Jun 2018
The potter and I had arranged a barter.
So, I went to see him and complete our business.
This same potter is also a painter,
and so, when I arrived,
he was in the middle of a deal that would put one of his paintings on someone’s wall
while putting more money in his pocket,
right then,
than I make in a month and a half.
Rather than impede a more artful capitalism,
I left his shop so as to pursue
some time inside of these pages.
Purchased of some small food,
a cold drink on a hot day,
I sat down to write for a while.
Having paid my own art some attention,
I made my way back toward the potter’s space
so as to complete our transaction.
On my way there,
I felt two pairs of rather wild eyes
upon me.
They, those eyes, pierced my side,
with the intensity, authority of a Roman Centurion,
stared at me with the zealousness
of The Old Testament,
fell upon me like the weight of The New Testament;
King James edition,
and I knew it.
I felt,
strangely obligated,
to acknowledge this weighted gazing,
asking these ladies how their evening was going.
My efforts were polite,
rhetorical.
I left them sturdily in my wake.
These women faded from my thoughts.
And, I wish, retrospectively,
that I had vanished
from their minds as well.
Alas, these missionaries
had been set to their devine task
by none other than
Yahweh Himself.
And, their mission,
it seemed,
was me.
They tracked my progression to the potter’s field.
“Can we pray for you?”
“Sure, you can do whatever you feel compelled to do.”
“Do you not have a relationship with The Lord?”
“I have a relationship with the entirety of The Universe.”
“Do you not seek salvation from sin, the wickedness of Satan, and the evils of men?”
“I do not. However, I do know that you seek the ability to feel good about praying for me, a disabled man, because you seem to believe that because I have legs that do not work like yours do, I must be fundamentally lacking something that you can bestow upon me.”
“Have you no faith at all?”
“Have you no relationship with Jesus Christ?”
“I do have a faith. I have a faith in my own humanity, in my inherent ability to commune with all that is honest, true, and good in The Universe.
I do not need your self-serving prayers.”
My friend,
the potter,
the painter,
sang these ladies a song;
played his guitar.
The ladies swayed in time to the music,
just a little.
Together, we bestowed,
upon this pair of zealous women,
kindness and patience
that they seemed to accept
along with our collective faithless, heathen, message
of goodwill;
love for their humanity,
if nothing else.
“Well, we didn’t come here for this,” they said.
And they left us,
none the worse for not
having been prayed over,
or preyed upon, to commune,
in each, our own way,
with each other,
The Universe,
The Great Spirit,
The Buddha,
or Whomever.
Once they had gone,
I traded three books that I had written
for a very nice vase that the potter had made.
The vase was gray,
spun with earth tones,
was flecked with robin’s-egg blue,
sits beautifully on the shelf.
It is now part of The Universe
with which I commune.
I pray
that it
is always
so.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2018
So, I went to see him and complete our business.
This same potter is also a painter,
and so, when I arrived,
he was in the middle of a deal that would put one of his paintings on someone’s wall
while putting more money in his pocket,
right then,
than I make in a month and a half.
Rather than impede a more artful capitalism,
I left his shop so as to pursue
some time inside of these pages.
Purchased of some small food,
a cold drink on a hot day,
I sat down to write for a while.
Having paid my own art some attention,
I made my way back toward the potter’s space
so as to complete our transaction.
On my way there,
I felt two pairs of rather wild eyes
upon me.
They, those eyes, pierced my side,
with the intensity, authority of a Roman Centurion,
stared at me with the zealousness
of The Old Testament,
fell upon me like the weight of The New Testament;
King James edition,
and I knew it.
I felt,
strangely obligated,
to acknowledge this weighted gazing,
asking these ladies how their evening was going.
My efforts were polite,
rhetorical.
I left them sturdily in my wake.
These women faded from my thoughts.
And, I wish, retrospectively,
that I had vanished
from their minds as well.
Alas, these missionaries
had been set to their devine task
by none other than
Yahweh Himself.
And, their mission,
it seemed,
was me.
They tracked my progression to the potter’s field.
“Can we pray for you?”
“Sure, you can do whatever you feel compelled to do.”
“Do you not have a relationship with The Lord?”
“I have a relationship with the entirety of The Universe.”
“Do you not seek salvation from sin, the wickedness of Satan, and the evils of men?”
“I do not. However, I do know that you seek the ability to feel good about praying for me, a disabled man, because you seem to believe that because I have legs that do not work like yours do, I must be fundamentally lacking something that you can bestow upon me.”
“Have you no faith at all?”
“Have you no relationship with Jesus Christ?”
“I do have a faith. I have a faith in my own humanity, in my inherent ability to commune with all that is honest, true, and good in The Universe.
I do not need your self-serving prayers.”
My friend,
the potter,
the painter,
sang these ladies a song;
played his guitar.
The ladies swayed in time to the music,
just a little.
Together, we bestowed,
upon this pair of zealous women,
kindness and patience
that they seemed to accept
along with our collective faithless, heathen, message
of goodwill;
love for their humanity,
if nothing else.
“Well, we didn’t come here for this,” they said.
And they left us,
none the worse for not
having been prayed over,
or preyed upon, to commune,
in each, our own way,
with each other,
The Universe,
The Great Spirit,
The Buddha,
or Whomever.
Once they had gone,
I traded three books that I had written
for a very nice vase that the potter had made.
The vase was gray,
spun with earth tones,
was flecked with robin’s-egg blue,
sits beautifully on the shelf.
It is now part of The Universe
with which I commune.
I pray
that it
is always
so.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2018
