lcannon@nd.edu.