IV. THE SENSE OF HUMOR IN JESUS.
“When a child, with child-like apprehensions that dived not beneath the surface of the matter, I read those parables—not guessing the involved wisdom—I had more yearnings toward that simple architect that built his house upon the sand, than I entertained for his more cautious neighbor; I grudged at the harsh censure pronounced upon the quiet soul that kept his talent; and prizing their simplicity beyond the more provident, and to my apprehension, somewhat unfeminine wariness of their competitors, I felt a kindness that amounted almost to a tendre for those thoughtless virgins. I have never made an acquaintance since that lasted, or a friendship that answered, with any that had not some tincture of the absurd in their characters.”—Charles Lamb.
THE SENSE OF HUMOR IN JESUS.
“Amid the sorrow, disappointment, agony, and anguish of the world,—our dark thoughts and tempestuous passions, the gloomy exaggerations of self will, the enfeebling illusions of melancholy,—wit and humor, light and lightning, shed their soft radiance and dart their electric flash.”—Whipple.
“How curious it is,” says the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, “that we always consider solemnity, and the absence of all gay surprises and encounters of wits, as essential to the idea of the future life of those whom we thus deprive of half their faculties and then call blessed! There are not a few who, even in this life, seem to be preparing themselves for that smileless eternity by banishing all gayety from their hearts and all joyousness from their countenances.” Rather than believe in the “smileless eternity” of such as these, we should accept the conjecture of Soame Jennings, that “a portion of the happiness of seraphim and just men made perfect would be derived from an exquisite perception of the ludicrous.”
To that school of melancholy teachers who frown upon all pleasantry, and buttress their gloomy position with the assertion that “Jesus wept but never smiled,” the title of this chapter will be particularly offensive. It will strike them as downright blasphemy to intimate that Jesus possessed and used the sense of humor so common to mankind. We assuredly appreciate the delicacy of the position, and shall endeavor to avoid, in our treatment of this subject, anything that might wound the most sensitive soul.
There are several considerations that will pave the way. We take it for granted that Jesus was a complete human being, and that as such a being he must have had all the human attributes and faculties,—the faculty of mirthfulness among them. He was a man, and lacked nothing that pertains to men. Then, too, had he been without the sense of humor, much in the lives and characters of those with whom he had to deal, he never could have understood and reached. The full success of his mission depended upon his knowing all that there is in man, and upon being able to gain access to him through every avenue of his nature.
Nor were the circumstances of his life unfavorable to the development of this particular attribute. Theology and Art have conspired to produce upon the world the impression that Jesus was an exceptionally wretched and suffering man. They have taken one or two expressions in Isaiah, such as, “his countenance was marred,” “he was a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief,” expressions which they misunderstood and misapplied, and with them have laid the foundations of their house of woe. They have seized upon a few of the sadder incidents of his career, and have exaggerated them into undue prominence,—have given them undue proportions. Especially have they made much of his agony in the garden and his death upon the cross. These events have been magnified into such mountains that all the rest of his life seems to lie hidden beneath their shadows. It appears never to have entered the mind of either preacher or painter that the physical anguish of his death must have been even less than that which many martyrs at the stake or martyrs upon sickbeds have borne; and that before death came, he had lived a life with many bright days and many happy experiences. His existence upon earth was not a protracted sorrow, a monumental grief. Many a rose had blossomed at his feet before the thorns were twisted into a crown for his brow.
What shall we say of the thirty peaceful years under his father’s roof, with his brothers and sisters? Did he not in boyhood have the amusements of other children? Is there not a memento of his youthful sports in what he says of the games of the children in the marketplace, when they were playing at weddings and funerals? Did he not, when a young man, delight in his home and in his companions? Can we imagine that he moved among those who were nearest and dearest to him, with a face to which a smile was as much a stranger as a tropic flower to the frozen zone?
When, as a mature man, he entered upon his public ministry, although he was exposed to frequent attacks from the representatives of the established religion, yet he was never without friends; never without a place of refuge from the heat of battle. There were many homes in which a welcome always awaited him, and whose hospitality he gladly accepted. Is it probable that he was accustomed to sit in these homes—to use Shakespeare’s phrase—“like his grandsire cut in alabaster?”
More than once we are directly told that “he rejoiced in spirit;” more than once he spoke of his “joy” to his disciples. There is much evidence that Jesus was not a wretched but a happy man. Did this happiness never express itself in words or countenance?
There are other considerations that go far to refute the dismal assertion that “Jesus wept but never smiled.” Tired mothers brought their children to him and he rebuked the supercilious disciples who interfered. Can we think that on this occasion he had a woe-begone look? We read of him often at feasts; would he have been invited if he had been accustomed to sit at the table like the skeleton at an Egyptian banquet? Did he not by his frequent attendance upon festive occasions incur the odium of being a wine-bibber and a glutton? He was also a favorite with the common people. They heard him gladly. But there must have been something attractive in his presence and manner, as well as in his words, and the words themselves must have appealed to the shrewd, homely, common sense of his hearers. If he had been the sad spirit he has been pictured, would the people have followed him and listened to him as they did?
When we leave the outward circumstances and the presumption they furnish, and examine the fragments of his speech that have been preserved for us, many of them certainly contain the element of humor. We should undoubtedly call it humor if it came from any other lips than those of Jesus; if we found it in any other book than the New Testament.
The purpose of this chapter will be grossly misapprehended, however, if any one shall suppose that we are trying to degrade Jesus to the level of a professional joker. Nothing is further from our intention. The very thought is repulsive. One may have and use the sense of humor without putting on the cap and bells. He may use it with the highest motives and for the noblest ends. It was said of Hosea Ballou, that “it was no uncommon thing for him when preaching to excite a smile; but usually it was done by some ingenious argument that would electrify every one present.” His biographer adds: “It is not known that any person ever listened to one of his sermons who was not so impressed with his sincerity, dignity and earnestness, that the recollection of his occasional humorous sayings was held subsidiary and helpful to his main serious purpose. His mother-wit was sanctified. It served a divine mission in diffusing cheerfulness and health.” We must always remember that wit and humor do not mean buffoonery.
It is difficult to understand how any one can read many of the parables and other sayings of Jesus, and still believe the doleful tale that he “wept but never smiled.” He saw the dancing lights as well as the deep shadows, the more genial and even ludicrous aspects of life, as well as its various phases of sorrow and sin, and all these furnished subjects for his discourse as well as illustrations for his teaching.
Let us now consider some of the ways in which the sense of humor in Jesus manifested itself.
I.
The sense of humor often tempered his rebukes. There was often sunshine on the cloud.
There were times, indeed, as we shall see, when he spoke with unmeasured severity, when his words fell like fiery hail, beating and burning the heads of offenders; but anon he spoke half smiling, half pitying, as if disposed to laugh at the very inconsistencies he censured. In this respect his spirit has been caught by Addison and Goldsmith, by Irving and Dickens. Richter says that “no one has a right to laugh at men but he who most heartily loves them.” Taine says of Dickens, “Before reading him we did not know there was so much pity in the heart.” Jesus loved men, he pitied them, even while his eye detected and his words exposed their faults and foibles.
He had looked with pleasure (remembering his own childhood), upon the games of the boys and girls in the streets of Jerusalem; he thought of their whimsical complaints, as they played at weddings and funerals in the market-place. On one occasion, his severity mitigated by his sense of the ludicrous, he exclaimed, “Whereunto shall I liken this generation? and to what are they like? They are like unto children sitting in the market-places and calling to one another and saying, We have piped unto you and ye have not danced; we have mourned unto you and ye have not lamented.” Everything had gone wrong. The others would not play fair. They would not dance when we wanted to play wedding; they would not be mourners when we wanted to play funeral. We have done all we could to please them, but they are “too mean for anything.” To the mind of Jesus, the people of that generation appeared to be making the same complaint. They were childishly dissatisfied with every divine messenger,—none could please them. “For John the Baptist came neither eating bread nor drinking wine,”—solemn, gloomy, austere; but they would have none of him. He mourned unto them, but they would not lament. They would not “play at funeral” with him. They turned away and said, “He hath a devil.” Then came the Son of Man, bright and cheerful, “eating and drinking,” but they would not dance to his piping. They pointed at him and said, “Behold a gluttonous man and a wine-bibber, a friend of publicans and sinners!” It was impossible to please that generation.
If we place this passage side by side with the following from Goldsmith, we shall see at once that if there be humor in the latter, there must also be humor in the former. The subject is the reception accorded the Chinese philosopher who tried to please his friends by his demeanor upon the death of an English sovereign: “I thought it at least my duty to appear sorrowful; to put on a melancholy aspect, or to set my face by that of the people. The first company I came amongst after the news became general was a set of jolly companions who were drinking prosperity to the ensuing reign. I entered the room with looks of despair, and even expected applause for the superlative misery of my countenance. Instead of that, I was universally condemned by the company and desired to take away my penitential phiz to some other quarter. I now corrected my former mistake, and with the most sprightly air imaginable entered a company where they were talking over the ceremonies of the approaching funeral. Here I sat for some time with an air of pert vivacity, when one of the chief mourners immediately observing my good humor desired me, if I pleased, to go and grin somewhere else; they wanted no disaffected scoundrels there. Fum, thou son of Fo, what sort of people am I amongst?” Whereunto shall I liken this generation?
There was a certain time when multitudes followed Jesus, not knowing what they were about, but simply swept along by the enthusiasm of the moment. He saw that they understood not, so he turned and gave them this gentle caution: “Which of you intending to build a tower sitteth not down first and counteth the cost, whether he have sufficient to finish it? Lest, haply, after he hath laid the foundation and is not able to finish, all that behold it begin to mock him, saying, This man began to build and was not able to finish.” Whoever comes after me and does not count upon bearing his cross, is in the predicament of this foolish tower-builder,—a ludicrous spectacle as he sits beside the unfinished structure, his materials exhausted, while all his neighbors, as they pass by, wag the head and point the finger. Such a spectacle as that will each one of you be who does not count the cost of discipleship. With such gentle strokes of humor did Jesus stay the thoughtless multitudes who imagined that their empty zeal was genuine loyalty. He set forth their conduct in terms that would most effectually impress upon them its folly,—in terms that appealed to their sense of the ridiculous.
In a sarcastic paragraph of his French Revolution, Carlyle speaks of the work of the National Convention thus: “In fact, what can be more unprofitable than the sight of six hundred and forty-nine ingenious men struggling with their whole force and industry, for a long course of weeks, to do at bottom this; to stretch out the old Formula and Law phraseology, so that it may cover the new, contradictory, entirely uncoverable thing? Whereby the poor formula does but crack and one’s honesty along with it. The thing that is palpably hot, burning, wilt thou prove it by a syllogism to be a freezing mixture? This of stretching out formulas till they crack is, especially in times of swift change, one of the sorrowfullest tasks poor humanity has.” Was it not this very formula-stretching that Jesus satirized in more playful vein,—this formula-stretching that existed in old times and that still exists,—when he said: “No man putteth a piece of new garment upon an old; if otherwise, then, both the new maketh a rent, and the piece that was taken out of the new agreeth not with the old”? You can not patch up old terms with new meanings. The new meaning agreeth not with the old term. “And no man putteth new wine into old wine-skins; else the new wine will burst the wine-skins and be spilled, and the wine-skins shall perish. But new wine must be put into new wine-skins, and both are preserved.” The man who tries to put new senses into old words, new ideas into old formulas, is like a man who cuts up a new garment to mend an old; like one who puts wine not yet done fermenting into a skin whose capacity admits no further strain. He spoils his new coat and he loses his new wine.
With such illustrations as these, illustrations embodying a figure or comparison or situation essentially amusing, was Jesus wont to temper his rebukes.
II.
The sense of humor in Jesus enabled him to detect pretension, imposture, hypocrisy, and expose them to the derision of mankind.
If we should find in Dickens or Thackeray such pictures as Jesus has given of the Scribes and Pharisees, they would strike us at once as the very quintessence of humor. “They go arrayed in long clothing, they love the uppermost rooms at feasts and the chief seats in the synagogues.” They are always posturing to attract attention. “They love greetings in the market-places, to be called of men Rabbi, Rabbi.” In their way, they are as much given to “deportment” as Mr. Turveydrop, when he says, “I suppose I must now go and show myself about town; it will be expected of me.” When they pray, they do it standing in the synagogues or at the corners of the streets that all may see how pious they are; when they perform their deeds of righteousness, a trumpet is sounded before them, to make solemn proclamation; as who should say, “Will the public please take notice; I am about to drop a mite into this poor widow’s hand.” When they fast they put on “a sad countenance and disfigure their faces” with fictitious woe and weeping, “that they may appear unto men to fast.” “See how I lay the dust with my tears,” says Launce. Everything they did was done for effect; nothing came from the heart. Their religion was the veriest sham. They had well-nigh reached the measure of South’s ideal hypocrite, “who never opens his mouth in earnest, but when he eats or breathes.” Well might Jesus say, “The Scribes and Pharisees sit in Moses’ seat; all things, therefore, whatsoever they bid you observe, that observe and do, but do ye not according to their works; for they say and do not.” Does not this remind us of Pecksniff, “who was a most exemplary man, fuller of virtuous precepts than a copy-book; but some people likened him to a direction-post which is always telling the way to a place, and never goes there.”
III.
Not only did the sense of humor in Jesus enable him to unmask pretentious hypocrites, but also to expose the absurdities that the multitudes commonly practiced in the name of religion.
There are those, for example, who in prayer use “vain repetitions,” thinking that they shall be heard for their “much speaking.” They estimate the efficacy of prayer by its quantity and not by its quality. They think that if they only keep at it long enough, if they only use multitudes of words, they will surely attract attention on high.
There are others who think that religion consists in the “washing of pots and cups and such like things” and they “lay aside the commandment of God.” One of their representatives in modern literature is Dolly Winthrop, who tells Silas Marner about the letters “I.H.S.” pricked upon the Christmas cakes: “I can’t read ’em myself, and there’s nobody, not Mr. Macey himself, rightly knows what they mean; but they’ve a good meaning, for they’re the same as is on the pulpit-cloth at Church; an’ if there’s any good, we’ve need of it in this world.”
It is curious how the superstition of externalism has affected many, even noble minds. Dr. Johnson once said of John Campbell, a political and philosophical writer, “Campbell is a good man, a pious man; I’m afraid he has not been inside of a church for a good many years, but he never passes a church without pulling off his hat. This shows he has good principles.”
IV.
Jesus perceived the blunders of the well-meaning, but ignorant and ambitious,—such as the man who went to the wedding party without suitable garments, and was unceremoniously shown to the door; such as the obtuse people who, invited to a feast, always took the seats of honor and were as often courteously escorted to seats further down the table. When the “more honorable man” came, the host would say, “Give this man place,” and the other would “begin with shame to take the lowest seat.” Jesus saw these blunders, and we cannot believe that he was blind to their comical side. He must have felt that the mistake was a ludicrous one, even when he advised the stupid people who made it, “When thou art bidden, go and sit down in the lowest room; that when he that bade thee cometh, he may say, Friend, go up higher; and then thou shalt have worship in the presence of them that sit at meat with thee.”
V.
The sense of humor in Jesus is still further shown by his selection of characters for his parables and illustrations. How many of them are what we should call “odd sticks” to-day!
Could any one devoid of humor, or opposed to its use, have described such odd or eccentric people as the fool who thought that sand was as good a foundation for his house as rock; or the drowsy friend roused at midnight to lend his neighbor bread and scolding furiously at the annoyance? Then we have the shepherd’s coward hireling who ran away from his flock when he saw the wolf coming; the foolish rich man; the unscrupulous steward who provided for himself by cheating his master; the three fellows who made such puerile excuses for absenting themselves from the king’s banquet,—one was interested in a real estate transaction, another was dealing in stock, while the third had just “married a wife.” Perhaps the characterization of all these excuses as puerile, may be too sweeping. This last case may be an exception. Having just entered the holy estate of matrimony, any plans this man might have formed before that event were of course subject to revision. Let us not be too hard upon him. It may be that he rests under too heavy a load of censure. He may even be deserving of sympathy. He said—was there a suggestion of desperation in his words?—“I have married a wife and therefore I can not come.” The king ought very likely to have exempted this man from his wrath; for he seems to say, “I should like to come, but—!”
Then there was the servant who, in his lord’s absence, got above his business, assumed the master, became drunken in the company of roisterers, and beat his fellow-servants; but was at last put to shame by the sudden and unexpected arrival of his master. This servant was a veritable Jaques who, in the old play, assumed to be his master, the Duke, and who was likewise brought to grief by his master’s return: “I must appear important; big as a country pedagogue when he enters the school-room with a-hem, and terrifies the apple-munching urchins with the creaking of his shoes. I’ll swell like a shirt bleaching in a high wind; and look as burly as a Sunday beadle when he has kicked down the unhallowed stall of a profane old apple-woman. Bring my chair of state!”
There are other characters, such as the shrewd laborer who, digging in a field, finds a hidden treasure and secreting it goes and buys the field; the unjust judge who finally, completely tired out, gives way in no very amiable mood to the widow’s unceasing petitions for justice; the timid soul, who, fearing to use his talent, hid it in a napkin and buried it in the earth; the self-righteous Pharisee who recounts his good deeds before the Lord of the Temple and complacently congratulates himself that he is not as other men! “God, I thank thee that I am not as the rest of men, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even as this publican. I fast twice in the week; I give tithes of all that I get!” Mr. Pecksniff once more!—so satisfied with himself, “so radiant with ingenuous honesty that Mrs. Lupin almost wondered not to see a stained-glass glory, such as the saint wore in the church, shining about his head!”
VI.
In the introduction, reference was made to the words of Mr. Shorthouse which suggested this investigation. This seems a fitting place to present the only example in which Mr. Shorthouse has carried out his own suggestion,—the Parable of the Prodigal Son.
“But is it trite that there is no humor in the gospels? ‘What strokes of nature, if not of humor,’ to use Mr. Addison’s words again, may we find in the story, let us say, of the Prodigal Son? What, in the light of the modern conception of humor, will come out of this?
Here, surely, there is no want of real life, of low life, even. Here is a wild young scamp, as like Tom Jones as heart could wish. Here is ingratitude, forgetfulness of parents, riotous living, taverns, harlots, what not? Then beggary, and feeding swine, and living upon husks. Then when evil living is found not to answer, penitence—like Tom Jones again.
And ‘when he was yet a great way off his father saw him,’ along the stony road beneath the vine-clad hills. Who can tell how often the father’s eyes had gazed longingly down the road since his son’s figure, gay, reckless of the benefits just bestowed, accompanied by servants, eager for the pleasures of the world, had vanished from his sight? Now, at last, after so long waiting and looking, he sees in the far distance, a very different sight. He sees a solitary figure, worn and bent down, in rags, dragging on its weary steps; how could the old man’s gaze expect such a sight as this? Nevertheless, his father knew him, ‘and ran and fell on his neck.’ He did not wait for any accents of repentance, nor did he enforce any moral precepts which might advantage posterity. ‘He fell on his neck and kissed him.’ Foolish old father!
Tom Jones is brought in. He goes to the bath. The familiar feeling of luxury comes over him once more. He is clothed in fine linen, and has a gold ring placed on his finger, the past seems an evil dream. Then the fatted calf is killed. The banquet is spread and there is festivity, music, and dancing-girls.
But suddenly, in the midst of his delight, some trouble passes over the old man’s face; his eldest son is not in his place, and they bring him word that he is without and refuses to come in. Some perception of a neglected truth passes through the father’s mind, and he rises and goes out. ‘Therefore came his father out and entreated him.’
The eldest son has been out all day working in the vineyards; all his life had been one long performance of duty, taken for granted, and therefore unpraised and unrecognized. In how many households will silent witness be borne that this is real life—the gentle and obedient service overlooked—nay, more than this, the cross word or hasty temper where there is no fear that it will be returned.
‘All these years have I served thee * * * and yet thou never gavest me a kid that I might make merry with my friends.’ I am a man like others, gayety and feasting are pleasant to me, as to them.
A look of perplexed, but growing insight comes into the father’s face. ‘Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine.’
This is all very well, still he is conscious that there is something to be said for the eldest son, too. But his lost son—his wayward, and therefore loved son, is come again.
‘It is meet that we should make merry and be glad, for this thy brother was dead and is alive again.’ We can see the pitiful, pleading look in the old man’s eyes,—‘thy brother was dead.’
Yes, Addison must be right. Nature and humor cannot be far apart. The source and spring of humor is human life. Its charm consists, not merely in laughter or even in joy, but in the stirring of those sympathies and associations which exist invariably in the race; for we inherit a world-life and a religion, the earth-springs of whose realities lie, perchance, too deep for laughter, but not, Heaven be praised, too deep for tears.”
Surely the examples given suggest an eye for the humorous in him who saw and described them. These illustrations were, indeed, used to convey moral truths, but they show how wide was the acquaintance of Jesus with all sorts of characters, and how he loved to use such as were out of the ordinary; such as, to-day, we should at least call “peculiar.” A recognition of this fact will help us better to appreciate and more thoroughly to enjoy those simple, yet wonderful parables, out of which the heavy hand of a severely literal criticism would crush all “touches of nature.”