I find no book in the Bible more refreshing than Ecclesiastes. It is a peak of the Wisdom literature of Israel, and was probably written in the third century BC, some seven centuries after the time of King Solomon to whom tradition ascribes both this book and Proverbs. The joy of Ecclesiastes depends paradoxically on its sour dictum and generally pessimistic conclusions. Worldly success frequently bears no relationship to the character of the person who attains high office; the same applies to the attainment of riches. And even wealth does not assure one of anything other than anxiety. "Sweet is the sleep of a labourer whether he has little or much to eat, but the rich man who has too much cannot sleep" (5.12). The reason for this insomnia is twofold: the obvious anxiety about the safety of one's possessions, and the rich, excessive and generally unhealthy meals that the affluent are accustomed to eat. At first this is a mark of their elevation in human eyes, but soon it becomes a thoughtless habit to be reciprocated by and on their kind at various parties and civic functions. How fortunate are those who can live with an ardent spirit controlling the needs of the body! If, however, one's concerns are primarily mundane, the spirit has little to do except enjoin a degree of prudence in the face of immediate desire and seduction. The labourer's sleep is, according to the above dictum, sweet only if contentment blesses his efforts. The pleasantly bucolic atmosphere conjured up by Ecclesiastes is less in evidence in our contemporary world where most people are imbued with a spirit of worldly ambition, each wishing to make the grade and be free of financial hardship. Then they too can enjoy the "good things of life", see the sights, and vie with their peers in acquiring a superficial knowledge about many things in general but little in particular.
Someone very close to me used to make it his business to visit as many of the great sights of the world as he could. He did not believe in a life beyond death, and his dictum was "Once you're dead, you're dead for a long time". I learned to smile indulgently rather than to involve myself in a heated discussion with him, knowing full well that the evidence for survival of death is a very personal matter. He is in fact now dead to his physical body, but I have had a number of very personal communications from his soul, or "spirit", all initiated directly by him (for I do not patronize mediums except very rarely, and then for the purpose of psychical research). He now knows that there is indeed something awaiting the deceased in the life beyond death, and I suspect feels that his feverish attempts to see as much as possible of this world before his death were rather pathetic and self-centred.
The burden of the teaching of the unknown writer of Ecclesiastes is that all earthly striving is in vain. "Swiftness does not win the race nor strength the battle. Food does not belong to the wise, nor wealth to the intelligent, nor success to the skilful; time and chance govern all" (9.11). No one knows when the hour of tragedy or death may strike, and indeed it is far wiser not to know the exact time of these inevitable occurrences, because in the end little can be done about them, while a neurotic preparation for them will only rob the present moment of its innocent joys and happy expectations. It is in this respect that we can agree with Thomas Gray's rather trite observation from his "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College", "Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise". Wisdom, or at least knowledge, may be useful if it can reverse an unpleasant situation in time, but there are many events in our life that are not tractable to interference of this type, and if we are truly wise we learn to live with them, accept them, and grow through them to become more adult members of society. Jesus also says in the course of the Sermon the Mount, "Do not be anxious about tomorrow; tomorrow will look after itself. Each day has troubles enough of its own" (Matthew 6.34)
The end of all earthly life, whether human or animal, whether of kings or commoners, of saints or sinners, of self-assured religionists or agnostics, is dissolution of the body and a return of the spirit to God who gave it (Ecclesiastes 12.7). Indeed, everything mortal is futile, vain and illusory if seen in an isolated, selfish context. But we were never expected to live thus. We are expected to enrich the world from which we spring, and to work in the company of all our fellows, whether in direct fellowship or in the more vastly ranging compass of prayer. We enrich the world by giving our own special essence to it; a depressive type of person can see nothing valuable about himself or herself, whereas a self-assured individual may have an absurdly exaggerated opinion of his or her own importance. We are most helpful to the community when we forget ourselves and proceed with the work at hand. If we are a relatively undistinguished member of a group there will probably be more competent members to complement our endeavours. In fact the especially gifted person shines most beautifully when they serve in a selfless enthusiasm in a communal enterprise. This type of person, if they are imbued with a spontaneous humility that is a distant promise of greatness, is so concerned about the other members as to be scarcely aware of the special contribution they are making. They lose themself only to discover their true identity in the context of the fullness of the group.
It is ironic that the depressed individual is so encumbered by a broken self-image that there is no possibility of them participating in the great company of living compatriots. On the other hand, the self-assured egoist excludes themself by an inflating, often narcissistic display that estranges the other members of the company with whom they labour. Jesus warns such an egoist to watch their step: they may select a place of honour at a wedding feast, only to be demoted when a more auspicious guest arrives; it is far better to take a lowly place and then be invited by the host up higher. Furthermore, all the other guests will note the respect with which these favoured ones are held (Luke 14.7-11). The ridiculous aspect of us humans is the way we get our sense of proportion completely out of balance. Our moods are at their most laughably exalted when we believe that we amount to something special or that our opinions are of special worth when we compare ourselves with our peers. Our undeniable particularity lies in the essence of the soul, or true self, but it is in no way to be inflated above the souls of others around us. Some of us actualize our gifts and talents, like the servants described in Jesus' famous parable of Matthew 25.14-30, whereas many more go to sleep as life passes them unobtrusively by. It is a commonplace among all the world's great spiritual teachers that most people function as sleepwalkers. Some of the more arrogant of their followers prescribe special exercises or work to counteract this unawareness, but to those with greater spiritual insight, all that is stimulated is an egoistic concern that obliterates the finer feelings that lead to loving service.
In this respect not all service has a loving quality. Apart from the service demanded by a tyrannical overlord in a servile relationship, there is a kind of service exacted from the pupil by a masterful teacher. This type of situation is not uncommon in many of the cults at present captivating the young in their search for an absolute truth which they have failed to obtain in the world's religious traditions. Not only do the seekers after truth give their very souls to their masterful (and predatory) teachers, but they also submit themselves to incredibly exacting service in the cause of the cult. One might add that the true teachers of spiritual truth never demand anything personal of their students even if they demand the whole world from them, as Jesus did of the rich young man who sought to attain eternal life. He advised him to relinquish his money, which was the focus of anchorage to transience and worldly illusion, but this was to go to the poor, not to Jesus and his little company. At that stage of his life the postulant found it impossible to comply with Jesus' invitation to absolute renunciation and then to follow him (Mark 10.17-22). There is a fine honesty about this man and the teacher completely absent in the modern cult situation: the seeker has a grasping attitude to what he or she believes is the truth, while the alleged master grasps the pupil and their belongings without any scruple whatsoever. Here we have a nice example of the ridiculous at play in the tragic human situation: it is the spiritually blind who lead those with at least partial sight, sufficient to drive them onwards to seek the truth. Their contact with the blind man leads to their own progressive blindness, but it is at least remediable when, like the prodigal son, they come to their senses and hear the voice of God the Holy Spirit within them. It is interesting to compare this travesty of truth and service with the real thing as described in Jesus' restoration of sight to the man born blind in the ninth chapter of St John's gospel.
Jesus warns us that we cannot serve God and Mammon, the god of money (Luke 16.13). But money can have a far wider context than merely its wonted usage as a convenient medium of exchange; in its entirety it embraces all the things of the world, which are mere idols when served in their own capacity to the exclusion of any higher concern. The ego can be the most seductive of all idols, for it unconsciously forms the basis of an extreme form of worship. Paradoxically enough, this is true of the depressive situation, but here it is the hiatus formed by the virtually obliterated ego that forms the basis of self-awareness, so that the victim is tied to a non-existence that is the very foundation of their identity. More usually the ego is challengingly dominant and looks for its own satisfaction above all else. It often assumes a religious flavour, on other occasions a political or nationalistic one. And so it comes about that these and kindred matters may form the essence of our lives to the extent of our trying to silence dissenters in defence of what we regard as the truth, but what is in fact merely our own opinion. The ego is a most serviceable garment of the soul, but if we are defective in spiritual insight we may be deceived into focusing our full attention on to it, so as to avoid those deeper issues in the psyche which relate to our identity. The fear we experience when this part of the personality is threatened by exposure can be truly paralysing, because we are confronted with conflict and possible destruction.
The Psalmist marvels at God's creation of the human in Psalm 8, where he is described as little less than a god (verse 5). But he can also function as a mass destroyer when he believes he has a divine mission, sent in fact by his coruscating ego rather than the Spirit within, which shines with the uncreated light of God as it illuminates the soul and inflames the whole person with a love that will give of itself without stint for the benefit of the whole, whether of the group, the nation or all that lives. In the light of love all of these coalesce to form what we may reasonably call the body of Christ. The uncreated light of God, the energy by which we know the presence of the Almighty - for of God no one can speak except in negative terms, of what is not rather than of what is - is at once blinding and illuminating, searing and healing, revealing and supporting. The light of the demon-possessed individual with a yearning for absolute power consuming their soul is alluring and scintillating, its strength magnifying itself and deceiving its object so that its source lies unrevealed except to those of spiritual sight who can discern the emptiness of the chalice from which it emanates. This falsified light also comes primarily from God, who is the source of all life, power and light, but it is shown to be perverted by the corrupted will of the creature who has grasped at a divine status.
The cleansing power that restores the human to something of the divine image in which they were created is contained in two little esteemed qualities of common life: doubt and humour. The person who can truly accept the glaring possibility that their convictions, so dearly and loyally held, may be, if not frankly erroneous, at least needful of modification and constant audit, is in a state of grace; the grace of God is capable of penetrating the skin of their certainty with a love that supersedes any necessity for absolute correctness that may assume the plausible mask of truth. Doubt is something illustrated in Thomas's refusal to accept the verity of Jesus' resurrected form until he had direct evidence of the marks of his crucifixion. When these were shown, his faith was absolute (John 20.26-29). Doubt reveals the tentative nature of all worldly phenomena and beliefs. It is our growing point into a fresh understanding of reality, and will never cease until the end of time itself. "At present we see only puzzling reflections in a mirror, but one day we shall see face to face. My knowledge now is partial; then it will be whole, like God's knowledge of me" (1 Corinthians 13.12). But the passage is completed by the crucial observation that only three things last forever, and these are faith, hope and the greatest of the three, love. This everlasting faith is a most important quality to investigate, and I shall do this later. But the sort of faith that has an intellectual, credal basis is at most merely a summation of current understanding, easily taken over by prejudice that masquerades as the truth. It is this sort of faith, whether religious, philosophical or political, that is the basis of conflict to death. Once one can let go and accept that other people with contrary beliefs may also have some truth, and that the wise person listens with respect to all and sundry, just as Jesus did when he dined with the less reputable members of society and entered fully into their conviviality, one can grow in understanding of the human condition and be of immense help to others who are in difficulty. (If he had been "standoffish" because of moral disapproval, he would never have been asked a second time either to that particular group or to any others, because his reputation would quickly have spread by word of mouth.)
If all real living is meeting, to quote Buber a third time, we increase our knowledge by social intercourse in a way that books and lectures can never match. Jesus not only learned the wisdom of the streets - if he were alive today the inmates of our prisons would have enlightened him about many less acceptable aspects of society as well as their own particular psychological gifts and problems - but also the heroism of the common folk living in subservience to the Romans, their own traitorous tax-gatherers and the general state of poor hygiene that caused many people to die at least as young as he himself. We often forget that as little as a century ago many people in western Europe died before the age of forty from infections that are nowadays easily treated by antibiotics; AIDS, however, reminds us that nature has unpleasant tricks "up its sleeve" until we participate in spiritual as well as intellectual maturity.
Doubt is an amazing liberator; it frees us for more research, whether social, scientific or personal. While some people need scriptural literalism, often called fundamentalism, to make them feel secure, there are others who are able to outgrow such reins on the intelligence. They are the pioneers of the race. Some will certainly die in unfortunate circumstances, for the experiment of life, like all other experiments, is hazardous, but at least they will have actualized their true humanity, will never be satisfied until the ultimate truth has been revealed, the ultimate exploration attempted. In the end they are to discover that all ultimate things are spiritual rather than merely material and intellectual, and then a faith comes to them that is of a very different quality from a dependence on dogmas of various types that enslave rather than enlighten. It is not that dogmas and teachings are ipso facto erroneous, but that they tend in the wrong hands to promote a dogmatism which will not relent until it has placed as many people as possible under its thraldom. Modern scientific practice is expanding so fast that all teachings have a transient quality about them, but religious consciousness, being less easily tested, tends to embrace definite schemes of thought that either do not move or else are tentatively replaced by equally dogmatic ideas that induce an illusion of absolute authority. It is very refreshing to encounter a person of intelligent, sympathetic doubt who can appreciate the enduring features of the old way without being subservient to them; an iconoclastic attitude is seldom helpful to an individual's growth or the community's development.
Doubt above all else shows us how foolish we are when we become wedded to concepts, theories or philosophies. If we have a sense of proportion we can scarcely suppress a smile when we think about some of the beliefs that have guided human thought over past eras. They have concerned the assurance that various religious and metaphysical dogmas have been God's will. In a more sober frame of mind can we really believe that a God of love will condemn even a very hardened sinner to eternal damnation, an irreversible hell from which that love is totally excluded? Since God is the ultimate creator of all that exists, would he have devised such an atmosphere of torment that knows of no relief? One must concede that some of Jesus' parables, notably those of Matthew 25 and Luke 16.19-31, envisage such a condition of total unforgiveness, despite Jesus' own reputation for love and forgiveness. Depending on one's own insights one will accept or reject such a final disposal of one's fellow beings, but if one is wise one will wonder who exactly is to share such a terrible fate. Why not oneself? The more one grows spiritually, the more unworthy does one see oneself, and the deficiency is always one of love. When all is considered it is much more likely that a hell of unlimited duration may be the outlook for the vicious sinner until the expression of repentance, rather like that of the prodigal son returning home to his father after a long period in the hell that he had improvidently devised for himself. Thus intelligent doubt can modify long-standing beliefs without necessarily rejecting them altogether.
The sense of the ridiculous in human life is exposed most perfectly by the humour of the present moment. Life, far from being solemn, is one glorious laugh when we are fully aware of what is laid before us, however serious the present situation may be. Recently when I was conducting a few days' silent retreat of serious intent - though not too severe, I hope - a trivial incident occurred during our silent lunch together while I sat at table with two other retreatants. At the end of the meal we were served with the dessert consisting of boiled rhubarb with some custard contained in a small jug. As I started pouring the custard on to the rhubarb, I failed to observe that there was an obstruction which caused me to tilt the jug more acutely; it then became obvious that the obstruction was caused by a small piece of clotted custard blocking the lip of the jug. Once this little clot had been detached there was a considerable flow of custard on to my plate. This little diversion evoked a giggle in us all which broadened into a delicious smile. The lady next to me then started sprinkling sugar on her rhubarb, but she too had a minor mishap: the top of the sprinkler was poorly attached and became loose, with the result that an unusually heavy flow of sugar coated her dessert. It was the incongruous little episode from common life amid the concentrated silence that sparked off our amusement. Had a similar event occurred in a domestic setting it would either have passed without comment or else occasioned mild irritation. In an expensive restaurant there might have been some annoyance, except that boiled rhubarb would have been a distinctly unlikely dessert in a classy eating-house! From this very simple example we can see how humour is closely integrated into our common life at any time provided we have the awareness and simplicity to appreciate it. It casts its ridicule over all our pretensions without in any way discrediting our endeavours. There is, on the contrary, something very endearing about a humorous event: we seem somehow to be taken up in the everlasting arms of God, being assured that God is love, and that in the love our mighty schemes and dogmatic points of view can be put to rest for a little while.
To laugh at oneself is the apogee of humour. To see our foibles in the light of a charitable openness and to smile indulgently over them is a mark of distinct spiritual development. Such an attitude softens our wonted rigidity, and allows us to love both ourself and other people for what we all are, rather as God does. I thank God for the ministry of humorists, comedians and clowns. By their outrageous assaults on the apparent normality of everyday life, they cause me to draw breath, and in that action I draw in something of the mystery of God also. When I lose rigid control of my own propriety, I attain an openness to vast ranges of emotion that put me in touch with the human condition at its most child-like. Can one find humour in the Bible? If one reads it straight through with a single-track mind, looking for infallible teaching or filled with adoration, one will see nothing of the texture of humour, simply because one has unwittingly blinded oneself to the full text.
When I was a child I used to love the story of Job, whose depth I could scarcely fathom at that age, but the wording of the Authorized Version delighted me: "Behold now behemoth, which I made with thee; he eateth grass as an ox . . . ", and "Canst thou draw out leviathan with an hook? Or his tongue with a cord which thou lettest down? Canst thou put an hook into his nose? Or bore his jaw through with a thorn? Will he make many supplications unto thee? Will he speak soft words to thee? Will he make a covenant with thee?" And so the delightful descriptions of the hippopotamus and the crocodile proceed in Job 40 and 41 respectively. I doubt whether I could have identified behemoth and leviathan when I was a child, but the pleasure they gave me was out of this world in sheer enjoyment. And then there was the story of the death of the wicked king of Israel, Ahab, who was directed by Jehoshaphat to find a reliable prophet to foretell their joint venture in the battle of Ramoth-gilead against the Syrians. "And Jehoshaphat said, Is there not a prophet of the Lord besides (the numerous prophets who unanimously forecast victory), that we may enquire of him? And the king of Israel said unto Jehoshaphat, "There is yet one man, Micaiah the son of Imlah, by whom we may enquire of the Lord, but I hate him; for he doth not prophesy good concerning me, but evil" (1 Kings 22.7-8). The story in its delightful language goes on to tell of how Micaiah does indeed foretell disaster, which is soon accomplished. None of this is particularly amusing to the person devoid of a sense of humour, but if one does possess this invaluable gift, one can smile at the folly of Ahab in believing that he can alter the pre-ordained course of history by selecting the right type of prophet, one who gives him the type of counsel that will confirm his plans. We have already considered the problem of predestination and free will in Chapter 3; it is when we, like Jonah, strive to thwart our destiny that the fun begins. Those with a sense of humour can attain a balance that obviates foolish excursions into unknown territory in order to escape the nemesis in front of us, rather like Balaam and his ass who is gifted with a clairvoyance denied its owner (Numbers 22.24-25).
I find considerable source of humour in the Old Testament, but scarcely any in the New Testament. This is because there is much less delineation of character in this part of the Bible. The only slightly comical person is Peter, who vacillates between a moving loyalty to his Master (John 6.68-69) and a craven denial of his relationship (John 18.25-27). He can hardly believe that with Jesus' support he can walk on water, and then he begins to sink (Matthew 14.29-31), and with James and John he is privileged to witness the Transfiguration, the raising of the daughter of Jairus and the Gethsemane episode. In none of these three is there any evidence that he understands what is taking place. I can identify myself with Peter very easily in his fallible humanity, but whether I possess his strong loyalty - despite the "hiccup" mentioned above - is something yet to be proved in its entirety. There is something to smile at in Paul's dogmatic views on church order: he sometimes closes a discussion by telling his readers that this is the way, and they must take it or leave it; nevertheless he believes that with a greater consideration over the matter in question they will come to see the truth of his own position! Considering the circumstances in which Paul did his tremendous missionary work we are wise to applaud his efforts, even if he did cause some unhappiness among his Corinthian flock, but nowadays such a masterful approach will not attract the more thoughtful type of person whom the Church needs desperately in its current missionary activities.
If we have a strong sense of humour we allow for differences in opinion, welcoming criticism rather than regarding it as a manifestation of disloyalty. If we return where we started, to Ecclesiastes, everything ends in death, "For mortals depart to their everlasting home, and the mourners go about the street" (12.5). It is wise not to take the world's enthusiasms and aversions too much to heart; what was taboo yesterday becomes the done thing today. What will happen tomorrow God alone knows. It is sure to be something that we in our self-assurance never so much as expected. Nevertheless, to quote 1 Corinthians 13.13 again, "There are three things that last for ever: faith, hope, and love; and the greatest of the three is love".
Humour is seen most exquisitely in little things. The episode at the retreat house is a typical example. Joy trickles down our faces as we laugh over the small times of cheerful abandon when we forget ourselves. It is then that we find ourselves as part of an infinitely greater whole than we could have imagined. In this way humour has a strongly mystical element. William Blake knew this in his exquisitely simple poem "Laughing Song" which comes from the Songs of Innocence.
When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by,
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it.
When the meadows laugh with lively green
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene,
When Mary and Susan and Emily,
With their sweet round mouths sing Ha, Ha, He.
When the painted birds laugh in the shade
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread
Come live & be merry and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of Ha, Ha, He.
A much more ridiculous element is found in the light operas of W. S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan and the nonsense poems of Edward Lear:
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat.
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the Stars above
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are,
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"
Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows,
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose.
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
A sense of humour is innate. It is incompatible with fanaticism and is needed to subdue intense partisan feelings about religion and politics. It is developed during periods of stress; tragedy paradoxically often leads to its flowering. It is not surprising that the Jews and the Irish, two groups with a particularly sad history, are renowned for their fund of arresting jokes and especially their humorous attitude to life itself. My own sense of humour, always very pronounced, was well brought out during my years as a morbid anatomist, a pathologist who specializes in post-mortem examinations, among other interests. The aesthetically repulsive atmosphere of the mortuary where autopsies are performed soon precipitates a subtle change of attitude, in the course of which one converses jocularly with the post-mortem attendant, both being involved in a work of distinctly unusual fascination. One thinks of cremations with a fee attached and inquests that are even more lucrative. The amount of money provided by either was in fact negligible, but the thought of getting something lifted one's imagination to the pleasant reward in store for one at the end of the day. Distinctly irreverent banter might escape from one's lips, and the ridiculous futility of so much mortal pretension was unmasked in the ritual of the post-mortem room. But there were moments of great sadness also, as when a young person had died. I look back on that period of my life with almost unbearable nostalgia, revolting as it may have been from a purely aesthetic point of view. But the keen sense of humour has persisted and been augmented by the folly one sees so often in one's own actions and in the pomposity of those who feel they have a special gift to show, rather than share with, their fellows.