Artist as Vessel: Reclaiming the Composer’s Spiritual Calling

I remember the moment clearly—feeling alone in the sanctuary amidst rehearsal, the choir’s final words still hanging in the air. I wasn’t thinking about the congregation’s reaction, who was going to show up to Sunday service, or even technical polish of the music. For a few quiet seconds, I felt something move through the music—not myself, but something more surreal and enticing, using my gesture as its tongue.

That sensation—the tremor of being a vessel rather than a creator—has never quite left me. It visits sometimes in the quiet hours of composing, when I surrender analysis for intuition. It returns during performance, when the shape of sound seems to align with time, space, and something divine. And yet, in our modern culture, artists are praised for originality, genius, even marketability—but rarely for their capacity to receive the vision.

The composer was not always cast as a master craftsman or visionary. In many sacred traditions, the artist functioned more like a prophet or priest—a translator between the invisible, the esoteric, the לָקַח (laqach meaning to take, receive, or accept).

In Judaism, the לָקַח (laqach)—the sacred act of “taking” or “receiving”—offers a powerful model for artistic vocation. To write music not as an act of self-glory, but as an offering to be received, demands surrender. It is to say, “Use me. Speak through me. I will listen.”

Across cultures, we see echoes of this: the Yoruba griot channeling ancestral memory; the medieval monk illuminating scripture through chant; the improvising jazz musician channeling spontaneous revelation. The artist as vessel is not a romantic ideal—it is a rigorous, sacred discipline.

Music born from this place carries a different weight. It speaks in tongues of longing and transcendence that surpass cultural divides. It invites others not just to hear—but to encounter, receive, live a vision.

In reclaiming our identity as vessels, we also reclaim our responsibility: to listen deeply, to shape carefully, and to offer boldly our artistry. This calling is not about passive mysticism or evading the labor of technique. Quite the opposite—it demands craft, contemplation, and courage. But it also demands emptiness—a willingness to quiet our ego long enough to let something sacred pass through.

If you are a composer, a musician, a worship leader, or an artist of any kind, I encourage you to ask:

Is this work I’m creating for praise, or for purpose?
Am I performing sound, or revealing it?
Do I see myself as the message, or the messenger?

The world is aching for music that speaks beyond entertainment, beyond capitalism, beyond distraction. Let us be artists who serve not only the art—but the Spirit within us that brings about our artistry.