There is Joy in Being a Cracked Pot

A sermon delivered at the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of the New River Valley, June 29, 2003, by the Reverend Christine Brownlie.

Reading

The Cracked Pot: A tale from India

Once there was a water-bearer who owned two clay pots. One pot was perfect and whole, but the other had a long, fine crack running from the lip of the pot, almost to the center. The water-bearer hadn’t seen this flaw when he selected the pots at the market. It wasn’t until he filled the pots at the stream and hoisted them up onto his shoulders, one on each side and suspended on a sturdy pole, that he saw the dark stain and the tiny beads of water running down the side of the pot that he realized this pot was cracked. Ah well, there was nothing for it, he’d spent his money and he would have to accept his bad luck. When he got to the market, the perfect pot was still full of water: it hadn’t lost a drop. But the cracked pot had lost almost half of the water. It had dripped uselessly onto the ground along the side of the road that the water-bearer traveled from the stream to the market. The imperfect pot was ashamed of its condition. but of course it could not do anything to repair the crack and so the pot felt less worthy than its sister who was unblemished.

One day, while the water-bearer was at the stream, filling both the pots, the cracked pot spoke. “Master, I am so ashamed. I know that because of my flaw, you did not receive full value for your money when you purchased me. And now you do not receive full value for your labor when you fill me and carry me to market. Perhaps you should smash me and buy a new pot.” The water-bearer did not speak for a moment, and then he said “Today when I carry you to the market, look at the side of the road and we will talk about this tonight.”

The pot was confused by this strange answer, but did as the master bid. All along one side of the road there were flowers: yellow, red, orange, purple white. And the people who traveled on that side of the road smiled at the flowers, some even picked one or two to carry with them. It seemed odd to the pot that the flowers were on one side only. That evening as the master was cleaning the pots, the cracked pot asked the water-bearer about the flowers. “They are there because of you.” replied the master. As I carry you to market day after day, the water that comes from you waters the seeds in the ground and then as the plants germinate and grow, that same water makes it possible for them to grow and bloom. And their beauty brings joy to all who see them. All because of the imperfection that you grieve over.” And the pot felt at peace at last and served the water-bearer for many years.

Sermon

I have always wanted to be a “whole pot”: the kind of vessel that is reliable and efficient and whole. I love books that hold out to me a promise of moving closer to my ideal me. One favorite that I re-read every few year is The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People by Steve Covey. I plan to read it again this summer, as well as a book on leadership by the same author — board members, watch out!

I long to be a highly effective person! I admire people who know how to point themselves at a goal, focus, stay on the path, and GET THERE. I certainly don’t think of myself as a slug or a slacker, but sometimes I feel like a very distracted fuzzy person, instead of highly effective.

I am more acutely aware of my cracks today, because I’m just home from a retreat with twenty of my colleagues and the “Ministry Days” program, which is an educational opportunity for clergy. This two-and-a-half day conference includes stunning sermons by brilliant colleagues who serve wonderful congregations, and (of course) these men and women are also active in the affairs of their communities and our denomination. During this time I have a chance to compare my own professional issues and concerns with friends who always seem to see the pearl of opportunity that I overlooked in a situation or the path could lead my congregation to a healthier, happier state. By the end of Ministry Days, I inevitably find myself wondering about my performance and abilities as a minister. I look forward to this time with my colleagues. I get so much inspiration and affection and encouragement from this brief time with my fellow-clergy. But there is another side to this experience that also grips me, the sense that the bar for good worship, good preaching, good ministry, and good leadership is higher than I have set it so that I need to apply myself more rigorously to my development as a minister and as a human being.

I would guess that some of you have had similar experiences after going to a conference or a workshop. You come home filled with ideas, some new items in the toolbox, and a promise to yourself that this time you’re going to use your new skills and ideas for more than a month. But maybe lurking underneath that energy and that promise is the sneaking suspicion that even if you make use of all that you have learned, the results aren’t going to be as wonderful as you hope, because you and I are not as wonderfully effective, talented, insightful, charismatic, articulate or good looking as the person who taught you all this good stuff. In other words, they are the Whole Pot and you and I are the Cracked Pot.

Of course, we don’t have to go off to some far-away city to come to this moment of truth about ourselves. We can turn on the TV or read a self-help manual on any number of subjects or attend an evening parenting class sponsored by the local PTA. As you begin to absorb whatever information/images/ideas are calling to your needs and poking at your tender psychic places, you think “Wow! I could do so much better! I could be so much better! If only I weren’t so disorganized, impatient, lazy, etc, etc.” In that moment of thinking of how much better you could be, you have come to a realization of a flaw (or a crack, if you will) in yourself, and you decide that you will make a change or a repair and move closer to an ideal that you’re holding on to.

So what happens? I know what happens to me. I make a start at my self-improvement project, I do all the things that the self-help experts advise us to do when we want to change or add a habit. And for a period of time, it works! I’m humming along in my new routine, or my new set of new but firmly held habits, feeling very pleased with myself and maybe a little self-righteous. And then something happens and I find myself sliding down that very fast, very slippery slope back into my old ways. As the old song suggests, I pick myself up, brush myself off, and I think about starting all over again. Is it worth another try, or should I just be like Popeye and declare that, “I yam what I yam.” and let it be?

I wonder sometimes why so many of us are so hard on ourselves for being cracked pots. We know intellectually that faults and flaws are simply a part of the human condition. For some of us it goes back to childhood and the things our parents would say and do (or not say and not do) as our personal cracks began to show up. Once in a journaling workshop I attended, the group was asked to write down all of the names we’d been called in childhood. A couple of us had some pretty harsh names in our list, “Stupid kid,” “Idiot,” “Butterball,” and “Lump-lump.” It was hard to read such names to the group. The leader, asked the whole group if we still used our “bad girl” or “bad boy” childhood names in our self-talk when we were angry with ourselves over a mistake or a failing. .Several of us shook our heads “yes” not trusting ourselves to speak clearly over the lump in the throat.

I also wonder if our UU aversion to talking about sin affects our internal sense of who we are and who we ought to be. I’m very committed to the principle of the inherent worth and dignity of every individual, but there are times when I’m feeling unworthy and not possessing much dignity at all because of something I’ve said or done — or not said or not done. I might feel a need to acknowledge that unworthy and undignified state to another person so that I can begin to put it right again, but my UU faith doesn’t offer me anything like the ritual of confession or even a corporate prayer in which I can confess that I have sinned or fallen short of the mark. That’s what sin is, you know; it’s a falling short of the mark and not an indwelling inescapable evil that we harbor. In Christian and Jewish writings, the word that is translated into “sin” in English comes from the vocabulary of the archer. Sometimes the arrow hits the mark — often it falls short. That’s normal and natural, and it’s the same for us.

What I’ve learned over time is that often we don’t know if we’ve “hit the mark” or even come close. Sometimes we’re not even sure what the mark is until someone else points it out to us. Let me explain.

When my children were young, I made a big deal out of Sunday dinner and it always included a special dessert. Lemon meringue pie was a favorite and I made it often, but I never felt that I made a really good one. A really good lemon meringue pie needs a crisp, flaky crust that doesn’t get soggy under the filling. And the filling has to be smooth and creamy and distinctly lemony. I could produce both of those. It was the crown, the meringue, that gave me trouble. A good meringue is light and high and fluffy and a lovely, delicate brown. Mine was certainly brown, but I’d never use light or high or fluffy as adjectives for my meringue. It was thin and tough and after a few hours it would have little tears of brown liquid dotting the surface. That’s called “weeping.” (While I never wept over my pies, I didn’t brag on them either.) So I set out on a quest for the perfect meringue. I tried all sorts of recipes and techniques and variations on ingredients.

And sometimes the results were an improvement, but I never quite hit the mark. Then one morning, our local NPR station had a special guest, none other that Julia Childs, the great chef and teacher! Members of the station were invited to call Ms. Childs to discuss food and cooking. I was thrilled — perhaps she had the answer to my meringue issue. And miracle of miracles, I got through the phone queue and, my goodness, there I was, speaking to the famous chef. I told her of my culinary failing and she patiently advised me through the selection of ingredients, the equipment (she likes a copper bowl for this) and then the technique. “The most important thing” she said, “is to have the whole mass of egg white and sugar moving as you whip the air into it. You don’t want any egg white sitting on the bottom of the bowl or on the edges. Everything has to be moving.” I expressed my gratitude and put lemons on the grocery list. This time I’d get it right!

And I did! The pie was fabulous! I was briefly tempted to take a picture to send to Ms. Childs to show her how well I’d done. I served the pie to my family and waited for their comments. My older son was the first to speak:

“How come it’s like this?” he asked.

“Like what?” I asked back.

“How come the white stuff is so big?”

“ Well, honey, that’s the way it’s supposed to be, light and fluffy.”

“Well I like it better the other way, the way we usually have it.” he declared. “What I like is that when I take a bite I can get all of the different flavors into my mouth at the same time. And the brown stuff on top gives it extra flavor.”

“Oh,” I said, “I didn’t know that. I won’t make it like this again.”

And I didn’t. I was hitting that mark every time. I just didn’t know it.

When I was in charge of the Sunday school program in Fort Worth, Texas, we had a two hour program: one hour of classroom time and hour of supervised play. No lively creative arts and crafts, no wonderful music, no kind of adult mentoring at all. Sometimes one or more parents would complain that this hour didn’t really offer very much to the children, and they’d ask us to do more. Or I’d hear about exciting, wonderful programs in other UU congregations and I’d try to implement these ideas. But every time they’d fail for one reason or another. After a few tries we decided to drop the second hour and the children spent all of their time in classes. It seemed like a good solution.

A few weeks ago I was in Texas to do a wedding and, I had a chance to talk with one of the now-grown-up boys who had been in the program. He stood out in my memory because he’d been one of the more unruly kids, and the teachers dreaded having him in their class. But there he was, calm and sensible and doing well. He said to me. “When I saw you this morning, I suddenly remembered being in your office at the church, lying on the green rug and playing board games with Robert.” He was smiling. “Sometimes that was the best part of the week.”

I found myself reflecting on his comments later. What he remembered so fondly about our Sunday school program wasn’t the program that I and other adults had carefully planned and carried out on his behalf. It was the simple chance to play with other children, to relate to friends with a minimum of adult direction or interference. This was not my idea of an excellent RE program, but apparently it gave him something he didn’t get anywhere else. I wondered what had been more formative for him, the hours in the classroom listening to adults and doing adult directed projects, or playing with the other kids, in an setting where he felt safe and accepted. That was the memory that he carried and it was clearly a happy one that brought a smile to his lips and a softness to his eyes. Maybe during that unstructured hour of playtime he and the other children were learning important lessons that we goal-oriented, task-focused adults didn’t see or think about.

I’ll give you one more story about missing the mark. A man I know had a daughter who was difficult and rebellious and stubborn. He had been raised in an abusive family and he was determined that he would be the best father he could be. He read all the books, applied all the theories, and held his temper in check whenever his daughter got into trouble, which was often. By her early teens, her escapades were becoming more risky, and those of us who knew the family were concerned that she was heading for serious trouble. But still my friend was determined not to show anger, not to raise his voice, but to use calm cool reason and gentle words when he tried to guide and discipline his daughter. Then one night his daughter snuck out of the house and disappeared for several hours. Her parents were frantic. Finally, in the early morning hours the doorbell rang, and there on the front porch were the police with the missing girl. She had been playing some sort of game with her friends that involved running through traffic on a very busy highway. They had caused a minor accident. My friend cracked wide open. After the police left, he yelled at his daughter, he wept, he threatened, he took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes and told her how terrified he was when the police had appeared on his doorstep. The girl was stunned and began to cry. She hugged her father and promised she would never do such a dangerous thing again. And she didn’t. She didn’t turn into the perfect child, but she changed, and her relationship with her father changed too. She saw something in him that night that she’d never quite seen before: that he loved her deeply and was shaken to his core at the threat of losing her. Somehow she’d never realized how much she meant to him. But now she did, and this knowledge transformed her.

The joy of being a cracked pot is the understanding that our flaws, our weaknesses, our imperfections can sometimes bring more to our lives and our relationships than our strengths or our “best selves.” The “inadequate” cook’s mediocre pie is a delectable treat to the son. The uninspired, “maintenance” RE program is a highly anticipated time for the boy. The father who “blew it” breaks through to his rebellious daughter. These are the flowers along the roadside that are watered and brought to life by our cracks and failings. It’s our cracks and failings that make us unique and loveable, and make our lives together interesting and rewarding. Think of the people in your past and the lessons you learned from them. Some of my most effective teachers were the men and women who had serious cracks that were a source of frustration and even disappointment to them, but they kept on keeping on, doing the best they could with what they had. They taught me more about life and living than the few who seemed to be so perfect and completely competent that their days and years ticked off achievements like a machine. And their number slowly dwindled as I grew up and learned the truth of their lives: that they too worries over their flaws and cracks and were terribly careful and clever about keeping them hidden for fear that they would be judged.

We don’t always know how our cracks affect others: the lessons they teach or even the happiness and comfort they offer to others. But we can take this lesson and hold on to it. We will never be perfect pots. Our job is to be cracked humans together, and to remember to look for the unique beauty and goodness in others, and to gather those flowers by the side of the road.

May it be so.

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