Saved by the Clown
I spent one part of my misspent adolescence hitchhiking around the interior of British Columbia. I’d arrive in small towns which had, all of them, identical features: A gas station, a hotel with pub and restaurant and, on the very edge of town, a Rodeo grounds. I was never there on the right weekend and so the Rodeo grounds were always deserted - empty corrals made out of split rails, a weathered sign announcing the date when the Rodeo would be held or when it had taken place and a list of the events: the calf-roping, the bronco rides and the cattle wrestling. They key attraction of course, was the riding of bulls. These bulls were bred to be mean – the proper jargon is ‘ornery’ and, to look at them, they don’t even look much like ordinary cattle - nothing like the other placid ruminants munching grass in the fields. At rodeo time they’re kept in special reinforced barns - not to be trusted but all the boys climb up onto the rails to get a better look at them.
So just to go over the rules: There are a hundred points given for the perfect ride – the rider needs to stay on the bull for eight seconds and impress the judges. If the ride is uneventful and boring the judges will award fewer points. The most points are given when the bull gives a particularly violent performance but where the rider manages to stay on nonetheless.
When the rider is thrown to the ground it is up to the rodeo clown to wave his hands and coax the bull back into his pen - the rodeo clown – the little bugger in the corner with his cowboy hat and red rubber nose and short trousers on over his red combination long underwear. He waves a towel and attracts the bull’s attention away from the fallen rider. He has the most dangerous job in the rodeo. He manages to stave off disaster. He protects both the rider and the spectator and lures the bull back into the pen.
Since Caireen and I returned from our holidays in the summer there has been “no end of trouble in Dodge City”. In our congregations, and amongst family, friends, associates and “encountered strangers”, we have witnessed the struggle of a great many people trying to stay on the bull. Life’s events come in bunches and we’ve seen a bunch of them. It does wear a bit. You find yourself saying “what next?” Tragedy and upset is always a backdrop to the human condition.
The biblical record is filled, though, with a certain amount of comedy which – try as I might – I cannot define in any other way than it being the subtle hint of something which upsets the downward slide in a graceful and almost “cheeky” manner. The drowning man is swallowed by a fish and deposited on the shore; the Book of the Law is found in the ruins of the temple and, initially, mistaken for rubbish. A very old man and his very old wife have a child in spite of their great age. A baby is born in a small and unimportant town and his birth is heralded by angels. The tax collector becomes a disciple. The Saviour goes to eat at Zaccheus’ house. The oppressor of the church is knocked off his horse, converted and becomes the Apostle to the Gentiles.
It all comes in from the side, this grace and possibility, with its red nose and impossible garb waving its towel in the midst of kicking hooves and slashing horns. The believer will look for subtle things which herald the beginning of life when it looks like all is lost.
There’s something “comedic” about the Gospel. These visions, stories, promises and legends appear, at first glance, to bear little relation to the big bulls at the centre of the ring - whatever is happening in our marriages, our health problems or those of people we love, our businesses or our conflicts with family. The subtle beginnings come in from the side. Strange and off-beat thought they may be, they form the beginning of the only thing which will keep us safe. The believer can not only learn to notice these strange beginnings. He will even come to expect them.
The rough and tumble cowboy will, eventually, give in and let himself be saved by the clown.
