Writing as Worship
Is being who you are… worship?
I’ve come to believe that writing can be an act of worship.
Not worship in the narrow sense I grew up with—an hour of standing and singing songs in a church sanctuary, being told this is what heaven would be like while I tried to hide how much I didn’t want that to be true. But worship as something bigger, more embodied. Worship as living fully into the person God created me to be. And for me, that person is a writer.
Writing leads to growth because it leads me inward. I often don’t know what I truly think until I write it down. When I write about something painful, it begins to heal. When I name something, it becomes real. And naming, I’ve learned, is an act of creation. It’s a holy gesture. We need things to be named before we can begin to understand them—and writing is my way of doing that.
Like my relationship with the Divine, writing requires trust. I often return to a quote by E.L. Doctorow: “Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” It’s true of writing, and it’s true of faith. You don’t have to see the whole path to keep moving forward.
I began to experience writing as something spiritual back when I wrote devotional-style blog posts. I was trying to make sense of what I believed, and to offer some small encouragement to others. But even now, when I’m writing historical novels that don’t explicitly name God, the process still feels just as sacred.
There are moments—my favorite moments—when writing feels like being caught up in something beyond myself. Hours pass like minutes. Ideas arrive like gifts. It feels like co-creation, like being gently led by the hand. And when someone reads my words and says, “me too,” when they feel seen—that feels like God showing up.
I’ve come to treasure the rituals that surround my writing time: the morning light, a cup of tea, the quiet breath before I begin. Sometimes I light a candle. Sometimes I whisper a prayer. These small acts help me remember that this isn’t just output—it’s offering. This is worship, too.
I think creativity of any kind can be a form of worship. Maybe you don’t consider yourself “creative,” but I wonder if you’ve ever made a garden bloom, or a meal that nourished someone you love, or a home that feels safe, or a solution that made someone’s life a little easier. That’s creation. That’s partnership with the Divine. That’s worship.
What might change in our lives if we saw our creative expressions not just as hobbies or talents, but as ways to commune with God?
If that idea intrigues you, I invite you to try this:
Set aside just ten minutes. Light a candle if you want. Take a few deep breaths. Then ask yourself, What wants to be expressed through me today? It could be a few lines in a journal, a song you hum, a doodle in the margins. It doesn’t have to be “good.” It just has to be true.
I’m grateful to be part of a church that honors the arts as sacred expression—where poetry, music, and story are woven into the life of the community. But I know that’s not true everywhere. The broader Church hasn’t always left space for this kind of worship. We’ve often prized certainty over mystery, performance over process. But creativity invites us into mystery. And the process itself is the point. We can’t control how our offerings are received—we can only be faithful in showing up to the work.
Anne Lamott once wrote, “If something inside of you is real, we will probably find it interesting, and it will probably be universal. So you must risk placing real emotion at the center of your work.” That has become one of my guiding stars.
Being who God made you to be—fully, freely, without apology—is an act of worship. Writing is mine. What’s yours?
This newsletter occasionally contains Amazon affiliate links. If you click on and buy through one of these links, I receive a small percentage at no extra cost. Thank you.
Quick Links:
May the peace of the Lord Christ go with you wherever he may send you; may he guide you through the wilderness; protect you through the storm; may he bring you home rejoicing at the wonders he has shown you; may he bring you home rejoicing: once again into our doors.
I like the concept of writing as a way to heal. To express and create from within through honoring those stories and integration. As a non-religious person, worship isn’t the word I’d choose for myself. I’d have to think on it to pick a word that fits for me. I am curious to hear more about what worship means to you, especially in this context.
I love what you wrote Dawn, about being who you are and your thoughts about writing. Your writing here is so beautifully woven with grace and wisdom.