The Circus I Saw
14 min readIn 1992 I learned a myriad of things:
1. Mihstiegh, the mother of my two year old daughter, wanted me to relinquish all of my parental rights and disappear forever.
2. At the onset of our trial, her lawyer could in fact receive a continuance from the state of Texas for the sole purpose of collecting evidence to confirm that I was a “prodigy of Satan” (Yeah, I know, that doesn’t look too good on a ministry resume).
3. An abortion clinic protest was the last place on God’s footstool that I ever expected to pick up my daughter for an overnight visit.
But there I was, per Mihstiegh’s request, exiting Las Vegas Trail off of I-30 and staring at a parade of human billboards holding huge signs that looked like ads for Stephen King or Wes Craven’s revision of “Gray’s Anatomy for the Unborn.” Without thinking, I pulled into the clinic’s entry not realizing that they didn’t discern, “Oh, it’s just an angry backslidden brother in Christ here to pick up his daughter for a visit.” No, there was a definite visual problem: my girlfriend was in the car! They immediately swarmed around the vehicle pressing on the car doors, making it initially impossible to get out. We cracked the windows as they began ‘counseling’ her:
“He doesn’t love you!”
“You don’t have to do this…he is a LIAR!”
“Is he paying for you to murder your child?”
David Lynch at his best couldn’t create an environment this surreal and unorthodox. I finally pushed open the door, stood up, and saw Mihstiegh marching toward me with our daughter. My sweet little princess was covered in “tasteful” Pro-Life buttons and playing with a small plastic fetus. I said as little as possible, loaded my daughter in, and got the hell out of Hell.
I went home and wrote an entire song, the first verse read:
“Mommy is in the circus
Or at least that is how it sounds
Outside the clinic screaming
With all the other clowns”
At that moment I had no idea that two years later I’d return to that very clinic, but visitation would not be the impetus inspiring me to fly down the freeway at 5:30 a.m., while David Yow’s voice, as sooth as sandpaper on an open wound, screamed in my ears. I was uncontrollably furious at God and had willfully resolved that the only legal means I would ever have of physically assaulting Mihstiegh or any other Christian, would take place in the very setting I was so shocked by two years earlier.
The prior year, 1993, my band Tabula Rasa, won the Dallas Observer’s Music Award for ‘Best New Band,’ and I was touring constantly at the time with Tripping Daisy, Urge Overkill, Yo La Tengo, etc. Any given Saturday I was available, I was there early; frequently strung out but looking like a little kid at Christmas. Mind you, you’d have to imagine a little kid with waist-length hair, a six-inch long goatee, and a nosering.
I would stand at the clinic’s doorway and, as vehicles pulled up, I would escort women into the clinic. Frequently, they’d grab my arm, hide their face in my shoulder, and plead “Tell me this is the right choice. Tell me this is okay.”
I never gave a single one an answer.
It would have been unusually callous even for me, given the setting, to explain to them that I could care less about their present emotional quandary – they were merely my bait.
I used them as bait for the guy with the bullhorn and video camera screaming, “We’re taping ALL of your license plates! We’re gonna let your neighbors know just what kind of child-murdering whores they live by!” I used them as bait for the ambassadors of Christ who’d spit in our faces or throw urine and/or feces on us. I used them as bait for the guy who waived me to his car to assist his girlfriend and, as I leaned toward his open window, pepper-sprayed me in the face.
And this wasn’t only apparent to me. Steve Taylor chided all this behavior years before, while he sang, “I Blew Up The Clinic Real Good.” Most often though, the “circus” disappointed me – anytime Flip Benham or Randall Terry was present, it was relatively calm. But even then, in the midst of it all, making eye contact with people who were so quiet, so serene, so steadfast and reverent, was far more convicting. The idiots that were there out of anger to prove a point merely justified my being there. It isn’t a real epistemological stretch to deduce just why these women weren’t stampeding out of these clinic’s and into the arms of the nearest protester begging,” Please pray for me!”, when just moments before, they were being condemned – called whores, sluts, child-murderers, advised to kill themselves instead, etc. What is there to respond too? Each woman that walked through those doors had condemned themselves before they ever made the phone call to schedule the appointment. They felt like whores before they ever had to call him to ask if he’d help pay. Many wished they’d crashed the car and died in route to this very moment and, in an instant of ultimate vulnerability, what they were feeling and thinking was confirmed in every hate-laden syllable. Essentially, they already had the verbal advice that was offered.
However, the ones who were there because they were truly burdened for the souls of the women walking in, as well as the little soul resting within them, they became my Nathan…not saying a word, but just standing there, reading my heart with their every facial expression. Pointing to the sky, then their hearts, and then me. I was always terrified that one of them would step forward and challenge me – cross the line. I knew that I wouldn’t know how to respond.
In the midst of complete and utter chaos, being quiet and reverent is unexplainable.
This assembly that was so unconditionally submitted to the Lord, did not alter a single perspective of their submission after the girls went in, or the doctor’s vehicle arrived, or someone was physically “corrected” as to where they could and could not plant their shoes in this setting. They didn’t simply submit to only that which they agreed too, but also held steadfast in the very presence of the murdering of unborn children. It was them who caused me to drive all the way home in complete silence – visibly shaken and sobbing hysterically.
How can someone be so committed even with everything around them seemingly collapsing – seeing everything that they are praying against prosper, seeing all that they are committed to seemingly gone. The apostles must have felt it that first Good Friday. True commitment founded in faith is an illogical thing to any autonomous mind; there is no reservoir to process it. I imagine it’s much like the unmarried spectator cannot fully understand why the fat guy who finished the marathon dead last has a bigger smile on his face than the guy sponsored by Nike who finished first. How can he possibly be so happy…he lost? Everybody was gone, and all that was left at the finish line were his wife and kids jumping up and down holding home-made signs?
But still they are here. Still they persevere. Still they are unshaken and unconditionally committed. Not reacting to provocation, but instead simply pleading, “Can I pray for you before you go in?” By all appearances, they are losing; I only witnessed one woman who reconsidered and ran back to her car crying, after entering the clinic. One woman out of countless others at approximately 20 to 24 protests that I escorted at. But even when they saw her, they screamed and cheered as if the clouds had just parted and Christ was returning. I always wondered: how many saw the pictures at the corner and didn’t fulfill their appointment? But given the vast majority that exercised their right to murder their unborn child, in the face of such an unashamed injustice, how do these people stand so firm?
In less than a year, I’d know why and walk in it, firsthand.
His name was Larry Charles Adrian, and to this day, I’ve yet to meet anyone as challenging, as frustrating, as confrontational, or as brilliant. He was my stepdad. My mom met Larry when she began working at a nursing home – he was a resident there…a quadriplegic. A graduate of the University of Texas, in the early 70s he went to work for Texas Instruments. He bought a Ford Mustang to celebrate and, racing home one night, inebriated, he lost control, hit a telephone pole, and his neck was broken. His wife, and mother of his two daughters, deserted all three of them, and Larry was placed in a nursing home. When I met him, he was still in the home and, by and large, a very angry man. But soon after he and my mom were married, he challenged me on every front. The highest belt rank he attained in karate was a green belt; I received my first degree black belt at age 16. The most books he ever read in one summer was 20; I read 38. The lowest grade he ever received was a C-; I received a D in English in 7th Grade. I suspect there are some achievements where you shouldn’t desire to compete.
And yet, every time I beat him, other than the D in English, he was delighted.
He was hired by EDS, and my mom and he would commute to work twice weekly, the other days simply working from home. I was begging him to come to a live performance and see me play, but he was always very aware of the amount of effort it took for him to do much of anything publicly and was too humble to inconvenience others. Then, employees at EDS began asking mom and Larry if I’d autograph their CDs; Larry beamed…the ‘boy,’ his nickname for me, was doing something very well and he needed to publicly acknowledge it. Arrangements were made for he and mom to have the front corner balcony seats at a performance on December 1995; my closest friends would escort them in and out, no hassle to anyone. It was set, he’d be there.
Tabula Rasa had tried for years to get into a specific club in Kansas City called The Hurricane, because only those bands that were legit could get in…we finally did. On a stretch in December, we hit Mississippi Nights in St. Louis, the next night the Bottleneck in Lawrence, and then the following night we pulled into the back alley of The Hurricane and began unloading equipment. I walked in and was met by a complete stranger behind the bar asking, “Who is Ezra Boggs?”
“I am.”
He handed me a piece of paper that read, “Call home.” In five years, I’d never had a message waiting for me to call home. He handed me a phone and I dialed. My stepsister Lisa answered.
“Bubba?”
“Yeah, Lisa…what’s up?”
“Dad and your mom were in a wreck this morning. Dad is dead. Your mom is dying in surgery right now. Please come home.”
At the conclusion of her sentence, something in me changed dramatically; I’d only thought that I hated God before this moment, because right now, this is a declaration of WAR!!! I hung up and thought, “I’m nine hours away.” I called two friends and left messages on their answering machines begging them to please go to the hospital and tell my mom how much I dearly loved her in case I didn’t get there in time.
I walked back outside trying to convince myself that I could do the show and then tell the guys what had happened. I made it to the alley, my legs quit functioning correctly, and I was sitting with my hands covering my face screaming, “NO!”
The entire band was there staring, yelling, “What’s wrong? What just happened?” I told them. The equipment was loaded back in the trailer at record speed, and for the next nine hours I popped valium pills like they were Skittles. We stopped at every rest stop and I called the hospital.
We arrived at 3 a.m. My family members told me what happened. Mom and Larry were driving to work when two young guys were racing in oncoming traffic. One of them lost control, jumped the median, and hit our family’s van head on doing over 90 miles per hour. A man jumped into the van to see if anyone had survived. Larry had been thrown into the floorboard and his eyes were beginning to fade. Mom was crushed into the steering wheel, her face completely disfigured, the teeth and upper plate of her mouth crushed, ribs broken, lung punctured, her right leg shattered from her hip to her ankle, with her femur pointing out of her leg toward the van’s dash. They warned me before I asked to see her.
“You cannot freak out.”
“I won’t.”
A nurse escorted me down the ICU hall to a door and motioned me in. I entered the room.
What I saw was a swollen, broken, grotesque stranger whose face and head was huge and abnormally twisted and contorted. “IDIOT,” I thought, this isn’t my mom. I was embarrassed for seeing someone I didn’t even know in such a state. I ran back outside and grabbed his arm.
“No, I asked to see Mrs. Adrian.”
He looked at me and exhaled slowly, before he said, “That is Mrs. Adrian.”
I walked back in, and needed only to look at her eyes. This is my mom. You cruel, apathetic, powerless Holy Being…how could you allow this to happen to her? In your sovereignty, you were too busy to even put your finger between the vehicle of a husband and wife commuting to work and a mindless, reckless, irresponsible teenager racing? You …
I sat there most of that evening holding her hand while she slept.
The next morning I read the name of the 19 year old guy who’d caused this – Brian. I also read the location of the hospital where he’d been CareFlighted…
Payback just left the ICU waiting area and is on his way across town, breaking multiple traffic laws in route. Insane to think I was about to commit an act that would send me to prison – smiling the whole time. I wanted to look him in the eyes. I wanted him to know who I was. I wanted him to know the true depth and full consequences of what he’d stolen from me. I wanted him to flinch as I spit in his face. I wanted my face to be the last thing he saw as I broke his neck. Essentially, I wanted him to act as proxy for God.
I stepped off of the elevator, walked into the ICU waiting area and asked,” Are any of Brian’s family members here?”
A large group of people turned and began walking toward me. A man, in his mid-40s said, “I’m Brian’s dad.”
I moved within arm’s reach, looked him dead in the eyes and said, “I’m Larry Adrian’s son.”
What happened next, I can’t explain. I was a man on a mission with a clear purpose, but even my intent, God stole.
He rushed toward me and locked him arms around me…pressed his face into the side of my neck, crying so uncontrollably that he was shaking, and began whispering directly into my ear, “I am so sorry. I am so very sorry.”
Then, just like Balaam’s ass, it happened. This “beast” opened his mouth and performed an unnatural act.
I said, “I’m sorry too…I pray that your son lives.”
What?!? Sweet mother of Frankenstein, what the #$@^%! Just came out of my mouth?!?
I’ve taken no acid today, so I can’t even feign this as a hallucination. This isn’t right at all…this isn’t why I’m here. This guy raised the kid that unintentionally murdered my stepdad!! Now, I’m crying, shaking, completely emotionally vulnerable, and he is consoling me. He is giving me the hug that I’d always wanted from Larry, but he was never physically able to deliver.
I told them that no one held them responsible…that we forgave Brian. I met his mom, his fiancée, friends, and was told that Brian had lost an arm in the wreck. He was fighting for his life. A few days later he passed away.
I returned to my family and told them what I’d done. Several of them were furious! But, I knew…I just knew… if it were me being prepared for burial, Larry would’ve done it. Inconvenience to others and all, he would have forgiven them for me. He would have wheeled down the same hall and released the same measure of mercy and grace. Without a doubt, I know it.
In the face of being truly victimized, even in that moment of being able to justify every bruise I intended, when the moment came to deliver, my Spirit was steadfast to what Brian’s family needed desperately to hear.
They sent flowers to Larry’s funeral.
And my ongoing tribute to Larry is heard every time I sing the second verse of “Even The Sunshine Needs A Little Rain”:
Take me where my other Daddy lies
I’ll close my eyes and see him dancing in the ‘sweet by and by’
Trapped in his body for too many years
Now he runs with angels far away from here
Although I never said it, by me he was loved
Now the windows of Heaven open and pour out blessings from above
Long after he’s gone, his inspiration remains
I know even the sunshine needs a little rain
Even the sunshine needs a little rain
And still the “circus” continues.
Except now I’m seeing and participating from such a different perspective. I’m no longer a lion feeding and rejoicing with every moment of failure and defeat the body of Christ experiences. No, now I’m a ringmaster, charging headlong into bar after bar, where I once stood and blasphemed God, and unashamedly singing, “Jesus is Lord!” I’ve watched women dance at the front of the stage as if they were auditioning for the Howard Stern Show, and it isn’t visually erotic – it’s sad.
Yet, I know fully just what the world’s stereotypical expectation of my Christian theist worldview is – Christians are known more for what they oppose than for what we are supposed to represent as ambassadors of Christ. Given all the elements present in this setting, the belief is that I should instantly react with screams of condemnation and judgment. Sadly, and far too often, this expectation is provided.
However, rather than responding in the flesh, I’m heartbroken and moved with compassion to pray that this daughter of someone somewhere would understand that she is settling for an “Ishmael,” that she repents, and holds faithful until her “Isaac” arrives as promised.
I’ve listened to drunks, fornicators, drug addicts, atheists, adulterers, homosexuals, thieves, prostitutes, and I’ve seen the look in each eye when the “circus” they expected from me never manifested. I’ve prayed for them, and most often they cry.
Yes, the “circus” is alive and well, and it is at the very core of our blessed Christian character. It is precisely this element of indwelling righteousness within a sinful shell which the Lord uses to set us apart in a surrounding that views and labels us all as “freaks.” It is all the fabric of our being that is misunderstood, that still governs each in their hubris to ask, “How do these people stand so firm?” That is precisely the “circus” that I so long ago didn’t understand.
Now, I find myself rejoicing when I’ve driven six hours to perform, and only one person responds. Because, daily, I consider it such an incredible privilege for the Lord to allow me…ME…to be even a small part of His immeasurable gift of love to His children.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the greatest show on Earth.”
