I recently gave the keynote at the East Texas Christian University Christian Writers Conference. It was good to be among good people amid the blooming azaleas and dogwood trees and to smell the pines again. My talk was titled “The Redemptive Power of Humor.” It was based, in part, on my recent book by the same name and I really wanted urge all of these Christian writers to use more humor — or at least accept more humor — in their writing and lives.
My thesis: “11 a.m. on Sunday mornings used to be the most segregated hour in America. It still is. But it is also the most dour hour.”
The talk went great. I used lots of funny Power Point slides, played “Bulbous Bouffant,” played the spoons (!), and told a story or three.
When I came to the section on writing with humor, I emphasized that the essential element of humor in real life and in writing is surprise. (That’s why we should always preface a joke with, “Stop me if you’ve heard this one before …”. Without the surprise, a joke ain’t a joke anymore.) When I got to this moment, I showed the slide of the t-shirt depicted above.
Dead silence.
So, instead of quickly moving on like any intelligent person, I said, “Isn’t that wonderful? Isn’t that intriguing? I’d certainly check out a church that advertised itself that way. In fact, how many of you would check out a church like that?”
About 200 people in attendance. Three raised their hands. One of them was my wonderfully supportive wife Mary. More silence.
Dude.
Why does that slide, “We suck …” bother people so much? Or at least bother many religious people so much?
I’ve thought about that (lack of) response, that Power Point, a lot lately.
I think the response is tied into the reason why there’s NOT more laughter in churches these days. (But not the African American church, BTW. Every black church that Mary and I have attended rings with laughter before, during and after church.)
It seems to me that, for many of us, church is place where we wear masks. Smiley masks. Everything’s good, everything’s great. Thanks for asking. But too often, it’s not a place where we unburden our hurts and pains and sorrows to people who genuinely love us and want what’s best for us.
I love my Sunday School class at 7th & James (Not-so-Baptist-that-you’d-know-it) Church. I’ve confessed and cried and prayed with the folks there for years. I know what’s said in that little classroom stays in that little classroom. But as much as I love 7th, I don’t think I could be as vulnerable and open with the entire church … even during times of desperate need. I just … couldn’t.
Through the years, people at other churches have told me much the same thing.
But Church SHOULD be a place like that … all the time, right?
I don’t have any answers. But I have a song, one written by the brilliant Ken Medema that helps sometimes:
If This Is Not A Place
www.kenmedema.com
If this is not a place where tears are understood,
where can I go to cry?
If this is not a place where my spirit can take wing,
where can I go to fly?
I don’t need another place for trying to impress you
with just how good and virtuous I am.
I don’t need another place for always being on top of things,
ev’rybody knows that it’s a sham.
I don’t need another place for always wearing smiles,
even when it’s not the way I feel.
I don’t need another place to mouth the same old platitudes,
‘Cause you and I both know that it’s not real.
If this is not a place where my questions can be asked
where can I go to seek?
If this is not a place where my heart cries can be heard
where can I go to speak?
I don’t need another place for trying to impress you
with just how good and virtuous I am.
I don’t need another place for always being on top of things,
ev’rybody knows that it’s a sham.
I don’t need another place for always wearing smiles,
even when it’s not the way I feel.
I don’t need another place to mouth the same old platitudes,
‘Cause you and I both know that it’s not real.
If this is not a place where my spirit can take wing,
where can I go to fly?