The Art and Liturgy of Creation

Which leads us to a broader definition of liturgy as any practice repeated until it becomes a consistent, shaping rhythm in our lives. James K. A. Smith articulates this idea in his book You Are What You Love. A repeated practice might be a constructive liturgy, drawing our hearts toward greater devotion to God, or it might be a destructive liturgy, pulling our attentions and affections away from what is good and true—but if it is shaping our hearts and minds by a repeated practice, then in this broader sense we can view it is a liturgical rhythm in our lives.

…liturgy [is] any practice repeated until it becomes a consistent, shaping rhythm in our lives…[it might be] a constructive liturgy drawing our hearts toward greater devotion to God, or…destructive liturgy, pulling our attentions and affections away…

In practice this might look like time spent every morning meditating on scripture, or hours spent mindlessly surfing the web every evening. It might be a meaningful prayer repeated each time you undertake a home repair, or it could be an ongoing habit of overindulging in food or alcohol or a thousand other unhelpful diversions when we’re stressed, or it could be something like the practice of taking walks in the woods to delight in creation on a regular basis. Each of these could become a repeated practice over time—whether deliberately or by default—that has a formative effect on our hearts.

So in that more general sense, all these things can become liturgical practices. And most of us, if we closely examine our lives, will find that we already have in place some liturgies that serve to reorient our hearts toward our Creator, and other rhythms in our lives that orient us toward ourselves and our own more shallow ambitions or desires.

Ned: When I think of the word “liturgy” I think of both ordinary human activities (I have a liturgy of a glass of red wine and a wee bit of dark chocolate every evening) and sacred corporate activities (singing the Doxology every week at the end of church). What I love about Every Moment Holy is that the books encourage the reader to see both of these liturgies as set apart to the glory of God.

Douglas: The Practice of the Presence of God was a book written by a 17th Century monk known as Brother Lawrence. I confess I’ve never actually read his book, but I’ve nonetheless shamelessly borrowed the terminology of “practicing the presence of God” as I seek appropriate language to describe the roles that liturgies and prayers for everyday moments might play in our spiritual formation.

Anyone who holds to an orthodox Christian viewpoint will give intellectual assent to the truth that God is always with us, his Spirit present in all moments. But we tend to more often live our daily lives as what a pastor of mine once termed practical atheists, meaning that we give intellectual assent to the notion that God is always present and active, but we live our lives and make most of our choices without even considering him.

One of the ways I’ve hoped Every Moment Holy might be of service, is as a model for how one might begin to “practice the presence of God” on a more integrated and consistent basis, as one navigates this unspooling thread of moments that our lives consist of. And of course “practicing the presence of God” in that context really means practicing an ongoing awareness that God is present with us, and allowing our choices, our attitudes, our daily stewardships to be incrementally transformed by that awareness.

…“practicing the presence of God”…really means practicing an ongoing awareness that God is present with us, and allowing our choices, our attitudes, our daily stewardships to be incrementally transformed by that awareness.

Ciara: As a writer and fellow creative myself, I’m curious what it’s like to create a liturgy and the artwork that accompanies it. Is the act of creating liturgical? Are those who ‘create’ liturgists? Might this reveal to us something about God, the ultimate Creator and source of our creativity?

Douglas: For me, most often, the act of writing a liturgy is a sobering and daunting task. Scripture tells us not many should presume to be teachers as they will incur a greater judgment. I don’t fully understand the implications of that warning, but it sounds serious, and I think it’s probably a necessary caution against both egotism and presumption. To write words that others will then speak to God is a task that borders on presumption. And by its very nature the task of writing prayers implicitly contains an element of theological instruction. So I find myself most often approaching liturgy writing with a great sense of inadequacy and a certain measure of fear and trembling. I feel stripped bare by the process, as I know my only hope of writing something of real value to others, lies in the possibility that God might be pleased to meet me somewhere in the midst of my own weakness, and—as Christ did with the meagre few loaves and fishes a little kid once offered to him—be pleased to take, bless, break, and mysteriously multiply my own insufficient offering unto the nourishing of others.

Ned would have to speak to what it’s like to create the artwork, though I can say that, as I brainstormed with him and gave notes on some of his initial mock-ups of illustration ideas, that I observed a prayerfulness in his approach, and perceived that the process of cutting the images and creating the prints is for him an important “focal practice” and an ongoing part of the liturgical rhythms of his own life as well.

And yes, I do think the act of creating often becomes liturgical for those who persistently engage in it. The fact that human beings are creative seems to be an unavoidable outworking of being created in the image of the Creator. We can’t not create, even when our skill doesn’t match our desire or ambition. So I think if we repeatedly approach the act of creating in an attitude of humility and awe, recognizing that what we are exercising is an echo of the mind and heart of a God who delights in beauty, poetry, and wonder, then the practice of creating can draw our hearts closer and closer to God’s own.

…I think if we repeatedly approach the act of creating in an attitude of humility and awe, recognizing that what we are exercising is an echo of the mind and heart of a God who delights in beauty, poetry, and wonder, then the practice of creating can draw our hearts closer and closer to God’s own.

On the other hand, we can also create for more mercenary reasons. Rather than seeking to create that which will serve others well, in whatever capacity, we can create with an overriding motivation for material gain, or from a posture of pride or egotistical self-indulgence that shows no regard for the impact it might have on others. We are quite capable of creating inhospitable works that don’t ultimately offer grace, beauty, hope, comfort, or truth to those who encounter them. So the habit of creating can also become either a constructive or a destructive liturgy in our lives.

Some of the artifacts we create can become a sort of liturgy in their own right as well, but I don’t think I could make a blanket statement about that. My observation is that some things will be interacted with in ways that take on a liturgical bent, and others won’t. But even that possibility does highlight our responsibility as stewards of the creative gifts with which we’ve been entrusted. The things we create and set loose in the world can be foretastes of the new creation, stirring hope, salving wounds, exposing lies, pushing back darkness, reconciling in love, awakening wonder. But they can also deceive. They can wound or harm. They can arouse emotion and then bend it to some unworthy end. The idea that the artist has no responsibility to their community is a pretty diabolical notion. I’m not the first person to suggest that the only viable context for art-making is community, but I will second that assertion.

Ciara: There are beautiful block print images that accompany some of the liturgies in Every Moment Holy. How do images and text work together to create an experience of liturgy? Is the image and text part of the liturgy, a supplement to the liturgy or a visual interpretation of the liturgy? How should the reader engage with text and image?

Ned: I’ve thought of my work in the series as supporting and amplifying the gorgeous writing that Doug has produced. I have seen them as “illuminations” in the way that monks of old would illuminate copies of the Bible when they were copying them. But I am coming to appreciate that the Every Moment Holy books are more than my linocut prints and more than Doug’s writing. We are not just thinkers—we are bodied people who experience all of the physical and spiritual realities from a position in Time and Space as people, and therefore both words and pictures will be used together in this way. And it isn’t just the words and pictures. The books have gilded pages and are set in beautiful typography because all of life is holy. It all matters.

Douglas: One of the unexpected and delightful benefits of developing the Every Moment Holy over the past several years has been my friendship forged along the way with Ned Bustard. Ned’s encyclopedic knowledge of the history of symbolism in the art of the church gives his linocut block prints a deep rootedness, fraught with meaning. From the outset it was our shared intention that the illustrations would emerge as sermons in their own right, even as they also serve to reinforce the content of the prayers. So yes, I think there is a very real sense in which Ned’s art has become an extension of the prayers. One can spend rewarding moments reflecting on the rich visuals, and letting their meanings unfold into manifold little epiphanies. Sensitive searchers will be hard-pressed to find any of Ned’s illustrations that don’t offer valuable theological insights.

Ciara: Themes of nature and God as Creator can be found in Every moment Holy volume I, from watching a sunset and stargazing to commemorating the first winter snow. Is there something about the natural world that lends itself particularly well to liturgy? Is creation a liturgy in and of itself?

Douglas: There’s this brilliant little bit that G.K. Chesterton scribbled out —I don’t have the citation so this is a very loose recollection—in which he suggests the bemusing possibility that when Jesus says in scripture that he is the door, that he is not comparing himself to a door, but rather comparing a door to himself and that, in fact, the only reason doors might exist in our universe is because they are an expression of a particular aspect of the immutable nature of our Lord. [Disclaimer: Chesterton stated it more convincingly and elegantly than I just did.] This notion at first strikes the reader as but a fanciful thought experiment that exaggerates to make a point. But the question stuck in my head. And for a few years I’ve been worrying that thought like a grain of sand in an oyster shell, and the more I do, the more I suspect G.K. was actually on to something profound there.

I mentioned earlier the idea that God is a poet. And I confess that I do perceive creation as a great and massive poem, fraught with inexhaustible layers of meaning, with aesthetic beauty and crafting, with wonder, awe, and delight, with rhythm and rhyme. So if we consider that notion of God as the master poet (and I can’t stress how much I mean this in a non-figurative sense), and we consider the poetics of God in light of the point Chesterton was inviting us to consider, then we begin to glimpse how creation is a direct expression of the Maker, and a universal profusion of divine poetry.

…God is a poet. And I confess that I do perceive creation as a great and massive poem, fraught with inexhaustible layers of meaning, with aesthetic beauty and crafting, with wonder, awe, and delight, with rhythm and rhyme.