There’s a deep, sacred absurdity at the heart of the Christian story. That a first century intenerant Jewish preacher, innocent of any crime yet hung on a cross like a criminal, somehow cracked open resurrection. Power shows up disguised as weakness. Victory looks a lot like failure. It’s the kind of upside-down logic that would make a clown nod and smile in recognition.
That’s why I’ve been thinking about clowning as a lens through which to view the world.
Clowning is the art of sacred disruption. It’s the pratfall that reveals truth. It’s the banana peel that humbles the proud. It’s the red nose that says, “I have nothing to prove, and neither do you.” It’s what happens when we stop trying to be impressive and start being real.
The cross is no joke. But if we miss the holy foolishness of it—the outrageousness of God choosing humiliation, vulnerability, and failure as the way of love—we might miss the whole point. The slapstick of grace is that we’re not saved by our own strength, by our own smarts, or by our slick performance. We’re saved by the love of God, a love that's willing to slip on its own dignity and land with arms wide open to all.
So here I am: clown nose on, heart open, shoes too big, soul ready to stumble into something true.
