Jeremiah 18:1–11; Psalm 139: 1–6, 13–18
The word that came to Jeremiah from the Lord: “Come, go down to the potter’s house, and there I will let you hear my words.” So I went down to the potter’s house, and there he was working at his wheel. The vessel he was making of clay was spoiled in the potter’s hand, and he reworked it into another vessel, as seemed good to him. Then the word of the Lord came to me: Can I not do with you, O house of Israel, just as this potter has done? says the Lord. Just like the clay in the potter’s hand, so are you in my hand, O house of Israel. At one moment I may declare concerning a nation or a kingdom that I will pluck up and break down and destroy it, but if that nation, concerning which I have spoken, turns from its evil, I will change my mind about the disaster that I intended to bring on it. And at another moment I may declare concerning a nation or a kingdom that I will build and plant it, but if it does evil in my sight, not listening to my voice, then I will change my mind about the good that I had intended to do to it. Now, therefore, say to the people of Judah and the inhabitants of Jerusalem: Thus says the Lord: Look, I am a potter shaping evil against you and devising a plan against you. Turn now, all of you, from your evil way, and amend your ways and your doings.
Pondering the prophet’s vision of a potter reworking a spoiled vessel into a new one, “as seemed good to him,” it seems fitting we should consider another artist — poet Marianne Moore (1887–1972), a lifelong Presbyterian, known for her meticulous craftsmanship and “passion for revision.”1 What can poets teach us about peacemaking? They can teach us about humor, imagination, paying attention, surprise, empathy, bearing witness and showing restraint, and Marianne Moore employed all these peacemaking tools masterfully. She famously wrote that poets must “present / for inspection, imaginary gardens with real toads in them.”2 For me, this suggests that artists (and peacemakers) must be able to imagine building a new, life-giving reality together, and to recognize the very real “toads” that disrupt any naïve or escapist fantasies we might be clinging to. To quote her friend, poet Grace Schulman, “To read a poem by Marianne Moore is … to know that the writer has looked at a subject … from all sides, and has examined the person looking at it.”3 Is not such multi-faceted perspective-taking what is required for peace?
“The Paper Nautilus” illustrates Moore’s commitment to detailed observation and self-examination. Her description of the octopus’ maternal (and God-like?) dedication to “her glass ramshorn-cradled freight” illuminates the poet painstakingly birthing her poem and leaves us with the revelation that sacrificial love, “hindered to succeed,” “is the only fortress / strong enough to trust to.”4 And yet, Moore insists that nothing she says “is unalterable. I’m always changing things.” So, too, peacemaking depends on our willingness to relinquish our certainties, self-correct, try new things, break a pattern and imagine a different ending.
Prayer:
O God, in whom we live and move and have our being, your love is the only fortress strong enough to trust. Subject us again and again to your terrible, revising grace. Give us eyes to see with curiosity and compassion every toad in our path and the courage to imagine gardens where all may thrive. In the name of the Creator, Redeemer and Sustainer, we pray. Amen.
1 “Introduction,” “The Poems of Marianne Moore,” (Viking Penguin, 2003), edited by Grace Schulman, p. xx.
2 ”Poetry” by Marianne Moore, from “Others for 1919: An Anthology of the New Verse” (Nicholas L. Brown, 1920), edited by Alfred Kreymborg. This poem is in the public domain and can be found online at poets.org/poem/poetry.
3 Ibid, p. xxvi.
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