I rediscovered a book on my shelf that was given to me in 2011 by a church member. The book, by James Martin, is titled “Between Heaven and Mirth: Why Joy, Humor, and Laughter Are at the Heart of the Spiritual Life.” The title jumped out at me as I was considering the theme for an upcoming deacon retreat. The last year has felt so heavy— heavy with grief, heavy with injustice, heavy with anger, heavy with rancor. A little levity felt unexpected, maybe even a little rebellious.
But then I second guessed myself. Would focusing on laughter during the retreat feel like a glossing over of the pain we’ve all experienced this past year? One thing I’ve come to believe over the years is that some Christians really struggle to lament or to even value the role of lament in the spiritual life. If we have a triumphal view of faith that focuses on Jesus’ defeat of death, we may not know what to do when faced with mortality. We may not know how to grieve in a healthy way. We might even try to stifle the grief, believing it is more faithful to “put on a happy face.”
We certainly have an Easter faith, but it only comes through a celebration of Good Friday. To be a follower of Jesus is to embrace both laughter and lament. A faith that is all lament with no laughter is hopeless and grey, while a faith that is all laughter with no lament is naïve and ill-equipped to help people work through their pain or to act justly to relieve someone else’s pain.
But it’s hard to hold on to both. I feel a tension between laughter and lament that is not easily resolved by the call to embrace them. Sometimes our attempts to embrace laughter in the midst of lament can feel Pollyanna-ish. Sometimes our attempts to embrace lament in the midst of laughter can feel Eeyore-ish. I’m not convinced we humans hold things in tension well. We would rather resolve the tension by focusing on one thing over the other.
I recently ran across a poem by Kahlil Gibran, “On Joy and Sorrow.” Gibran observes that joy and sorrow are inseparable. One cannot exist without the other. In fact, “the deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.” Our sorrow makes the space in us that joy can then occupy.
I think, too, of Lamentations 3:19-24:
I remember my affliction and my wandering,
the bitterness and the gall.
I well remember them,
and my soul is downcast within me.
Yet this I call to mind
and therefore I have hope:Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion;
therefore I will wait for him.”
We like to quote (perhaps triumphalistically) verses 22-23, but we forget that these two verses – a beautiful promise of God’s faithfulness – are preceded and then followed by images of pain and despair. The poet is downcast and deeply laments the pain. Still, the poet calls to mind God’s loving kindness and faithfulness, and it gives hope. It’s a rebellious hope that looks pain in the face and says, “You don’t have the last word.” It’s a hope that then takes a second look at pain and ponders, “How are you, Pain, making room in my spirit for Joy?” The tension is hard to hold, but it is worth holding all the same.
RACHEL YOUNG is the associate pastor of spiritual formation at Clear Lake Presbyterian Church, in Houston, Texas. She is married to Josh, who also serves on staff at Clear Lake Presbyterian as the director of contemporary worship and media.
