Art as Prayer: The Spiritual Dimension of Creation
Is art a form of prayer? From Van Gogh’s vision of art as vocation to Jesus’ call to worship “in spirit and in truth,” here’s why creativity feels divine.
Lately, I’ve been reflecting on something deeply spiritual about art. Not that art itself is a religion, but it often feels like a bridge—connecting us to the divine presence that flows through all living things.
Vincent van Gogh, perhaps more than any other artist, embodied this idea. He once called his work a “vocation,” a kind of faith. For him, painting wasn’t just craft—it was communion. He saw the divine woven into the fabric of everyday life: the stars, the fields, the people around him. When he painted The Starry Night, it wasn’t just a landscape—it was eternity itself, a vision of his soul continuing beyond death, carried into the heavens.
“I want to touch people with my art. I want them to say: he feels deeply, he feels tenderly.” — Van Gogh
Interestingly, Van Gogh once trained to be a minister but eventually left behind the formal church. Yet his art revealed something profound—that vocation need not always come through official authority. It can be lived out through the work of our hands, through creativity, through the pursuit of truth.
Art, in many ways, is a prayer. Every sculpture, every painting, every piece is a petition—an offering of meaning from the artist to the world. Sometimes its message resonates, sometimes it’s misunderstood. But if you sit quietly with art—not just glance, but really look—something beyond the surface begins to speak. Reflection opens the door to a deeper reality.
When I create, I feel this movement. The process requires me to quiet my mind, to step beyond the old self, and commit to shaping something that feels larger than me. The hours blur together. Time disappears. What remains is not just the technical outcome of my hands, but a work that feels transcendent, as if it always existed, waiting to be revealed.
It reminds me of Jesus’ words in John 4, when he told the Samaritan woman at the well that true worship isn’t confined to a place, but happens “in spirit and in truth.” That same spirit is what I believe we invoke through art: the act of perceiving and creating with honesty, reverence, and openness to the divine.
Art, at its best, is worship. Not worship of the self, or even of the object created—but of the eternal presence that flows through all things. In that way, every true act of creation is also an act of prayer.
Keeping the Moment Holy: Mindfulness in Stone Carving and Life
Life’s rush often steals our attention, leaving us shallow and restless. Through stone carving and the mindful practice of treating each moment as “holy,” we can reclaim presence, gratitude, and peace in the small rhythms of daily living.
“There’s a rhythm and rush these days, where the lights don’t move and the colours don’t fade.” — José González, Stay Alive
We often find ourselves moving task to task in a blur, rushing through life without pausing to breathe. For me, stone carving is where the rush stops. It’s a mindful practice, a way to return to presence. To carve well, I must set aside the moment—make it “holy.”
In scripture, the Sabbath was meant as a day of rest, set apart from work. It was a practice of abstaining from productivity, a way of fasting from the rush of doing. Ascetic monks extended this rhythm into daily life through abstinence and devotion. In the modern West, we’ve reshaped this idea into what we now call mindfulness—bringing ourselves back into the present moment.
But what if we went a step further? What if every act was set aside as “holy”?
We lose presence in daily life when we lose gratitude. The little things—our morning coffee, sunlight on the window, an old song on the drive home—become invisible. Stone carving has taught me this lesson repeatedly. Some days the work feels like strain and frustration, but when I remember to treat the act itself as sacred, the process shifts. Each mark of the chisel becomes a prayer, a moment of presence, a reminder that the craft cannot be rushed.
Without this, life quickly slips into what González describes as a “world gone shallow and a world gone mean.” The antidote is simple: notice, give thanks, and let each moment last.
We are here only a short while. Let us honor the small rhythms of life as gifts from the Creator—moments set apart, holy, eternal.
From ICU to Inspiration: Reflections on Life, Art, and Stone Carving
After ten days in the ICU with a heart blockage caused by Lyme disease, I returned home with a renewed perspective — and a chisel still calling my name. In the quiet, I’ve been thinking about the slow pace of stone carving, the speed of the modern world, and the one currency we truly take with us: love.
It’s Monday morning. My little girl is at daycare, and for the first time in a while, I’m alone with my thoughts. The house is quiet. My pace is slow — and perhaps that’s exactly how it should be after narrowly escaping death.
Just a short while ago, I spent ten days in the ICU with a third-degree heart blockage caused by Lyme disease. I left the hospital with nothing but an IV in my arm and the bravery to pump antibiotics into my veins for two more weeks. It sounds frightening, and in many ways it was, but since that episode I’ve learned some things that have settled deep within me. The reason behind the experience, however, still feels like a mystery — one I may or may not solve in this lifetime.
Now, it’s as if I’ve been dropped back into my life with the pause button pressed. I can’t return to work yet, which feels like both a limitation and a gift — time to tackle the long-neglected corners of my home and life:
Building a shed to make more room in the backyard.
Clearing the basement.
Organizing my studio.
The recurring theme is space.
I’ve read that the greatest deterrent to spiritual stagnation is being too busy. Jesus said it’s nearly impossible for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. And King Solomon — said to be the richest man in history — observed that idle hands lead to poverty. It seems the chase for wealth often leaves us stuck in the dirt. In truth, love is the only currency we truly share, and connecting with our spiritual selves is the first step to understanding God.
Art has a way of pulling these questions to the surface. Facing the thin edge between life and death has made me think often about life after death. I’ve wrestled with feelings of failure for not achieving more with my artistic goals — yet perhaps it’s better that we don’t fully understand how our “idle hands” might create more meaningful work on spiritual planes. A carving may seem small in the grand scheme of things, but it can hold deep meaning for someone — a reminder of who they are and why they matter.
Stone carving, by its very nature, is slow and deliberate. In a world that moves faster every day — propelled now by AI in ways more powerful than even the invention of the personal computer or the internet — it’s worth asking: What is the value of all this progress without consciousness and spirituality?
This morning, coffee in hand, I realized that happiness might be as simple as being content with what’s already in front of you. I won’t carve today — I still need to rest — but even the thought of taking a chisel and hammer to the 600-pound block of limestone in my backyard brings me comfort.
If you’re reading this, let it be a reminder: you are not made of stone. One day, the consciousness you know as “you” will be lifted out. And when that happens, you will bring nothing but the love you gave — and take only the love you were given.
That’s what I hope my work, and this blog, carry for you.
