The Divine Metaphor

The potter slowly, meticulously picked up each piece--every shard and broken remain of the now useless and obliterated vessel. A tear slipped past his eye and tumbled down his cheek only to drop on just one more piece of the shatttered remains. He looked up, past his wheel, past his kneading table, past the window and out toward the streets beyond. His assistant was now gone, and would never return. "FIRED!" The words had echoed off the cement walls and bounced back to echo in the potter's head. "Fired, fired, fired..." It never should have come to this, but it had, and now he was minus one assistant and more importantly minus one priceless vessel.
He had hired the assistant for a number of reasons: making the clay, mixing the glazes, cleaning the studio, maintaining the shop, but above all else to praise his work. The potter wanted to know that he was good--that he was making pots that were worth more than the casual glance of an artistically unlearned passerby. And the assistant was superb at making each pot seem greater than its predecessor. Until it happened; it was just a thought, a twinge of pride. It was an "I can do better than he can" moment. Had it been just a moment, nothing more would have resulted. But that moment was cultivated, and as it grew, it began to completely control all of the assistant's thoughts. When the fruit of the envy finally took shape, it produced the disgusting and gut-wrenching decision to stage a coup. But the potter had not ignored the grumbling and absent-minded comments the assistant made, so the potter took the only step that he could; he had to let the assistant go. And while the walls were still recounting the potter's words, the assistant picked up the potter's newest vessel and with a furious indignation slammed it to the concrete floor. The potter sat, unmoving and watched as the assistant stormed out of the studio.
When each piece had been placed with the others into a dustpan, the potter carried them toward the garbage can. But as he neared t, he stopped and carefully poured the broken contents onto his kneading table. Then he rummaged in his nearest tool drawer until his found the perfect tool for his next job. It was a rock--a large, hard rock and with it, he began to break the already broken pieces. He did not refrain from his seemingly ridiculous task until there was nothing left but a pile of dust. The pot that used to be was unrecognizable; it was simply taken back to the dirt as it had started. The potter swept the dust back into the pan and then he emptied it into a bucket of water. Having done that he turned out the lights, locked the front door, and went home to end one of the most strenuous days he had ever endured. The next morning he returned to his studio with anticipation--he had a full day of work ahead of him. He walked, expectant, to the bucket of water and peered inside. He was pleased with what he saw, for during the night the water had mingled with the dust and now there was no longer just dirty water but there was a clump of clay sitting at the bottom of the bucket.
He reached his hand into the depths of the water and scooped up the clay. Then he took the lump back to his kneading table. There he worked the clay, cutting and slamming it until it was the perfect consistency. He took the clay to his wheel and threw the clump onto the surface. Then he began to work with the clay while spinning the wheel. First he centered it, and if you watched the potter, you knew that his experience reached far back--further than his memories and training, it had become a part of him. He was in control of the clay. With his muscles bulging he held his hands fast and the clay quickly conformed to them. When it was centered, he made a hole in it and began to bring the walls up. They became taller and taller, with each fluid movement from the potter's hands. He worked on it until all the walls were an even height and thickness. Until it was perfect in his eyes. Then he took it off the wheel and carefully carried to the windowsill to dry. When the water was evaporated and the pot was dry, he placed it in the kiln. Once loaded into the kiln, the pot was ready for the heat. The potter began to turn up the fire. Slowly, building up the temperature. Finally he reached the point where he could go no further. If he turned the heat up any higher, the pot would warp or explode. He took the pot to its breaking point and left it there to bake. Soon, when he was sure the pot was seasoned, he turned the heat off and let the pot cool down. Then he reached into the kiln and carefully brought the pot out--it had endured the flame. The potter carried the vessel to a bucket filled with glaze and dipped the pot deep into it. He brought it out and made sure that the glaze had evenly covered the surface of the piece. Then he took it again and put it back into the kiln. Since the pot had already endured the fire, and because it now had a glaze on it, the vessel was able to withstand more heat, and a greater fire. So the potter turne the heat up until the pot was once again at its breaking point. There he left it, he let it stay in the fire until the glaze bound with the clay and they became inseperable. Then the potter turned off the fire. When the pot was cooled, the potter lifted the vessel out, and he was pleased. He saw a perfect vessel, one with no flaws and one that could be used for his perfect anointing.
"The word which came to Jeremiah from the Lord, saying, Arise and go down to the potter's house, and there I will cause thee to hear my words. Then I went down to the potter's house, and, behold, he wrought a work on the wheels. And the vessel that he made of clay was marred in the hand of the potter: so he made it again another vessel, as seemed good to the potter to make it. Then the word of the Lord came to me, saying, O house of Israel, cannot I do with you as this potter? Saith the Lord, behold, as the clay is in the potter's hand, so are ye in mine hand, O house of Israel." (Jeremiah 18:1-6)