Should we be laughing right now?

Comedy is an invitation to hear the echoes of hope.

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

Some of the themes that are referenced below are developed further in Chapter 1 of my book, Finding God in the Darkness: Hopeful Reflections from the Pits of Depression, Despair, and Disappointment. Grab your copy today!

It is a harsh reality, but true nonetheless, it seems, that the majority of the most famous artists and celebrities have had to walk through searing tragedy to get to where they are, comedians included. In fact, it has almost become a rite of passage for stand-up comedians to trudge through some of the bleakest doldrums of life before breaking into the upper echelon of the comedy circuit. This is more than just circumstantial or anecdotal. There is something palpable about laughing in the darkness, perhaps even at the darkness. Famed British novelist and poet Thomas Hardy agreed, writing in one of his letters that “All comedy is tragedy if you only look deep enough into it” (190). Lest you think that this is an obscure or nihilistic perspective on comedy, I invite you to read James Parker’s piece for The Atlantic, “Comedians Only Care About Comedy,” in which he probes some of the recent tropes in the world of comedy to answer the question, What is comedy for? What is it that comedy is supposed to do, exactly?

This isn’t an esoteric discussion. It’s no secret that comedy, as an art form, has been in a state of flux for several years. Theatrically released comedies are rare finds nowadays. Depending on who you talk to, romantic comedies (romcoms) have all but gone the way of the dodo, with newer releases representing a shaky box office investment at best. And yet, by the same token, Netflix is investing tons and tons of cash to buy the rights to seemingly every stand-up special ever taped. Comedy that lives online, though, is even more fluid, with platforms like Instagram and TikTok making short-form sketches or snippets from longer specials one of the easiest ways to garner a following. Matt Rife, social media’s latest comedy darling, has even publicly stated that if not for one of his clips going viral, he would have quit comedy altogether. Long story short, he didn’t, and Netflix just released his first one-hour special.

There are a slew of culprits on whom we could lay the blame for the modern instability and unsustainability of comedy as an artistic genre; societal polarization and the incessant lobbying for political correctness are, perhaps, chief among them. But setting that conversation aside for the moment, the question Parker poses in his Atlantic piece still needs to be answered. What is comedy for? Is comedy still viable in a world like ours? Or as Bo Burnham put it, “Should I be joking at a time like this?” For what it’s worth, Parker ends up siding on the positive; that yes, comedy is meant for times such as these. “Comedy goes where the pain is,” he concludes, “yours, mine, the comedian’s, the world’s — straight to it, because that’s where the laughs are; because the laughs are pain, transmuted. Simple as that.”

Perhaps Bob Newhart was on to something when he once quipped in a 1962 interview with the Associated Press that “Comedy is tragedy plus time.” Comedy, then, is not necessarily an escape from tragedy, as is often thought, but, in fact, necessitates tragedy in order to work, in order to be effective. In “The Saving Power of Comedy,” Sam Bush engages with this same essay from Parker in The Atlantic, but, as usual, adds his incisive theological flair which brings to bear the profundity of the good news that tells us that, among other things, we who are in Christ are given the freedom to “laugh in the face of death.” Sam writes:

Humor is born out of some kind of social violation that, while it appears threatening, is not actually harmful. Should Charlie Chaplin walk down a flight of stairs, we would hardly raise an eyebrow (no violation). Nor would we laugh if he were to fall down a flight of stairs and suffer a severe head wound (malign violation). But if he were to acrobatically fall down a flight of stairs, head over heels, arms flailing, eyes popping out of his head, and then somehow walk away unscathed, we would roar with laughter. He creates tension by falling down the stairs, but then releases that tension after we realize there is no serious threat to his well being.

The theological parallels are striking. Why can we as Christians laugh in the face of death? Because death is a threat that has been made benign through the resurrection of Jesus. Even at the grave we make our song because death has no power over us anymore. What once was our complete undoing is now a standard-issue pie in the face.  Likewise, why can we laugh at our own insecurities, fears, moodiness, and mistakes? Because sin no longer threatens our standing with God. What was formerly a violation to our salvation has since been made completely benign through the blood of Christ. As Paul writes in Romans 6, “The death he died, he died to sin once for all.” If sin is dead we can all have a good laugh as if the wicked witch herself had just melted into a puddle.

Comedy is a resonating force because it takes social threats and/or violations and defangs them. The danger in them is made benign, which, as it happens, is precisely what God in Christ did when he died and rose again, thereby taking all the sting out of death (1 Cor. 15:54–56). What’s more hilarious than the devil thinking he’d won only to find out that the rug had been pulled out from under him three days later? The passion and resurrection of Jesus leaves our adversary exposed as an utter stooge, resulting in the raucous laughter of the redeemed. The comedy of the gospel, you see, is found in the impossible being made true — in the threat of sin and death being made remedied in and through the resurrection. What is comedy for? What is the gospel for? It is a relieving word of hope for those who are hopeless. As Sammy Rhodes says in his book, This Is Awkward, “If you listen closely enough to laughter, you can hear the echoes of hope” (81).

Grace and peace to you, my friends. I pray you have a good laugh today.

Works cited:

Michael Millgate and Richard Little Purdy, editors, The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy: 1840–1892 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1978), 190.

Sammy Rhodes, This Is Awkward: How Life’s Uncomfortable Moments Open the Door to Intimacy and Connection (Nashville, TN: Thomas Nelson, 2016).