"The potter, for instance, is always assumed to have complete control over the clay, making with one lump a lovely vase, and with another a pot for sewer." - Romans 9:21 J.B. Phillips Modern English Translation
On a glorious day, on the eve of summer, a potter set to work shaping a small lump of clay. The day marched on in slow progress, but just as the sky began to paint itself with brilliant hues of orange and purple; even as the shadows began frolicking across a small village in Dunedin, an exclamation of joy shattered the still evening. The potter had finished his creation.
The vase which he had carved from the lump was beautiful, having a wide rim and exquisite detail in the engraved vines that he had etched around its face. Being exhausted from his efforts, he placed it on a shelf in shed across the garden, and retired to bed. Now, something happened that night which is too wonderful to put into words, but the vase came to life, and woke from its non-existence, and breathed.
(These are the events that followed that miraculous night)
The vase awoke that morning feeling very sore and terribly achy. Perhaps from the shaping of its form, or from the firing process of the furnace. Now, it couldn't remember the night before, but knew something was different, something was new. It looked at the things around it in the shed and saw a bronze spade, silver hoe and golden shovel. The items were magnificent. They had such splendor, such majesty, and they were awesome to behold. He realized then that the potter must also be a gardener, a master gardener to own such great tools.
Suddenly, the shed door opened and a bright light penetrated the dark corners of the shed. The light sparkled off of the precious tools like tiny galaxies shimmering in the cold, wooden room. They were even more beautiful than the tiny vase could've imagined. Then it was, that the moment came when its curiosity could not be tamed. If these tools in the shed were so magnificent, then it must be a marvel. With the slightest smile and a boastful eye, it glanced down at the light reflecting off of it, expecting to be astonished at what if found. Then lightning struck him with such a jolt. His smile faded, not anywhere to be found, and a sorrowful sigh twisted his features.
"I'm clay. An ugly, no good vase. Who would create such a artifact for humiliation?"
Just then, as if the tools in the shed had heard him, there was a tumultuous laugh. He felt ashamed. No good master potter or gardener would ever think of creating such a tragedy, such a . . . mistake!
"Why clay? Why a useless vase? Oh, fortune must be against me. What a wretch." The vase thought to himself.
Suddenly, a voice thundered inside the shed. "Did I hear someone?"
The vase lifted up his eyes to behold a man standing at the threshold of the door. Since this man's image was too great to describe, I will not attempt it. But the reader must know, that the vase shook with a terrible force at his sight. After many thoughtful moments, the vase summoned up enough courage to speak.
"Surely, you are my master. Surely, you created all these things in here, since you stand at the threshold of the door and can even hear me speak."
The man nodded.
"Therefore, why are all these tools so beautiful to my sight, and I am but the dullest shade of sand?" The vase asked with a deep groan.
"Surely, you don't regret my making you?"
The vase paused. "Of course not."
"Then we agree."
"Agree about what?"
"That I will not cast you aside into the trash heap. For then I would feel as if all my time efforts yesterday were careless. And be sure, I have never regretted anything I've made."
"But then why make me a mere vase? And out of clay?"
The master looked at the tiny, and even pathetic face of the vase. "Would you rather be a shovel?" The man said it with such sincerity that the vase actually began to smile again.
A childlike look fell on its face. "Oh yes, yes, make me a shovel."
"I'm sorry my young vase. I can't do that."
"Why not?"
"I cannot melt you down and reuse you. Once the clay has been fired it is finished."
A sad expression tormented the vase. Perhaps being destroyed would be better than a life spent stored away in a gloomy shed, spotted with spider webs and rain water.
The man continued, "But I can try to use you as a shovel if you like."
The vase gleamed with hope again. If he could be a shovel, certainly he could be anything he wanted. The could see the approval in the vase.
"Then I will return tomorrow morning. I've got preliminary digging today, though." He grabbed the gold shovel and left, closing the door behind him.
