Lightness, Play, and the Big Relief: Why Grace Demands We Laugh at Ourselves
If there was a single, stubborn thread waving through my conversation with David Zahl—writer, co-founder of Mockingbird, grace-evangelist, and friend of the Muppets—it’s this: what weighs us down most is rarely God’s law, the devil’s guile, or even the world’s darkness. It’s the pressure we put on ourselves (and each other) to strive, achieve, prove, and—heaven help us all—take ourselves entirely too seriously.
There are moments, David reminds us, when the only truly faithful response is not more grit, more piety, more chest-beating religion, but a holy laugh. A willingness to become, in his words, “well-rounded but not always good at one thing.” To let the ball drop, the joke land, the Far Side cow roll its eyes at us, and realize maybe—just maybe—grace means lightness, not gravity.
When Religion Forgets to Laugh
As someone who’s seen more than one church, denomination, or movement split over high-minded (and high-stakes) debates—my own ministry resignation included—I know all too well the cost of unrelenting solemnity. When David spoke about founding Mockingbird with a handful of “naive Episcopalians” who were exhausted by culture war theatrics, what I heard, between the lines, was a spiritual longing: to make space for a gospel that offers “relief” before it assigns more rules; to heal not just the shame of sin but the shame of not measuring up as a believer.
David’s prescription? More humor. More self-deprecation. More “Muppets, Calvin and Hobbes, Seinfeld, and Far Side.” And there’s gospel in that. Because when we can laugh at the pretensions of our tribes, our institutions, and especially ourselves, then—and only then—does grace have room to surprise us. It’s the difference between being the “light of the world” and the “loudspeaker of the world,” a distinction I tried to drive home with David. As he put it, “If Christianity is just a matter of turning up the volume, that’s pretty oppressive.” Amen.
The Gift of Play: When Productivity Isn’t the Point
Buried beneath our anxieties—religious or secular—is the idolatry of usefulness. Pressure, progress, perfectionism. If it isn’t productive, it doesn’t count. But the gospel at the heart of Mockingbird, and truly at the heart of Christ, is the radical news that the truest things are unearned, unproductive, and—get this—graciously playful.
David’s book The Big Relief, and his upcoming writing on play, brilliantly reframes faith in this light: “Play is a mode of being in the world that grace makes possible. … The great question of the Christian life is: what will you do, now that you don’t have to do anything?” I felt this deeply through my own journey with chronic illness—learning, however painfully, to measure the worth of my day not by productivity, but by whether I could glide through the swimming pool like a dancer or a dolphin. When I stopped checking the clock for my lap times and simply played with the movement, healing happened. Grace happened.
What if faith was less about achievement, and more about delight? What if the Sabbath, sabbatical, and celebration are not loopholes in a life of holy labor, but the essence of it? David’s wisdom: “Playful faith is not flaky. It’s generative. It’s the act of trusting, with the wide-eyed openness of a child, that God’s not mad at us—and perhaps even laughing with us at the cosmic joke.”
The Courage to Not Be Useful
If churches, families, and—dare I say it—even writers or newsletter hosts want to reach the bruised, burned-out, and spiritually exhausted, we must risk appearing unserious. We must risk being found playing—tossing a ball, doodling, telling stories, or daring to halt the relentless production of virtue long enough for grace to land.
David reminded me that most men (and most women too) forget to play. We measure, we control, we compete. And then life, or God, or some combination of the two, throws us into “the big relief”—the awareness that our best meeting with mercy often comes at the end of our striving, when our defenses are disarmed, and we’re finally willing to laugh at ourselves in the company of Christ.
Not Just Relief—Resistance
Don’t let the lightness fool you: this playfulness, this holy humor, is an act of resistance. In a culture that glorifies hustle, outrage, and self-important branding, it’s the defiant act of putting down the megaphone, picking up a rubber chicken, and remembering Calvin was closest to the truth when he was tumbling down a hill with Hobbes.
If you are tired, squeezed by church or culture or just the endless grind of proving and producing and never arriving—maybe today, you need grace in the form of laughter, rest, or a playful act no one else will ever measure.
Let the world chase its tail. Let the gospel be light—less about shame, more about delight. Be light, not loud: that is the Mockingbird approach, and it’s desperately needed right now.
Go and Do Likewise (Or Don’t—Either Way, You’re Loved)
As David Zahl reminded us, God’s not mad at you. In fact, maybe, at your most playfully useless, you are closest to the kingdom—created in the image of God, and beloved by a Creator who delights in your delight.
Take time this week to play, laugh, and practice not taking yourself seriously. Let grace have the last word, and watch as healing and hope arrive exactly when—and where—you least expect them.
You are created in the image of God. And God loves His creation.
—with permission to laugh,
Wade
If this reflection makes you want to doodle, play, or forward the gospel of lightness to someone stuck in the grind—as always—share, subscribe, or leave a comment. The next guest, like the next joke, may be exactly what we all need.
