May 19, 2013 | 4:00 p.m. | Day of Pentecost

“Jazz at Four” Sermon

Adam H. Fronczek
Associate Pastor, Fourth Presbyterian Church

2 Corinthians 4:5–12, 16–17

As many of you will know, I spent the last three weeks in Greece and Turkey, first leading a trip for members of this congregation studying the travels of the Apostle Paul, and then spending a few days on my own: I spent a few days in some independent study of early Christianity in the part of Turkey called Cappadocia, and then I spent a couple of days just lying on the beach.

When I travel, I always appreciate the different surroundings and the chance to slow down a little bit; there’s always some unexpected payoff from being away. Last week, something happened that helped me deepen my understanding of today’s scripture lesson—one I’ve read many times: Paul’s statement that Christ lives inside of us like a treasure in jars of clay. I’ve always had a little trouble connecting with this passage, which makes our bodies seem worthless or expendable—a concept about the human body that was common in the Greek philosophy of Paul’s day, but something with which I disagree. Our bodies, fragile as they are, are actually quite amazing, and as challenging as our bodies can be, I think God wants us to love, not hate, our bodies. Perhaps Paul knew this after all, and something that happened this past week deepened my understanding of his words. Let me tell you a story.

On my last morning in central Turkey, I met Hassan. Hassan owns a pottery-making shop in Avanos. His parents owned the shop before he did, and they make simple pottery that is typical of the region and goes back hundreds, even thousands, of years. On my last morning in town, Hassan saw me eyeing some of his pottery and beckoned me into his little shop. He showed me a few items, using the words of English he knew. It was a pretty typical visit into a craftsman’s store, and I was preparing my exit strategy when Hassan did something unexpected: he grabbed a hunk of clay, sat down at his potter’s wheel right there in the store, and began to work. Hassan sat the hunk of clay on the stand, started wetting it from the bucket next to him, and began spinning the wheel with his foot. Hassan was a good salesman: you can’t just walk away from a guy who just sat down to make you something—so I watched. Five minutes and a few broken phrases of explanation later, he had created a simple but beautiful pot. Then the surprise came. He looked at me, pointed his finger at me, and said: “Now you!” I was hesitant, never having used a potter’s wheel in my life, but Hassan was adamant that I give it a try. I was obviously not his first student. He quickly grabbed a pair of enormous, clay-stained sweatpants, motioning for me to put them on over my jeans. He sat me down at the wheel. And then, in a demonstration of tremendous teaching skill, he taught me to make a pot. He allowed me enough freedom to do it myself, but when I almost messed it up, which I certainly would have done all on my own, he stepped closer, he guided my hands and fingers with his own, helping me give shape to the clay, apply the right kind of pressure, and use just enough water . . . and five minutes later, there it was: the pot I had made. Together, we put my name on it. I had done something I had no idea I could do and had learned it from someone who didn’t speak my language, and Hassan and I had smiled and laughed our way through the whole thing. It was one of the best things that happened to me the whole trip.

Now, I told you that story so I could tell you this one:

The night before I made the pot at Hassan’s shop, I ate at a nice restaurant in town. I ordered a traditional dish called the testi kabob, which is cooked in a wood-burning oven. The meal arrived at the table in a clay pot, a pot just like the one I would make the next morning. The pot was sealed with a cork and heated in the oven, so that once the cooking was done, the cork could not be removed. In order to serve my dinner, the waiter brought an empty bowl, and he took a meat cleaver, scored the pot near the top, flipped the cleaver over, exposing the dull side, broke the pot clean in two, and poured my dinner out in front of me. Again, good sales technique: I was impressed, and I’m sure that’s the point. I was also a little floored that they ruined a perfectly good pot every time someone ordered the testi kabob. It wasn’t until the next day that I learned it only takes five minutes to make one.

I don’t want you to miss the connection I made between the two stories. The clay pot I was so proud to make the next day, the clay pot Hassan was so pleased to teach me to make, was instantly rendered useless by the waiter at the restaurant. Every time someone orders the testi kabob, a waiter illustrates a common understanding of Paul’s lesson in 2 Corinthians 4: we have the treasure of Jesus Christ in clay pots, and our clay pots are worthless. The typical interpretation of this passage—and it’s a good message—is that we should remain humble about our good works, because they are usually the product of Christ working through us.

The clay pot in the restaurant was worthless apart from its ability to carry and cook the testi kabob. That’s one level of meaning, but my experience with Hassan helped me dig a little deeper.

Hassan may make many pots each day, and each one may be worth less money than the food that will be cooked inside of it. But Hassan still cares about the pots. He can’t rush the process. It takes time and care to make each pot. Each one is unique. And each one gets the imprint of its maker on the bottom. God creates us, each fragile, each unique, each made in a process that never gets rushed. Even so, the real treasure is not what appears on the outside in this plain earthen vessel, but is the treasure stored inside—the faith and life and vitality that God puts inside every one of us is what is really worth getting to know. The experience with Hassan helped me to see something in Paul’s message that I hadn’t seen before. It’s not that the clay pots are worthless; it’s that they are worth something precisely because of what they are able to carry inside—they are adequate for the task. It’s not that our bodies are bad or worthless; we are God’s creations. But we are worth so much not because of this fragile shell we walk around in, but because of the miracle that is contained inside of every person God creates. What God has placed inside is the thing that is really worth our attention.

The experience with Hassan caused me to have an interesting reflection on travel but also one that applies here at home.

Traveling requires a deeper level of dependence on other people. Waiters, bus drivers, baggage handlers, hotel employees, flight attendants, and store clerks all help us get through the day. I found myself much more dependent on others than I often am at home, where I have my own car, my own kitchen, my own laundry equipment. The great irony of travel overseas is that we are more reliant on other people even though language barriers make even the simplest interactions more difficult to execute. It’s not as easy to exchange pleasantries, ask about their day, or find out anything about them, because it’s hard enough just to accomplish the task at hand.

As my telling of the story indicated, when I first laid eyes on Hassan, he was completely unremarkable to me—just another merchant on a street full of them. But in half-an-hour he became one of the most memorable parts of my journey and the subject of a sermon. And we don’t even speak the same language.

That was convicting to me, because it made me consider what I’m missing when, here at home, I treat other people, particularly people who may be in a position to help or serve me, simply as a means to an end. The gas station attendant, the bus driver, the ticket taker at the ballgame, the busboy at the restaurant, the greeter at church . . . What if I had treated Hassan—what if he had allowed me to treat him—according to the simplicity of his outside product? Had I treated him like the man who makes the pot that gets broken for dinner, the whole experience would have been lost. But that is not who he is. He is not the maker of a product; he’s the keeper of a treasure. There was a treasure stored in his teaching, his spirit, his ability to take something simple, something made of dirt, and give it life.

There is a treasure stored in every human life. God creates us and puts the treasure inside. It is our responsibility to take the time to look past the outward appearance and find the treasure. We have this treasure in clay pots, says Paul, showing that the extraordinary power comes from God and not from us. As we gather tonight to worship the God who has made every one of us, with great care and love, I invite you to think about where in your life you might appreciate that God has created each of us with great care. We are created to be carriers of God’s grace, clay pots that hold the treasure stored in every human life. Amen.