In 1988 I teamed up with clown Don Bursell for a tour with the Starr Brothers Circus. Our show would swing through the Western United States and Canada, playing mostly rodeo grounds and a few stray hockey arenas.
Don is an excellent juggler, unicycle rider, and magician. Me, I can do some pantomime and play the musical saw. So we were the perfect match.
Except in one area. Religion. Don is a dyed in the wool evangelical Baptist, and I, of course, am a true blue Mormon. Since we traveled in Don’s car, and lived in a collapsible trailer he pulled with his car, our close quarters gave us many opportunities to discuss the finer points of our respective religions. Always with courtesy and good humor.
“You dumb Bible thumper!” I yelled at him early in the tour. “Baptists break the Sabbath every week by going out to eat at some fancy restaurant after church. Just read the Ten Commandments, you hypocrite!”
“Listen, you lousy Danite” he replied heatedly, “at least I’m never going to have more than one wife at a time or steal somebody’s name to fool around with in some gaudy temple!”
We paused a moment to catch our pious breaths.
“Listen, Don -- I’m sorry. I just got carried away. The Baptists are fine people, but . . . “
“Yeah, I know, Tork. There’s really nothing wrong with Mormons either, but sometimes . . . “
We stopped. Neither one of us wanted another argument -- but we were just itching to prove to each other that we had the best religion. Finally Don started up again --
Hey Tork, I got an idea.”
“Yeah, what?”
“I’m willing to bet you a big steak dinner that by the end of the season I can prove to you that Baptists are better people than Mormons because they’re more friendly. How about it?”
“What? You think your Baptist buddies are friendlier than Mormons? Huh! That’ll be the day. How you gonna do it?”
“Well . . . “ he rubbed his pointy chin. “How about we alternate churches -- go to my church one week, and yours the next, and see which one treats strangers like us better -- the Baptists or the Mormons. Sound good to you?”
“You’re on!” I said, shaking his hand. “And I’m going to make you pay for the most expensive prime rib there is -- not just a lousy steak!”
I felt pretty smug. I remembered how when I had joined the LDS Church back in 1971 while clowning for Ringling I had been overwhelmed by the warmth and bonhomie of the members, no matter where I was. I was sure things had not changed any in the intervening 17 years.
That first Sunday of the bet we attended an LDS service in Lubbock, Texas. The Bishop and his counselors were at the chapel doors, welcoming everyone in with a firm handshake, direct eye contact, and a twinkling smile.
“You boys with the circus?” boomed the Bishop after we had introduced ourselves. “Well, that’s just terrific! Lemme have Brother Jensen here guide you to a seat up front!”
An elderly gent, wearing a bolo tie that had a chunk of turquoise in it the size of a manhole cover, took our elbows to steer us up front. Men, women, and children sitting around us leaned over to shake our hands and exclaim in wonder at our unusual profession.
This was going to be a slam dunk, I thought to myself.
In Sunday School they made a big to-do about us again, asking us to stand, introduce ourselves, and tell them something about our act under the big top.
After church was over Don and I stood in the foyer, smiling and nodding, as all the Latter Day Saints filed out to their cars to drive home to a nourishing Sunday dinner. We didn’t get any invites. So we headed over to McDonalds for a Big Mac attack.
The next Sunday we were in San Antonio and had no trouble finding a Baptist church. Before we even got in the door a burly gentleman wearing a blinding white Stetson set upon us like a maniac, getting our names, finding out our jobs, where we were from, and when he discovered that Don was a member and I was but a lowly Mormon he literally roared with pleasure:
“Y’all are most welcome here, brothers! Why, we dote on the stranger and the infidel . . .”
“Just a moment . . .” I began.
“Never you mind, sweet brother” he roared back at me. “You gonna find our little ol’ church is just going to love you to death! C’mon in and take the Visitor’s Chair up by the pulpit!”
And so while Don was seated in a front pew, I was escorted up to the pulpit and placed in a red and gold brocade chair that looked like a spare throne for Queen Elizabeth. The preacher and deacons swarmed about me like bees round an ice cream cone on the sidewalk, crushing my hand, asking dozens of personal questions about me and my family, and slapping me on the back with hearty encomiums about how fine it was I had such an open mind for an infidel to come visit their little ol’ church. And when the service began the preacher used my first and last name in welcoming me to their little ol’ church and said I was a credit to my cult.
But there were more amazing things to come.
When it came time to pass the plate the preacher held up his hand for attention and, nearly as I can recall, said:
“Now brothers and sisters -- we all just are tickled pink to have this good man, Tim Torkildson, come visit our little ol’ church, even though he don’t believe a single word he hears today. We love him anyway. And I want you to know that this man is a family man, and he’s got a wife and six chilren back home in Minnesota that he supports on his modest circus salary. So we gonna do something to hep him out today. Today, that plate we are passing is not going to our own church needs -- but is going to be given die-rectly to this Mormon man to send on home to his family for their comfort and relief. So brothers and sisters -- give like you never give before and maybe this beloved brother, already a steady family man, just maybe he’s gonna want to see the light and come to Jesus here today!”
My head was sunk onto my breast in an agony of embarrassment as the congregation sang “Rock of Ages,” while the passing plate grew heavy with bills.
I got over $250.00 from those people. And at the end of the service the preacher had Don and I over for a sumptuous dinner of roast pork, homemade applesauce, whipped sweet potatoes dotted with marshmallows, pickled okra, fresh green beans from the preacher’s own garden, biscuits, biscuits, and more biscuits -- and then a huge slice of warm apple pie swimming in clotted cream.
That night, after we had packed up from the evening show and were driving to the next town, I asked Don when he wanted his steak dinner -- I was throwing in the towel. Don didn’t want me to spend any of that $250.00 his Baptist colleagues had just handed me, so he said he’d settle for tamales and refried beans at the next cantina we passed. I still don’t know if he was being truly humble, or rubbing it in . . .
Don Bursell, my partner
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