I'm sure my kids will never forget the first funeral they attended. It was for my friend Tom. We tried to prepare them, instructing them how to behave (quiet, respectful) and what to expect (people crying, people telling stories, hearing talk about death). But even April and I weren't prepared for what we experienced that day. We learned that Tom was quite the practical joker. The funeral was filled with story after story of Tom's exploits, spanning from childhood to after retirement. By the end, many eyes were wet with laughter instead of tears. On the way home, our kids were quick to point out the gap between reality and what we had told them to expect, asking, "Are all funerals that funny?"

     I don't think there was anything wrong with laughing during Tom's service. Over the years, our culture has shifted from having a "funeral" to having a "memorial service" to having a "celebration of life." And laughing during such an occasion is a privilege that is given to the children of God. After all, we have been told that God's people "[should] not grieve as others do who have no hope" and that if we do so, it is because we are "uninformed" (1 Thessalonians 4:13). I don't think there's anything too controversial about the idea that when a brother or sister dies in the Lord, we can mix laughter with our sorrow as we remember them.

     But what about when a brother or sister is not yet dead? What about during sickness? What about when someone (like me) has been given a terminal diagnosis and needs God to miraculously heal or else death is the expected outcome? Can we make jokes about that? As you might expect, there's not a simple yes or no answer to this. Ecclesiastes 3:4 tells us there is "a time to laugh." And since that passage tends to pair up contrasts, laughter is paired with weeping - a time to weep, and a time to laugh. Well, we've done our share of weeping in my home lately. But we've also found time to laugh. And sometimes, the funniest thing in the room is my cancer.

     When I make a stupid move in a card game (something I often did even before cancer), my daughter will tease "brain tumor!" My wife laughs at the odd pattern on my head from where the hair has fallen out. My son and his friends ask if the radiation has given me superpowers yet. One of them offered to supply the spider to speed things up. But each family and each person deals with suffering in their own way. Laughing doesn't mean we're not taking things seriously, and it doesn't mean we're not grieving.

     With all that in mind, we can't neglect a bit of pastoral sensitivity and wisdom. We need to be extra careful that we are laughing with someone who suffers and not laughing at them.  A person who is suffering might not be ready to joke yet. There is a normal, healthy process that we move through, each at our own pace. I had to be taught a lesson about that recently: I made a joke about my tumor while preaching. I thought it was funny, but it went over like a lead balloon. Not even a sympathy chuckle. As the elders of my church explained to me the next day, "It's OK if you make jokes about it. Just don't expect us to laugh." It was a timely reminder that I am not alone in this, and that my church family is grieving with me. Their grief will look different from mine, and it may move at a different pace. We always need to be sensitive to that.

     Some people may never reach the point where they are comfortable finding humor in the midst of pain, and that's OK. That's not immature or unspiritual. But, as Paul said to the Thessalonian church, "I do not want you to be uninformed." We don't make jokes because we believe that "laughter is the best medicine." And we're not joking because it helps to distract us from the morbid reality we face. For the believer, gallows humor is only possible because of Jesus. That might sound odd, but hear me out.

     If despair was the only proper response to sickness and death, then humor would be inappropriate. We can't joke about something that destroys us and leaves us with no hope. Despite how the movies might show it, you don't crack jokes about a beast that is about to devour you. You can't be humorous about the oppressive tyrant with his boot on your throat. You make jokes about something that has lost its power to intimidate. I read a glimpse of this in a psychology article that said, "Gallows humor is a coping mechanism that renders absurd what scares us most." Psychology says that our jokes make our fears absurd so we can cope. The gospel says we can laugh because death has already been made impotent by the work of Christ.

     There's a line in Psalm 2 that we should consider here. The scene begins with a rebellion against God and his anointed king (Messiah): "The kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel together, against the LORD and against his Anointed." Notice how God reacts: "He who sits in the heavens laughs; the Lord holds them in derision" (Psalm 2:2-6). God laughs because his enemies are as good as defeated; they don't stand a chance against the power of God and his chosen king. That's not just true of earthly kings and their oppression of God's children. It is true of the greatest enemy that God's people ever face. The cross of Jesus is the victory of God over death. Not just victory over the death of Jesus, but victory over death itself (1 Corinthians 15:20-26).

     The followers of Christ share in his victory. For me, humor is part of the victory dance. The ability to laugh testifies to the confidence we have that death doesn't win the war. It may win for a season, but its power to intimidate and steal hope has been taken away. It still hurts, of course, and there is a time for weeping. We're not yet in the time or place where God has wiped away not only every tear but also every cause for tears (Isaiah 25:8, Revelation 21:4). But the resurrection and promise of Jesus saves the believer from the FEAR of death (remember Hebrews 2:14-15!). Most of us (except for those alive when Christ returns) will die a physical death sooner or later - the resurrection of Jesus doesn't change that. What the resurrection changes is the way that death affects us. It is no longer the mighty tyrant holding us captive. It can be teased, it can be mocked, it has been defeated.

     It's not a joke to my kids that their dad might be dying. It is a joke that he can't eat all the unhealthy things he used to, that he needs other people to drive him around, that there's a hole in the middle of his brain, that he'll always have a hairless scar on the top of his head, etc. Through our humor, we remind one another that just because this cancer might end in my death, that doesn't mean death wins. Death cannot steal the joy we have in living together with however many years the Lord gives us. Death cannot take the hope that we will see one another again in gloriously perfect bodies. Death cannot use fear to spoil the happiness that we may yet experience in life.

     Every joke makes death's grip on us a little weaker. Every quip expresses our faith that death is defeated. I dare say: humor in the valley of the shadow of death is a confession of faith. So laugh with me, if you can. (Don't feel bad if you can't. Even before cancer, most of my jokes weren't funny anyway.) And if you laugh, laugh as one who has hope; laugh as one who understands that the darkness will soon pass, that the perishable will put on the imperishable, and that death is swallowed up in victory.