“Clay Jars and Holy Ground” A poem for the priesthood

Originally published: April 24, 2025

I am not a director of things,
but a witness to the breaking.
Not a strategist of systems,
but a steward of stories.
I do not run an enterprise
I carry the oil
that anoints the broken places.

I am a priest.

I walk not on carpeted boardrooms,
but on holy ground
barefoot,
breath held,
heart cracked open wide
to let the Spirit through.

I have stood at bedsides
where breaths were counted
and eternity hovered.
I have held the weeping
and whispered resurrection
into the bones of grief.
Not because I am mighty—
but because I was called.

Called to break bread,
not budgets.
To wash feet,
not run metrics.
To say,
Peace be with you
even when the world offers none.

This calling is not clean.
It is not tidy.
It is earth and ash,
it is balm and fire.
It is the quiet hallelujah
in a reconciled embrace,
the tear wiped away
when forgiveness finds its name.

It is not power that defines me,
but presence.
Not success,
but surrender.
Not perfection,
but the willingness to stay
when the pain is real
and the answers are few.

We have this treasure in clay jars,
Paul writes,
so that it may be made clear
that this power belongs to God.

Yes.
I am the jar.
Cracked.
Earthy.
Poured out,
again and again,
on the altar of love.

So when you ask what a priest is,
do not look to the corner office.
Look to the hospital room.
To the kitchen table.
To the child cradled at baptism,
and the ashes traced on a forehead.
Look to the silence after a funeral,
to the laughter at a shared meal,
to the prayer offered in darkness,
and the candle lit for hope.

That is where I dwell.
That is where God meets us.
That is priesthood.
That is enough.