No use being more spiritual than God
Besides the fact that many people aren’t sure how to spell it, being an oboist isn’t so bad. There is no e, for the record. I’ve played this persnickety, temperamental woodwind since I was 14. My origin story isn’t super romantic: I joined band late because I was a cheerleader and there were already too many clarinets. Based on some patchy math over almost 30 years, I estimate I’ve spent more than 27,000 hours with this instrument. We have our good days and our bad days, but here in this phase of my career, I dare say I feel at home with her. As much oboe as I’ve played, some days can still be humbling. I’m preparing for a full-length recital later this year—the marathon of oboe-ing. Getting back into peak shape takes a little longer now that I’m no longer 20. Plus, I spent the summer in book tour mode: speaking, traveling, and momming. I’m still learning how to be an oboist who’s also an author… or an author who’s also an oboist? But I know how many hours it takes to feel “one” with the instrument again—those tiny muscles in my face nimble and strong, my fingers never second-guessing, the air meeting the reed with joy (instead of pain or mild panic). At one point this summer, I found myself in a dark movie theater with my children. Nowhere is the oboe more on display than in a great film soundtrack, especially at the movie’s most poignant moments. As far as I was from feeling in shape on the instrument that day, I sat in my sticky chair, and, to my surprise, I didn’t just hear the oboist spinning a melody over the strings—I felt the notes in my body. The F at the top of the staff has a certain buzzy brightness; I can feel it vibrating right at the top of my nose. (Strangely enough, this note also makes the filaments in some lightbulbs rattle in practice rooms—if you know, you know.) High C is bright white and naked. First-space treble clef F is a block of sound, thicker but stretchy like taffy. And the low C vibrates against my teeth; I can feel my jaw open as I describe it. I had spent the summer writing, speaking, and parenting, but in that cool theater, as that oboist sang to me, my ears heard and my body remembered. According to people who know, only about 0.01% of the population has absolute (or perfect) pitch. That was never me, as hard as I tried. But what I realized in that theater was, even when I wasn’t in intense oboe mode, even though it wasn’t perfect, somewhere over the last 30 years, I had developed relative pitch. For years, I’d been jealous of my peers, pulling notes out of the air and mastering music theory with eyes closed. At some point during school, I just gave up trying to hear like I had perfect pitch and got busy trying to play my instrument. What I didn’t realize until now is that when we focus fully and submit to the process, creating can become a full-body experience. I realized this summer that perfect or relative pitch, hearing music in these deeper ways, isn’t just an intellectual trick in your ears. It’s also something that can be for your whole self. After all these years with this instrument, recognizing the notes on the oboe, really hearing them, means feeling the height of my tongue, the rattle behind the bridge of my nose, the resistance of the reed against my breath. In ear-training and harmony class, I was bending my ears to discern fifths from fourths. My teacher would play the bassline louder on purpose for us melody junkies who could hear nothing besides the top voice. During those early years of trying to master the oboe, I was also, per usual, trying to master my faith in God. Away from home for the first time, I pulled C.S. Lewis’s Mere Christianity off a bookstore shelf. I think I went searching in Lewis for some theory of God —theology, yes, but something more than that—some process I could submit myself to, some key that would explain the whole map, something to make me feel a little less lost and afraid. I remember I was sitting in a salon chair getting my haircut when I first read these words: “There is no good trying to be more spiritual than God. God never meant man to be a purely spiritual creature. That is why He uses material things like bread and wine to put the new life into us. We may think this rather crude and unspiritual. God does not: He invented eating. He likes matter. He invented it.” The plastic cape felt warm, my face flushed. It hit me: God wasn’t just after absolute (or relative!) perfection; he was after my senses, he was after me. Taste and see. My prayer rises like incense. The sheep know the Shepherd’s voice. When Paul writes in Romans about offering our bodies as a living sacrifice, the Greek word he uses for bodies—sōmata—refers explicitly to our physical, material existence. Our breath, vocal cords, muscles, and ears. Salvation (from the Latin for "healing") isn’t an abstract head thing; it’s a body thing. What realizing I had relative pitch taught me—inspired me—to do was to see all of life as ear training. That long tones are a means to an end—a practice that will, in the long run, help me feel stronger and more agile, so that I can experience the whole-body joy of singing through my instrument. And so it is with faith. The process is the point—each hour becomes a way that God is pursuing, chasing, honing some inner and outer Love in me. God isn’t only asking for our discipline or obedience; He’s inviting us into relationship, to give ourselves over to the process so He can ever-so-slowly tune our ears to truly hear. But we can’t be after these things themselves any more than I could will myself into having perfect pitch. Any and all gifts are the byproduct, the result of submission and listening, and of perfect grace. Hours with the instrument in your hand aren’t servitude; they’re relationship, communion. Just like music, I believe God wants our faith and our trust in Him to be a full-body experience, not just your intellect or your heart but your body, your breath, your pinky finger, your tapping toe, your whole self. And so you might be asking, what does that look like to have a fully embodied faith? A couple of ideas I'm having now: * Savoring words in prayer * Being honest and open, vocalizing our comfort and discomfort to God * Kneading the bread * Squeezing the tube of paint * Feeling the rosin or the reed shavings in our fingers * Paying attention to the air * Delighting in matter because God invented it Maybe you are worried that you don’t have 24,000 hours to dedicate to any practice. Maybe you wonder what the point even is, since you’re too late and not talented enough. But creative focus and C.S. Lewis remind us that all we need is a human body to receive or accept God’s goodness for us; that we are literally made for it. Imperfect and distracted, prone to wander, but maybe just willing enough to show up at the desk. What if spiritual and creative practice aren’t abstract theories we memorize or master, but a full-body recognition of grace, revealed through thousands of quiet, daily “long tones” with the One who made us? The Gallery Today’s work of art that stopped me in my tracks is a piece of music I have long loved, “On the Nature of Daylight” by Max Richter. You may remember this one from an episode of Artists for Joy over the summer; my friend and Broadway actress, Jennafer Newbeery Peery, said this piece of music was a spiritual gateway for her. A live version showed up in my feed this week: a short clip of the artist performing at NPR’s Tiny Desk Concert, and so naturally I had to watch the whole thing. Apparently, Google tells me that “On the Nature of Daylight” is currently one of the most famous licensed pieces of music in movies and television. I have it on one of my walking playlists. It’s built on a slow, unfolding cycle of string instruments—violins, cellos, double bass—sustained over several minutes. What makes this piece so breathtaking isn’t complex musical acrobatics. It’s the weight and texture of the sound, the very physical friction of a horsehair bow pulling across the rosin on the string. The cello resonates deep within my chest; it’s like a somatic long tone. When I relistened today, I’m reminded that beauty doesn’t always come from complexity or high-concept ideas. Sometimes the most profound art comes from holding a single note long enough, letting it resonate in a room. Richter says in the video that music gives him space to think about big problems. At the same time, his music invites us beyond our analytical, overthinking minds and grounds us back in our bodies. Liturgy for the Living Today’s show, hopefully, invites you not just to collect beautiful ideas in your head—but to embody them. Which brings us to our final segment, this week’s Liturgy of the Living, an analog practice inviting you to be human, a work of art created and sustained by God. I’m calling this week’s "The Daily Long Tone." In music, a long tone is the simplest practice imaginable, and yet, one of the most difficult. It’s not about flapping your fingers or expressing yourself through some dramatic solo. Long tones require you to submit to the process at its most basic level: take a breath, play a note, and hold it for as long as your air lasts. Notice how you begin and how you end. Listen for resonance. Feel the vibration in your hands and teeth. It’s not about flash; it’s about getting comfortable with being present with the sound. This week, if you’re a musician, your invitation is to practice your long tones! If you're not, choose one tiny, physical “long tone” in your everyday life—something that takes no more than five minutes, uses your hands or senses, and requires zero performance or perfection. It could be holding a hot cup of coffee with both hands for three full minutes, dropping your shoulders, and feeling the heat against your palms. Or a mini centering prayer or meditation session: set a timer for a few minutes and repeat a word or phrase to fix your mind on. Let your thoughts fall away and consent to God’s presence. It could be stepping outside without your phone, closing your eyes, and listening until you can identify three distinct layers of sound around you. If you’re a visual artist, sit at your desk, take a pen to real paper, and draw simple, continuous loops without lifting your hand until your breath slows. Whatever it is, drop into your body. Notice the weight, the texture, the air in your lungs. Remind yourself: God likes matter. You are a physical creature, made to experience beauty right here in this sensory world. Announcing: The Fall into Focus Challenge If you feel something deep within you long for an exhale at the thought of a practice like this—if you’re craving a season of moving out of your head and back into your body—I want to invite you to go deeper with us this autumn. Starting October 5 on Artists for Joy Patreon, we are launching a 30ish-day challenge called Fall into Focus. So many of us enter this season feeling scattered, overwhelmed by the thought that there are only 90 or so days left in the year, or disconnected from the quiet delight of making art. Fall into Focus isn’t about adding another deadline or mental task to your to-do list or forcing yourself to produce something great. It’s a 30-day invitation to treat your creative life as a spiritual practice—a daily “long tone” that grounds you in presence, play, and quiet faith. For those in our Studio Tier on Patreon, we’ll be walking this 30ish-day journey together with dedicated support, gentle prompts, and real companionship (including our Voxer community space where we can share voice notes, reflection, and encouragement in real time). If you want to join us for the Fall into Focus challenge, click here to learn more and join the Studio Tier on Patreon. (It comes with lots of other great perks, by the way!) Whether you join the 30-day challenge or simply practice your single “long tone” today, my prayer for you this week is that you allow yourself to be wherever you are and know that you’re not alone there. There’s no use being more spiritual than God. Our Maker made us human, and God loves us that way. Until next time, friends. Go in peace. Get full access to Art's Open Door at www.artsopendoor.com/subscribe
