BitterSweetLife

God's Hidden Smile


© 2005 Ariel Vanderhorst

G.K. Chesterton suggests that the full extent of God’s mirth is carefully hidden—for our benefit. God is hugely happy. His joy is seismic; and if we got a head-on look we would be terrified and cry like a baby when she overhears a party in the next room.

I suspect that the mystery of God’s laughter might be deepened by a perspective problem. Incidents here may hint at why this is: We watch two people carrying a sled up a snowy hill, wince as they fail to notice the toboggan-train hurtling toward them, and are flattened. Then we laugh, safely upwind. Or we’re talking to a friend at the sports complex when someone kicks a soccer ball from 50 yards downfield; the ball describes a high, picturesque arc, then descends miraculously to bounce off the friend's head. In both cases, we try to stifle an irrational impulse to laugh out loud.

More awful examples are imaginable, but you can conjure them yourself. The point is, these absurd accidents provoke our amusement. Then, conflicted, we turn away to hide our smirks because we really do want to comfort the unfortunate. Moreover, we really do feel sorry for him. It’s not that his mishap isn’t painful or embarrassing, it’s just that it’s so…funny.

Our instinctive amusement arrives courtesy of an inflexible difference in perspective. We enjoy front row seats when the comedy of the absurd unfolds, and choke down our laughter. From the arena, the comedy is not so funny. I'm only speculating, but I wonder if there is a clue here to Christ’s perspective, his hidden mirth. When we are deeply offended at a perceived disaster, God hides his laughter and comforts us. His is the benefit of perspective.

I’m not for a moment implying that God’s amusement carries an aspect of guilt. On the contrary, God is the one being alive who has never known a moment of shame over poorly-timed laughter. And if we dare ascribe this pattern of "inappropriate" mirth to God, we should remember one more thing: When casual misfortune befalls a stranger, we may or may not smile; it is when someone we know and care about trips awkwardly on the sidewalk that it’s really funny. We laugh most readily at those we love.

Taking the unusual hint of our awkward laughter, I wonder if God’s amusement over the comic absurdities of our lives extend to bigger things. One finds a glimpse of this in the biblical story of Jonah:

Jonah was furious. He lost his temper. He yelled at GOD, "GOD! I knew it when I was back home, I knew this was going to happen! That's why I ran off to Tarshish! I knew you were sheer grace and mercy, not easily angered, rich in love, and ready at the drop of a hat to turn your plans of punishment into a program of forgiveness! "So, GOD, if you won't kill them, kill me! I'm better off dead!" GOD said, "What do you have to be angry about?" (Jonah 4:2-4, the Bible)

I can see God diplomatically listening to Jonah’s death wish. Jonah: “All this time I’ve been looking forward to the fireworks, and now THIS! You have to go and show off your kindness to these wretches! In that case, just go ahead and kill me, all right?” God: takes a moment of silence before he speaks, showing divine restraint. Which is to say he doesn’t laugh out loud.

So then, the really divine impulse may be to snort at absurd misfortunes after all—but as God refrains, so should we, with one exception: We are always at liberty to laugh at ourselves. Ultimately, the really humble person knows that laughter is the best cure for routine adversity—especially the case when the laws that govern coincidence seem to be stacked against us. Most of us never learn this, but a few do.

There is in the best of the saints a fantastic levity that would be alarming were it not accompanied by a lucid calm. The theologian Paul possessed it; headed toward execution in Rome, he affirmed his rationality—"With all respect, Festus, Your Honor, I'm not crazy.”—overwhelmed his audience with his passionate arguments—[King] Agrippa did answer: “Keep this up much longer and you'll make a Christian out of me!”—and all with inexplicable joy—Paul, still in chains, said, “That's what I'm praying for, whether now or later, and not only you but everyone listening today, to become like me—except, of course, for this prison jewelry!” (From Acts 26, the Bible)

This makes me wonder if God allows us discreet glimpses of his hidden smile as we get older, so that we may learn to laugh with him. As we grow up, God pulls back the veil of the universe inch by inch, and we see that what we mistook for fathomless space and darkness is really filled with tumultuous joy, a laughter that flickers teasingly in the stars—because God sees all ends.

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