The Ninth Sunday After Easter
There was a clown sitting in the fourth pew of St. Augustine’s, his hands folded neatly in his lap, as if he was waiting to confess something unspeakable. The parishioners tried not to stare, the way you pretend not to notice a dead bird on the sidewalk but your eyes keep dragging back anyway. His makeup was impeccable: white face, red cheeks, a single blue tear drawn down his left cheek like a misplaced exclamation mark. He wore the wig, too. He hadn’t toned anything down.
Father Martin paused halfway through his homily on grace.
“And sometimes,” he said, blinking behind his bifocals, “God calls us to meet him where we… least expect him.”
The clown gave a tiny nod, solemnly, as he and God had already discussed this. Privately.
The children were the first to turn around. Of course. They swivelled like sunflowers following light. One even waved. The clown waved back, slowly, reverently, like this was a funeral and he was the bereaved.
He held a balloon animal. A dog, maybe. Or a swan. Or grief itself. No one knew when he had arrived. Some said he’d walked in during the opening hymn. Others insisted he’d simply appeared, like incense or guilt. Old Mrs. Hernandez clutched her rosary tighter than usual. She whispered something about omens. Her daughter elbowed her, but still stared.
The clown did not cry (although his painted tear insisted otherwise).
During communion, he stood in line with everyone else. Shoes too big, step squeaking, squeaking, and squeaking. Each sound a reminder that the world was slightly wrong today. When he reached Father Martin, the priest hesitated only a fraction of a second—barely enough to count, but enough to reveal that even clergy are not free from the absurd.
“The Body of Christ,” Father Martin said, placing the wafer on the clown’s gloved palm.
“Amen,” said the clown. His voice surprised everyone: it was soft. Ordinary. The kind you’d trust to ask for directions.
After the final hymn, he remained seated long after everyone left. The stained glass threw colors over him—blue tear glowing, red smile impossible to interpret. Father Martin approached slowly, like one might approach a wounded thing.
“Are you… looking for something?” the priest asked.
“My dove,” he said.
Father Martin blinked. “Your…?”
“My emotional support dove,” the clown clarified. “Her name is Margaret. She was part of my act, but she was more than that. She understood me.” His painted smile remained fixed, but his voice trembled faintly. “During a birthday show at the bowling alley on Maple Street, she… ascended.”
“Ascended?”
“Flew up into the ceiling fan,” the clown said. “There were feathers.”
The balloon dog sagged slightly in his hands, as if also grieving.
Father Martin opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “I see.”
“She loved this church,” the clown continued. “Well, not this church specifically. She had no concept of organized religion. But I brought her here once during a pet blessing ceremony. Father Gregory spritzed her with holy water. She cooed. It was a profound moment for us both.”
The church was silent except for the ancient building’s usual creaks. The sound of settling wood and now, possibly, shared madness.
Father Martin sat beside him.
“Grief takes many forms,” the priest offered gently.
The clown nodded. “Yes. Sometimes it takes the form of a bird becoming confetti.”
He squeezed the balloon animal. It let out a long, slow, squealing sigh.
And for a moment, both of them bowed their heads.
Alessia Diaz is a junior at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor, Michigan, double-majoring in Economics and English, with a minor in Entrepreneurship. She is from Caracas, Venezuela. Her writing explores almost everything, which may be the beginning of both a writing life and a little trouble. In her spare time, she enjoys playing Sudoku, keeping lists, and organizing much of her life around the promise of coffee. This is her first publication.
