Week Twenty-three of Ordinary Time

by Blake Johnson

It’s a profound sight to witness the opening of a ceramic gas kiln (or at the very least a kiln operated by student ceramicists). Depending on the type of clay, gas kilns will fire at temperatures between 1,800 and 2,400 degrees fahrenheit, for the duration of almost an entire day, transforming raw, porous sediment into glass-like ceramic pottery. It’s a beginning and an end, seamlessly in transition at the opening of the kiln door. The end of the clay form as it was, the end of an overwhelming and long refinement, and a commencement of what the form is and will be forevermore. What enters the kiln and what exits it can be, and often are, two different pieces of art.

When I was a student, I had one such chance to behold the spectacle.

The weeks leading up to the end of the semester were tireless. My classmate and I would pack the studio until well past midnight, throwing and sculpting as many forms and vessels as we could before the first and final fire of the year. There was a thrill about it. There was a thrill about making something with our hands. There was a thrill about what our creations would become to us and how we would use them. There was a thrill, along with an anxiety, about not knowing how they would turn out. Would the glazes we chose create the colors we expected? Would the pieces shrink more than we had accounted for? Did we make our pottery strong enough, thin enough, dry enough to withstand the flames without exploding?

By the eve of the firing, every nook and cranny of the classroom had been covered in a thin layer of dusty sediment, and every shelf filled end to end, with vessels and sculptures of all sizes. There is a lot that can happen within the kiln once the doors are closed. The temperature you reach, when you reach it, and how long you maintain it, all play pivotal parts in the maturation of a piece of clay. Ruining a full kiln would be much easier than running one perfectly. Even so, there was a palpable excitement as we loaded it up, carefully building the shelves and passing our creations through each other’s hands dozens of times, before we at last reached the maximum spatial capacity.

With grace and good teaching, we were able to reach and maintain the temperatures we were aiming for, and a day later, when the fire had run its course, we returned to the classroom with bated breath.

I remember the sound, like glass crickets, cracking and pinging as the professor gently opened the door of the kiln. He was slow and methodical, doing this with great care as not to cool down the pieces too quickly. With wonder, we beheld the work we thought we had known so richly, unfamiliar in its new vibrancy and splendor - now smaller, stronger, functional, and too hot to hold without oven mitts. We had done what we could to create the best environment for what we were hoping for, but it was impossible not to feel it all had been a little out of hands after the fact.

I’m strangely reminded of this experience as I see my sister and brother-in-law prepare for the birth of their first child. What must it be like to feel so familiar with your partner, the curves of their face, the cadence in their voice, the unmistakable presence of their scent, to literally carry the spirit of another life, created with that partner, and yet to know nothing of this life, and nothing of who the life will become? What must it be like to wait?

Though these are, for a relatively young non-parent like me, thoughts too wonderful to understand, I think of the kiln and the powerful refinement at work, out of our control. I think of the child, I think of you, and myself, and the mystery of being known and hoped for. The uniqueness of our journeys, the varying temperatures of our fires, and the slow and methodical shaping from the potter’s hands help to make us who we are meant to be. Who we are is known. Who we are is hoped for.

- Read Psalm 139

- Prayer

Father, Son, & Holy Spirit, I pray for a quiet confidence today, that who I am is known to you. In this confidence, grant me the faith and patience to trust in your refining power, slowly at work within me for the good of my neighbor and your glory. Father, see us, hear us and draw us near. Amen.