The Parable of the Cracked Pot

A water bearer had two large pots, one hung on each end of a pole, which he carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, and while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water.

At the end of the long walk from the stream to the master's house, the cracked pot always arrived only half full. For two years this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water to his master's house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, fulfilled in the design for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was unable to accomplish what it had been made to do.

After two years of enduring this bitter shame, the pot spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream. "I am ashamed of myself and I apologize to you."

"Why?" asked the bearer.

"What are you ashamed of?"

"I have been able, for these past two years, to deliver only half my load because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your master's house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all of this work, and you don't get full value from your efforts," the pot said.

The water bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said, "As we return to the master's house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path."

Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun warming the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path, and was cheered somewhat. But at the end of the trail, it still felt the old shame because it had leaked out half its load, and so again the pot apologized to the bearer for its failure.

The bearer said to the pot, "Did you not notice that there were flowers only on your side of the path, and not on the other pot's side? That's because I have always known about your flaw, and I took advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we've walked back from the stream, you've watered them. For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my master's table. Without you being just the way you are, he would not have this beauty to grace his house."

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I am a flawed clay jar. I carry around a love for God and a love for others in an unadorned clay pot of an ordinary life. That’s supposed to prevent anyone from putting me on a pedestal. It’s supposed to dissuade anyone from expecting perfection from another human being.

Still, it happens.

And we can only do the best we can do.

And people, including me, get hurt.

2 Corinthians 4:7-8, 16
7 But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. 8 We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.

Maybe the most important part of all. . .for me and for those who are disappointed in me: 16 Therefore we do not lose heart.

Because the flowers along the side of the path are still there.

First National Bank of Gumballs

A kid came into the print shop where I work yesterday afternoon. It was about 1:00 in the afternoon. He immediately got on my nerves. He crashed his bike right outside the front door and left it in the middle of the sidewalk. He opened the front door and just stood there while the dinger went off repeatedly. He yelled, “Hey lady!” from the doorway and when I went up there to see what the emergency was I noticed he was eyeballing the gumball machine.

“Can I have some free gumballs??”

I looked him over as he stood there rubbing his sweaty hands all over the glass of the front door – with the dinger still ringing incessantly – and answered with one word.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

I wasn’t about to get into an argument with him so I asked how old he was.

“Ten.”

“Why aren’t you in school?”

“I’m sick.”

“You look fine to me.”

“Can I have some free gumballs?”

“Nope. They cost a quarter.”

“OK. I’ll go get some money!”

He hopped on his bike and pedaled furiously away. In about three minutes he was back. With his posse.

Great. A pack of ten year olds wanting free candy!

They came in the front door digging through their pockets; grubbing through all the junk that 10 year old boys collect in a day. All together they came up with four nickels. Two of the boys started jamming the nickels furiously into the handle, trying to crank out a gumball.

“Hey, this is a rip!”

“Wait, it’s supposed to be a quarter!”

“Which one is a quarter?”

“Isn’t this a dime?”

“Maybe it’s a nickel. . .”

“Which president is supposed to be on there??”

Some infighting ensued. Eventually a spokesboy emerged. The original kid. He screamed out, “Hey lady!”

“You bellowed?” I answered.

“Will you give me four quarters for this nickel?”

Looking at him, images of my retirement years pulsed behind my eyes. His is the generation that will inherit the financial pitfalls of Medicare and Social Security. MY Social Security.

I saw him as Secretary of the Treasury. His posse was running the local bank.

I vowed at that moment to go home and put my lifesavings under the mattress.

A Band of Flowers

It’s finally getting warm in Ohio. I dug around in the big plastic tubs in the attic this morning that house my summer clothes during the long winter months. I dug out a short skirt and decided to celebrate spring and wear it to work this morning.

I was feeling pretty good with my summer skirt and sandals. It always feels like new clothes when you haven’t worn them for six months or so!

Then, I had the first customer of the day at work – an older man who needed some copies. I went about filling his order as he talked to me over the counter. He noticed the tattooed band of flowers around my left ankle and said, “I just don’t understand why women today think they need to get tattoos.”

I ignored him.

He noticed that I didn’t take the bait so he got a little bit bolder. He said that he had been a Marine and that he had tattoos on his arms but that it was OK for men. He asked again why women thought they needed to get tattoos. He added this time that “women just don’t know their place anymore.”

I finished his copies as quickly as possible before I said something that cost me my job.

As he departed – with his caveman knuckles dragging on the ground! – I was left with thoughts about why I could never explain to him the ways that my tattoo is probably the best thing I’ve ever done for myself. Why it’s a thing that can never be taken away from me. And why freedom of expression is such an important thing – even if no one else understands.

For me, getting a tattoo was a spiritual, healing experience.

About five years ago Clifton UMC, in Cincinnati, held a conference for accepting and affirming United Methodist congregations. I was asked if I would like to preach. I accepted.

It was an incredible conference with many gifted people who led workshops and discussions. Jimmy Creech, a former UM pastor who now is one of the leaders of Soulforce, with Mel White, was there to give the keynote address.

I was pretty nervous to preach in front of a couple hundred people and I felt completely UNQUALIFIED and INCAPABLE. I wanted so badly just to go home. But, I preached and it felt good.

A few weeks later I got an envelope in the mail with a nice letter saying that conference participants had filled out surveys and that my sermon had been the high point of the day. That made me feel really good, but I felt even better when I discovered a check for $500 in the envelope too!

After much thought, I decided to spend the money on a tattoo.

I designed what I wanted. The flowers around my ankle are personal reminders of strength. My life is full of scars. Places where I have been broken. Places where I bled. Places that I worked hard to heal. Places that I allowed God to touch and make strong. And, my tattoo reminds me that above everything else, the scars were worth the fight.



As a Christian – as a person redeemed by Jesus – when I get to heaven I don’t think God is going to judge me for my sin. My sin has already been forgiven. But I do believe that God is going to ask to see my scars – to see all the areas of my life that I fought for what I believed in. God might want to see what it was that I believed in enough to struggle for.

And maybe, just maybe, God will ask to see the healing band of flowers around my ankle!