The Courage to Create

Creativity isn’t optional—it’s how we begin to fix—and heal—what’s broken.

Elizabeth Gilbert calls it Big Magic.
William Stafford likens it to the end of a golden thread.
Rainer Maria Rilke names it our primal song.

We sense its arrival within us: a subtle tingle, an involuntary shiver, the hairs on the back of our neck stand as if to salute an unseen presence. Our breath catches, followed by a sharp, sudden inhale and a breathy whisper of "ah ha."

Creativity is often treated like an abstract concept, but its presence is anything but abstract. It’s visceral, embodied, alive. It doesn’t live in PowerPoints or productivity software. It lives in spine-tingling shivers and sudden (some might say sacred) knowing.

And yet—despite its presence—we are taught from an early age to suppress it.

We’re told to color inside the lines. To choose the “right” major (which, unfortunately, does not include the arts and humanities.) To be practical, logical, marketable. To save creativity for the weekends—or the retirement years—if there’s time.

But pushing away our creativity is a disservice. Not just to individuals, but to all of us. Because creativity isn’t optional. It’s essential. We need it in in classrooms and courtrooms; in conflict resolution and climate policy; in hospitals, city councils, pulpits, and neighborhood meetings.

Complex, tangled problems won’t be solved by rote memorization or standardized answers. Deep change requires curiosity, imagination, expansive thinking, courage. To create a better future, we must first imagine what doesn’t exist, and reach for what others might dismiss as impossible. Put simply, a just and beautiful world needs creators.

William Stafford likened writing poetry to following golden threads. He got this image from William Blake’s poetic lines:

I give you the end of a golden string,

Only wind it into a ball,

It will lead you in at Heaven’s gate

Built in Jerusalem’s wall.

Stafford believed every detail, every impulse, every thread can lead the poet through Jerusalem’s wall as long as the poet is “ready, susceptible to the now…Only the golden string knows where it is going, and the role for a writer or reader is one of following, not imposing.”

Creativity won’t show you the whole way—but it will guide your next step.

And that’s what makes creativity sacred. It is the divine impulse in all of us to make something new. To imagine a better way. To participate in healing what is broken.

In Genesis, when God breathed life into dust, it was an act of poieo—the Greek word for “to make,” which later gave us our word poet. The Creator’s first gift to us was not just existence, but the invitation to co-create. We were made to be makers.

But somewhere along the way, many of us forgot. We traded wonder for practicality, mystery for certainty, and imagination for efficiency.

And now, at a time when we most need bold ideas, sacred disruptions, and beautiful alternatives, too many of us doubt our ability to offer them. We’ve been told to leave the “real work” to the experts. We’ve internalized the lie that only artists are creative.

When creativity stirs within you—whether in a painting, a protest, a policy idea, or a new approach to an old conflict—recognize it as something sacred. Something ancient. Something that doesn’t just fix problems but remakes the world.

What’s stirring in you now? What idea won’t leave you alone? What thread is asking you to follow it?

Maybe, just maybe, that small spark inside you is the very thing we need next.

Recent writing:

May Editorial – “Making Neighbors”
As an introvert, I know how tempting it is to retreat into “me time,” but I’ve learned firsthand how much life is enriched—and communities are strengthened—when we reach out to our neighbors. If we want to resist isolation’s pull and confront the evils in our world, it starts with something as simple as saying hello—and maybe feeding someone’s fish.

Lectionary Reflection on Luke 10:25-37 -- “The Good Samaritan and Ordered Love”
When I heard JD Vance frame Christian ethics as a hierarchy of obligations—family first, then neighbor, then the wider world—Jesus’ parable of the Good Samaritan pushed back. When ‘ordered love’ becomes an excuse to ignore suffering, it stops being love at all—and Jesus calls me instead to guard my heart from hardening and let compassion lead.

July / August Editorial – “For Such a Time as This”
Lately, “What are you reading?” feels less like small talk and more like asking how we’re surviving in such a volatile and violent world. Reading can inform and inspire, but like Esther, I’m reminded it must lead to thoughtful, courageous action that protects the vulnerable.

Lectionary Reflection on Genesis 15:1-6 – “Count the Stars”
When I imagine God asking Abram to count the stars, I feel the tension between wanting certainty and being called to trust. Abram didn’t get all the answers, but he still chose to believe, and in my own seasons of uncertainty, I’m learning to remember the One who named the stars also knows my name—and to keep taking the next faithful step beneath a sky full of promises.

Books I’m loving:

When Women Were Dragons by Kelly Barnhill

"You absolutely have to read this," my book club friends insisted. They were right. Barnhill's novel drops us into 1950s America during the "Mass Dragoning"—a phenomenon where ordinary housewives suddenly transform into fire-breathing dragons, abandoning kitchens and carpools to soar away from their confined lives.

Through the eyes of young Alex Green, whose aunt sprouted wings while her mother remained painfully human, we witness a society desperately trying to erase what it fears. The government classifies dragoning as "mass hysteria," doctors call it "a peculiar form of menopause," and families pretend their missing mothers never existed. As Alex grows up in this conspiracy of silence, she discovers truths about power, rage, and the cost of conformity.

Barnhill weaves a novel that's both heartbreaking and exhilarating—and yes, watching women breathe fire is every bit as satisfying as you'd imagine.

Imaginable: How to See the Future Coming and Feel Ready for Anything—Even Things that Seem Impossible Today by Jane McGonigal

My interest in creative collaboration to tackle major societal challenges led me, with recommendations from two friends, to Jane McGonigal’s book, Imaginable.

McGonigal, a futurist and game designer, created simulation research that predicted how humans would respond to a global pandemic—years before COVID-19 emerged. In Imaginable, she guides readers through research-backed strategies and playful exercises that stretch our thinking beyond the limits of the present moment.

The book is shifting the way I think about the future—not as something that happens to us, but as something we can creatively anticipate. McGonigal makes a compelling case that by learning to imagine “unimaginable” scenarios, we build the resilience, creativity, and courage needed to navigate whatever comes next. Here’s a link to one of McGonigal’s Ted Talks to give you a taste of her work.

Upcoming speaking:

September 26, 2025: Teaching and Preaching at Ginter Park Presbyterian Church, Richmond, VA.

October 26, 2025: Teaching at Second Presbyterian Church, Indianapolis, IN.

November 8, 2025: Preaching for Heartland Presbytery Meeting at First Presbyterian Church, Lees Summit, MO.

Let’s connect!

Is your book club or church reading Necessary Risks? Are you planning an educational event for your church, presbytery or synod that aligns with the theme of Necessary Risks: Challenges Privileged People Need to Face? I’d love to get you and your group on my schedule—just hit reply to start talking or contact me by clicking here.