The Potter

His smile beamed, practically illuminating the dark storage room which was spread out with various drying pottery pieces. He proudly showed us the vases, plates, and cups in their raw form, crafted by his own hands.

“Come, come see!” he exclaimed as he led us out of his workshop and towards the yard, which is where the whole process begins. 

He graciously showed us each step, beginning with the lumps of discolored, unwashed clay, plopped out on the ground like it was not worth anything at all. And I suppose it’s really not at the start. It’s just some unwashed clay that looks like the mucky stuff you’d find at the bottom of a lake. But even in this stage, the potter had eyes to see the beauty and quality of the clay that was invisible to my inexperienced eye. 

He washes it handful by handful, getting it ready to be thrown on the wheel. After forming it on his wheel, he sets it out for the drying process, then the heating process in a large brick oven (keeping in mind that he has to collect the logs of certain quality and build the fire, heating it to a very specific temperature), and finally the cooling process, each of which takes much more delicacy and exactness than I ever thought. 

At the end of our tour, he took us back to the wheel and sat down. He started to gently roll the big caveman-cut stone with his left foot, which spun the metal plate that he wetted with water. Also wetting his hands just enough, he wiped the plate clean, and taking a handful of clay, he placed it on the wheel and let it spin.

He watched the clay for a minute. Perhaps he was letting the wheel slow down to an acceptable speed. He also kept wetting his hands and sprinkling water on the clay, perhaps to get it to the right moisture and consistency. But he also just watched it, and I wondered if he was seeing a form in that lump of clay that I couldn’t see yet. 

When he was ready and the conditions were perfectly set, he ever so lightly cupped his hands around the lump of clay and started to create. He smiled and glanced at his onlooking audience, like he had a secret. A little pressure from his thumb here, and little sweeping motion with his palm there, and a beautiful vase was fashioned with amazing symmetry and surprising ease. 

I was struck by how proud and joyful he was about his work, like he couldn’t wait for us to understand each step of the process so that we could fully appreciate the amount of time and care that goes into each handcrafted piece.

What I loved most about the potter was his joy. How proud he was of his handiwork. I would even dare to call it love. 

As I watched him work, small tears welled up in the corner of my eyes because I remembered that God, in Jeremiah 18, calls himself the potter and Israel the clay. And although I’ve read that verse a hundred times, it was only know that I understood the love and joy and pride of the potter. 

For I’m just a dirty lump of clay dug up from the dirt, and the first thing the Potter did was find me and wash me, seeing a value and quality in me that was invisible to the untrained eye. He fashions me with his own hand; he gets his hands dirty working on me. And with the right amount of pressure applied by his own hand, art starts to take shape. It’s a process, you know, of wetting, drying, heating, and cooling - a delicate and time consuming process all controlled and overseen by the wisdom and experience of the potter. 

A cracked piece of pottery rested on a table beside the wheel. “What happened here?” I asked, and the Potter without disappointment said, “oh, it cracked, but I’ll just wet it again and put it back on the wheel.” 

He smiled as he worked. Did I even hear him humming along with the rhythm of the turning wheel? He was so proud of his work, which made me think about God in a way that maybe I hadn’t thought of before: a God who gets his hands dirty to work on me and shape me into what he imagines in his heart when he looks at me in my lumpy, raw formlessness. A God who smiles and hums as he works because he loves what he does. A God who works hard but without a time limit and without hurry because he enjoys the process. He enjoys the work. He enjoys the creativity.  He takes what is formless and makes something beautiful and useful out of it. 

After watching the potter work, I understood why God said in Jeremiah 18 that it would be crazy for the clay to question its maker. After all the time and heart that the Potter puts into a handful of clay, how could anyone ever question or critique the final product? If you could have seen this potter - the gleam in his eyes, the whiteness of his smile, the pride of his work - you wouldn’t ever even think about doubting the value of even the simplest piece of his pottery. Each piece was beautiful mostly because you could tell how much the potter loved it. 

The particular beauty of each handmade piece is that its unique. It’s not machine made, which means some edges might not be perfectly straight, and all the cups won’t be the same size. But that’s exactly due to the fact that the potter put his gentle, special, unique touch on each and every piece. His thumbprint is engraved in the finest creases and even imperfections. 

Remember these things when the pressure feels too much, for the Potter has his thumb on you. 

Remember these things when the fire feels too hot, for the Potter has his eye on you. 

Remember these things when you crack and break, for the Potter never throws away, he always recycles and restores. 

Remember these things when you struggle to see your value or the beauty of your circumstances, for the Potter has a professional and creative eye that is shaping lumps into something lovely. 

Remember these things when you don’t know how to move forward, for the only thing that is required of the clay is to be moldable and workable in the hands of the Potter. 

Remember these things when you wonder what God is doing, for he is joyfully working with patience and pride, knowing that everything he creates is good.