I'm not sure just how or why He did it, but God made me a clown.

I wasn't born into a particularly musical or talented family. Everyone had a great sense of humor, to be sure. Practical jokes and devices that made farting noises were as much a part of family reunions as Granny's chicken and dumplings or snap beans. But even sing-alongs were rare. There were no jam sessions, no family skits, and apart from one cousin who could draw and paint, no one particularly associated with any particular form of art.

In the fourth grade, some colleagues and I got into a lot of trouble for heckling a play that we went to see on an excursion to one of the other schools in the district. I don't know for certain that it was Mrs. Carson's plan to redeem ourselves for the lack of etiquette, but later that year, our class put on a play for the rest of our school, probably so that we would know what kind of effort it took to do such a thing and maybe understand why our actions at the show were wrong.

I only had a small part in that production, but it was enough to whet my appetite for it. I kept it on the back burner, however, until my sophomore year in high school. With an open first period and the choice between an Introduction to Drama, General Business or some shop class, I chose drama.

A Dramatics magazine reprinted the script to Eugene Ionesco's absurdist masterpiece "The Bald Soprano," and some of the kids wanted to do a reading of it as a class project. They were short a character, however, and called upon the long-hair sitting in the corner to read the part of the Fire Chief, which required the delivery of an extended nonsensical monologue. Ms. Ganz decided to do "The Bald Soprano" as part of a winter evening of one-acts using the same cast.

I didn't realize until much later that the Fire Chief is quite a clown-like character (and it's on my to-do list to re-memorize that nonsensical speech to add to the clown show).

I made a half-hearted attempt to pursue a drama major in college, but postponed college for a few years, worked, picked up the guitar to write songs and eventually took a creative writing degree from Miami University.

My involvement in theatre was sporadic, but when I got out of college and started my career, playing the guitar became a passionate pastime and I got involved in a few different combos and jam sessions. My job as the arts and entertainment editor for the JournalNews rekindled my interest in theater, only this time as a journalist and critic.

So it was only natural that when I began my spiritual walk in earnest some nine years ago that I used music as a way to express my continuing enlightenment and confusion. Writing songs became more than storytelling, but as a way to worship and pray.

My family reached out to Tiffany Smith, the 23-year-old youth leader of our church by inviting her over to dinner every Monday night. After dinner, we'd play guitar and sing. In just a few weeks, we started getting pretty good, so we worked up some songs and began playing special music for the church and special performances at festivals and other churches. When Tiff left the church to get married, I put together a full rock band and turned up the volume.

In the meantime, Pastor Jon started after me to do some theatre in the church, sketches as sermon illustrations and plays for special services. Our first efforts were non-royalty plays that I found on the Internet, but "non-royalty" often means "non-quality." So I soon turned to writing my own programs. We dubbed our organization Something Fishy Theatre, adopting as our logo the symbol the classic masks of comedy and tragedy, but with the smile and the frown attached to a pair of fish in the classic ichthus symbol.

It was Pastor Jon who suggested producing a reader's theatre in the form of an old-fashioned radio show as he began making plans to do a fund-raiser for our next-door neighbors, the Salvation Army. I struggled with the idea of creating scripture-based versions of "The Shadow" or some of the other programs from the golden age of radio, but nothing seemed quite right. I'd long been a casual fan of Garrison Keillor's "A Prairie Home Companion," and while stumbling upon an episode one Saturday night, the idea came to me: "A Gospel Home Companion." What radio was like in 30 AD. I wrote a private eye sketch about a "Roman Investigator" checking out a rash of miracles up and down the River Jordan. I wrote commercials for the Temple Mall and Factory Outlet and Samaritan Health Services. Pastor Jon took an assignment in Phoenix and the Salvation Army fund-raiser fell by the wayside before I got the script finished, but our new pastor Vernagaye was a quick supporter ‑ and even read the parts of the old men.

And I would write "News From Lake Galilee," a 20-minute monologue telling the Gospel story from the point of view of the off-beat characters in a fictional town on the shores of Galilee Lake.

Shortly before Episode 3 went on the boards in July, 2002, I received a visit at work from Patricia Ellis, a retired English teacher from Oxford who had written a one-woman show that she was to perform in Dayton and wanted some publicity.

I interviewed Mrs. Ellis in the conference room at the JournalNews. Smartly and colorfully dressed in a traditional African gown and head-covering, she told me how when she retired, she was looking for something to help fill the time, so had written down a play, a sort of parable of the journey of her ancestors from Africa to America. Much later, she got a call from a sorority sister who wanted to do some kind of fundraising event, and asked Mrs. Ellis if she had any ideas.

Well, she had a play she'd written.

When she told me that, I made some kind of comment like, "God was really preparing you for something wasn't he."

"That's nothing," she said, and began to tell me about her experience as a chaperone on the Rosa Parks Heritage Tour, where she led a group of youngsters around the South to visit prominent sites in the struggle for civil rights. They were on their way to D.C., however, when she ran into some trouble. It's an incredible story, but suffice it to say here that it involved a previous vision she had and how it led to her saving the life of a busload of youngsters when the bus went into a flood-swollen river. By the time she was finished, my blood pounded through my body and every hair on my arm and neck felt as if it were trying to pull itself out by its own roots.

We went outside in the Journal Square courtyard to have her photos taken, and when we were finished, she asked me to stay around after the photographer left.

We sat on a bench and she looked at me with moist eyes. She looked nervous, serious.

"Are you a spiritual person?" she asked.

"I try to be," I said, and told her I was active in my church and wrote music.

"God favors you," she went on in a confident voice. She went on to tell me that she knew I wasn't happy in my work, but that I would soon get a big promotion.

In the meantime, with Mrs. Ellis' prophecy swirling around the back of my mind, God kept putting it on my heart to take some kind of drastic step to advance my creative endeavors.

She was thinking about my job, I believe. I was thinking about "Something Fishy Theatre," about "A Gospel Home Companion" and the other plays I'd written, about my songs.

She told me to be careful what I was asking God for, because I was going to get it, and then some.

"You may ask for a mole-hill, but He's going to give you a mountain. You'll reach a place where you think you've gotten as far as you can go, but when you reach the top of that hill, you'll look up and God will have placed another mountain in front of you that you couldn't even see before, so you'll need to go there, too."

Before she walked away, my whole body was tingling like someone had just plugged me into a 220 volt socket. I had experienced the Holy Spirit before, and I will again, but that was the first time I recognized its presence.

During this time, my friend Carolyn Welsh, who had performed in some episodes of "A Gospel Home Companion" and had been involved in clown ministry work with some friends in Cincinnati, kept trying to get me to help start a clown ministry in the church. In the spring of 2002, I even went to a half-day workshop at her urging, to learn more about it. The workshop wasn't extremely helpful, though they did give me some book titles to pursue and inspired me enough to buy some make-up on the way home and make my first pitiful attempt at painting myself like a clown. But my proverbial plate was (and is) perpetually full, so it wasn't until she gave me a deadline (I'm a journalist and can't do anything without a deadline), I kept it on the back burner.

(The back burner is not a necessarily bad place for an idea to be. Even when I'm not consciously thinking about something, I'll get ideas from time to time to add to the soup, so when it's finally ready to dish out ‑ I'm stretching the metaphor a little tight ‑ it pours forth. The problem is that it's pretty crowded back there, and I'm never sure which course is next or if it's ready yet.)

The occasion was a luncheon to celebrate the completion of Rick Warren's 40 Days of Purpose program. I'd made some passes through the companion book, but never got as involved as other members. I believed, after all, that the performing arts ministry WAS my purpose, and I was, indeed, driven.

So while we were rehearsing Episode 4, I wrote a sketch for us to do together. I created Jericho, a silent tramp character in the tradition of Emmett Kelly, and a bit called "The Clown Who Couldn't Do Anything," in which Jericho spots the book on stage and expresses his worry that he has no purpose in life. Happy Heart (Carolyn) comes on stage and tries to help him find his purpose. But without any juggling, magic or ballooning skills ‑ comically demonstrated ‑ Jericho is sorrowful until Happy Heart points out that he can still bring people joy and laughter.

I had purchased some sculptural balloons to practice how not to make an animal, and spied the drawing of a balloon dog on the package. It looked easy enough, so I twisted one up. Looked on the Internet and found some other patterns, and before the program I had already built up a small repertoire of figures, including the clownflower, what I started calling the species I developed, cobbling together different techniques I'd learned from balloonhq.com.

I put a clown face on in public for the first time on November 23, 2002. It didn't go as well as I'd hoped ‑ but then, few things do, one of the unfortunate parts of developing a critical vision of the arts is that you're rarely satisfied with your own work ‑ but I was encouraged enough to pursue it.

Putting on plays, even the readers theatre style of programs we'd been doing with "A Gospel Home Companion," takes a tremendous amount of work. My friends and companions at the church loved doing the shows, supported me as best they could, but simply didn't have the time and energy necessary to stage them as fast as I could write them.

I saw in the clown show a way to make theatre without the massive collaborative effort that it takes to stage a play. A make-up kit, a boom box and a few props was all I needed to go into a place and put on a show.

So I did. I next created "Jericho's Nativity Gift," splicing together a medley of Christmas carols played on mandolin, dubbing inn sound effects and essentially choreographing a six-minute routine.

In going about my research to find out about clowning and clown ministries, I stumbled upon a few different Yahoo e-mail groups devoted to both and began to lurk. There are some 270 members of the clown ministry group from all over the continent and even parts of Europe. A few days after I signed on, a woman posted an e-mail saying that she'd been a birthday party clown for a few years and was looking to turn it into a ministry for her church, but had no experience at it, didn't know how to even begin, and was wondering if anyone there had ever started a clown ministry and could provide a clue.

She went on to say that she was a member of the Vineyard Church in Hamilton, Ohio.

Looking back, I have to think about Humphrey Bogart: "Of all the gin joints in all the world..."

I made a personal reply to the group e-mail, explained my situation and invited Amy Cowgill to have a seat in my clown joint.

It was a while before she responded. In what was the enemies first strike against this ministry, Amy's computer went down shortly after posting that request.performing arts ministry. It became increasingly clear that the lack of available volunteer time at the church would never make Something Fishy Theatre conform to my vision. I was experiencing that drain myself. At the urging of others and against my better instincts, I had been playing in the Sunday morning praise band every Sunday for over a year, and not doing it very gladly and making it a real pain for everyone involved. Also, the that the political climate of the church was such that I'd never get much financial support beyond what I could raise myself, and turning that church stage into a real theater was taking a lot more money than I could raise by putting on $6-a-ticket shows. And when I learned that someone had made a rather substantial donation to create a new performing arts ministry that would further drain away the energy of the same people I was relying on to do my plays, I became, as they say, firm in my resolve.

I needed to find a new church. I'd been feeling that way for almost two years, but I finally took the bold and drastic move that God was calling me to do. My New Years resolution was to resign all of my volunteer positions and the church, including the praise band, and seek out a larger congregation in which to do my plays and write more clown shows to keep me busy in between productions. It wasn't an easy decision. I'd created the first contemporary music ministry in that church. I'd become good friends, found brothers and sisters in the other players, who liked my songs and were eager to play them. I knew they wouldn't have time for me if I weren't playing with them regularly, but I had to re-direct my time and energy. Something was working that was bigger than me and bigger than the band. I still don' know what God has in store for me, but the next thing was the clown show.

Finally, nearly a month after making her first post, Amy got her computer fixed and responded to my e-mail. I worshipped with her at the Vineyard Church in the middle of January. We made arrangements with the youth minister to do a clown show for a children's service and at the end of the month we decided to busk at the Ice Fest in downtown Hamilton.

Amy later told me she thought I had made arrangements to do it, but I didn't inform anyone. We weren't selling anything, so who could object to a couple of clowns giving away clownflowers?

It was a challenge for Jericho to entertain and make balloons and keep track of the crowd, but as soon as we hit the square and made the first clownflower, the kids started lining up. Some would ask for a dog or a sword or something, but unless they asked, they got a clownflower.

Before long, however, people in uniform golf shirts and carrying walkie talkies came at us from a couple of different directions. I thought, "Oh, no. Here it comes."

But they didn't come to hassle us. They told us that they had hired someone to come in and do balloons, but he didn't show up. They were glad to have us!

We immediately began rehearsing "Jericho the Artist," in which Jericho learns that when you look at the world through the lens of the cross, you can see the heart of Jesus in everyone. It was a hit, and we made plans to conduct a clown ministry training class and put on a clown show for the children's service once a month.

The last weekend in February, the Vineyard Church hosted a seminar titled "Passion for Jesus" on a Friday evening and all day Saturday, conducted by Rick Evans from a Cleveland Vineyard. It was about prophetic gifts, what they are and how to develop them. As he was wrapping up his Friday night talk, he was talking about partaking in God's abundance and said metaphorically, "Just cup your hands together and ask for it, and God will fill it up for you."

I did that. From where I sat, I cupped my hands together as if gathering a fistful of rain, and began to pray, remembering Mrs. Ellis' admonition to be careful what I asked for. I simply asked that my ministry grow and guidance on what to do next. It started getting very warm in there, and my hands started sweating. I've never been the clammy hands kind of guy, but there they were. Something odd is happening.

Mr. Evans said that we were going to do some laying on of hands and praying together for anyone who wished to increase their prophetic powers. That's what I came for, I thought.

"But first, is there anyone out there whose hands are tingling? I want you to come up here right now, before anyone else."

He said something about healing, and I wondered where all this was coming from. I didn't need healing! Or did I? What was God trying to tell me? I was scared, skeptical and confused, but I went forward, along with about six other people. Evans first went to a woman next to me, and as he reached for her head, his elbow brushed against my shoulder and I felt a surge of energy passing between us like lightening. I prayed with my eyes closed, but I saw what happened as he put his hand on her forehead and shouted, "Fire!" She went limp and someone eased her to the floor. He came toward me and I sensed someone behind me. When the palm of his hand touched my head, I felt pulses of energy, like nothing I'd ever felt before. It was kinda like that washed-in-the-blood, born-again feeling, but pulsing and surging instead of flowing. "Give into it," he said, but part of me was thinking, "I don't need healed. Or do I?". Then he shouted, "Fire!" and I couldn't think anything anymore. My feet stayed planted firm, but my knees gave out and I bent over backward. Some man caught me under the arms and guided my body to the floor. I'm not sure if I couldn't move or if I just didn't want to, but I laid there for what seemed like hours with my eyes closed. I felt something swirling around the room and recognized the Holy Spirit, called there by the intensity of the prayer. I had a vision, that I was looking down a funnel that was pointed at a bright light, but couldn't stay focused on it long. I would catch glimpses of the light, but couldn't hold the funnel still enough because I was still confused, trying to figure out what I was being healed of.

Even though I was disappointed that the light remained elusive, I felt energized by the experience, and when I could gather myself together, I went out into the crowd and prayed with the others, laying on hands and asking for clarity.

The next day was almost as eventful. At the end of the day, a young lady from Rick Evans' entourage laid hands on me and prophesied. She said that my ministry was going on the right track and would continue to grow. She said that I would see people who need prayer and I should be bolder about asking people if I could pray for them because I can help them. She told me to write more, to write everything down, that writing was the way I would discover and reveal the kingdom of God. We prayed that God would give me signs, give me dreams and give me scripture to guide me.

After putting the family to bed that night, I sat at the kitchen table, put my hands my Bible and tried to remember everything she had said to me. I prayed quietly for several minutes, then opened up the Bible in the middle, aiming for the Psalms. Instead, I opened to the first chapter of Jeremiah. I paraphrase:

"I can't be a prophet, Lord. I'm too young."

"Shut up, Jeremiah. Just go where I tell you to go and say what I tell you to say and I'll watch your back."

Sunday afternoon, I took my family to the mall. We got separated, as we usually do, as Lori tried to help the kids buy clothes and I got bored and wandered off to the bookstore, and the record store, and finally took a seat in the middle of the mall and watched the people. When people made eye contact with me, I could tell things about them. Nothing specific. But their expressions told me who was sad, who was tired, who was in a pretty good mood, and who needed prayer. I wasn't bold enough to ask them to allow me to pray for them, but when I saw sadness or hurt, I would say a little prayer.

By this time, I had taken to carrying a bag of balloons around with me, and after about a half-hour in the center of the mall and close to closing time, I retreated to a smaller fountain near the entrance we used when we came in, figuring that I would be more likely to connect with my family there. I took out my bag of balloons and made a clownflower, saying a little prayer with each breath.

A family came out of the department store, a mother fussing with two teenagers and a little girl of about eight or nine years old trailing behind, clearly wanting to be anywhere but there listening to them and not getting any attention herself. As they passed, I held the flower out to her. Her eyes brightened. She looked at me, then turned to her mother, who caught sight of me but had continued walking ahead. After a moment, mother turned around and said, "Well, if it's free, take it."

So she did. And the little girl, who came walking toward me as if her world were all darkness and pain, literally danced away.

And it sank in for the first time what had happened Friday night. I wasn't being healed. I was the healer, and the clownflower was my instrument. Maybe it was physical healing, too. I didn't know. But it was certainly spiritual healing. I could change somebody's day with a few breaths of air wrapped up in latex, and I realized that if I could change someone's day, I could change their life.

We adopted the mighty clownflower as a symbol of our ministry and I began to unlock some of its power, understand some of its mysteries. We called ourselves: "Clownflower Alley, a ministry of joy."

Jericho's silence proved to be too limiting and I couldn't find a voice for him, so in May, I went to the Great Miami Arts Jam at the Fitton Center for Creative Arts as "The Ambassador." With his extra-long nose, unconventional clown make-up and silly accent that you can't really tell where he's from (it's Clownsylvania -- or Clownifornia -- or Clownadonia), the Ambassador tries his best to put on a good show even though his assistant is only five years old (in clown years) and things tend to go quite wrong. The chicken cannon hardly ever goes off like it's supposed to.

We started picking up gigs -- paying ones that helped us finance the ministry, upgrade my sound equipment some and keep us in balloons. By July our weekends were filled with clown shows, birthday parties, busking at festivals. Anytime we could fit it in. Anytime someone would have us, paying or not. In addition to working for churches and the YMCAs and other faith-based institutions and events, we performed Gospel-based clown shows at secular events like the Child's Wellness Fair at the Cincinnati Convention Center, where we traded face-painting for booth space and built a 40-foot, 400-flower tower that went from the floor to the ceiling of the main hall.

During the Harvest Home Festival in Cheviot, we filled in the gaps between acts with 15 minute sets on the main stage while the dance schools and other groups made the transition. Friday night, we overshot the chicken and it spent the nigh in the canopy over the audience. After Saturday night's show, where we played to our biggest crowd yet, I told Amy, "We're going to do

a television show. Start preparing yourself and praying for it."

I had never thought of it before that moment. I had received a few ideas for some video production gags to do, parodies of television shows, things like "Clown Survivor," but I didn't know the first thing about getting something on television. Still, for the next few months, I occasionally felt moved to pray for it, that we start being prepared, that the path start being prepared for us.

This clown ministry has blessed and been blessed so many times since then that I couldn't possibly relate every instance. I can't add up every powerful prayer has overcome or inspired me, can't count how many times someone has told me just how much our show or my presence meant to them or someone else, how many clown flowers I've made, how many smiles I've seen emerge on a child's face (or a grown-up face, for that matter), how many moods I've lifted or, dare I say it, how many lives I've changed.

Nor can I possibly recount every time I had to fight away the enemy, the old liar that would try to sabotage our efforts and undermine our confidence, how many times my patience has been stretched to a breaking point.

But the sacrifices I've made in my time (and the upkeep of my lawn) seem trivial when I see a smile on the face of a child and I can tell her that God loves her, and that she is beautiful just the way she is.