Treasure in Clay

Treasure in Clay: The Astonishment of Incarnation

Scripture

Jesus said, "If the flesh came into existence because of spirit, that's amazing. If spirit came into existence because of the body, that's really amazing! But I'm amazed at how [such] great wealth has been placed in this poverty."
Gospel of Thomas, Saying 29

Opening Reflection

Brothers and sisters, seekers and wanderers, today we gather to marvel. Not to explain, not to resolve, but to stand in awe before a mystery that refuses our definitions and transcends our categories.

For Jesus does not offer doctrine here. He offers astonishment, the kind that leaves us breathless, the kind that changes how we see everything.

He looks at the body, not as a prison to escape, but as a paradox to behold. He sees spirit, not as an escape route from materiality, but as a mystery woven into the very fabric of flesh. And he sees the union of the two, this strange marriage of heaven and earth, infinity and limitation, glory and dust, as a miracle beyond comprehension.

Notice what he doesn't say. He doesn't settle the ancient debate about which came first, spirit or flesh. He declares both possibilities amazing. But then, and here is where his voice rises with wonder, he points to something even more astonishing: that immeasurable wealth would choose to dwell in utter poverty. That the infinite would take up residence in the finite. That God would become human, and remain God. That divinity would not abolish humanity but illuminate it from within.

This is not a riddle to solve. It is an invitation to wonder.

Parable: The Potter and the Flame

There was once a potter who lived alone in a quiet valley, where the river ran slow and willows bent low over the water. Day after day, he shaped clay vessels with practiced hands, simple bowls, humble cups, jars for oil and water. Each piece was fragile, beautiful in its plainness, fired in his kiln and sold in the village market.

But as the years passed, the potter grew weary of his craft. He would watch his vessels crack in the cold, shatter when dropped, break under the weight of what they carried. "These pots are too fragile," he muttered. "They hold water for a season, then return to dust. They are poor things, unworthy of the effort I pour into them."

Discontent gnawed at him until one morning he made a decision. He would climb the mountain to seek the Fire Spirit, who was said to dwell in the heart of the ancient volcano at the valley's edge. Perhaps she could teach him to make vessels that would never break, vessels of stone or metal, impervious to time.

The climb was arduous. Sharp rocks cut his feet. Ash filled his lungs. But at last he reached the crater's edge, where heat shimmered in waves and the air itself seemed alive. There, dancing in the molten heart of the mountain, was the Fire Spirit, radiant, terrible, beautiful beyond words.

"Give me your flame," the potter called out, his voice small against the roar of the fire. "I want to make vessels that never break. I'm tired of creating things that are so... fragile. So temporary. So poor."

The Fire Spirit turned, and her laughter was like the crackling of timber in a hearth. "You do not understand, potter. My flame is not made for stone or metal. Those things can withstand heat, yes, but they cannot hold it. My fire is not for hardness. It is for breath. It is for life. It is for things that can burn without being consumed."

But the potter would not be dissuaded. He had come too far, climbed too high. "Please," he begged. "Just once. Let me try. Let me make something worthy of your fire."

The Fire Spirit regarded him for a long moment, her eyes deep as furnaces. Then, with a sigh that sent sparks dancing into the darkness, she relented. "Very well," she said. "I will place my flame inside your next vessel. But know this: it will still be clay. It will still bear the marks of your fingers. It will still crack in the cold and chip when struck. It will still be exactly what it is, poor, humble, breakable. And yet, it will carry my fire. Whether you find that miracle or mockery is up to you."

The potter descended the mountain with the Fire Spirit's promise burning in his chest. Back in his workshop, he sat before his wheel for a long time, just looking at the lump of clay. It was the same clay he always used, river mud, mixed with sand and straw, nothing special. His hands were the same hands. His wheel was the same wheel.

But this time, he worked with different eyes. He shaped the vessel slowly, feeling every curve, every imperfection. He made it simple, no ornamentation, no pretense. Just a bowl, round and open, the kind that could hold water or bread or a handful of earth. When he was finished, he didn't even glaze it. He fired it in his kiln, and when it emerged, it looked utterly ordinary.

That night, the Fire Spirit came. She breathed into the vessel, and her flame settled inside, not consuming the clay, but illuminating it. The bowl glowed, soft and steady, like a coal that never burns out. It was still fragile. You could still see the grooves of the potter's fingerprints in the clay. But now, it radiated warmth. It gave light.

Word spread. People came from villages near and far to see the vessel that held the Fire Spirit's flame. They stood in the potter's workshop, gazing at the glowing bowl, and they all asked the same question: "How can such great fire live in such poor clay? Why didn't she choose marble? Why not gold?"

And the potter, who had climbed the mountain seeking strength and returned with something far stranger, answered: "That is the miracle. Not that the pot is strong, but that the flame chose to dwell in weakness. Not that the vessel is eternal, but that eternity chose to make itself vulnerable. The fire could have lived anywhere, in the heart of the sun, in the core of a diamond, in a fortress of steel. But she chose this: dust and water, shaped by human hands. She chose poverty to reveal wealth. She chose fragility to show that what matters most cannot be broken by anything this world can do."

The people left in silence, but they carried the image with them. And some began to see themselves differently, not as flawed containers waiting to be replaced, but as clay chosen by fire, weak vessels made luminous by an indwelling flame.

Interpretation

This is the astonishment Jesus speaks of in the Gospel of Thomas. This is the scandal and the glory of incarnation.

That spirit would descend into flesh. That divine fire would choose to dwell in clay. That wealth, true wealth, the kind that cannot be quantified or hoarded or lost, would hide itself in poverty.

Whether you believe the body came from spirit or spirit from body, whether you hold to ancient cosmologies or modern science, the real marvel remains the same: they coexist. Heaven and earth are not at war in you. They are married. The eternal chose the temporary. The infinite chose the finite. The imperishable chose the fragile. God, in the Christian mystery, chose not just humanity in general but you, your particular body, your particular story, your cracks and scars and limitations.

This is not about denying our weakness. It is about recognizing that weakness is precisely where the miracle happens. The Gospel of Thomas does not say the wealth was placed in strength or in perfection. It says it was placed in poverty. In lack. In limitation. In the very things we spend our lives trying to escape or overcome.

Why?

Perhaps because wealth can only be gift when it's placed in hands that know they're empty. Perhaps because light only reveals itself against darkness. Perhaps because glory can only be glory when it stoops. Perhaps because love can only be love when it becomes vulnerable.

The apostle Paul grasped this mystery when he wrote of Christ, who "though he was rich, yet for your sake he became poor, so that you through his poverty might become rich" (2 Corinthians 8:9). And again: "We have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us" (2 Corinthians 4:7).

Jars of clay. Vessels that crack. Bodies that age and ache and eventually return to dust. And yet, treasure. Flame. The very presence of the divine.

This is why the Christian tradition has always affirmed the body, even as it has struggled to honor it. This is why resurrection is not escape from flesh but transformation of it. This is why the Eucharist matters, bread and wine, ordinary matter, becoming the locus of divine encounter. This is why saints throughout history have seen their sufferings not as obstacles to holiness but as the very place where holiness is forged.

The wealth is in the poverty. The glory is in the weakness. The divine is in the dust.

Not despite. Because.

Invitation

So let us not despise our weakness. Let us not spend our lives wishing we were something other than what we are, stronger, more spiritual, less bound by time and need and the thousand vulnerabilities of flesh.

Instead, let us honor the flame within.

Let us live as the potter's bowl lives: ordinary, cracked, humble, and luminous. Let us see our bodies not as prisons but as temples, not as punishments but as gifts, not as obstacles to the sacred but as the very place where the sacred has chosen to dwell.

Let us treat every wound as a crack through which light can shine. Let us understand that our brokenness is not the end of the story but the beginning of illumination. Leonard Cohen sang it true: "There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in." But perhaps it goes deeper still, perhaps the light doesn't just get in through the cracks. Perhaps the light makes the cracks matter. Perhaps the cracks become windows.

Let us walk through this world as vessels, fragile, yes, carried by grace, but filled with fire. Let us stop waiting to be perfect before we let ourselves be used. Let us stop thinking we have to be strong to be worthy. Let us embrace the paradox: that we are dust and divinity, poverty and wealth, clay and flame.

And let us extend this wonder to others. When we see someone struggling, someone broken, someone whose clay is visibly cracked, let us not look away. Let us look closer. Because if the mystery is true, then every human being we meet is a vessel carrying invisible fire. Every person, no matter how poor or small or damaged they appear, holds within them immeasurable wealth.

We are all the potter's bowl. We are all, in the words of the mystic Meister Eckhart, "a wayward spark from the divine fire." We are all Treasure in Clay.

Blessing

May you be amazed, today and every day, at the mystery you carry.

May you see the wealth in your poverty, the strength in your weakness, the glory hidden in your dust.

May you carry the flame in your clay, not by your own power, but by grace, by gift, by the God who chose limitation to reveal infinity.

May your brokenness become a beacon, not because you are shattered, but because you are inhabited. Not because you are perfect, but because you are loved.

May you remember that you are not a mistake or an accident or a problem to be solved. You are an astonishment. You are the place where heaven touches earth. You are the vessel the Fire Spirit chose.

And may you walk gently in this world, treating yourself and all you meet as what you truly are: fragile, yes, but filled with fire.

Amen. Let it be so. May it be so in us all.