In my previous two posts, I argued that art is at its most powerful when it shows rather than tells—when it embodies its message rather than preaching it. This insistence on art as art is not a mere personal preference. Rather, it comes from a place of deep conviction: namely, that the world (and by extension, art) is already pulsing with meaning. In other words, art doesn’t need to preach because it’s already preaching. It took me a long time to see how.
A Personal Journey
I grew up in a faith tradition called Protestantism. I remember once meeting a woman who played cello with me in an orchestra who made a passing comment about her coming from a faith tradition called Orthodoxy. Curious, I asked her about Orthodoxy—something like, “What is it about your faith tradition that you find meaningful? What attracted you to Orthodoxy?” I don’t remember exactly what she said, but I remember the direction she took. She began speaking about the Eucharist—the moment when bread and wine become the body and blood of Christ. She spoke of its beauty and its centrality.
A New Way of Seeing
I remember thinking, “Well, I celebrate the Eucharist too. I can incorporate what you’re saying into my own theology. I don’t see why that requires something outside of Protestantism.” At the time, it felt like she was sharing a small insight, something that could be grafted onto what I already believed. But over time—twelve years later now—I’ve begun to see that she wasn’t offering a small insight to be added to my thinking; she was offering a new way of seeing. I thought she was adding chocolate chips into my bread recipe: something sweet I could sprinkle in without fundamentally changing anything. But she was adding yeast: something that changes the consistency of the bread itself so that the bread elevates into something it was not before.
Sacramental Imagination
Over time, I learned that this way of seeing in the Christian tradition has a name: sacramental imagination. I don’t intend to unpack this framework dogmatically—exactly how God’s presence is mediated through the mundane. Rather than explain mystery or mechanics, I’m drawing on its basic insight: that God’s presence undergirds and permeates the physical world—like bread and wine that are more than bread and wine. The Eucharist, rather than an isolated moment, becomes a window through which we see the rest of creation. Rather than just seeing a mountain range, we perceive the tectonic plates beneath it: invisible to us ordinarily, but the deep reality that gives the mountains their shape and beauty. Rather than merely noting that the trees give flower in spring, we see a pattern and promise of resurrection life. And likewise everywhere we look.
Rediscovering the World’s Flavor
For me, this way of seeing has been deeply refreshing. When I was a child, I thought tomatoes were bland. Then I had one fresh from the garden and thought, “Oh, this is what I’ve been missing out on.” Embracing a sacramental imagination has enhanced my delight in a similar way—but across all of life. It has elevated the flavor of the world around me.
A Universal Intuition for Beauty
I think a lot of people intuitively think of beauty in a similar way—if not sacramentally, then at least spiritually. It’s almost like they taste a fresh tomato and think, “Oh, there’s more here than I was expecting.” Astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson, for instance, talks about the wonder of the stars in a way that is non-religious but nevertheless deeply spiritual. Similarly, in conversation with other artistic friends, I notice them expressing an intuition for something deep beneath the surface of their art. Wherever you find yourself on your journey with spiritual things, I might simply suggest: if the sacramental imagination has any merit, then this phenomenon begins to make sense.
A Framework for Hope
Speaking personally, a sacramental imagination has gone beyond giving me mere perceptual refreshment; it has given me a deep sense of grounding. For instance, when I’m prone to bemoan how my art might fade into obscurity, I remember how the Eucharist is like what Jesus described: a grain of wheat that falls into the ground, seed poised to bring forth life more abundant than before. In this light, my art is not a flimsy vehicle for truth that rusts out after twenty years and then gets discarded. It’s more like a forest after a wildfire—where buried seeds spring up to renew its beauty and splendor. There is something seeded in creation (which extends to my own creations) that refuses to die or be chased away.
An Invitation to See Differently
Perhaps now you have a better sense of what I mean: Art doesn’t need to preach because it’s already preaching. The world is shot through with glory, meaning, and beauty. We just need to learn how to see it. For me, once I began to see this way, I found there was no going back. The sacramental imagination gives so much meaning and beauty to life. I hope you might consider it. It might just change how you see and taste this world. And for artists, it just might change how you create.