The Virtual Retreat (Day 4): Liturgies of Creation
Rituals, routines, personal liturgies—we all have them whether we realize it or not. This week, we’re taking on a Virtual Retreat to create personal, meaningful liturgies. Don’t miss the previous posts.
In the beginning God made the heavens and the earth.
It’s a simple sentence, and when you strip away the prepositional phrase and the direct object, it becomes an even simpler soup.
God made.
God made, and made, and made, the Scriptures say, and when the world was populated by his artistry, he turned to the pièce de résistance. Humankind.
God created humankind in his own image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them.
In a stroke of emphatic redundancy, the Scriptures iterate and reiterate that God created men and women in his own image as if to drive some cosmic point home. And though I’m no theologian, though I’ve no background in the Jewish tradition of the depths of meaning in the creation story, my working hunch is that being created in the image of a Creator has consequences.
Creativity—it’s baked into our DNA, has been from the start. Early humans made paint from elderberries, charcoal, and wildflowers and painted buffalo (and some say aliens) on cave walls. More advanced men chiseled Roman gods and biblical characters from stone. Architects labored over buildings hundreds of years ago that still stand today. You play guitar, or piano, or scratch out poems, or knit beanies in your spare time. And what about your eight-year-old, the prodigious crayoner who creates tapestries rich with every color in the box? (Except burnt sienna; no one has a use for burnt sienna.)
We were made to create, and come to find out, creation has benefits. It’s been said that engaging in creative work has long-term benefits, including increased happiness. Creativity—it can be a hedge against the despair that’s so pervasive in this world of digital handwringing.
I have my own daily liturgy of creativity, one I’ve written about before. It begins in the morning with a cup of water and my computer. It begins here. Some days I’m more pleased with the work than others. But always, I start with nothing (a blank screen) and end up with something (words on the page). Always I create. Always, I walk away from the writing incrementally happier. And that, I suppose, is an accomplishment, an incremental increase in my happiness.
Do you have a liturgy of creation, a set time each week to sit down and make something new? If not, why not? And don’t give me that I’m not creative garbage. Each of us has a creative bone somewhere in our body. (Some knit, some work with wood, some tinker on car engines, some scrapbook, some write novels in their spare time, etcetera ad infinitum.) So, create a liturgy of creation and push back despair.
Life Examined: A Liturgy of Creation
As you did in the Silence retreat, identify one hour a week where you can create something.
Enter into the time with no expectations (and even more importantly, no cell phone), and turn to the work of your hands.
As you create, have compassion for yourself. Remember, the goal of creation is not perfection. It’s simple to bring something new to life, and in that way, to connect with the Creator who made you creative.
After your hour of creation, reflect. What did you notice? Did you get into a flow state, a state where you blocked everything else out?
Commit to practicing this weekly ritual of creation on the same day for two months. See what happens.
***A Special Invitation***
What to hear more about how you can help bring a book on silence to life? Don’t forget to head to my latest Substack post for more.
THE BOOK OF WAKING UP —a book on addiction, attachment, and the Divine Love—launched TUESDAY so order a copy or ten at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookish (my favorite indie bookseller). Then, forward this post to a friend and ask them to read along.