THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1997, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, February 23, 1997 TAG: 9702220063
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY DIANE TENNANT, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: 132 lines
THE PARABLE of the flying trapeze is one of Father David Tetrault's favorites.
It's all about learning to let go, and being confident that someone will be there to catch you.
You might not hear it in church, but it's one of those things that a circus chaplain learns on the job. Tetrault, an Episcopal priest from Williamsburg, is an avid pupil of all that Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey has to teach.
Oh, and Jesus, too, of course.
``The circus tells people all kinds of things about themselves,'' Tetrault said. ``It talks about relationships that otherwise wouldn't exist. Jesus told stories about that, where everything was kind of upside down.''
Tetrault's own world turned upside down three years ago, when the presiding bishop of the Episcopal church appointed him to minister to the circus in a part-time, volunteer position. Bruton Parish, then Tetrault's base, agreed to support him.
It was the culmination of a dream that began in the 1940s, when Tetrault's father took him to see his first circus. ``I'm a circus junkie,'' the priest said. ``There's no bad circus. There's only no circus.''
Tetrault's license plate reads ``Big Show,'' the nickname for Ringling Brothers, and his e-mail address begins with ``big show rev.'' He's got the circus bug, bad.
Tetrault and Father Jerry Hogan, a Catholic priest from the archdiocese of Boston, share ministerial duties, traveling to meet the circus wherever it performs. They celebrate Mass, perform weddings and listen.
``Father Hogan and I are the healers, the ritual makers for the circus community,'' Tetrault said. ``We do the marrying and the burying.''
The hundreds of people who travel with the show often need a sympathetic ear. Many have left parents or family behind, and they're worried, the priest said. The circus can be dangerous work, and hard work at that, with non-stop performances and a different town each week. Tetrault is there to listen, to make phone calls home, to give spiritual guidance.
In Norfolk's Scope on Wednesday night, Tetrault wandered the show floor while the clowns warmed up the crowd. Many of the performers waved at him, and some even left the ring to speak to him. Some seem to feel more comfortable with a chaplain on the floor, Tetrault said.
He inquired after their spouses and children, their health. A virus rampaged through the circus last week, and Tetrault drove many of the performers to an urgent care center in the middle of the night. And on top of that, one of the sea lions had a cold, too, and couldn't perform.
Tetrault checked on them all as he made his rounds in Scope. ``This is all about little stuff, stuff that doesn't make a difference to anyone outside,'' Tetrault said of his ministry as a clown called, ``Thank you, Father,'' and went back to work. ``They feel a little safer, I think.''
Tetrault was not on the floor Feb. 11 in Richmond, when a high-wire artist was seriously injured in a 30-foot fall. Just that morning, the priest had been talking excitedly about that act, looking forward to seeing it again. ``It's just breathtaking,'' Tetrault had said, just hours before the accident. ``I get so scared watching it. People have died doing that.''
Tetrault visits the high-wire artist in the hospital. A concession worker in Scope called the priest over to ask about the performer's condition.
``The thing that binds the circus is it's a place where people risk their lives every single day,'' Tetrault said. ``They don't know when they go out whether they'll all come back.''
The parable of the high wire is about braving hazards while traveling from one safe place to another, he said. The parable of the juggler is about learning to handle one thing at a time. And the clowns? They're always changing their act, stretching the limits to see what's possible.
As if to illustrate Tetrault's point, one clown took a push broom from a ringside worker and balanced it with the tip of the handle on his forehead.
``See? They're seeing what's possible,'' Tetrault exclaimed. ``I would push the broom, because that's what I've been taught to do. Jesus talks about that in a hundred different ways, asking people to look at themselves and see what's possible.''
Between shows, Tetrault works his day job, developing a ministry for Williamsburg's growing retirement community. He left Bruton Parish in December to spend most of his time on that project. It's a new concept for churches, taking the ministry to the retirees, he said. ``Obviously, I'm not mainstream anymore,'' Tetrault said. ``If the church has a creative edge, I think I live on it.''
Still, he turned down an opportunity to don a gorilla suit and join the circus parade once. Circus performers, he explained, have a physical intellect that allows their bodies to perform incredible feats without thinking about how they do it. Being a gorilla required such unconscious performance, such ability to see what was possible, that the cerebral, analytical Tetrault declined.
``That's their profession,'' he said. ``My profession is quite different.''
He is happy to celebrate Mass between weekend shows, setting up wherever he can find space, ministering wherever he runs into people. ``You do what you do where you can do it,'' he said, ``like Jesus did.''
Tetrault loves watching the faces of children in the crowd, especially during the ``Circus Adventure'' pre-show activities when the audience can go into the rings to try out a flier's safety harness, balance on a ball, pet the animals, talk to the performers.
``The circus is a public ritual where people come to watch other people wrestle with their deepest fears or compete with themselves,'' he said. ``There's something I recognize in the show. It's everything they wish they could be: beauty, strength and courage.''
Once Tetrault's two teen-age daughters have grown and left home, he plans to spend more time with the circus, crossing the country on the circus train instead of just dropping in on shows now and then. For now, when he's not with the show, he has to content himself with wearing his Ringling Brothers jacket with ``Father David'' embroidered on the breast, and pulling out his pocket circus.
It's a wallet-size piece of laminated plastic, made by one of the circus costumers. It contains a piece of buffalo fur, a tail hair from an elephant, a tiger's whisker, spangles and sawdust.
``These are all the best-luck things you can get at the circus,'' Tetrault explained. ``I keep going back. I can't get enough of it.''
Tetrault never tires of seeing the show, basically because it changes every night. It is, he believes, a metaphor for life. ``One of the things I like to do is just appreciate what they do,'' he said, watching the clowns. ``Everybody does something different each night to make the show what it is. Once you see deeply into what's going on, you can watch forever.''
The priest even admires the intricate network of lights, speakers, trapezes and high wires far above the circus floor, and the riggers who set up the show. He admits to a lump in his throat when the curtain opens.
The circus parade went by, just inches from where the priest stood. Tetrault waved and gave thumbs up, and the performers called back to him. Elephants went by, and white horses with purple plumes, glittering dancers, acrobats. The spotlights flashed and the band played on.
Tetrault fingered the circus identification card that hangs around his neck. ``I put this on three years ago and realized that when I walk into the circus, I never have to leave,'' he said. ``It's magic. It's just magic.'' ILLUSTRATION: Color photo by Bill Tiernan/The Virginian-Pilot
{Father David Tetrault..]
For complete copy, see microfilm
Photo by BILL TIERNAN/The Virginian-Pilot
Father David Tetrault waves to a performer from the shadows of Scope
as the night's performance begins.