Fujimura Chapter 1

Yale University Press
Chapter Title: The Sacred Art of Creating
Book Title: Art and Faith

Book Subtitle: A Theology of Making
Book Author(s): Makoto Fujimura
Published by: Yale University Press. (2020)
Stable URL: https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctv1b9f51v.4
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Art and Faith
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1
The Sacred Art of Creating
When people ask me, “When did you first know that you were an
artist?,” I tell them I have been an artist ever since I can recall. My mother
kept a painting I did when I was three years old. Many years later, after I
established myself as an artist, I was astonished to see that it has exactly
the same colors and movement that I am known for now. The journey of
an artist begins at conception, and perhaps even way before.
Psalms 139:13–14 reminds us: “For you created my inmost being; /
you knit me together in my mother’s womb. / I praise you because I am
fearfully and wonderfully made.”1 Perhaps in eternity’s gaze I have been
seen and created to be an artist in imitation of God, the Creator Artist.
My identity is rooted in the origin of Creation, and in that loving gaze
of the Creator, who sees in us a “greater love” before we are even aware:
the creative impulse to shape the future.
My earliest memory is visual: I am one-and-a-half years old, just
waking up from a nap, and from the window in my room I am watching
my brother walk toward a preschool where we lived in Sweden (I was
born in Boston but spent time in Sweden before moving to Japan for
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grade school). I remember the color of the curtains and the Swedish flag
waving in the crisp, morning sun. I am told that the painting I did later
in Japan echoed those colors.
When I painted something as a child, I felt as if an electrical charge
were going through me. That energy resounded over the surface of the
paper. I thought everyone had this experience, but then I went to middle
school (in New Jersey then). It was obvious that boys playing football or
soccer had not had the same type of experiences that I had—noticing the
beauty of the world around me or the visual patterns of a certain move-
ment of the grass in the waning days of autumn while playing soccer. I
did not want to be a misfit, so I kept such thoughts to myself. But these
moments of creative discovery seemed sacred to me, even if I did not
fully understand them.
In college, at Bucknell University in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, I
decided that these private thoughts about my visual experiences must
be noted. But I still did not know exactly where these charges of energy
came from. I knew that this was a gift, that it did not originate from
within me. I felt William Blake expressed something very similar in his
illuminated manuscripts. So I studied Blake, along with art and animal
behavior. I graduated with a double major in art and animal behavior,
and a minor in creative writing.
I would be introduced to Christianity later in my life. The journey
started like a trickle of water falling from a faucet; drip by drip, through
literature and art, through important relationships, and by creating and
making, I felt I was honoring the source of beauty and poetry in the
world. It took me a while to connect what I was experiencing to the
message of Christianity. It’s actually amazing that it took that long, now
that I think about the core message of the Bible. This gap is one of my
reasons for writing this book.
I understand now what I did not understand as a child: that every
time I created and felt that charge, I was experiencing the Holy Spirit.
2

Liturgies of the Artist’s Work
I now consider what I do in the studio to be theological work as

much as aesthetic work. I experience God, my Maker, in the studio. I
am immersed in the art of creating, and I have come to understand this
dimension of life as the most profound way of grasping human experi-
ence and the nature of our existence in the world. I call it the “Theology
of Making,” and I hope in this book to introduce its most important
constellation of mysterious elements. It has become my point of refer-
ence for a lifetime of star-gazing into the infinite realities of beauty and
the sacred—and then creating.
In my studios in Princeton, New Jersey, and Pasadena, California,
in between pouring precious, pulverized minerals onto handmade paper
to create the prismatic, refractive surfaces of my art, I rest in my quiet
space, waiting for the paper surface to dry. As I wait, I write. Art making,
to me, is a discipline of awareness, prayer, and praise. Imagination gives
us wings to create, but it is through Christ’s tears and the invitation to
the feast of God that we can be partakers of the New Creation. I take
note of the process by writing, and my thoughts in between, as I have
done since my student days.
In the slow process of preparing the pigments and glue, which one
must learn to do with the handmade paint that I use, I realized that I was
practicing a devotional liturgy of sorts. I imagine my water-based paint to
possess the tears of Christ. Even breaking the sanzenbon nikawa (animal-
hide glue stick of “three thousands sticks”—as that is how the sticks were
traditionally made in a vat) every morning seems sacred to me. I can tell
the moisture level of the air by the sound and feel of the glue breaking.
How much water to add, at what temperature, is determined by the
type of painting I am working on and what I desire to accomplish. The
somatic knowledge gained through years of making has become a way for
3

me to “understand” my own works. And through this act, I begin to feel

deeply the compassion of God for my own existence, and by extension
for the existence of others. My works, therefore, have a life of their own,
and I am listening to the voice of the Creator through my creation. I am
drawn into prayer as I work.
When I explain to strangers this sacred dimension of creating art,
sometimes non-Christians have an easier time grasping it. Christians
have many presuppositions about what Christianity is that are often
based upon an analytical approach to understanding truth as a set of
propositional beliefs, such that understanding and explaining take domi-
nance over experiencing and intuiting. But that grounding is based less
on a biblical, generative path than on the mechanistic, postindustrial
thinking of utilitarian pragmatism.2 Imagine trying to explain to a fly-
ing bird the aerodynamic forces at work when its wings move. Perhaps
explaining it undermines the flight itself; perhaps the effort to under-
stand it will not help the flying at all.
This is precisely why artists can open new doors of theological illu-
mination in sharing what Christians call the Good News of the gospel
to a world that has only a dim idea, if any, of what is so good about it.
Simply by spreading our wings of art to take flight, we “prove” that grav-
ity, or God, exists. When we make, we are taking that flight into the New.
Artists, whether theists or atheists, know this truth deeply, and wrestle
with this reality, inside as they create.
When we make, we invite the abundance of God’s world into the
reality of scarcity all about us. What endures will require risk and daily
dying to ourselves. Certainly, the tears Christ shed at Bethany (John 11)
and Jerusalem (Luke 13) mingle with our tears as we create: we live in a
fallen world. Such intuitive overlaps are hard to explain rationally, and
we tend to avoid the emotive, “feelings” side of experience; but as artists,
we are trained to trust our intuition, to think through our feelings, and
even to distrust our emotions at times to gain access to deeper integrated
4

realities. We artists dare not “understand” or overanalyze our creative acts,

just as the bird does not need to understand the aerodynamics of flight.
All artists, in this sense, operate out of a faith in abundance and the
experience of hope, despite the propensity of our egos to twist all that
is good and make idols. If what we are created to do actually allows us
to fly beyond the limited capacities of reason and observation, perhaps
we will believe that there is abundance at the base of creation and that
we can create out of that abundance without having to explain how we
access it. We are free to take flight in the grace of its sustaining currents
without knowing where the wind comes from.
Imagination, like art, has often been seen as suspect by some Chris-
tians who perceive the art world as an assault upon traditional values.
These expectations of art are largely driven by fear that art will lead us
away from “truth” into an anarchic freedom of expression. Yet after many
decades of the church proclaiming “truth,” we are no closer as a culture
to truth and beauty now than we were a century ago. I have spent the
past two decades developing a path toward what I call “culture care”
away from the typical culture wars stance. In this book I outline a path
toward culture care via what I see as flowing out from a biblical model
of flourishing toward the New.
I often wonder whether the younger “None” generation (meaning
they mark “None” when asked on forms whether they belong to any
religious denomination or group or espouse a particular creed), for whom
the old wineskin of how church is done may no longer seem relevant, is
now limited to experiencing God authentically primarily through culture
and nature, two areas that evangelicalism in the United States has aban-
doned in order to “evangelize” the world. Of course, God will be found
in such a culture, but through distorted and limited lenses. The problem
with our culture is that its river is tainted; if we try to find God through
culture, we may be bowing down to idols and encountering twisted
impulses rather than stepping closer to the true source of imagination
5

and creativity. Nature can be a door to the imagination, but it cannot,

by definition, transcend the boundaries of the natural world. Technology
and social media can be used creatively for life-giving storytelling, but
they also can have life-taking results. So the “None” generation does its
making through Instagram and iPhone technology; and the power of
such a legitimate way of making has not been recognized by the church,
other than when it says “let’s ‘use’ these impulses to communicate the
gospel and make disciples of these youth.” But “using” is a utilitarian
word, and I wish to affirm those who “make” rather than “use.”
Some things, of course, are best conveyed in a three-point sermon.
But we would lose a great deal if we heard the Good News delivered only
as linear, propositional information, for the gospel is a song. I learned
from theologian N. T. Wright to regard the very form of hymns and
poetry as central to the gospel message. He mentioned Philippians 2:6–11
as a New Testament passage that is clearly poetic. “It isn’t the case that
first people sorted things out theologically and then turned them into
poems,” Wright observed, “but that from very early on some people—
perhaps especially Paul—found themselves saying what needed to be said
in the form of short poems.”3 What if the entire Bible is a work of art,
rather than the dictates of predetermined “check boxes” for us to get on
God’s good side? What if we are to sing back in response to the voice of
eternity echoing through our broken lives?
To be human is to be creative: “The characteristic common to God
and man is apparently . . . the desire and the ability to make things,”
observed the writer Dorothy Sayers.4
To create anything seems to assume that there is a beginning: a
blank canvas or page, an empty theater. The impulse toward Making
seems embedded in us from “the beginning.” Such an impulse imbeds
our vision in actual earthly materials. So our journey to “know” God
requires not just ideas and information, but actual making, to translate
our ideas into real objects and physical movements.
6

The first chapter of Genesis states not only that God exists and cre-
ated the universe, but also that there was such a time as “the beginning.”
This may come as a surprise to some who assume that time is eternal—
that it had no beginning and will have no end. What is confusing is that
God is eternal and is not in need of time; the notion of time seems to be a
quality created for humanity’s sake. So, from God’s perspective, time may
not be as significant as a clock seems to be from our perspective. Time is
a self-imposed limitation in Creation that Jesus enters into.
Thus, the Genesis account is not just about the idea of Creation, but
about the actual process of the Incarnation, of God’s love to create the
universe. I like to think, and many Hebraic scholars attest, that God the
Creator sang the creation into being, that Creation is more about poetic
utterances of love rather than about industrial efficiency, a mechanism
for being, as many Western commentators may assume.
The Bible is full of Making activities. I have come to believe that
unless we are making something, we cannot know the depth of God’s
being and God’s grace permeating our lives and God’s Creation. Because
the God of the Bible is fundamentally and exclusively THE Creator, God
cannot be known by talking about God, or by debating God’s existence
(even if we “win” the debate). God cannot be known by sitting in a class-
room, or even in a church taking in information about God.
I am not against these pragmatic activities, but God moves in our
hearts to be experienced and then makes us all to be artists of the King-
dom. The act of Making can lead us to coming to know THE Creator
personally, even though I realize that the “opening of the eye” experience
is not a guarantee of that personal knowledge. All that is to be known
about God comes first through God’s desire to be known and revealed.
The Word of God, such a revelation, is the central means of tapping into
this creativity of God. The Word of God is active, and alive. God the
Artist communicates to us first, before God the lecturer.
The Bible affirms this way of God’s revelation among humankind.
7

Among the extended passages in the book of Exodus about creative work
is one describing the craftsmen of the Ark of the Covenant, Bezalel and
Oholiab, who are said to have been “filled . . . with the Spirit of God,
with wisdom, with understanding, with knowledge and with all kinds of
skills” (Exodus 35:31). It is the Spirit of God, the God who creates, who
fills us in order to create (and as the later passages indicate, with “the
ability to teach others” [35:34]). Bezalel and Oholiab are the first examples
in the Bible of human beings filled with the Holy Spirit.
To God, and to the writers of Exodus, these artisans were so impor-
tant that their names are recorded. These craftsmen were probably trained
in Egypt, perhaps in slavery; thus God used “pagan” training to pre-
pare them for a higher purpose.5 The skills that these craft folks learned
in Egypt created the idol of the golden calf under Aaron’s misguided
instruction (Exodus 32). Now, they were to follow God’s detailed instruc-
tions to build the Ark, to sanctify their imaginations toward the sacred.
I have experienced this myself, as I was trained in a lineage program
in Tokyo, learning the ancient craft of Nihonga, which I apply to con-
temporary expression. Inspiration and training have what theologians
call “prevenient grace” (bestowed at God’s initiative, not on the basis of
human activity) operating throughout, and God is a God of all cultures
in that sense. We may or may not be conscious of such inspiration to
create, and if we are, we may not understand the origin of that experi-
ence. But the Bible makes clear that God commissions all people to
create for the New.
It has been said that “a work of art is something new in the world
that changes the world to allow itself to exist.”6 Had Bezalel and Oholiab
not been filled with the Spirit to create out of the knowledge of craft
that they had learned in Egypt, it would have been impossible for God’s
chosen people to worship, and to have a visual identity that gives them
a unique place in the world. In Bezalel and Oholiab’s obedience to the
strict details of the design of the tabernacle of Moses given by God, God
8

worked through them to make worship a reality for the Jewish exiles.
It’s also important to note that these intricate designs for a structure to
literally “house” God’s laws were given at the same time as the Decalogue,
which indicates the high value God places on design and Making.
The Bible depicts God as all-sufficient, all-powerful, all-knowing. If
God is all-sufficient, or self-sufficient, then God does not need anything. God
does not need us. God has never been lonely; Genesis makes it clear that
before Creation, the triune God existed already in community. God is
also self-existent, meaning that God does not require anything other than
God’s own existence for completeness. The Hebrew word meaning “the
beginning” (reisyt) suggests that even fruitfulness already was embedded.
But somehow, God created in order to mark God’s own signature for
our journey. What this marker does is to enfold a narrative of what the
literary critic Frank Kermode calls “the sense of an ending.”7
God’s design in Eden, even before the Fall, was to sing Creation into
being and invite God’s creatures to sing with God, to co-create into the
Creation. A narrative of our own creation is embedded in Creation. The
Christian narrative is all about the New, all about the beginning. And
part of that ushering in of the New is God’s marker in us, called imagi-
nation, which makes us unique in the animal kingdom. We can create
into Creation something unique and particular. Thus, in Genesis 2, we
see Adam’s first act of creativity: naming the animals.
The Sacred Impulse of Creativity

Is Redemptive
My friend Lisa Sharon Harper observes in her exegesis of Genesis:

“It’s important to note that God does not obliterate the darkness; rather,
God names it and limits it—puts boundaries on it. The boundary is the
light.”8
9

Some years ago, I created paintings for an edition of the four New
Testament Gospels.9 As I painted the cover, Charis Kairos—The Tears of
Christ, the signature piece for the project, I began by creating a dark,
nearly black gesso. (Gesso is put on the canvas to “size” the surface so
other materials can be placed on top.) This journey using black gesso
began when I did a special project to honor the legacy of the Parisian
modernist master Georges Rouault in 2009 at Dillon Gallery in New
York City and continued when I worked with the painter Bruce Herman
and composer Chris Theofanidis on a project we called QU4RTETS
based on T. S. Eliot’s Four Quartets.
In the paintings for the Dillon Gallery show I wanted to honor
Rouault by using a dark canvas as he had done, painting in the bleakness
of postwar Paris. Rouault depicted darkness head-on and yet brought in
the aesthetics of his earlier apprenticeship in a stained glass studio. He
literally placed colors as light emanating out of darkness.
Later, in the QU4RTETS collaboration, I worked with my assistant
Lindsey Kolk to develop a gradual, subtle movement of dark gessoes
across four canvases. Miraculously, what ended up being birthed were
canvases on which the darkest gesso looks the brightest, and the lightest
(gray) gesso looks the darkest.
In both cases, I began with the darkness and used pulverized miner-
als to create prismatic colors (akin to stained glass windows) as “boundar-
ies” of light. In art, we do not “obliterate the darkness”; art is an attempt
to define the boundaries of the darkness.
Lisa’s book The Very Good Gospel moves further into an exquisite
exegesis of Genesis 1 with a focus on justice and mercy. She contextual-
izes Genesis passages as most likely written during the postexilic journey
of the Israelites out of Babylonian captivity. Therefore, these passages
reflect a theological structure that speaks against forces of darkness that
oppress and enslave. The three key Hebrew words tselem, dmuwth, and
radah bring a fresh voice of liberation from enslavement and oppres-
10

sion, and I want to push these concepts further into the Theology
of Making.
Both tselem and dmuwth suggest a path that God intentionally took
to “re-present” to us, and Lisa notes the connection between tselem and
the Greek word icon. Instead of a brutal dictator, we have a Creator
God who seeks full thriving, justice, and mercy. Just as Caesar’s portrait
is stamped on a coin as an icon to represent earthly power, God places
God’s “face” upon our hearts. God’s presence is real, even in the midst
of oppression and darkness. God is the light that shines and places limits
on evil and injustice on the earth.
What if, in response to Lisa’s point, we began to paint (or write
songs, plays, and poems) into the darkness with such a light? What if
we began to live our lives generatively facing our darkness? What if we
all began to trust our intuition in the Holy Spirit’s whispers, remove
our masks of self-defense, and create into our true identities hidden in
Christ beyond the darkness? What if our lives are artworks re-presented
back to the Creator?
The word “dominion” (Hebrew radah) has been misused to mean
“practicing domination over” or ravaging creation for industrial pur-
poses. But, as Lisa notes and theologian Ellen Davis affirms, a more accu-
rate understanding of radah is “loving stewardship.” Proper stewardship
is based on love of the land and its peoples. Proper stewardship is part of
our poetic responsibility to Creation. I connect this Hebrew word radah
to the Greek word poietes (maker), as I detail in the following chapters.
One aspect of our stewardship is to become poets of Creation, to sing
alongside the Creator over Creation. In other words, in such a modern
translation, suited for a time of high hopes in the Industrial Revolution, a
word such as radah is tainted with the notion of industrial utility.10 “Lov-
ing stewardship” might have meant a time in which nature was a “wilder-
ness” to be tamed by industrial domination, as in “practicing domination
over,” but radah is a Making word, rather than a forceful domination.
11

God’s Word is the Light; Jesus told us that he is the Light. If light
places boundaries over the darkness, then our art needs to do the same.
God is not just restoring us to Eden; God is creating through us a garden,
an abundant city of God’s Kingdom. What we build, design, and depict
on this side of eternity matters, because in some mysterious way, those
creations will become part of the future city of God. Even in seeking
justice and fighting against injustices of the world, if we do not depict
future hopes, as Martin Luther King, Jr., did in his “I Have a Dream”
speech, we will be constantly defined by the opposition or the power
of oppression. Art can be a means to liberate us from such oppression
by depicting the world through beauty and truth, to point to the New.
For The Four Holy Gospels project, to narrow my focus on this rather
ambitious work, I chose to use the “pinhole” of John 11:35, the shortest
verse in the Bible: “Jesus wept.” If God is self-sufficient, and Jesus was
God’s only Son, then Jesus did not need us, nor did he need to weep
over us. Jesus’s love extends beyond a utilitarian need to survive or our
pragmatic need for a savior. Jesus’s tears are gratuitous, extravagant, and
costly. My art imitates this, through the use of expensive minerals, gold,
and platinum and a reliance on a slow process that fights against effi-
ciency. Experiencing God through a creative process may fight against
our assumption that such a process can be done by taking in data and
processing it efficiently.
Making Is a Form of Knowing
Consider a journey toward “making as knowing.” The word “mak-

ing” (related to the Greek words poiema and poietes) takes a central focus
on entering theological terrains. I am an artist first, making sense of
theological knowledge from the creative intuition I have nurtured and
refined over the years. From the vantage point of an artist, the God of the
12

Bible is a Maker/Creator first and ultimately. God may be called not just
the first Artist; to me, God is the primal reality of Making, the ultimate
“definition” of the Artist. In other words, God is not just the “first order”
from which all creativity flows; God is the Maker of all things, preexisting
to all forms of knowledge, including the very concept of the “first order.”
Thus, when I speak of God as Artist, I am speaking of God not just
as the only true Creator—the ultimate Maker, as passages from Genesis
describe—but also as the originator of origins, the creator of any notion
of a Maker. The holiness of God, in this journey, is “otherness” and is set
apart from our creativity and imagination. In many ways, we must distin-
guish between God’s creative act and human creativity (what theologians
call “Creator-creature distinctions”);11 but at the same time, the Theology
of Making assumes that human creativity echoes God’s character and is
made in God’s image in some way. So when I state “God is THE ultimate
Artist,” I am not trying to define the original Creator by human terms.
I am stating a presupposition up front that the very definition of “art”
may need to be redefined by biblical and Godly terms, and that God is
the only true Artist that exists.
The Greek word poieo (to make, to do) and its related words poiema
(that which has been made or done) and poietes (a maker or doer) appear
more than thirty-two hundred times in the Septuagint (the Greek ver-
sion of the Hebrew scriptures) and more than eighty times in the New
Testament. Note the significance of these words, which have to do with
making. Some translators translate poieo as “to do” (as in “doers of the
Word” in James 1), which reduces its generative possibilities and focuses
on a rather industrial sense of the word. Part of the Theology of Mak-
ing is to bring full color to these words, which are often interpreted in
a narrower sense. While it is not wrong to translate poieo as “to do” or
poietes as “doer,” the emphasis on the Maker will necessitate revisiting
the passages that give such words their full significance.12 Since the word
“making” has been taken over by our industrial past, when we discuss the
13

Theology of Making, a presupposition is at work that the word “make”

should be used to express “useful” or “efficient.”13
In this book, I draw more from the poetic use of the word—again,
the generative association. Making is the fundamental reality of Homo
faber (man the maker, not just Homo sapiens) and what uniquely defines
our role in Creation. We are Imago Dei, created to be creative, and we
are by nature creative makers.
I interpret Ephesians 2:10 as “We are God’s masterpiece [poiema]”
rather than using the common translation “workmanship” or “handi-
work.” God sees us already perfect in Christ, and in Christ we are a
“new creation” (2 Corinthians 5:17). Christ has already done for us the
necessary work of perfecting us, even before we are aware of that as
God’s grace in our lives. The passage that follows this word poiema is also
important: “created in Christ Jesus to do good works [ergois agathois].”
The Greek word ergon means “hard work,” but I interpret it to mean
“refined works.” We are created by and for and through grace, and yet
our work here is hard work through many strenuous journeys of “carry-
ing our own cross.”14
This interpretation of Ephesians 2:10 is reflected in the beautiful
writing of Norman Maclean in A River Runs Through It: “My father was
very sure about certain matters pertaining to the universe. To him all
good things—trout as well as eternal salvation—come by grace and grace
comes by art and art does not come easy.”15
“Art does not come easy”: this sacred, God-given impulse, poieo/
poiema/poietes, both “doing” and “becoming a poem.”16 It is hard work
to live into this generative love, and it is what we are made for: to paint
light into darkness, to sing in co-creation, to take flight in abundance.
A beautiful native brown trout, or the eternal presence of the Maker in
the rushing waters brimming with life, comes by grace, and such is the
artistry of the Artist who creates for, in, and through us.
14

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Yale University Press

Chapter Title: The Sacred Art of Creating

Book Title: Art and Faith

fujimura_art-faith_text_final.indd 1 9/11/20 12:45 PM

fujimura_art-faith_text_final.indd 2 9/11/20 12:45 PM

Liturgies of the Artist’s Work

I now consider what I do in the studio to be theological work as

fujimura_art-faith_text_final.indd 3 9/11/20 12:45 PM

me to “understand” my own works. And through this act, I begin to feel

fujimura_art-faith_text_final.indd 4 9/11/20 12:45 PM

realities. We artists dare not “understand” or overanalyze our creative acts,

fujimura_art-faith_text_final.indd 5 9/11/20 12:45 PM

and creativity. Nature can be a door to the imagination, but it cannot,

fujimura_art-faith_text_final.indd 6 9/11/20 12:45 PM

fujimura_art-faith_text_final.indd 7 9/11/20 12:45 PM

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The Sacred Impulse of Creativity

My friend Lisa Sharon Harper observes in her exegesis of Genesis:

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fujimura_art-faith_text_final.indd 10 9/11/20 12:45 PM

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Making Is a Form of Knowing

Consider a journey toward “making as knowing.” The word “mak-

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fujimura_art-faith_text_final.indd 13 9/11/20 12:45 PM

Theology of Making, a presupposition is at work that the word “make”

fujimura_art-faith_text_final.indd 14 9/11/20 12:45 PM

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