The Ministry of Making

My husband, a few weeks ago, bought me my first ever fountain pen.

He bought it against my protests.  “It will be messy,” I said doubtfully, “with refilling the ink and everything, and I write with regular pens just fine.  And won’t it be impractical financially?  These things get expensive, don’t they?”

He took me to a little local boutique that sells stationary and writing supplies, where the very kind shop owner let me write with a sample and showed me that refilling the ink didn’t have to be ordeal. 

“Just try it,” my husband coaxed.  “Let me get you something nice.”

I acquiesced, still intimidated, and thought at the very least I could use the pen for really nice cards or notes, probably.  If I didn’t spill out one of the entire bottles of little inks from the sampler we had purchased. 

At home, I was surprised to find that filling the pen was, indeed, as simple as the shopkeeper made it look.  I chose an ink called Peter Moss, appropriately forest-hued, and decided I’d scribble out a few lines to get the hang of it.

I have written with it every single day since.

There’s something astonishing about good craftsmanship.  The pen is weighted in my hand, a pleasure to hold, and the enamel is smooth against my fingers.  The brass grip is etched and beautiful to look at.  And the nib writes so finely and evenly!  I have written cards and letters, journal entries, played with hand-lettering, written all over everything just for the sheer pleasure of it.

It has made me think a lot about art and craftsmanship.

I just finished Makoto Fujiwara’s Art and Faith, and the only reason I haven’t reviewed it already is because I don’t think I can do the depth and complexity of it justice.  Now one of my all-time favorites and a seminal text that has inspired me to approach almost everything about my faith differently, the book focuses on the deep spiritual necessity of making, for faith that is generative in both art and craft. 

And I have thought about craft, about making, as I use this pen.  I have thought about how the pen itself is a pleasure-giving thing: it makes me joyful, to write with it.  I feel gratitude and delight when I use it, and this in itself can become a spiritual act—to be thankful for the writing of something, to be thankful for the joy of handwriting. 

But—more critically—this artfully-made pen makes me a better writer.

It seems a silly thing, but it’s not.  Writing is so pleasurable I want to write more and more.  And when I write more and more I also, because I am enjoying myself, want to write better and better.  Delight feeds the desire to improve.  Joy nurtures flow.  And so in enjoying an object borne of someone else’s creativity, I too become more creative.

One of Fujiwara’s consistent emphases is that our faith should be generative.  Christians, he argues, are above all else made to be makers.  Our God is the Maker, and has placed in us the desire to sub-create, and to in small and large ways envision the kingdom for others here through what He has given us the freedom and gifts to make. 

What I wish is that other people could have the same joy I’m having from this fountain pen.  I don’t mean that everyone needs or wants a fountain pen, of course.  But rather—for the person who would benefit from it, I pray for them a set of jewel-toned paints.  Or scraps of leather and tooling tools. Or a pair of shoes for tap-dancing.  Or an instrument to make music.  Or a set of needles for knitting.

And I wish, sometimes, that church would be more of a place where we can give and facilitate such things.

One of the most intriguing ministry opportunities I ever witnessed was a Japanese language course held in a church I attended long ago.  It was hosted by a woman who spoke and studied fluent Japanese, and who loved teaching it: on a lark, she asked if anyone might be interested in building a Japanese-language community.

Ten church people volunteered—of varying ages, demographics, and proficiencies.

And we built a community together.  We drank green tea and ate mochi and wrote out kanji so many times our fingers cramped.  We dou desu ka-ed each other over and over in one of the church’s small classrooms, laughed at our mistakes, and built a tiny piece of the kingdom on earth with the support of God’s enlivening spirit.  And what I learned from that is this:

Nothing can be as alluring, as joy- and Spirit-filled, as living out your passion and learning.  And nothing draws others in so much as seeing that in action, seeing delight and life and making and creating.  Passion is infectious.  It facilitates delight and deep joy.  And what better way to draw others in?

One of my greatest heroes of faith and scholarship was an ordained Lutheran minister and college professor who taught my higher-level undergraduate lit courses.  I practically lived in his office during office hours.  We talked a lot about faith.  He hosted dinners for students at his home.  But what I remember about him—what we all remember about him—was the way he read literature: sonorous, passionate, standing at times on top of the desk or prowling the classroom, taking care to add appropriate emphasis at every turn.

He read Chaucer to us in Middle English, and even the students who could barely understand two words of what was being said were rapt.  We all applauded wildly.  Half the students in that room didn’t even like medieval literature!  It didn’t matter.  Passion stirs hearts.  Stirs creativity.  It inspires.  His passion made us passionate.

Someone’s passion for crafting a fountain pen made me passionate.  And so in the days since then I have often asked myself: what can I make today?  Where does passion start?  Where does creativity and joy live in my life?  And how can I dive into that place to encounter God?  How can I inspire passion in others?

Because when we make in recognition of the Maker, God’s spirit moves.  When we engage passionately with art and literature and strive for beauty, goodness, and truth, God’s presence makes itself manifest.  And there is in that kind of creating, in that playful, rich, imaginative place, a ministry that announces itself with a promise: that God is the source of all that joy and invention, the wellspring of great beauty and great depth, the creator who loves to watch his own people create.

We just need to make the space for it.