A funny thing happened on the way to the church. Though if truth be told it was actually on my way back home. And when I say it was a funny thing, I mean a funny thought. Or rather a thought on what place being funny has in an all too sad world. And what my theology of laughter might be. All of which cannot be remotely considered a snappy one-liner.
Then again, being funny is, I suspect, a serious business.
So what place, if any, does humour have in the Christian’s life? Because let’s face it, whilst it does always make me smile when a rather sarcastic Elijah suggests to the prophets of Baal that the reason their god isn’t answering their prayers is because he’s nipped off to the loo [1 Kings 18:27], it’s not as though the Bible is full of jokes.
That said, it is full of irony, wordplay and satire. And Ecclesiastes 3:4 tells us that there is a time to laugh. And if there is a time to laugh, then there must, on occasions at least, surely be a place for jokes.
And that shouldn’t surprise us. Because whilst humour can be misplaced, whilst it can be both crude and cruel [Ephesians 5:4], so too can all good things be misused – like, for example, the last chocolate caramel in a packet of Rolos which, in the hands, or perhaps stomach, of a glutton won’t be shared with anyone – whether they love them or not.
All of which means that a good laugh with friends can be considered just as much a gracious and God-given gift as a beautiful sunset, a warm summer’s day, or a romantic meal with one’s nearest and dearest even if, need I spell it out, ‘Alphabetti Spaghetti’ is on the menu.
But having said all that, is it really appropriate to tell jokes when there is so much going on in the world that simply isn’t funny?
Well, I for one think there is.
A year or so ago I was talking to a lady who had just enjoyed a light-hearted evening in the company of friends. And this despite the fact that her husband had a rapidly advancing form of dementia and she herself suffered from an incapacitating neurological condition. It was the first time she’d had a good laugh for years and, she said, she felt better for it.
It would seem then that, for her at least, laughter was not only enjoyable, but beneficial. Which is not to suggest it’s obligatory to always find a joke funny – sometimes sadness is just too raw for that. But just as a painkiller can ease suffering without curing its underlying cause, so a moment of happiness can bring some, albeit short-lived, relief from sadness without changing the circumstances that caused it.
It is then possible for us to do good to people even when we aren’t able to solve their problems, when we aren’t able to help them in the ways that we, or they, might like. And whilst we are undoubtedly called sometimes to weep with those who weep, offering our unhappy friend the opportunity to laugh might well be both welcomed and, in and of itself, worthwhile.
Because the truth is that we don’t need to wait until there is nothing that causes us to be sad before we allow ourselves to be happy – and just because we have things that make us happy, it doesn’t mean that we can’t also be sad. Life isn’t that simple. It’s not that black and white – more often it’s a kaleidoscope of grey.
Furthermore, whilst Ecclesiastes 3:4 tells us that there is also a time to weep, it seems to me that rather than insensitively telling someone who is sad to cheer up, it would be kinder, more loving even, to try to give them something that might enable them to smile – even if it is only for a moment.
And so perhaps it is those who are most burdened by grief who, when they are ready to be so helped, may benefit most from a sensitive friend – someone who knows not to pour vinegar on an open wound [Proverbs 25:20], but is willing to go to the sometimes not inconsiderable effort of finding something that might just make them smile and so, temporarily at least, turn their mourning into laughter.
But more than simply providing a brief respite from sadness, communal laughter can bring people together, in much the same way music can. And that brings me to Leonard Cohen, the singer-songwriter who, on account of his somewhat mournful songs, was known as the godfather of gloom and whose music, I kid you not, I rather like.
He was asked once why most of his melodies majored on the minor – why his tunes were so melancholy. His answer was insightful.
‘We all love a sad song’, he said. ‘Everybody has experienced the defeat of their lives…and when it’s presented to us sweetly, the feeling moves from heart to heart and we feel less isolated as we feel a part of the great human chain…involved with the recognition of defeat’.
And so I wonder if something similar happens when we laugh together.
Might it be, perhaps, that by smiling at what we share in finding amusing, and laughing at what we all recognise as ridiculous, we can feel less alone in our sadness, simply because, despite our different sadnesses, we are able to enjoy something funny together?
If so, laughter may be part of the ‘good medicine’ spoken of in Proverbs 17:22, where a joyful heart is contrasted with a crushed spirit that dries up the bones. Which suggests that instead of miserably wondering why the devil should have all the good jokes, we should instead be going about the joyous task of enjoying humour as the God-given gift it really is.
And even when we’ve been crying so much that the face recognition software on our phones doesn’t recognise us, we may still find ourselves laughing despite our sadness, perhaps even defiantly on occasions.
And so we wait for the long night of weeping to give way at last to the day when God will wipe away every tear and all that makes us sad will forever be a thing of the past. [Revelation 21:4]
