G.K. Chesterton on the one thing God hides from us

I’ve always been intrigued that tears are considered more serious than laughter. In movies, paintings, novels, and television, it’s always the dramas and high-toned tragedies that earn the description of “serious art.” I’ve always contended that comedy too can also be “serious art,” and simply because levity and laughter are present doesn’t mean we should dismiss it.

For instance, one novelist I absolutely love is P.G. Wodehouse, who invented the character of Jeeves the Butler. Wodehouse is a genius right up there with any other novelist, but we never hear his name in the same conversation as writers like Joyce or Proust. He was occasionally asked when he was going to finally write a serious novel, but Wodehouse steadfastly maintained that his light-hearted comedies about nothing were serious.

Joseph Bottum, a fellow Wodehouse admirer, comments in First Things, “Maybe P. G. Wodehouse matters precisely because he was willing not to matter. Maybe we should take seriously the fact that a major English literary talent of the 20th century was content to use his perfect prose for no purpose greater than the construction of pleasant farces, gentle comedies, and the buzz of language as it passes through an Edwardian fantasy world of stern aunts, spineless noblemen, soppy girls, and young men in spats.”

A similar separation of seriousness from laughter occurs throughout life. Rarely is the genius of the class clown recognized, or the insight stand-up comedians have about human nature acknowledged, or the joyful approach to life taken by someone St. Francis of Assisi celebrated. It’s as if all the serious people are off somewhere doing taxes, arguing about politics, and furrowing their brows at the perilous nature of the human condition. Now, of course, I’m exaggerating for effect, but there’s a grain of truth here. Even when laughter and joy are recognized as human goods, they never attain quite the same status culturally as other virtues.

I cannot help but wonder if, in Catholic circles at least, this is because we never get a good, solid scriptural description of Jesus laughing and joking around. He almost certainly did laugh and joke, but we have to guess at it. If you came back at me and argued that Our Lord never, ever would have told a joke and I have no evidence to claim he did, I could only shrug my shoulders and admit that, no, I cannot prove anything. All I have is an intuition. Jesus is a serious person with a serious mission to accomplish, and that’s why I think he laughed.

G.K. Chesterton has a unique theory of why we have no hard evidence of Jesus ever laughing. At the end of his book Orthodoxy, he claims that during his time on earth Jesus hid his joy. This was the great secret of Christ. From the Gospels we know about his tears, suffering, patience in the face of betrayal, gentleness, anger, and forgiveness. We get very little hint of his joy. Why is this the one thing he holds back?

To understand Chesterton’s answer, it helps to know that Orthodoxy is the story of how his encounter with Christianity was an encounter with paradox. The heart of our faith is the Cross, the suffering and dying Son of God who becomes the key to everlasting life and happiness. This is a paradox that turns the world upside down. In order to have joy beyond measure, we must first be prepared to join Christ in his sorrow.

Chesterton notes that this is precisely the opposite of how joy is typically understood by non-Christians. He describes joy as the “small publicity of the pagan.” In other words, there are many who proudly proclaim their only goal is to be comfortable, rich, and well-fed. They chase earthly pleasure before all else. Christianity, on the other hand, is considered dour, making too many demands and placing primacy on the suffering of the Cross. This is unappealing, so Christianity is rejected in favor of pleasure-seeking.

The paradox is that this single-minded, selfish pursuit actually leads to sadness. As we think more of ourselves, we grow less happy. The more frantically we chase joy, the further away it is.

Those who are obsessed with joy “conceal their tears,” says Chesterton. They cannot admit that their pleasures haven’t made them happy. Jesus, on the other hand, wasn’t afraid to reveal his tears. Why? Because he was confident that the joy hidden within him was greater than any suffering in this life.

God has a hidden reservoir of inexhaustible joy and one day we will make it to Heaven and dive in. In the meantime, even when we face difficulties, we end up with more joy than ever. St. Francis was joyful because he suffered. Christ perfected human joy through his suffering. When we follow Our Lord, what seems dour at the outset is revealed as the path to happiness.

However, it’s not time yet for the fullness of joy. Laughter and mirth aren’t always appropriate depending on the context we find ourselves in. There’s a time to laugh and a time to cry. But joy is, in all contexts, a serious business. Laughter, delight, and mirth can be sanctifying, a foretaste of the life to come. This is why God hides them; they’re too serious for us to fully experience this side of Heaven.

As Chesterton concludes; “There was some one thing that was too great for God to show us when He walked upon our earth; and I have sometimes fancied that it was His mirth.”