A Treasure in an Earthly Vessel

Richard Baxter (1615–1691) had it right when he said, “Self is the most treacherous enemy, and the most insinuating deceiver in the world. Of all other vices, it is both the hardest to find out, and the hardest to cure.”

It’s a sobering thought, and yet a strangely freeing one. We simply cannot live in the presence of God while polishing our own crowns and admiring our supposed greatness, as if we were the best thing to happen to humanity since the invention of bread. The truth is, we are not. And the longer we cling to the illusion of our own grandeur, the longer true peace stays just out of reach.

The remedy?

Slip on the spectacles of truth and see clearly who we are, and who God actually is. It’s the same lesson Clay Peake had to learn in our Story of the Week.

I hope you enjoy the read, and that it nudges you a little closer to walking with our humble God without tripping over your own ego along the way.

A Treasure in an Earthen Vessel

Door J.K. Stenger

Clay Peake was tickled pink.

The church had given him the job; of course they had picked him. In Clay’s mind the work was already done, the jars sold and the money he’d earn well spent.

Reverend Obadiah Lark sat in his office, sipping a mug of fresh coffee and explaining the needs. He put his mug down, pulled a paper from his pocket and studied it carefully. “Let me see… We need several large jars for storing grain to feed the poor, a new bowl for the alms and an urn for old Gregory Winston…” He paused and looked at Clay. “You know the old man died just a few days ago, right?”

“Of course, of course,” Clay mumbled. “God bless his soul.” He hadn’t known the old man had died, but that was best kept to himself.

Reverend Obadiah Lark seemed satisfied, then checked his list again. “And finally, and this is very important, we need a large basin for the baptism ceremonies. Can you do it?”

“Sure, I can,” Clay beamed. After all, he was a far better potter than Wedge Kneadman, that clumsy craftsman on the other side of town, and everyone knew it. He nodded, the picture of humility, though his eyes betrayed his pride. “When do you need it done, Reverend?”

“Would Friday work for you, Clay?”

“No sweat, Reverend.”

The Reverend nodded in pleased satisfaction. “Just a word, Clay. That basin for the baptism needs to be large and beautiful. It’s very important.”

“Why?” Clay asked.

“It’s obvious,” Obadiah Lark replied. “Baptism is the day when old things pass away and all things become new. It must be a splendid basin, one that reveals the beauty of heaven.” He narrowed his eyes and fixed Clay with a steady gaze. “I can count on you, right?”

“Relax, Reverend. Piece of cake,” Clay said without missing a beat. “After all, I’m the best… uh… I mean, I’m a potter, and I’ll do it.”

And with that, Clay Peake set to work on his new order.

Soon he had several large jars molded, perfect for holding the grain to feed the poor. The bowl for the alms was the easiest job for someone of his skill. The urn for old Gregory Winston proved a bit more complicated, since he wanted the urn to have a slender neck, but even that was done in a jiffy. Yes, he truly was the best potter in town.

Last of all, he began working on the large basin for the baptismal services. This was his chance to show what a tremendous potter he was. He tied his hair back in a tight knot to keep stray hairs from landing on the clay, rubbed his hands with a special and very expensive oil, cracked his fingers to get them working properly, and he began.

He worked for hours.

Sweat dripped from his forehead and his fingers ached, but when he was finished he heaved a satisfied sigh of joy. Before him stood the largest and most beautiful basin he had ever made. It was impressively adorned with intricate ornaments and delicate frizzles, meant to dazzle anyone receiving baptism. The water in this heavenly basin would carry a touch of the divine for the poor soul who joined Reverend Obadiah’s church.

Clay smiled faintly. Some folks needed that sort of thing. What he needed was for the thing to dry, so he could add the color and the beauty it really deserved.

Yet a dark thought, heavy as earth itself, sank into him: few would ever know he was the hand that had brought such beauty to life.

That just wasn’t right.

No problem. That basin just needed his signature.

With a proud smile, Clay carefully carved his name in swirly, fancy italic letters at the foot of his creation so the world would know he was the maker of the masterpiece.

Clay Peake made this

Great.

That should do it.

Now he was done and ready for a well-deserved sleep.

But that night, Clay had a nightmare. A swarm of bats invaded his workshop and attacked his precious basin with their leathery wings and sharp teeth. The basin shattered beneath their assault and Clay woke, heart pounding and drenched in sweat.

Thank God, it was only a dream. All was well, or so it had seemed…

For, the next morning, he found his beautiful basin shattered on the floor and his carved signature scattered among the shards.

Anger surged through him.

Clearly, this was not the work of bats, but of Wedge Kneadman. His competitor must have heard about the job and, in a fit of jealousy, broken into Clay’s workshop while he was asleep. That foolish potter needed to be taught a lesson.

Just as he finished dressing and had gripped a heavy crowbar that he intended to use in Wedge Kneadman’s workshop, a sharp knock came at the door.

“Yeah, who is there?”

Expecting Wedge Kneadman, he gripped his crowbar tightly as he opened the door, only to find a blind beggar standing there, humbly asking for alms.

“Go away,” Clay said sharply. “I’m not in the mood. Someone’s broken my best work, just to crush my spirit.”

The blind man’s voice was calm and steady. “So sorry to hear that. But … perhaps it was God who broke your work.”

“God?” Clay snapped, a bit rude. “Why would God do such a thing when I’m creating something to glorify Him?”

Silence hung heavy for a moment. Then the blind man’s voice cut through the stillness. “It happened to me.”

Clay’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?” he demanded, his voice sharp and edged with suspicion.

“I wasn’t always sightless,” the blind man said. “Once, I could see better than most, or so I believed. I was a merchant, proud of my sharp eye for quality goods.” He paused, his vacant eyes seeming to look through time itself.

“I once believed, my vision and talents made me superior. That I could see what others missed. But the truth is, I fell victim to the most common sin of all, which is pride. Pride blinds us long before our eyes fail us.” The old man’s voice softened. “So … God took away my sight to give me true vision. What felt like destruction was actually deliverance.”

He leaned forward slightly. “Perhaps your broken vessel isn’t meant to wound you, but to free you. Is pride perhaps your problem too? It is a sin that leads to many others, such as anger, jealousy and revenge.”

“I—I,” Clay stammered, his voice trembling. The blind man’s words pierced him like a carving knife, tearing open wounds he had long tried to hide, and the crowbar in his hand felt heavier than it had ever been.

What if this blind visitor was right? Clay tried to push the thought away but he did not succeed. What if God Himself had broken down his masterpiece, just to open his eyes?

“C-come inside,” he whispered at last, fighting back his tears. “Tell me more about the God that broke your sight in order to give you true vision.”

***

When Reverend Obadiah Lark came by to collect the jars, they weren’t quite ready—at least not the one for the baptismal service. Clay just couldn’t finish it.

“I thought you had said, you could,” Reverend Obadiah Lark said gently, a tad bit disappointed.

“I did indeed,” Clay admitted, “but I was wrong.”

“No problem,” the pastor replied. “I’ll take it to Wedge Kneadman. It may not be as beautiful as I had hoped, but at least it’ll be done.”

Anger flashed through Clay’s soul, but only for a moment. He lifted his eyes, a hint of sorrow softening his voice. “Wedge will do a good job, Pastor. What’s more, I believe God’s beauty shines brightest in simplicity and humility.”

Reverend Obadiah Lark looked a bit surprised. “I never knew you to be spiritual, Clay?”

Clay Peake shrugged. “I was blind, but now I see,” he said solemnly. “Can … eh … I ask you something?”

“Sure, Clay.”

“Can I too be baptized with the water from the basin Wedge will make?”

Reverend Obadiah Lark’s eyes widened. “You really want to give your heart to Jesus?”

“I do, Pastor. Truly.”

Reverend Obadiah Lark smiled, his eyes shining with gentle hope as he said, “You are most welcome, Clay. It will be an honor to help you find your way.”

In that moment, Clay felt the weight of his past lift like morning mist, and a quiet flame of faith kindled deep within, promising a future shaped not by pride but by humble love.

____