If I were ever foolish enough to attempt writing an eleventh commandment — and there’s a good chance I already have in some sermon or another — it would be this: “Thou shalt laugh at thyself.”
Now before the theologians clutch their pearls and the canon lawyers sharpen their quills, let me be clear: I am not adding to Scripture. Heaven forbid! I’m simply making an observation that if Moses had lived in a Retory with a parish council and a photocopier that jammed every Sunday at 9:59 a.m., he might have chiseled this one in himself.
Because truly, if we can’t laugh at ourselves, someone else surely will — and they’ll probably do it better.
There is a peculiar thing that happens in ministry (and indeed, in life): we begin with zeal, confidence, and perhaps a touch of smugness that we will be the one who gets it all right. And then, about two weeks in, reality sets in. The Sunday school craft goes up in flames (literally or figuratively), the sound system feeds back at the most solemn moment of the Eucharist, and the preacher realizes mid-sermon that their clever alliteration— “Faith, Family, and Fencing” — was meant for next week.
And in those moments, if we can’t laugh, we’ll break.
I remember early in ministry at St. David’s in Cambridge, a true comedy of errors came together all on one Sunday. I had hired an organist from the faculty of music at Wilfrid Laurier University. He was an absolute marvel to behold at the keyboard. He could play any piece of music at sight. But he had never attended a church prior to taking the job. He was never confident about when he was expected to play, and what should be the next thing played.
On this particular Sunday — a Sunday where we had a big parish potluck planned to follow the service — I had laboured long and hard over the liturgy. It was going to be a triumph of liturgical science. The opening hymn went off beautifully, and the organist distinguished himself.
I went to the chancel steps to sit and have a talk with the children, but as I sat down on the steps I felt and heard the unmistakable signs that the seat had just torn out of my pants — Not such a problem when covered by robes, but this could be difficult at the potluck after service. As I preached the homily, I could hear the unmistakeable sound of the organist’s hands flying around on the keyboard. He had the instrument turned off so it made no sound, but was using my sermon time to rehearse for his Monday Masterclass at the University. Throughout the service small things kept going wrong, and I was getting more and more upset that my perfect triumph was not going according to plan.
Finally, it was time for the closing hymn. I announced it, and the organist looked at me and mouthed the word, “Now?” I mouthed back “Yes. Now!” He responded by mouthing, “Right now?” I spoke out loud and in an annoyed tone, “Yes! Right now!” He raised his hands and came down hard on the keyboard — but just as his hands touched the keys, before the first tone emitted from the instrument, there was a great crack of thunder. A flash of lightning rent the air around us, and there was darkness… and a complete lack of music.
As I stood there in the darkness and silence, I could almost hear a divine chuckle: “You were saying, Don?”
There’s a kind of holy humility that comes only through humour. It’s the moment when we see ourselves as we are — human, fallible, occasionally ridiculous — and realize that God loves us anyway. Laughter can be a small resurrection, the lifting of the spirit from the grave of self-importance.
Stephen Leacock, that great Canadian theologian of laughter (though he might not have claimed the title), once said, “Each one of us requires the spur of laughter to remind us that we are not gods, but delightfully flawed mortals.”
That’s the real heart of it. Humour isn’t about dismissing the sacred; it’s about remembering that we are not the sacred one. It’s what keeps the ego in check and the soul elastic. When we can laugh at our own blunders, we leave room for grace to slip in through the cracks.
So perhaps, in our quiet prayers at day’s end, alongside the confessions and thanksgivings, we might add:
“Lord, thank You for the gift of laughter — for the times You’ve reminded me that I am not the centre of the universe, but still loved all the same.”
And maybe, just maybe, that’s what holiness looks like: the ability to grin at our own absurdity and still find God smiling back.
Because, after all — if we can’t laugh at ourselves, we’ve missed one of the sweetest ways God teaches us humility
Faith without laughter is like coffee without cream — technically possible, but why would you?
A Prayer for Holy Laughter
Gracious and Joyful God, You who spoke creation into being with both wisdom and wit, teach us to take ourselves a little less seriously, and You a little more so.
When our plans fall apart, our dignity frays, and our perfectly crafted moments go gloriously sideways — help us to hear Your gentle laughter echoing through the chaos.
Remind us that humility isn’t humiliation, but the freedom to be human, to stumble and smile and start again.
Grant us, Lord, the grace to laugh at ourselves — to see in our foolishness the proof that we still have much to learn, and in our laughter the sound of resurrection joy.
Bless every holy giggle that chases away pride, every chuckle that heals the heart, and every grin that reminds us that You delight in Your children.
In the name of Jesus, who laughed with His friends, who wept when He must, and who still smiles upon us now.
Amen