Spirituality as Craft

For much of my adult life I thought spirituality belonged primarily in religious beliefs and practices. Spirituality was found in prayer, Scripture, silence, and worship. As an ordained Christian minister for more than forty years, those practices shaped and to some degree still shape my life. I continue to begin and end each day with the Daily Office. Those prayers have become part of who I am. They give rhythm to my days and remind me that I am part of a tradition much larger than myself.

Yet over the years something has gently evolved. Spirituality has gradually overflowed the walls of religion. I now find myself encountering G*d just as readily at my workbench, or with a guitar in my hands, or as I write, or while practicing Tai Chi, or while teaching undergraduates the complexity of philosophy. I no longer think of these as merely hobbies or interests that happen to sit alongside my spiritual life. They have become expressions of it.

I have come to think of spirituality as a craft. Though we often think of spirituality in terms of beliefs, experiences, or feelings, beliefs alone do not shape a life. Feelings come and go. Experiences, however profound, eventually become memories. A craft is different. A craft asks something of us every day. It requires time, attention, practice, patience, and the willingness to begin again after making mistakes. Every craft shapes the craftsperson.

I first picked up a guitar when I was sixteen years old. I simply wanted to play songs. I had little idea that more than fifty years later I would still be learning. My fingers no longer have to think about where to go and much of the movement has become second nature. Yet the music itself continues to deepen, and a new riff can surprise me or a new chord progression can still move me. There is always another technique, always another way of listening. Music has become far more than entertainment. I have sometimes said to students, “Music is life,” perhaps echoing Dani Rojas who repeats constantly “Football is life” (Ted Lasso). For me, music has become one of the ways I pay attention to the world.

Some years ago I discovered the craft of working with wood, building first ukuleles and Spanish-style guitars. Working with wood has taught me lessons that no book could have provided. Every piece has its own grain, its own character, its own possibilities and limitations. Wood refuses to be rushed, and asks for patience. Sometimes the smallest decision made early in the process reveals its consequences weeks later. Most mistakes can be repaired, but sometimes they become part of the instrument’s story.

Writing has offered similar lessons. People occasionally imagine that books appear because someone has good ideas. The reality is much less dramatic, as most writing consists of rewriting. A sentence is shaped, simplified, moved, or discarded. A paragraph that seemed fine yesterday no longer works today. Ideas need time to mature, and often the best solution appears only after stepping away from the iPad.

Tai Chi has perhaps brought all these strands together. The movements are slow enough that there is nowhere to hide. Every shift of weight, every unnecessary tension, every wandering thought gradually reveals itself. After years of practice, I still discover small refinements that I had never noticed before. The form has not changed, but I have.

And that tells me something about craft. The point is not simply to produce something, but rather to become someone. And that is the heart of spirituality. Through long practice, through craft, we become a certain kind of person.

Of course, prayer and religious practice remain important to me. Yet they are no longer the whole picture of spirituality. They belong within a much larger way of life, where G*d is encountered in all things. This is not something outside nature, interrupting it from elsewhere, but is the very depth of nature. It’s in the swirling grain of chechen, and the narrow, straight of grain spruce waiting to match with mahogany and rosewood to become a guitar. It’s in rhythm, harmony, and melody that somehow speak more deeply than words alone. It’s in the sentences that slowly emerge from thought onto the page. It’s in  the quiet attentiveness of moving my body through a Tai Chi form. And in friendships and love and acts of kindness and beauty wherever it appears.

Perhaps this should not surprise me. If G*d is present in all things, why would spirituality be confined to religious activities? The older I become, the less interested I am in separating the sacred from the ordinary. I suspect the distinction was never quite right in the first place. There is only life, lived with greater or lesser attention.

Spirituality as craft requires patience, humility, discipline, attentiveness, and the willingness to keep learning. Craft does not offer perfection. Every craft reminds us that there is always more to discover, more to refine, and another opportunity to begin again tomorrow. And that is the heart of spirituality, the craft of becoming more deeply human.

+Ab. Andy