Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts

Monday, August 25, 2008

Book Review: Jesus Laughed

It's tough to be funny. It's even tougher to be funny on paper, and to have that printed comedy survive round after round of editorial review and revision, and to have that printed comedy consistently serve a single thesis. And it's especially tough to be funny when writing a book about how being funny relates to the salvation of the world.

Robert Darden is a funny guy. And he's a tough guy: tough enough to take on just that challenge in his new book Jesus Laughed, published by Abingdon Press.

Full disclosure: I requested a copy of Jesus Laughed to review after the publisher made an open offer to bloggers. I requested it because (a) I enjoy reading about the idea of humor and (2) Darden endorsed both my books, and I wanted to return the favor. This is not an endorsement, however; this is a review, so I'm hoping you'll get the sense of this book--both its achievements and its shortcomings--and go on to support not only the author but the enterprise of reinvigorating the humor of the church.

One further advance confession: I'm an editor by trade, and so my review may be a wee bit wonkish from time to time. I'll be reviewing not only the writing, not only the ideas, but the way the book is organized. I apologize if that becomes laborious; please don't punish the author for the reviewer's peccadilloes.

I've not met Robert Darden, senior editor of the groundbreaking religious satire magazine The Wittenburg Door and professor of journalism at Baylor University in Texas. I imagine, however, that he writes like he talks. This book felt to me like a brisk walk through the multi-storied skyscraper I imagine the Wittenburg Door offices to be. I strain to keep in step as his monologue is punctuated with the dings of elevators and the screeches of photocopier paper jams. As each cubicle and conference room along this power-walk elicits a new thought, I realize that Darden is a busy man, and Jesus Laughed is an interruption in his busy day.

It's an interruption, but a manageable one. Darden's theology of humor is thoroughly integrated into his life: born out of his work and shaped by his ecclesiology and his interpretation of the history of the church. The church and its people have regularly done things that are laughable, sometimes bitterly so, and the Door and its editorial staff have done the church a service in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries to confront its earnestness, its selective memory, its conceit. The title Jesus Laughed suggests that this book will prove Jesus' sense of humor and, by extrapolation, God's sense of humor. But the book's real argument is only barely hinted at in the subtitle--"The Redemptive Power of Humor"--and better captured by the title of chapter five, a quotation from Friedrich Nietzsche: "The redeemed ought to look more like it!"

There's a lot to work through before chapter five, however. The Bible is not as funny as Darden wants his readers to acknowledge--at least not as knee-slappingly, deep-breathingly, tear-jerkingly funny. Regardless of how amusing a particular scene from the Bible might be once we step away from it and think about it, in the momemt the Bible rarely causes a person to laugh. It's not surprising, given the way we read the Scriptures, that people have to be reminded that there's humor in it. The Bible is not a collection of Henny Youngman one-liners but a long, long, long story--a slow-cooked joke, like Arlo Guthrie's "Alice's Restaurant" or Andy Griffith's "What It Was, Was Football." I struggled my way through two chapters that function as a concordance of laughter in the Old and New Testaments; had I been the editor, these would have been one digested appendix.

That sounds gross--I apologize. What I meant was that these are two chapters of references with commentary and as such belong in a reference section, not in the discursive flow of the book. Besides, they're beside the point. The point of the book is that people need to be instructed to find the Bible funny because it's not written with the comedic principles we've come to expect. There's one punchline to the Bible--death put to death, the world in a wedding dress--and the incidental humor that appears along the way from "In the beginning" to "Amen; come Lord Jesus" is just that: incidental, tightly knit into its context.

Darden shines in his historical theology (chapters four through six) and his ethics of humor (chapters one and seven). Here, amid a shocking breadth of quoted material, we see the character of Christianity losing its laughter and taking on a sobriety, a severity, that seeds the clouds for a humanist backlash. I'm reminded of the scene in this summer's The Dark Knight, in which the disturbingly tragicomic Joker confronts the humorless Batman: "Why so serious?" Did the latter create the former? Did the church's neglect of the humor of God create the nihilistic ribaldry that passes for humor today? It's hard to say, but Batman acknowledges in the film that his city needs more light and less dark, and Darden ably defends the notion that the church needs to recapture a sense of humor that leans into Julian of Norwich's maxim: "All will be well, all will be well."

That's where the ethic of humor comes in. Darden isn't arguing for the church to be less holy in its effort to be more humorous; he's actually arguing that we emulate the humor of God. God's humor is not abusive, and so our humor should not be directed down toward the vulnerable other but toward the cult of power both above and within each of us. Good humor confronts ego and confesses finiteness. Here's a sample quote that shows Darden's wisdom on the matter:

Just as there is no limit to what can get done in a community when nobody cares who gets the credit, there is no limit to the joy you can spread if you are totally without ego. . . . If, like the tumbler or jester, you'll do or say anything without regard to making yourself look good or justified, then there is no limit to the happiness you can spread. (p. 71)


God's humor turns someone like Sarai's bitter laughter into the joy of Isaac, allows bitter Naomi to laugh at the days to come, turns mourning into dancing. God's humor is itself humorous because it's absurd in the way that miracles are absurd. When we consider humor a function of a redeemed ego, we find a new voice with which to share good news with the world, and we find new hope in the audacious yet common-sensical notion that Jesus, fully human and fully God, might have occasionally laughed.

Saturday, May 03, 2008

Bears Don't Dance

I'm the MC at my church's weekly Alpha course, which means that every week I have to come up with a joke to fulfill the course's commitment to humor (ALPHA is an acronym; L = Laughter) and to build a sense of community by creating shared memories for all the participants. Usually, I don't mind telling you, the jokes are lame--the kind of jokes you've been e-mailed a million times by the same person, the kind of jokes that you can tell in church without blushing. I've compensated for the default lameness of the Alpha humor at my disposal by searching for an overarching theme, by which we chuckle and chortle our way through the eleven week course.

This time around, quite by accident, a potential theme revealed itself: the dancing bear. In my absence my pastor showed a video in which the viewer is instructed to count the number of times four people in white shirts pass a basketball between them, without confusing the "white shirt" team with the four people in black shirts doing the same thing. Halfway through the video a question pops onto the screen: "Did you notice the dancing bear?" Rewind and suddenly everyone sees a bear moonwalk onscreen, turn to the camera, bust a few moves, then moonwalk off screen. Hilarity ensues.

Because as every pastor knows, the best jokes don't just make you laugh but make you think, our pastor drew a lesson from the experience: there's more going on in our midst than we can see. Can I get an Amen?

My pastor's video bought me a week but presented me with a dilemma: what possible theme could be contained within a video about a dancing bear? I bless Google, which directed me to a video taken in a national park; a bear scratched its back against a tree, while some plucky film editor inserted a soundtrack. Two minutes of the incredible raving bear became my humor for week two.

Ah, but what now? Now I'm committed. I bless Youtube, where I found a scene from the late great Muppet Show in which Gopher and Fozzy perform the song "Simon Smith and His Dancing Bear." I remember it like it was yesterday. Week three--check.

Now I was backed into a corner, however; where does an MC go after Fozzy Bear? Nowhere, it turns out, so I was forced to retire the theme of the dancing bear in the fourth week. Fozzy gave me my out, as he failingly attempted to sing, to Rolph the Dog's accompaniment, "I've Got Rhythm." Hilarious.

I explained to my audience that I could not sustain the dancing bear theme because bears don't really dance. The notion of a dancing bear is anthropomorphic: we'd assigned the human cultural trait of dancing to the peculiar activity of a nonhuman entity (the bear) to normalize it for ourselves. Anthropomorphisms allow us to set aside the occasional "Why?" question that threatens to distract us from the more important questions of the story we find ourselves in.

In the case of the dancing bear, the more important question is, "Is this funny?" The anthropomorphism makes it so; otherwise it's just a bear doing what bears do. Anthropomorphisms are often applied to God as well, not in order to strip God of his Otherness but so that we can move on to the more important question of the moment: Adam and Eve hear the sound of God "strolling in the garden in the evening breeze" in Genesis 3 and we're tempted to ask, "Does God have legs? I thought God was everywhere? How does Someone who's omnipresent stroll through something?" We're not given time to dwell on that question because that's not the story. The story is the question of why Adam and Eve, and why now the rest of us, hide from God, and what happens to us when we do.

I'm currently reading the ethically troubling and brilliantly written Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan. The book explores the diet, industry and economy of food in contemporary culture, suggesting that our eating habits are potentially ruinous not only to our health but to our culture and to our planet. This guy knows his stuff and he's thrown himself into his thesis, going so far as to slaughter his own chickens and forage his own meals in order to pull back the pristine curtain that guards us from the harsh realities of our diet.

I noticed along the way that Pollan anthropomorphizes the notion of natural selection. The most recent example in my reading (page 289) is modest and subtle, but it's there nonetheless: "The fact that we humans are indeed omnivorous is deeply inscribed in our bodies, which natural selection has equipped to handle a remarkably wide-ranging diet." The abstract natural selection is given willfulness, intentionality, creativity in this sentence. I'm reminded of the 139th Psalm, acknowledging to God that

"you shaped me first inside, then out,
you formed me in my mother's womb. . . .
All the stages of my life were spread out before you,
the days of my life all prepared
before I'd even lived one day."

The thing about anthropomorphisms is that they're essentially lies in service to a greater truth:
* The moonwalking bear wasn't real; a human being with intelligence, willfulness and creativity dressed up in a bear suit to ask, "What aren't we seeing in our midst?"
* The raving bear wasn't really dancing; a human being with intelligence, willfulness and creativity set the bear's natural behavior to music to ask, "Is there beauty and delight in the world that we're not privy to?"
* Fozzy Bear didn't really have rhythm; a human being with intelligence, willfulness and creativity shoved his or her hand up Fozzy's hindquarters and directed his steps in order to make us laugh.

I don't intend here to contest the notion of natural selection, but I think it's worth noting that we describe the process in ways that presume intelligence, willfulness and creativity. We're left to figure out the larger question such an anthropomorphism allows us to ask: "Why are we what we are? And how then shall we live?"

Sunday, November 18, 2007

An Open Letter to Laffy Taffy™

Dear Mr. Wonka:
I have long admired the taste and texture of Laffy Taffy™. Having gone to school not far from one of your manufacturing plants, I was pleased for four years to have ready access to these chewy, gooey delights. The jokes on the wrappers were, of course, a happy bonus. Who could not smile reading, on the outside of the wrapper, “What do you say when the Statue of Liberty sneezes?” and then, on the inside of the wrapper, “God bless America!”

Imagine my disappointment, my confusion, when I eagerly opened a bag of Halloween edition Laffy Taffy™ and found the following joke:

Q: What happens to a pumpkin when it becomes rotten?
A: It turns into a green Jack-o-Lantern.

What?!? I like to think I have a good sense of humor, and I have devoted more time to this joke than could be called productive, and I must judge that in this instance you were heavy on the taffy, light on the laffy.

Oh, the opportunities you missed! Why not the following?

Q: What happens when a Jack-o-Lantern becomes rotten?
A: It turns into a punk-kin!

Or

Q: What do you call a pumpkin that becomes rotten?
A: A jackal-lantern!

I admit, neither of these jokes represents my best work, but at least there’s nuance, plays on words, exclamation points. I might have kept silent about my frustration but my next piece of candy bore the following joke (and I emphasize the word bore):

Q: Why did they carve a big mouth into the pumpkin?
A: So he could scream and howl!

Again, what?!? I can’t work with that one at all!! At least it had an exclamation point, but I’ll be frank: this joke screams and howls an indictment against your joke editing department. I can only hope that you will audit your humor more carefully before the next candy-giving event on my calendar. I would hate to have my taffy-chewing experience sullied by something like the following:

Q: What did the Easter Bunny say to the Paschal Lamb?
A: Have a piece of chocolate!

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

My Heart, Christ's Laugh Track

A friend at church is looking for a Christian devotional, and seeing as I work for a Christian publisher, I figured I could take care of her. And then, seeing as I am hopelessly self-promotional and as I happen to have a handful of entries included in one of our devotional resources--My Heart, Christ's Home Through the Year--I figured I would reread what I wrote there. Here's me, trying to sound like John Ortberg:

It's entirely possible that many of us will see no serious spiritual breakthroughs in our lives until we learn to laugh at ourselves. And that's funny, in a sad sort of way.


It's mildly amusing that I'm being so self-promotional about Christian devotional resources at the same moment I'm trying to craft a manuscript about guarding against narcissism in our Christian devotion. But that's something of what humility is, really: as the brilliant Brian Mahan puts it, "a full embrace of the joy of ongoing repentance." And anyway, surely I'm not alone--what do you do that you suspect God finds funny?

Both Inspiration and Cautionary Tale: Excerpts from Middling

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