oe to him who strives with his Maker! Let the potsherd strive with the potsherds of the earth! Shall the clay say to him who forms it, "What are you making?" Or shall your handiwork say, "He has no hands"? Woe to him who says to his father, "What are you begetting?" Or to the woman, "What have you brought forth?" (Isaiah 45:9-10)
It was one of the greatest houses on the outskirts of a great city. The master managed it with a firm hand; he was a kindly lord, but he was a lord for all that.
But one night, there was a violent disturbance in the pantry -- on the back of the third shelf. A surly earthen pot began to call, in a loud voice, for a great congress of the pots. At first, some of the others who wanted to sleep told him to be quiet. But as he was very angry, and refused to keep his peace, it was not long before some of the others began to listen to his complaint. And after listening to the complaint, it was a short time until they shared it.
The word spread slowly through the entire house -- the convocation was called; the parliament of the pots was begun.
Because it was the middle of the night, the pots began to assemble in the large ballroom downstairs, at the far end away from the good master's chambers. Slowly they filed in -- ornate vases, kitchen and pantry pots, flower pots from outside, and of course, off by themselves, the noisome chamber pots.
When they were all assembled, a delicate vase from the entry hall spoke.
"Why have we been summoned?"
The earthen pot from the pantry, whose name was Sullen, answered.
"The day of despotism is over; the final reckoning has come. It is time for the master of the house to settle accounts with us. We demand justice, and we shall have it!"
There was silence for a moment, and then a murmur of agreement ran through most of the assembled pots. Some, however, were clearly dismayed at the direction of events. The vase from the entry hall (her name was Charity) spoke again.
"But the master is very good to us. He . . ."
An envious hiss ran through the assembled pots. Sullen turned on the vase with a snarl. "Yes, indeed, the master has been very good to you. And that is one of the grievous injustices which we insist that he correct."
Off to the side, the chamber pots nodded in agreement. One of them shouted. "Sullen is right! Why shouldn't we be allowed in the entry way?"
This outburst of radical egalitarianism seemed a bit much, even for Sullen, but he passed it by without comment. He turned, and continued to address the listening pots.
"Why do we need a master? Why do we need his rules? We do not need man -- pots are for pots!"
The assembled crowd roared their approval. "Pots are for pots!"
Charity knew it would be useless to try to dissuade anyone. But she also knew the master, and knew it would be folly to remain in that room. She nodded to some of her friends from the entry way, and they began to slide quietly out of the room. Here and there other clear-minded pots were doing the same, but the rest were giving full attention to Sullen, clapping their lids enthusiastically.
Sullen had found his stride, and was propagating his millenial vision for the future of the great house -- a house where no pot had to contain things it did not want, where all pots had a say in how the house was governed, where there was no discrimination against crackpots, where no shelf was overcrowded, where pots and kettles lived in racial harmony, and where there was a chicken in every pot. Sullen had spent a lot of time thinking there in the pantry, and knew exactly what he believed -- he called it secular potism. He had waited for this moment for a long time, and his thoughts were boiling over furiously.
For the pots who remained in the room, it was a fine moment of exhilarating liberation. They eagerly caught at Sullen's intoxicating phrases, and with the zeal of new converts, bellowed them back to him.
"Pots are the measure of all things!"
"Government of the pots, by the pots, and for the pots!"
"One pot, one vote!"
It was his moment of glory, and he knew it.
By this time, Charity and her friends were back in the front of the house. They were all very dismayed, and somewhat frightened -- but not for the master.
Charity had just resumed her place on the table by the front door when she turned, and there, coming down the staircase, was her master. He had an iron rod in his hand.
