The Monastery of the Midwest
Creative lifeblood from the heartlands
This Mid-Week Edition of Inkwell features Young Woong Yi
“Were they sent to hell?”
“Worse… Wisconsin. For the entire span of human history.” — Dogma (1999)
“I BELIEVE THE WORLD will be saved by beauty,” says Prince Lev in Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Idiot. Though I believe this statement is true, I find myself implicitly asking the follow-up question: which kind of beauty?
Let’s face it—people enjoy dunking on the Midwest. While it’s known by some as “flyover country,” to others, it’s “the heartland of America.” Name your gripe, and I’ve probably heard it come from the mouth of a friend or family member—it’s too slow, too boring, the winters are too long, there are too many mosquitoes.
Between its paradoxical nicknames, it’s clear that people don’t quite know what to make of the Midwest. But I can’t help but argue that this land contains a unique kind of beauty, and I wonder what would happen if we worked to become a true creative heartland as well. While we literally exist in the middle, we often feel like we’re on the margins in a cultural and aesthetic sense. However, people on the edges see what those in the center cannot—margins can birth movements.
I’VE LIVED MY ENTIRE LIFE in the Midwest, specifically Michigan. Through the long years, I’ve come to learn that there is much art that has sparked massive creative energy which finds its origins here.
In the midst of Detroit’s racial segregation and economic hardship, Berry Gordy founded Motown Records in his humble home off of West Grand Boulevard. This centre of Motown music was pivotal to paving a way for artists like The Supremes, Stevie Wonder and Marvin Gaye. Their inspiration was local, and their aesthetic communal. Marvin Gaye, for example, reveals the harsh realities of his people as he sings in “Inner City Blues:”
“Rockets, moon shots; Spend it on the have-nots;
Money, we make it; Before we see it, you take it.”
Although he was expressing the raw frustration that African-Americans felt in the midst of economic disparity in 1970s Detroit, the lyrics transcend time and space. From the inner cities of Detroit or the plains of the Dakotas, the diverse landscapes we call home undeniably shape the stories we tell. It’s this rooted, reflective kind of art—well-curated, slowly made, rich with narrative—that has long emerged from the Midwest and continues to rise. And it’s this kind of art that quietly adds beauty to the world and offers a centre to hold, helping us to keep from becoming disfigured, malformed, and empty.
FOLLOWING THE DECLINE of Rome in the 5th century, and along with the steady growth of Christianity, the denizens of local monasteries found that small towns and settlements would eventually pop up nearby, leading to the progressive formation of full, bustling cities with the monastery smack dab in the centre. One of the most notable creative endeavors born out of monasticism was the architecture itself, with their buildings displaying the unique styles of specific traditions, the order they belonged to, and the era they were built in. Jean Sorabella from the MET Museum in New York writes:
“In the early twelfth century… the great Benedictine abbey at Cluny constructed a church of astonishing size with imposing exterior towers and lavish interior ornament; the tightly packed buildings that fill a fragmentary frieze suggest the richness of the structure and the way it complemented the spectacular liturgy celebrated there.”
Perhaps the same can be said for the Midwest creative—be it photographer, poet, writer, painter, or musical artist—our art complements “the spectacular liturgy” of our region. What may seem to initially be on the fringes, in the gaps, or deemed “flyover,” eventually becomes centralizing and catalyzing to an entire society.
Don’t get me wrong, I would love for there to be a future for the Midwest where our streets are lined with picturesque European-inspired architecture—I just don’t know how likely that will be. I wonder if what is birthed out of the “Midwest monastery” will not be ornate physical building projects, but rather, a profound and unique shaping of the human heart. As people read our writings, listen to our music, and become entrenched in the visuals of our paintings and artwork, perhaps the contents and posture of a country’s interior world will begin to change—moved over time by the unique spiritual vitality and aesthetic significance of our farmlands, inner cities, and maybe even our ‘burbs.
MY FAMILY IMMIGRATED from South Korea to Detroit in the late 80s, and my mother and I joined them in the early 90s. I grew up in the suburbs, went to college at Michigan State, and felt the urge to one day leave for the “promised land” for many Asian-Americans, otherwise known as California. Unlimited access to Asian restaurants, cheaper airline tickets to the “Motherland,” and 70-degree weather all the time? How could anyone say no to that? But as I finished up my degree, I found myself falling in love with the charm of mid-Michigan and ended up making the decision on my own volition to live in Lansing, Michigan, for eight more years.
If you don’t know mid-Michigan, it’s the perfect microcosm to describe the Midwest. There is a slightly thriving city-center (Lansing), a college town (East Lansing), a ton of cornfields, and small towns ending with “-ville”. Most places are a twenty-minute drive, and to reach anything exciting, you’ll likely pass several acres of farmland. Yet it’s here I spent my formative young adult years, drawn by its quiet, livable rhythms, four distinct seasons, and its underrated beauty.
Our bigger Midwestern cities—Chicago, Detroit, Minneapolis, Indianapolis—are not like New York or Los Angeles. They can never be, nor do they want to be. Why? Because the Midwest is an entirely different creature.
IN THE CHOPPY WATERS of instant-gratification riptides, the Midwest offers something starkly different: a steady, slow, and intentional tide of life. Much like the monasteries of old, where deliberate rhythms created space for devotion to the Lord, the Midwest’s unhurried pace shapes the artistry of its people. If the Midwest is a monastery, then “slow and steady” is our chanted prayer—and the clearly defined seasons our “rule of life.” They guide us towards a richer devotion to our craft and a patience to see our art come to fruition.
There is a rhythm to our creativity and art that tracks with the seasons in a unique way. Here in Michigan, spring attempts to emerge from winter’s grip. It’s mid-April now, but it snowed just a few days ago. The ghost of the Midwest winter haunts us for as long as it can. But even still, give it a week or two and we’ll begin to see flowers blossom. In a few months, the summer heat will blister our skin, enticing us to make weekend plans to cool off in Lake Michigan or Superior. In the latter half of the year, Midwest fashionistas will eagerly take out their capsule wardrobes and layer on the flannel shirts and workwear jackets, while sipping apple cider and eating donuts from their local mill. All to end the year with endless cups of hot chocolate and coffee while hibernating inside our homes, letting our imaginations marinate as we hide from the winter snow until spring arrives again.
THIS SEASONALITY is deeply significant to me. December 13th, 2025 will mark ten years of being in remission after receiving chemotherapy for leukemia back in June of 2013. One of my goals after remission was to write and self-publish a little book about suffering and the meaning of life as I reflect on my cancer journey, releasing it on the ten-year anniversary.
I owe much to the past wintery months—the pause to life that some might consider useless. They’ve given me the room to reflect and finally start writing something deeply personal. I’m not saying it could not have happened anywhere else—but there’s something almost magical about writing through your deepest longings in the middle of a Midwest snowstorm, with a freshly brewed cup of coffee. If you haven’t experienced that yet, you should.
In a culture sucked dry by speed and noise, the Midwest moves according to a natural, seasonal pulse. I believe the world needs what we have to offer—life and art that is slower, more intentional, stubbornly alive. Beauty in the Midwest has blossomed in the past, is currently blooming again, and has much fruit to yield. And I, for one, am proud to be part of this body at work. Who knows—one day the specific beauty that comes from the Midwest might actually save the world.
Young Woong Yi
Pastor & Photographer
Young is a pastor, currently planting Kindred Church in Metro-Detroit. He holds a M.Div in Spiritual Formation and Discipleship from Moody Theological Seminary. You can read more of his work at becomingdust.com.
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As an Iowan who has lived in Europe and now is coming back to live in Iowa again, this was such an encouragement for me. I’ve been wrestling with contentment with the kind of beauty I behold…I grew an eye for noticing beauty all around when I was a student in Iowa, but have since then seen beauty that is really obvious and grand and rich with history. But beauty is still here in Iowa, and I’m asking God to help me see it again. And reading your article made me excited to be part of the creative community in the Midwest and proud of the art made here!
This was a lovely reflection on the strange in-between identity of the Midwest. I grew up on the east coast, but my mother and grandmother grew up in Michigan, so visited often. The idea of intentionality really resonated as well. Your reflection made me wonder also about the fact that much of the Midwest was settled by Lutherans from Nordic countries, so the aesthetics of the simpler, slower, sparser, more intentional, more nature-based traditions blended well with the land that was similar to their home. It made me think how connected a faith tradition can be to the land, and how beautiful it can be when the two interweave.