The Caddie Clown: Playing Through

As I prepare to go to clown camp in August and make my first foray into clowning, there’s a character I’ve been dreaming of developing. He’s a clown—but he’s also a golf caddie. He's not a golfer. He's not a country club elite. He's "just" the guy who carries the clubs, makes a fool of himself, maybe trips into a sand trap or two, but always gets the last laugh.

I want to be a character clown who’s a caddie.

But what’s a Character Clown?

What I've learned about the world of clowning so far is that there are different clown archetypes: the whiteface, the auguste, the character clown/tramp or hobo clown. The character clown is exactly what it sounds like—someone who plays a recognizable person, but through a heightened, distorted, and revealing lens of the clown. Think of a firefighter, a police officer, a house painter, or in my case, a golf caddie.

Unlike the more abstract or traditional clown types, the character clown invites us to laugh at the familiar: the systems, the hierarchies, and the professions we move through every day. The humor comes not only from the absurdity but from recognition. It’s a satire of the world we already live in.

My idea owes a lot to the tramp and hobo clowns of the early 20th century—especially legends like Emmett Kelly, Otto Griebling, and Charlie Chaplin. These clowns were not the polished whitefaces in the spotlight. They were the down-and-outs, the ones who "swept up" after the show, who stared mournfully at the crowd from the margins. They embodied economic hardship with pathos and quiet rebellion.

They weren’t "just" clowns—they themselves were social commentary.

But I also want to acknowledge that complications can arise from a modern adoption of this archetype. Many of the original tramp and hobo clowns emerged during the Great Depression, when poverty was widespread, when audiences could see themselves in the performer's characters and laugh at themselves. I fear that today using poverty as a costume might unintentionally parody real human suffering. When we “play poor,” we risk mocking what people experience every day.

So rather than dress as a tramp, I want to step into a more modern role—one where the economic lines are still clearly drawn, but where the satire may be sharper and more deliberate.

Why a Golf Caddie? Because the golf course is one of our great American sanctuaries of wealth and exclusivity. And the caddie? He’s the servant, the outsider, the observer who knows the course better than anyone—but never gets to play.

Imagine a clown-caddie stumbling after a high-and-mighty golfer. Imagine him unintentionally or otherwise sabotaging the round with slapstick mishaps and well-timed honks. The caddie sees everything. He’s not a player of the game, but he can change the way it’s played.

My hope is that this character will allow me to challenge class disparity, not by dressing as poverty itself, but by showing what it means to live just outside the gates—carrying the tools of the powerful, yet refusing to play by their rules.

Clowning is at its best when it punches up. When it questions power, mocks injustice, and makes room for the wisdom of the marginalized. That’s what I aim to do with my caddie clown. He’s a mirror for the absurdity of wealth and class performance—and a reminder that the joke is usually on those who think they’re above it all.

So if you see me in baggy white coveralls, a silly cap, red nose, oversized shoes, and dragging a golf bag behind me… just know this, I’m not trying to make par, but I do hope to make a point.

Why I’ve Chosen to Go to Mooseburger Clown Camp

No, I’m not starting a “clown ministry.”

No, I’m not planning to preach in oversized shoes and a wig.

And no, I haven’t run away to join the circus (yet).

But yes—I’ve chosen to go to Mooseburger Clown Camp this August in Minnesota.

Why?

Because I believe clowning is one of the most honest, vulnerable, and human art forms we have. It’s not just about trying to be funny or putting on a show—it’s about practicing being truly present. It’s about learning how to fail, how to laugh at yourself, how to connect with other people without pretense. It’s about saying yes to absurdity in a world that’s way too invested in looking all put-together.

I’m not going to camp to sneak Jesus into kid's birthday parties or to slap a Bible verse on balloon animals (and not just because I strongly dislike balloons). I’m going because I believe play is sacred. I believe silliness can be a form of resistance. I believe joy is serious business.

Clowning asks of its practitioners and its audiences alike something that's rare and powerful: Show up as you are. Risk being ridiculous. Stay with the moment, even when it surprises you. That’s not just a performance skill—that’s a life skill. And if I’m honest, it’s something I need more of.

I want to learn from people who’ve given themselves to the craft. I want to train in the discipline of humor, timing, movement, silence, mischief, and heart. I want to practice taking myself less seriously—and learn to take spreading joy more seriously instead.

Because when it's all said and done, I’m not going to clown camp to become someone else.

I’m going to become more myself—only with a redder nose.

The Most Unique Congregation on Earth

This week, Becky and I took the kids down to Baraboo, WI to take in the sights at Circus World Museum and the International Clown Hall of Fame. I have fond memories of the trips to Circus World Museum my parents took my siblings and I on when we were growing up and I wanted to share those memories with our kids while they make their own.

I was delighted to see that there's an exhibit at Circus World Museum for the 2025 and 2026 seasons about Circus Ministry called, "The Most Unique Congregation on Earth."

The exhibit vividly highlights how circus chaplains—priests, ministers, and religious sisters—embody a ministry of presence. These faith leaders don bright, circus-themed vestments and carry portable worship implements to tent rings and animal pens.

Rather than preaching from a pulpit, they share daily experiences with performers and crew, offering baptism, communion, marriage, burial, or simply a listening ear.

This is incarnational ministry in its radical everyday form—being present in real life, not merely in ecclesial spaces.

The exhibit shines a light on the fact that circus ministry has always been ecumenical, serving people of all faith backgrounds. This resonates deeply with a theology of radical welcome. There’s no judgment here—just solidarity with those living outside the societal "norm" and those who may not fit into typical parish life.

A circus is a “town without a zip code,” which means local churches rarely reach its people. The exhibit forces us to reimagine church not as a building but as a community in motion—where liturgy happens in train cars, show tents, and barns. For a person of faith who cherishes baptismal identity over institutional belonging, I see this as embodied theology.

In today's context, where it may often seem there's a growing divide between “regular churchgoers” and people who identify as “nones,” these circus chaplains remind us that faith is richer when it embraces the full human kaleidoscope: the daring, the nomadic, the nonconforming. And they do so with joy—singing hymns under colored lights, blessing elephants, and walking hand-in-hand with juggling families.

Can our faith communities take worship outside the sanctuary—into parks, streets, and community centers—demonstrating that God is present beyond church walls?

How can we foster deeper collaboration across denominations in serving mobile or underrepresented communities?

The circus chaplains' open-hearted welcome challenges us to broaden our own table—to those who are seen as or feel like outsiders, the wounded, and the on-the-move.

"The Most Unique Congregation on Earth" offers more than historical insight—it shines a mirror. It asks: How can we follow this example of shared life, listening, improvised liturgy, and genuine care? Whether in the tent ring or in a grocery aisle, God’s presence moves with us—and so does the invitation to embody a church that travels, that meets, and that loves wherever our lives are unfolding.

What I Learned from Clown Alley

Reading Clown Alley by Bill Ballantine, I expected to learn about greasepaint and slapstick, banana peels and pratfalls. And I did. But what surprised me—what stuck with me—is how deeply human the clown world is. Clowns, like pastors, are students of vulnerability. They train themselves to fall well, to fail big, to get back up with dignity and ridiculous grace.

Ballantine’s stories from inside the ring—his portraits of veteran clowns eating canned beans behind the big top or coaching the next generation on how to take a pie to the face—read, to me, like parables. These are not just funny people. These are people who know what it means to be seen. Who dare to be fools. Who understand the power of presence.

In the church, we talk a lot about incarnation—about how God became flesh and dwelled among us. In clowning, there’s something similarly incarnational: the holy risk of showing up with your whole, absurd, too-much self. Clowns don't hide their humanity; they exaggerate it, exposing our shared silliness and sorrow. They are both mirror and mercy.

Ballantine reminded me that ministry, like clowning, isn’t about being impressive. It’s about being available. It's about stumbling into grace, over and over, in front of a crowd. It’s about walking into sacred spaces (a.k.a. everywhere) with oversized shoes and open hearts, trusting that the Spirit might just be speaking through the laughter.

Reading Clown Alley, I remembered that the church is a kind of circus—holy, unpredictable, beautifully imperfect. And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly how God likes it.