The Liberating Power of Levity, Even Now

I WANT TO let you in on a joke. But, for many of us, this joke might not be funny for a very long time. Let’s begin by addressing the elephant in the room. The election results drastically exacerbated tensions that Americans have been struggling with for the last decade. As I write, holiday plans are being made and canceled based on who voted for whom. This tension is not going away soon. However, changes of political regimes and the Christmas story give us insight into where we are as followers of Jesus today.

As a pastor and a comedian, I try to bring God’s levity to bear on tragedy to recenter a Christian perspective. At its root, the word levity means “lightness,” like the word “levitate.” While God’s levity may not be conventionally funny in the moment, it employs the elements of comedy that, by design, lighten the burdens of our human experience.

For example, in my community, calling someone a “fool” is sometimes a compliment. It’s a way of saying that you are hilarious; that you understand the particular alchemy of turning tragedy into treasure and triumph. This kind of humor is much revered among those who are marginalized or forgotten by society because it disrupts empire’s narrative and reveals a different truth. Using Paul’s statement that “the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom” (1 Corinthians 1:25), I want to invite you into the levity of God, especially in this treacherous political moment.

Comedy has formulas. One is “comedy equals tragedy plus time.” Things get funnier as you get distance from disaster. When I was growing up, Christmas was not the season for giving that it is for many. For one thing, my parents broke up on Christmas. For another, my mother — always trying to prove that she could do everything alone that two parents do together — would sometimes overspend. That decision generally backfired by Valentine’s Day, leaving us with at least one utility cut off. In my child’s mind, this was both a tragedy and a disaster. Yet, with time, these same stories are some of the funniest that my brother and I tell. For those on the margins who may not have the resources to buffer themselves from the immediate impact of a tragedy, we often collapse time by finding the levity sooner rather than later.

But what if the comedic arc of “tragedy plus time” isn’t just a human invention but a formula imprinted into our world from the very beginning? Perhaps it’s a mark of grace that God invites us to navigate when we are losing ourselves in chaos.

As part of my Liberation Comedy Project, I host the “What’s So Funny About ...?” podcast, where I talk to funny people about serious subjects. One topic is the search for the Golden Joke — a joke that reveals our mutual humanity, not simply seeing one another as a threat. If all are dealing with the same core concerns, maybe levity can make the journey easier. The skill, of course, is to help others to see the lightness precisely at the moment when it is darkest and nearly impossible to see.

Comedy writer Dean Lewis wrote, “A joke structure that works means the audience believes one thing to be true; however, it is revealed that something else is actually true. The involuntary psychological reaction is usually laughter.”

I can confirm that there is a structure to a good and deliverable joke. Even when the revelation does not provoke immediate laughter, there is a universality to how a well-placed joke illuminates almost any situation — even a moment as wrought with spiritual, historical, and political tension as the Christmas narrative.

In Isaiah 9:6 we read, “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder.” This promised messiah led many to imagine a triumphant leader sweeping into power to liberate God’s people from oppression. But God employs what comics call “misdirection.” While the audience’s gaze is on the presidential palace, eagerly awaiting the transition team of the “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace” (Isaiah 9:6), across town something funny is happening. God’s actual messiah is emerging hidden from view, off the political stage. Jesus is born in a stable surrounded by beasts of burden. He’s a tiny vulnerable infant, wrapped in strips of cloth, laid in a livestock feeder. The scene is so unexpected that it’s laughable. No one in their right mind would see this baby as powerful — except those threatened by an ancient narrative about where true power lies.

This “babe in the manger” scene sets up a cosmic reversal — a reminder that God’s ways are hidden from the powerful and revealed to those on the edges. And so, the joke is set up. The question is what kind of joke is it? Well, a practical one, of course. This is physical, incarnational comedy. Unlike more cerebral jokes, only the physicality and tangibility of the practical joke inscribes the full weight of the comedy into the very fiber of a person’s being. Once experienced, it’s never forgotten. Only practical jokes use our fear of being on the outside to bring us closer inside.

Throughout much of scripture, and in the nativity story, the target of God’s practical joke are the “-cracies” — unrighteous governments and abusive power systems. You know who they are: autocracy, plutocracy, theocracy, kleptocracy, technocracy — and all their little cousins. All are attempts to organize and control society to secure stability. All compete for the hearts, minds, souls, and strength of the people. The ’Cracies (from the Greek kratos, meaning “power” or “rule”) are perfect targets for God’s practical joke because although their name means “power,” only God has true power.

Another part of what brings levity is the proper use of assumptions. When we re-enact the birth of Jesus, we also recall that he was assumed to be a real and present danger to the ’Cracies of his day because he could activate a very old narrative. Then and now, they assume that Jesus’ reversal theology — such as “the last will be first, and the first last” (Matthew 20:16), the Beatitudes, and “all who exalt themselves will be humbled” (Matthew 23:12) — poses a traitorous, political threat. For these rulers, the Jesus movement is both tragic and disastrous. These leaders assume that they hold the power over life and death — and try to get us to believe it too. They use that leverage to subdue adversaries. Often wrapped up as a gift in our best interest, they either promote fear of death or sell protection and salvation from it. God uses their assumptions to deliver the unexpected.

But Good Friday is no joke. Symbolically, it’s the point of greatest despair, when all the ’Cracies and the forces of death appear to have won. The disciples scatter. The resistance is disorganized. The wounds are raw.

God delivers that ultimate comedic surprise on Easter morning. Apparently, death did not have the last word. There are “appearances,” fish fries, and restructuring meetings. While it takes a bit for this joke to land, this is the release. The exhalation of breath, the laughter, in the face of puffed-up buffoons. All earthly forces that intimidate, bind, and ultimately attempt to kill God’s Word ... fail. There is only One who holds the power of life and death. Paul deconstructs God’s comedy this way: “When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written: ‘Death is swallowed up in victory’” (1 Corinthians 15:54).

Death has never had the final say. Those who deal in death are revealed to have machinations no longer useful in shaping human destiny. In fact, they never have had them. The practice and promise of resurrection helps us cope with the in-between times. When we give our very real tragedy and disaster over to God’s time and loving gaze, God’s comedic arc in history shines through. Resurrection is the punchline.