God’s Belly Laugh

Dan Daniel, the Bishop of East Carolina, is a very good friend of mine.  He is also perhaps one of the funniest people I have ever known.  While he was the priest at the Episcopal parish in Bristol, Rhode Island, he served as the chaplain to the nursing home.  One Christmas Eve the nursing home called.  One of the residents had died, and the staff had been unable to reach the woman’s daughter.  Would Dan mind going by the house and informing this person of her mother’s death?  “Of course, I’ll go,” Dan replied.
 

So off he went to the designated address, looking carefully at the numbers on the porches through the falling snow.  208-206-204.  204 Oak Street.  He got out of the car and knocked on the door to deliver the unwanted news.  A neatly dressed woman answered.  Dan introduced himself.  “Hello, I don’t believe we’ve met, but I’m Fr. Daniel from St. Michael’s Church.”
 

“Oh, yes, she said, we haven’t met but I certainly know who you are.”
 

“Might I come in?”
 

“Certainly,” she said, “and Merry Christmas.”
 

“And Merry Christmas to you, too.”  They sat.  Dan declined the egg nog that was offered under the circumstances, and they made small talk for a moment.
 

“You must be wondering why I’m here,” Dan finally said attempting to broach the topic for which he had come.
 

“Well, yes,” his hostess said.
 

“I’m so sorry to have to be the one to bring you this news on Christmas Eve, but I’m the chaplain for the nursing home, and I’ve come to tell you that your mother has died.”
 

The woman, understandably, was stunned, and her eyes welled up with tears.  “I am just shocked,” she said.  “I was just with her this afternoon and she seemed fine.  We had a lovely conversation.  I never dreamed it would be our last.”
 

Dan handed her a hankerchief.  “Would you like us to pray?”
 

“Oh, yes,” she said.
 

“Into your hands, O merciful Savior, we commend your servant Louise,” Dan began.
 

“Wait a minute,” the woman interrupted.  “Who’s Louise?”
 

“Why isn’t that your mother?”
 

“No.  My mother’s name is Betty.”
 

“Isn’t this the Andrews residence?”
 

“No, this is the Wilson residence.”
 

“Isn’t this 204 Oak Street?”
 

“No, this is 204 Maple Street.  Oak Street is the next street over.”
 

What I don’t know is what Dan said next and how, exactly, he extricated himself from the house, and how things went we he finally found his way to the right address.  What I do know is that Betty Wilson’s daughter, God bless her, had some experience of Easter that Christmas Eve, some small taste of what it is like to look for the living among the dead, some brief experience of death itself defeated.
 

What ought to accompany the defeat of death is laughter.  I’m not sure Betty Wilson’s daughter experienced Dan’s visit quite so amusingly as I do now, but I hope she has at least come to see the humor in this Christmas Eve visit from a hapless pastor who meant well.  And, once she got over it, at least, I hope she has told the story of her Christmas Eve experience of Easter around the family table on every succeeding Christmas Eve.
 

The best way to understand Easter, I think, is as the punch line in an utterly incongruous story that threatens to be overcome with seriousness.  Easter is God’s answer to the oppressive seriousness with which we so often take life—and ourselves.  Easter is God’s belly laugh at the seriousness of death itself.  Easter ought to be a day of great joy for us precisely because it is cosmically hilarious.  Easter is what turns human existence from divine tragedy in the inherent flaws of human nature into the divine comedy, that God redeems even our most tragic flaws, the things that lead us to death, the seriousness that threatens to squelch our joy in God.
 

I in no way want to suggest that death is not a serious thing, or that sin is not a serious thing, or that the human attraction to evil is not a serious thing.  What I do want to suggest is that when it comes to our salvation from all these things—sin and evil and death itself—God has already done all the serious work to defeat them all at the cross.  The only thing left to do is to respond with joy.  All our seriousness only tends to let them back in the picture.

Peace,

+Stacy