As the final hymn faded on Epiphany Sunday this year, I walked to the center aisle to give my benediction, which included a rescripted magic trick by Dan Harlan called “Starcle.” I spoke of the “star words” they all held in their hands, took out a paper napkin, and showed both sides, stating, “Each of us has a clean slate for our year to come, and we all have the choice of what will be the guiding words in our lives.”
I began to fold the napkin
“We could take our clean slate and twist and turn it, trying to make it go how we want for ourselves rather than what God would want from us,” I said. “And if we do it enough, we can tear out that which God gave us as a guiding light.”
I tore one tear through the napkin’s folds. “But even when we do, the loving hand of God holds on to that which we discard.”
I asked one of the most trustworthy members of the congregation to rip off the piece I had begun to tear, asking her to hold on to it.
“But once we make what we think is a clean tear to get what we want, it can leave us with a nice round gaping hole in our lives.” I opened the piece of napkin and revealed that a circle had been torn out of the center. I looked through the space in the napkin.
“And we pour everything our world will offer us into it … then it all begins to collapse.”
I balled up the napkin in my hand, holding it and tossing it back and forth. Then, I held it tight and opened my hand.
“Until it all just fades away, no longer sustaining us.”
I revealed my empty hand
“But God hasn’t given up on us, and God still keeps offering us signs of hope, and if we would just look to see what that sign might be” – I took the scrap back from the loving hand of God (the trusted parishioner) and began to open it – “we will see that it can still guide us to who God calls us to be.” The scrap from the round hole opened up in the shape of a star.
There were a few sniffles, one gasp — and an engineer waiting to ask how I did that once the postlude finished.
Memories of core magical moments flooded my mind.
What just happened?
There was a magic shop in my hometown of Huntington, West Virginia, where kids could have birthday parties. I attended one party, and my love for magic was born. Over time, I evolved from just a fan into a budding performer. My father taught me the only magic trick he knew, and that was my first trick as a magician. I perfected and customized that first trick and started trading with other magician friends who knew a rudimentary trick or two. In my 20s, I began exploring books, spending time in magic shops, and even getting involved with a local magic club to learn and network. Through this group, I had opportunities to perform occasionally.
I wasn’t a master card manipulator, as others in my group were, but I had a flair for patter — spouting magical dialogue and selling the moment. It might also have helped that I was a morning show DJ, and my local pull helped us get bookings. Whether a room filled with people eager to be entertained or someone was just curious about what I was doing shuffling a deck of cards while alone, always enjoyed seeing people’s faces light up with the wonder of “What just happened?” after a trick.
Then I received my call to ministry and journeyed from Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary to Georgia and Pennsylvania, finally landing with my family in Ohio. Occasionally, I tossed in a trick for a children’s sermon. I once made a large wooden block vanish on Easter morning to demonstrate the surprise of discovering the empty tomb. I found magic to be a good icebreaker on mission trips, and I once made a piece of communion bread disappear from an elder’s plate. I’m not sure I would repeat that trick today, but at the time, all the wide eyes of the congregation were worth it.
Professional ministry left me less time to devote to honing my magic skills, but I tried not to let them atrophy. However, about 10 years ago, we had a significant rainstorm in Dayton, Ohio, where I currently serve at Central Presbyterian Church. Our storage shed leaked, and a crack in a plastic tub caused me to lose hundreds of dollars in tricks, cards and magic materials. I salvaged a few items but lost much of the hobby’s joy when some of my favorite tricks were ruined.
Two years ago, I began running into magic all over again in various scenarios in my life. While attending a Pop Culture Con with my family, we stumbled upon a performance by Nick Lecapo. I didn’t realize until much later just how well-known a magician he was. Then, my wife and I went to see Mac King in Vegas, and I once again felt like a kid awed by what I was experiencing. In 2024, we saw Kyle Marlett on our 20th-anniversary Alaskan cruise. Little by little, my love for the art of magic rekindled.
I started listening to magic podcasters like Erik Tait and watching Instagram shorts of Carisa Hendrix. (If you are interested in magic, look up these names.) I reread the magic books that had survived the flood and ventured into the garage to assess my salvaged tricks to see what could still be used.
Much more than I remembered was in decent shape. I bought some new tricks, since a lot of innovation had taken place after 20 years. I worked to knock the rust off my old skills and develop some new ones.
But much like with Bible study, I found that simply sitting at my desk practicing moves and watching tutorials only went so far. Just as Scripture comes alive when we gather and share it, so does practicing shuffles and cuts. I had been talking to another pastor in my presbytery, Marc Van Bulck, who also has a passion for performing magic. We shared some thoughts and spoke about performers we enjoyed. Eventually, I got up the nerve one night to attend a meeting of the local International Brotherhood of Magicians club in Dayton, Ohio (Ring 5). As I walked into that room of magicians, who all knew each other, I remembered what it felt like for someone to walk into a church, cold, for the first time. In my mind, I felt judged — I felt I was being eyed as an outsider, and sized up as to whether or not I belonged there or was good enough. All of this fear, of course, wasn’t the case.
After a few minutes, I was approached and asked my name for the roll. I was hoping, at that moment, they would not ask what I did for a living. For that night, I just wanted to be someone who loved magic.
I needed a space to not talk theology, give my thoughts on the latest Discovery Channel special on the Shroud of Turin or have someone awkwardly tell me that they would undoubtedly be in church for Christmas Eve. Once the meeting started, visitors were asked to identify themselves and explain how they ended up there. From there, I recounted the story I shared in this article. When I mentioned the loss of my tricks in the flood, some of them winced in pain. Many engaged with me later, and I was invited to the hangout after the meeting.
That invitation certainly made me feel included. They all shared their stories of magic, how they got started, who was a hobbyist, and who was a semipro or working pro magician in the group. They shared the tricks or techniques they were working on, thoughts on various well-known magicians and other places where I could get more instruction and techniques to work on.
My fire for magic was well-lit. I dove deeper into books and performed tricks more casually for folks in my daily life. I started ensuring I always had a few things with me in case a chance to practice or share a trick with someone presented itself. For our church’s trunk-or-treat, I set up a magic shop and spent two hours performing tricks for the kids and parents who came by while we gave out candy. A few folks actually screamed in delight over some of the tricks. My daughter also enjoyed performing tricks I had taught her. I did the same on my front porch for trick-or-treating. I’ve begun to slip the occasional trick into my benedictions and have performed for folks around the table at church dinners.
Reflecting on this new phase in my hobby, I’ve noticed a difference between when I performed tricks in my 20s and when I perform them today. In my 20s, I saw it as a game pitting me against the audience. I was there to fool them and try to trick them. One magician I worked with in my younger years often joked when we practiced together — “Ha, you’re stupid!” he’d say at the moment of prestige, or conclusion, of the trick. If I’m honest, sometimes I made the joke as well. But this go-around, I feel something different in how I perform and share moments of joy in magic.
Magician Paul Harris’s Art of Astonishment, Volume 2, includes a conversation about inviting someone into a moment of wonder, or what I call joy: the idea that, for the briefest of moments, we are allowing someone to be part of something outside what they know in their day-to-day life. We’re not presenting a puzzle for them to take apart to discover how it works — we’re inviting them just to enjoy the possibility that maybe there are things they don’t know or fully understand. In that moment of exploration, we can simply take joy in it together.
I’ve noticed that my magic aligns more with my theology, teaching and preaching: exploring the possibilities of what can be, inviting folks in to ask more questions. When I perform a trick for someone, I try to allow them a moment to be an equal participant with me, telling them that their help enables the moment to happen. I choose tricks where the magic happens in their hands or under their control. I still remind them that it was a trick and that I have practiced for a long time to do whatever they saw. But I also remind them that the moment was just as much about their presence as mine — and if I were just doing what I did alone, I wouldn’t have as much joy.
This reawakening of an old joy has caused me to look at other areas of my life and ministry in a new light. How often do we try to create an adversarial situation? In our calls or ministry service, how often do we try to win and see ourselves as separate from those around us rather than being part of something bigger — something in which we participate but others can have a part to play if we invite them? How often do we look at the world and try to force it to be what we think it ought to be rather than asking how the Holy Spirit is inviting us into moments of mystery and wonder? By being open to the mystery of the moment, we can allow the Holy Spirit to take us in directions we don’t expect.
When I think of joy, I think of how it is best shared. Whether I have joy in my faith in the mystery of performing, a God moment of faith, or a trick in my pocket, joy won’t reach its full potential unless it is shared.
I hung out after my third meeting of Ring 5 (which I have now officially joined as a member, as well as joining at the national level), and somebody asked what I do for a living. Answering this doesn’t always go well. I wasn’t about to lie, but I still braced myself for what might happen. My answer was followed by a few faith questions and some discussion, but soon enough, we got back to the topic of magic. One person asked whether I use magic in my preaching. When I shared some examples, he gave me some more ideas. By opening myself to what might be – just as I have been trying to do with my magic and ministry – and by not trying to force my relationship with this group to be how I envisioned, I experienced a holy little God moment in the middle of a night of cool beverages and discussions about magic conventions and what was in our “everyday carries,” the items we keep with us in case the opportunity arises to perform a magic trick.
So, when I think of joy, I think of how it is best shared. Whether I have joy in my faith in the mystery of performing, a God moment of faith, or a trick in my pocket, joy won’t reach its full potential unless it is shared. If our paths should cross and you’d like to share with me the joy of how God has surprised me lately or the joy of the tricks I’m working on, know that I’d love to share, too.
