"Like clay in the hands of the potter, so are you in my hand" Jeremiah.18:6
"It's all very well to talk of being shaped like clay," said the rock to the
potter, "But when you're a rock it's different. You can't change me without
breaking me and broken you can't make anything of me at all."
"You will meet My purpose, in My time," said the potter.
Months passed, barely an eye-blink in the life of a rock. Then the storm came.
The wind howled, the rain drove horizontally, hurled by the mounting fury of the
gale. Trees bent, cracked and fell. One of these started the landslide, which
carried all before it, down into the swollen river. The rock noticed the storm
as you might notice the brush of a gnat's wing. Yet months later it became aware
that it was no longer on the hillside, but in the river.
There is nothing so soft as water. Or as hard. Time passed and the river flowed
over, around and under the rock. Gradually microscopic bits were worked loose by
the boisterous current and carried triumphantly away. Time assed and the rock
grew smaller. And smaller.
On a day, the potter came along to the river. He looked at the rock, now
scarcely bigger than a pebble.
"I'm afraid you're too late," said the rock, "Earlier you might have had enough
to sculpt me; I was a very interesting shape a couple of centuries ago. Now,
there's nothing worth having."
"My purposes are never hastened nor delayed," said the potter. He passed down
the river to where it descended over a fall into a deep pool. Near the far end
of the pool a curve in the river's course had left a wide, shallow shelf. Here
the river deposited much of what it had carried. Here too, was a bed of clay.
The potter knelt and took a handful. With a master's eye and fingers he
estimated its quality. Yes, it was good. He scooped up a load and returned to
his workshop.
Carefully the potter removed his latest masterpiece from the kiln. Beautifully
shaped and decorated, it radiated his skill for all to see.
"Beautiful one," said the potter, "What are you?"
"I am the work of your hands," replied the delicate, china confection.
"And what were you before that?"
"Shapeless clay."
"And before that?"
"I was always clay."
"Think a little longer."
"I- I- I think... I... I remember! I was in the river. I was a rock and I was on
the hillside before that and I wondered... I wondered how you would ever make
anything of me.
And now I know!"
Adrian Rodgers
adrian.rodgers@ams1.ulsop.ac.uk
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