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.
NORTHERNER ROOTS : Finding Strength and Silence in the North
The North has a way of grounding you. Its silence, strength, and fleeting beauty live in you forever—and in my art, I try to give voice to that quiet power.
If I were to describe myself and my work, both are tied deeply to the North. My carving feels like an echo of the granite channels of the Canadian Shield, slowly hollowed out over millennia by ice, wind, and water. The rhythm of that landscape—the ebb and flow of seasons, the migration of visitors, the steady endurance of those who stay—has shaped my outlook and my hands as a sculptor.
Granite teaches us strength. It has endured millennia, while our own lives are fleeting by comparison. Yet even the softest stone can be shaped into something lasting and beautiful. I find peace in that paradox—something so solid, yet so vulnerable to time and touch.
I long for the North often. I grew up there, and I returned for a few years to rejuvenate my soul. The isolation and silence suited me. My perfect afternoon was to lose myself in the wild, go as far as I dared, and find a quiet place to rest. That kind of stillness is meditation. Nature does not need words—it teaches simply by being.
There’s a line in The Secret Life of Walter Mitty: “Beautiful things don’t ask for attention.” That is the North. The fleeting glimpse of a moose in the fog, the hush of a lake at dawn, the sudden flight of an owl—all are moments that slip away as quietly as they arrive. They don’t perform for us; they exist in their own truth. And too often, we rush past, consuming rather than observing, forgetting that we depend on nature more than it depends on us.
Roots, though, run deep. They hold fast when the storms come. My hope is that mine are strong enough to take root again when I return to the North someday. I dream of a time when my work can grow in that soil, less bound by the city’s demands, more in tune with the silence of the wild.
The wild offers encounters that stay with you forever—moments with animals, fleeting as they are, that feel like gifts. Each one carries a small story, shaping the way I see the world and the way I carve. I hope those who see my work can sense some of that presence—an echo of the North, of the land’s silence and strength.
The North teaches us that silence is not emptiness. It is belonging. Its strength is not loud, but enduring. And once you have lived with it, the North never leaves you.
This last picture is a bronze cast bear made from the original stone sculpture called ‘Brother’. For enquires, please ask.
A Splendid Torch: On Purpose, Work, and the Joy of Life
“Life is no brief candle to me. It is a sort of splendid torch…” Shaw’s words struck me like lightning the other day. They reminded me what it means to live with purpose, to work toward something meaningful, and to pass that torch to the next generation.
The other day, while sifting through more than 400 old tabs on my phone, I stumbled across a quote from George Bernard Shaw that stopped me in my tracks. It wasn’t just the beauty of the words—it was how directly they spoke to where I am in life right now.
Here’s the passage I found:
“This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of Nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.
I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the community, and as long as I live, it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can. I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live. Life is no ‘brief candle’ to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for a moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to the future generations.”
Fuuuuuck, eh? Sometimes you just need to hear this.
Most mornings I wake up to a long list of menial tasks, the kind that scatter my attention and make me feel purposeless. But Shaw’s words remind me that every small thing amounts to something larger. I am a force of nature, even in the little things—serving my family, supporting my community, creating artwork that I hope carries meaning.
Art, to me, is part of that “splendid torch.” It’s not just self-expression—it’s a way of reaching for something important, of trying to leave behind work that resonates. I watch my daughter grow every day, learning lessons and skills she’ll carry forward, and I see that same principle at work: each effort builds a toolbelt for the future.
Shaw gets right to the heart of it: joy comes from recognizing a purpose we believe in. And that purpose evolves. If I were simply hammering nails into rotten boards day after day, I would hope to find a deeper calling. But when my time and energy are spent on something meaningful—something that contributes—it feels like life is expanding instead of shrinking.
We waste so much energy trying to soothe ourselves, but the truth is, contentment often arrives after a task well done, after we’ve poured ourselves into something bigger than our own ailments. Shaw’s reminder cuts through the noise: our mission is not to cling to the candle but to carry the torch.
That’s my hope as an artist—that the work I create will not only matter in the moment but will burn brightly for those who come after me. One day at a time, a mountain rises.
