I attended my first rodeo last Friday and had a fantastic time—thanks to the fine people of Grand River, Iowa (and a friend who absolutely loves horses). I’m convinced nothing says “America” like the cowboy experience: manhandling cattle, racing horses, goofy-looking hats, and riding very angry ton-sized bulls.

We’re certainly not the first society to tango with bulls, but I bet we’re pioneers of the idea of riding a bucking one for entertainment and sport. We even have angering bulls down to a science with methods I will not describe lest PETA or small children happen to read this.

I watched with mingled fascination and horror as each rider clung on for a matter of seconds, only to be thrown down to the mercy of pounding hooves and horns. What for? Pride, glory, honor? All I could think of was Proverbs 16:18 and my own glory-seeking. How many times have I thought I could handle sin, only to get bucked off into a face full of mud?

Sometimes sin can be deceptive, but other times it’s blatantly obvious and there are clear warning signs to stay away. It doesn’t take much common sense to figure out when a bull is mad. It takes less to run in the opposite direction. If those cowboys thought the same thing, I have to wonder how much pain they’d save themselves.