Reinhold Niebuhr Was Wrong

Introduction

I realize the title of this essay may sound a bit arrogant. Who am I to take on Reinhold Niebuhr? He was one of the most influential philosophers and theologians of the twentieth century. He forged groundbreaking liberal and social thought in the Christian church. And, please, come on, he was the author of the Serenity Prayer. The audacity of the title is heightened by the fact that I received my Master of Divinity degree from Union Theological Seminary in New York, Niebuhr’s alma mater, and, while there, I lived on (yes) Reinhold Niebuhr Place. But I shall march on with my crusade, for I believe that Niebuhr’s take on a core human issue—one that may well hold the key to the future of the church and our shared global existence—needs to be revisited.

To appreciate the gusto with which I throw down this theological gauntlet, you must first understand my unique hermeneutic. For the past twenty-five years I have lived at the intersection of two worlds as an ordained American Baptist pastor and a professional comedian. My career trajectory most resembles a billboard my husband Toby and I once saw in Minneapolis. At the top it advertised “Minnesota Cremation Society” (odd in and of itself). Below that there was an image of a casket. And below that the words, “Think Outside the Box.” After a quarter century of thinking outside the box in both the comedic and sacred spheres, I believe that laughter is a holy gift bearing a rare, raw, unbridled power to heal. As such, it should be welcomed into every dimension of human experience.

Unfortunately, Niebuhr did not agree. In his essay/sermon, “Humour and Faith,” he argued: “Laughter must be heard in the outer courts of religion; and the echoes of it should resound in the sanctuary; but there is no laughter in the holy of holies. There laughter is swallowed up in prayer and humor is fulfilled by faith.” ²

In this, Reinhold Niebuhr was wrong. Dead wrong. Humor doesn’t stop at the threshold of the Holy. It is holy. In fact, the two are inexorably intertwined. As Professor Conrad Hyers explained, “Faith without laughter leads to dogmatism and self-righteousness. Laughter without faith leads to cynicism and despair.” ³

Before proceeding, I must offer a brief qualifier. (Sorry, it’s a habit I retain from my early years as a trial lawyer.) For purposes herein, “humor” refers to joyful, therapeutic humor—humor that lifts, inspires, and illuminates. It does not include scornful, hateful, or demeaning humor. There is no place in the sacred for comedy that simply reinforces the lines of power or attacks the vulnerable. Certainly, humor can be misused. So can sanctity. Can I get an amen? (Come on—I’m Baptist. I’m just getting warmed up.)

The Outer Courts of Religion

“He who laughs at himself never runs out of things to laugh at.” ⁴

Niebuhr argued that laughter must be heard in the “outer courts of religion.” On this point we agree. Every day the world confronts us with the incongruities of existence: the silly annoyances, the failures of fairness, the innumerable things we cannot control. Here, humor is one of the most powerful tools we have. As Niebuhr wrote, “Insofar as the sense of humour is a recognition of incongruity, it is more profound than any philosophy which seeks to devour incongruity in reason.” ⁵

A good laugh can do what little else can: give us perspective—with ourselves and with each other. For handy reference, here’s my theology of humor in two sentences: If you can laugh at yourself, you can forgive yourself. And if you can forgive yourself, you can forgive others. ⁶ Humor loosens our grip on self-importance, recalibrates our emotional bearings, and reminds us, once again, where we fit in the big scheme of things. And what better way to bring perspective than to recite Niebuhr’s Serenity Prayer: “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” Sometimes the only thing that allows us to accept what we cannot change is the capacity to laugh at ourselves.

That’s one reason we post funny signs in front of our church—to jar people into new perspectives. It’s a simple formula: people see the message, laugh, snap a photo, and share. Not only does it change their day, but it also radiates the power of humor out into the world for untold others. Recent messages include:

The power of laughter to break open fresh ways of seeing is also why I’ve been part of a comedy tour with a standup rabbi and several Muslim comics. Our act is not so much about religion as it is our simple human stories that highlight our daily struggles. One of our Muslim comics, Azhar Usman, explained his experience of going through security in an airport as a Muslim-American. He asked the audience, “Why do you get so upset at having to be at the airport two hours ahead of time? I have to be there two months ahead!”

Rabbi Bob Alper (age 80) loves to share this story about the importance of humility. A seventy-five-year-old couple is sitting on their couch when a genie appears and offers them each a wish. The woman thought for a moment and said, “I’d like to travel around the world!” The genie said, “Great!” And poof! Two round-the-world tickets appear in her hand. Then the seventy-five-year-old man said, “I’d like to travel around the world, as well, but with a woman twenty years younger.” And the genie said, “No problem!” And poof! The man was ninety-five.

Humor gives us a quick, focused reality check. It reminds us how easily we can lose perspective on our own self-importance. It also helps us remember that we are all imperfect, fallible human beings just doing the best we can. As the astrophysicist Stephen Hawking explained, “We are just an advanced breed of monkeys on a minor planet of a very average star.” ⁸ So, we laugh to forgive ourselves. And, when we do, we can also forgive others.

“Love your neighbor” is a beautiful command—right up until your neighbor turns out to be a telemarketer. Our first instinct is to judge, dismiss, or distance ourselves from people who feel “other.” But faith calls us to something braver: finding the sliver of common ground with the very people we’d rather avoid. As poet W.H. Auden wrote, “You shall love your crooked neighbor, with your crooked heart.” ⁹

Humor is the strongest span in that bridge of common ground. Laughter knocks us off our pedestals just enough to see each other clearly. It reminds us of what we share, and from there, helps us celebrate how we differ. When we laugh with someone—stranger, friend, partner, or even enemy—our worlds overlap for a tiny but significant moment. Walls drop. Stories open. And suddenly, the best in both of us comes shining through. That’s why humor is considered a serious tool in mediation, conflict resolution, even international peace building. ¹⁰

Humor also brings a powerful advantage when speaking truth to power, as it tends to throw power off its game. An example was seen in 2007, when the Ku Klux Klan had planned a march in downtown Knoxville to proclaim their hate-filled message of “White Power.” Locals decided to meet that hatred with humor by organizing a counter-protest with a gathering of clowns (or as the troupe was called the “Coup Clutz Clowns”). The clowns pretended not to understand the Klan’s shouts of “White power!” and yelled, “White flour!” and threw white baking flour in the air all over the street and the Klan marchers. Some yelled, “Tight shower?” and sprayed the crowd from a shower head. Other clowns wore wedding dresses and yelled “Wife power!” while dancing behind the Klan. Eventually, the Klan, gutted of dignity and any sense of power, dispersed, and went home. ¹¹

Another example happened in the small village of Wunsiedel, Germany, during 2014. There the town’s residents had grown sick and tired of the neo-Nazis marching in their square. During the next march, the town donated ten euros for every meter the group marched to an organization that helped people leave right-wing extremist groups. Residents threw confetti at the end of the parade to celebrate the fact that the neo-Nazis had just raised 12,000 euros against their own cause. ¹²

Perhaps one of the most important gifts humor brings is its ability to loosen the death grip that some folk—especially religious ones—think they have on truth. As Professor Joseph Webb explains, “the places where everything is clear and fixed, where the Christians are neatly separated from the non-Christians, the sheep from the goats, where the saved are weeded out from the mass of unsaved—for the comic, these are the places where one goes to work.” ¹³

Many of us walk around wearing a breastplate of righteousness cemented on with industrial-strength super-glue and it (say it with me): “Ain’t. Coming. Off!” But the notion that any of us holds a patent on truth or that we have any ability whatsoever to comprehend the nature, will, or plan of the Holy is—if we’re honest—comical. As the old line goes, “When God speaks, it is a good idea to listen. When someone else tells you God spoke, best double check.” Humor slips a small, necessary crack into all that hardened armor. Through that opening, differing perspectives can be heard, held, and honored—perhaps for the first time.

The wide divides that fracture cultures, nations, and families only start to shrink when we climb down from our own superiority and let humor loosen our grip on being right. Then—and only then—can we see our neighbor with the kind of hospitality and justice that Jesus embodied. In the words of A. Roy Eckardt, “In the depths of authentic humor, everyone stands forgiven. That’s what humor comes down to really: forgiveness.” ¹⁴

The Sanctuary

“The truth may very well be that we have inherited

a recently perverted form of Christianity,

that its terrible sobriety is a distortion of its real genius,

and that a kind of playfulness lies much closer to its heart than solemnity does.” ¹⁵

While Niebuhr concedes that laughter should be heard in the outer courts of religion, he thinks humor has no place in the sanctuary. There, he argued, only the echoes of laughter should resound. Of course, he was just following in a long ecclesial lineage created by a church that was desperate for control. When Christianity became the religion of empire under Constantine (320 CE), Christianity transformed from the jester to the king. As a result, it had to learn a new skill—namely, how to own and maintain power. Laughter threatened that power.

The church took a hard line against laughter as a way of protecting itself, for it recognized laughter as the nexus, the weak point, which connected all authority with the general population . . . If organized religion hoped to remain organized, only seriousness would keep it solidly together . . . laughter slips away from authority and into the masses. Jokes constantly threaten to break out and overwhelm those who would control them. In such a volatile political atmosphere, the church could not afford many such slips. ¹⁶

Adding to this historical humor bias was the church’s suspicion of the body. Unlike many ancient religions, Christianity held a belief in the salvation of the soul and the body, which meant that the body had to be continually worked upon, changed, and reshaped. As laughter was intimately linked to the body, it, too, was to be controlled and suppressed.

It is not surprising that with the ascendance of Christianity, the traditional sources of laughter were attacked . . . When religious symbolism centres around literal texts and on an ideal human body, marked by chastity and a continent life, laughter is bound to become a stranger. ¹⁷

The influence of this anxiety-laden theology carried well into the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. For example, a sect of Baptists in 1655 made their members swear a holy oath that they would never make jokes—in public or in private. ¹⁸ Similarly, the Puritans criminalized laughter in their services, as they believed it belonged to original sin. ¹⁹

But who am I to judge? I stand squarely in this Baptist lineage and can personally attest to this restrictive streak. After all, Baptists have long warned against the perils of sex because it might lead to dancing. (Let the people—again—say “Amen.”)

What can be deduced from this historical evidence is that the exclusion of humor from the church was human, not holy. We worship a God who laughs. Genesis 1:27 sets forth that God created humans in God’s image. And laughter is a unique and inherent human characteristic. Therefore (stay with me, for this is complicated logic) laughter must be an inherent part of the divine. Even Niebuhr agreed on this. “God is not frequently thought of as possessing a sense of humour, though that quality would have to be attributed to a perfect personality.” ²⁰

King David would also agree—he spent plenty of time dancing and singing his heart out before God. Theologically speaking, laughter and song are close relatives. The Hebrew word ruach means both “breath” and “spirit,” suggesting that every inhale draws in the Spirit and every exhale releases it. By that measure, both laughter and singing become acts of Spirit-sharing. Or as the author Anne Lamott so perfectly puts it, “Laughter is carbonated holiness.” ²¹

Speaking of God laughing, it’s similarly hard to imagine that Jesus didn’t laugh. Professor Elton Trueblood agreed, explaining that “The widespread failure to recognize and to appreciate the humor of Christ is one of the most amazing aspects of the era named for Him.” ²² Let’s not forget that the Gnostic gospels portray a Jesus who laughed. In The Sophia of Jesus Christ, for example, Jesus laughs as he comforts and greets his disciples. “My peace I give to you! And they all marveled and were afraid. The Savior laughed and said to them, ‘Why are you perplexed? What are you searching for?’” ²³

Consider also the wealth of comic devices Jesus used in his preaching. In Matt 5:40, for example, Jesus warns if anyone wants to sue you and take your coat, give your cloak as well. Okay, on its face that’s not exactly a knee slapper. But thanks to New Testament scholar Walter Wink, we look closer and find that most of the poor in first century Palestine wore only two garments: an outer garment or coat and an inner garment or cloak. Playing on the image of debtor’s court, a familiar and sore subject for much of his audience, Jesus says if you are sued for your coat, give all your clothes to the creditor. In short, get naked in the courtroom. These words were particularly sarcastic, given that nakedness was taboo in Judaism, with shame falling on the person viewing or causing the nakedness, not the naked party. ²⁴

Just an aside, if you really want to talk biblical humor—like raw unfiltered biblical bathroom humor, try 1 Sam 5:9. There the Philistines stole the Ark of the Covenant in a battle with the Israelites. In retribution for their theft and idol worship, the Lord struck the Philistines with hemorrhoids: “The hand of the Lord came against the city, causing great panic. He struck the people of the city, young and old, so that hemorrhoids broke out among them.” ²⁵

But hemorrhoid humor aside, why does it matter whether humor is allowed into the sanctuary with unbridled force or only as a faint echo? What’s at stake? Exaggeration may be a cornerstone of comedy, but it is no exaggeration to say that the quality—and even the meaning—of our relationship with the divine is imperiled when humor is shut out. Humor functions as spiritual CPR for a faith that can grow to be rote, predictable, even lifeless. This is, after all, a religion of good news, yet you wouldn’t always know it from the way we practice. Increasingly, our worship traditions can feel mechanical, sanitized, and—ironically—less human. One need only look at the rise of robot pastors and AI-driven liturgy to see how quickly authenticity can erode in the absence of genuine human expression. ²⁶ Humor reawakens our capacity to feel. Without it, we drift through a world of wonder half-asleep, unable to feel awe. As a Jewish prayer warns, “Days pass and years vanish, and we walk sightless among miracles.” ²⁷

From childhood on, we are taught—sometimes subtly, sometimes directly—that our mischievous, playful selves have no place in serious adult life, and even less in serious spiritual life. But when we exile the child within, our religion, like our lives, becomes rote and dull. The stories sound familiar. The Scriptures flatten. Rituals lose their spark. Things that once stirred us no longer do; things that once made us smile now barely register.

Part of the problem is cultural. In our information-saturated society, we have become overly dependent on external interpretation. Viola Spolin, the pioneer of improvisational theatre, warned that we have learned to “see with each other’s eyes and smell with others’ noses.” ²⁸ We rely on experts to tell us what something means rather than experiencing it ourselves. Spontaneity—at the heart of humor—restores our inner capacity to notice, to feel, to respond. This is an especially important skill for ministers. For years, I led services with Charlie on the front row. Charlie was an almost centenarian who was hard of hearing and loved a sip (or six) of brandy before the service. He had this sixth sense for choosing the most emotionally charged moments of prayer to yell out his own personal prayers, which usually went something like this: “Lord! Please help the Mets. They stink!” It was only through years of improv training that I was able to pause, say, “Yes, Lord, the Mets need help,” then seamlessly bridge back to our prayer on genocide and global war.

Spontaneity and play matter profoundly for ritual. Think of the rote repetition with which we engage rituals such as Lord’s Prayer, the Apostle’s Creed, or communion. These are sacred acts, yet they can become mechanical through repetition. Humor, when used with care, cracks open the familiar and allows us to encounter it anew.

Early in my career as a student minister, I accidentally spliced the Lord’s Prayer and the Twenty-third Psalm together.

“Lead us not . . . into the valley . . . ohhhh.”

I completely froze. Worse, I tried to vamp my way out of it. “Yeah, it’s a really bad place, that valley . . . and, ah, we’d like to get out of it. Fast.” After what seemed like thirty lifetimes of excruciating silence, I ended the catastrophe with a quick, “Forever and ever, amen.”

After the service, as I braced for the trustees to fire me, Frieda, one of our most senior members, came up and said, “That was the most creative version of the Lord’s Prayer I’ve ever heard. I’ll never think of it the same again.”

In the end, the full ring of humor is essential for our healing and wholeness. As with human relationships, intimacy with God comes only through sharing ourselves in an honest and open way. Certainly, laughter—even play, as an integral part of our humanity, must be included. As the author Brian Edgar wrote, “Play is the essential and ultimate form of relationship with God.” ²⁹

Do we have to laugh with God to be close to God? Certainly not. Must we be honest with God to foster meaningful intimacy? Absolutely, and that includes offering all of ourselves to the relationship. Jung wrote about the shadow self—the part of our psyche that we choose to hide as shameful or inappropriate ³⁰ —but wholeness comes from integrating all parts of the self, not just the polished or pious ones. Our spiritual relationships are no different. If we carve our laughter out from that relationship, we risk diminishing, even destroying, the very spiritual intimacy we all seek. If we want healing, we must give God all the pieces. As Father James Martin explained:

Physicians, psychologists and psychiatrists believe that humor helps in the healing process of the physical body. If we take seriously the Pauline image of the body of Christ, we might ask if the same holds true for the Christian community. In the midst of some of the worst times in the church, the people of God could sure use some laughter. ³¹

Holy of Holies

“Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in longshot.” ³²

Reinhold Niebuhr believed that only silence should be allowed in the Holy of Holies—the presence of God. But this is precisely where his theology falters. The Holy of Holies should not be limited to the pristine opulence of the innermost sanctuary of the tabernacle. The concept should include wherever God is present in the world. And Scripture tells us that God’s presence is sometimes closest in times of great pain.

Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you, and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. (Isa 43:1–2)

The Holy of Holies is where our faith is most fiercely tested. It is where we come undone. It is where we drag our fragile human hearts, aching for answers, comfort, and healing. Often, those answers do not come. So, we dance on a tightrope between faith and despair.

In those times when we lean precariously toward despair, humor is the balancing pole that keeps us upright. As explained by Professor Harvey Cox, “Those who cannot say a prayer may still be able to dance it. People who cannot hope may be able to laugh.” ³³ As a parish minister and a comedian, I’ve seen this powerful alchemy at work through lived experience. You hear it in the laughter of parents and children in pediatric wards when the hospital clowns appear. ³⁴ I’ve watched it transform funeral gatherings when someone randomly tells a funny story about the deceased, and the entire room breaks up. Like when one of my congregation members reached in her elderly mother’s casket to reveal that she had stuffed bottles of Miss Clairol “Medium Blond” hair dye in her mother’s dress sleeve “in case they didn’t have Mama’s color on the other side.” The group collapsed in laughter, then tears, demonstrating the truth of the old saying, sometimes we laugh in order to cry.

I’ve personally experienced laughter’s power when I was a cancer patient in an operating room and the anesthesiologist pointed to my IV bottle and exclaimed, “Don’t worry, this stuff is a great vintage!” This wasn’t just a joke, it was a gift, for laughter lowers blood pressure, improves heart and lung functions and reduces stress hormones—all things that can aid in recovery. ³⁵

Laughter can offer healing in unexpected places. My colleague David Granirer founded Stand Up for Mental Health, a comedy therapy program teaching stand-up comedy to people with mental illness or mental health issues as a way of building confidence and fighting public stigma. ³⁶ I even saw the power of humor work after 9/11. While taking inbound search and rescue calls for the Red Cross on the day after the attacks, I spoke with a young mother of three whose husband was missing. In the middle of the conversation, she began laughing hysterically, saying, “He left the house with the worst tie on you have ever seen. I told him not to wear it.” After a few moments of silence, she then said, “You know, laughter may seem strange at a time like this, but it’s the only thing my family and I have left.” ³⁷

Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl wrote extensively on the power of human choice in times of crisis. His work is reflected in these words (paraphrased by Stephen R. Covey): “Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.” ³⁸ We all have that same opportunity of choice. In any place of difficulty, we have two options. We can remain in our place of pain, infecting not only ourselves with our misery but all those around us. Or we can find a way to latch onto some tiny ray of hope—even humor which lifts our hearts and all those along our path. Finding a way to laugh in a place of pain is one of the most courageous things we can do. It’s when we look the crisis in the eye and, in defiance, exclaim, “You will not define me!” It is the moment that we take life back.

So, I say it again, Niebuhr was wrong. Laughter and humor must ring full force in all aspects of life. Laughter transforms our perspective, it brings honesty and authenticity into our spiritual lives, and it creates a powerful coping mechanism that enables us to live our faith in the face of unexplained suffering. In the end, humor may be our only means of finding hope:

Laughter is hope’s last weapon . . . In the presence of disaster and death we laugh instead of crossing ourselves. Or perhaps better stated, our laughter is our way of crossing ourselves. It shows that despite the disappearance of any empirical basis for hope, we have not stopped hoping. ³⁹

And to that, my friends, I say, “Amen.”