Clay Maker

Woe to you who strive with your Maker,
earthen vessels with the potter!
Does the clay say to the one who fashions it, ‘What are you making?’

— Isaiah 45:9

“Do you think it’s true, what that verse from Isaiah says? That God just does with us whatever he wants?” The guy sitting across from me in the prison interview room shuffles in his seat nervously. Eye contact is sporadic at best. He has a few nasty scars on the side of his face. He seems either suspicious or really shy. I can’t quite make out which and am not quite sure which direction to steer the conversation. “Tell me a bit about your background,” I say. “You know your Bible pretty well; you must have been raised in the church.” He looks at me blankly before responding, “No, nothing, I’ve just been in here a bunch of times and when I’m in here, I read the Bible.”

I imagine that he is looking for some assurance that new outcomes are possible. Who wouldn’t, right? Especially if you find yourself back in the same place, time and time again. If God controls all the variables, if we’re just puppets being yanked around by the Divine Determinist, well then how could you not despair? My heart ached at the thought of this poor guy imagining that God had simply fashioned him to be the kind of person who would never be free of his addictions, who could never outrun his bad behaviour, who could never be anything other than an inmate or an addict or whatever. Some clay ends up as beautiful pottery, other clay is just lumpy and useless, I guess. Woe to anyone who complains about it! God help us, no!

I droned on for a while about freedom and determinism, about how God works through human choices, about the problem of evil and theological strategies to avoid the charge of God’s complicity in immorality, about metaphor and hyperbole in Scripture, about how new beginnings are always possible, about how freedom is fundamental to my understanding of human nature. He smiled politely, nodded at all the right times. “Does this make sense?” I asked plaintively, “Is any of it helpful?” To which he responded, “Oh, yes, very much, thank you so much for coming to see me today.”

I asked him if I could pray with him as we were wrapping up. Again, he politely obliged. “I don’t pray much, but you’re welcome to do it.” And so, I did. He extended a hand and shook mine warmly and vigorously. Thanked me again for coming. “One more thing,” he said as he was heading back into the unit. “Do you believe that God’s will is ultimately done in all our lives? Will God get what he wants with the clay?” I gulped. “Yeah, I do,” I said.

As I watched him trudge back to his cell, I realized that I had it exactly backward. This guy wasn’t looking for me to reassure him that he was free to chart a better path in the world. He’d kinda been there, done that. He knew precisely how free he was(n’t). He was looking for some hope that one day his freedom would be overruled. That one day, God would vanquish all the misery that his freedom had wrought. He wanted the puppet master to pull the strings in a better direction, the potter to—against all odds and all current evidence—fashion something good and true and beautiful in the clay of his life.

Earlier in the day, one of my chapels had been cancelled due to a lock-down, so I was looking for something to do. I scanned the daily inmate list looking for anyone who might be on suicide watch, figured maybe someone could use a visit. And so, I found myself peering through a tray slot in a cell door at a weeping and despairing man. He was distraught at what he had done and what it meant for those around him, convinced that the world would be better off without him. All around me was the hum and clatter of a busy unit, guards and healthcare workers buzzing around doing this and that. And there I was yelling about the love and the mercy of God through a tray slot to a guy who was convinced he deserved neither.

“Are you a religious man?” I bellowed, trying to make myself heard. He shook his head mournfully. “That’s fine,” I said. “I am. And I believe that there is a hope that exists beyond even our darkest moments and our worst deeds.” He stared blankly and wordlessly at me. I doubt he believed me. “I will pray for you,” I said. He quietly mouthed the word “thanks.” I extended my hand through the slot. He took it. I tried to pour as much warmth and positivity and compassion and basic human connection into a handshake as I could muster. Eventually, he released my hand, looked at me sadly, and retreated to a fetal position on his mattress.

Does the clay say to the one who fashions it, ‘What are you making?’

Well, sometimes. The clay gets curious, after all, especially when it feels hopeless or shattered by choice and circumstance. Sometimes the clay does indeed strive with its Maker. Maybe the clay is simply wearied by the world and by its own sin. Maybe, when it says, “What are you making?” the clay is not challenging the Maker, but desperately hoping that he has something better in mind for the future. That the Maker’s will will indeed be done, despite all this wretched clay.