8th January 2010
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I have been dwelling on the intersection between sex and comedy for the last week or so, since watching Funny People. I’ve gotten a number of reactions from people in response to my main query: “Why do comedians always seem to focus on sex?”
Here’s the lay of the land. First, we must admit that most Christians have a hard time talking about sex, much less seeing it as something to joke about. Fortunately it seems like more people married about the same time as I are starting to realize that there needs to be space for a light-hearted component to sex. I’m not saying you always need to laugh or make jokes about it, but I am saying that, honestly, sometimes funny stuff happens, and it’s ok to laugh about it.
Now, this isn’t what I was getting at when I asked about comedians joking about sex all the time. If you watch an average stand-up comic, he/she will undoubtedly make jokes about 1) his/her own sexuality, 2) an experience whilst having sex, or 3) his/her desire for sex. Usually this involves random sexual encounters, meaningless partners, and the like. Some of these jokes are quite humorous when you dissect them looking for wires and buzzers and such that build a precise humor machine (things such as irony, incongruity, absurdity, etc.). That is, there are certain things that define humor, and so these jokes meet these specifications; it really has nothing to do with what the joke is about, just how the joke is formulated.
I would contend that some other of these jokes aren’t “technically” humorous, but because they somehow strike a nerve of common experience with many people, they become humorous. Usually these jokes connect in some ways to technical definitions of humor, but when derailed their technical deficiencies are made up for in their “human interest” effect. I think this effect is why so many comedians actually focus their repertoire on sex. Most people are uncomfortable with having a serious conversation about sex because of their disconnectedness with others. This isn’t just a symptom of “postmodernity” or some other philosophical/ontological fad; it’s a problem that’s been around for centuries.
Perhaps you are starting to see the cycle of irony that’s befuddling me. People are disconnected, so they tell a joke that connects them to disconnected people, but in a way that perpetuates their disconnectedness. This is the problem I have with the average sexual humor wielded by most comics.
When I was in high school, I attended a large denominational event that had various sessions throughout the day before the main hoopla of the evening. I very distinctly remember attended a session in which the speaker purported that it was wrong to watch the television show Friends because of their gravitation toward sexual humor. By laughing at these jokes and situations, the speaker delineated, I was consenting to a lifestyle that supported loose relationships, sexual ambition, etc. Here’s the problem. I personally find Friends very funny. There are heaps of other shows somewhat like it that I find equally funny: Seinfeld, 30 Rock, and The Office, just to name a few. All of these shows (some more than others) at one point or another make light of sex.
So here’s where I’m currently stuck. I don’t want to know if you think it’s ok if I laugh at a sex joke or not. That’s, ultimately, your personal opinion. What really interests me is the “why”. What is it about the overall topic of sex that draws so much attention from comics? And, more importantly to me, has humor changed much over the last 2000 years?
Tagged: theologyChristianitysexcomedy
25th October 2009
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Check out this interesting blog by Ben Myers over at the Faith and Theology blog. I anticipate the comment section to grow.
Tagged: theologychurch history
1st July 2009
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Strange title, I know. Bear with me.
If you know nothing else of John Chrysostom, know that he was veritably in love with Paul. This isn’t a weird or gross thing, though, seeing as John was wholly enveloped (despite being a prominent orthodox Christian preacher/pastor/leader/bishop) in the secular rhetorical world. Paul was able to make (fairly) plain for average Christians the import of the teachings of Christ, being himself highly rhetorical in the process. Paul was the most important Christian to Chrysostom, because even though Paul was the Saint of Saints, he was fully man, fully emulatable.
Margaret Mitchell, despite writing on a very niche subject in Church History, brings this to the fore in her book, “The Heavenly Trumpet.” She addresses something very important at the outset: why doesn’t Chrysostom speak so passionately about Jesus himself? Why does he focus on the man Paul to encourage his congregation/audience? It isn’t because imitating Jesus is a hopeless cause; otherwise, Chrysostom’s Trinitarian theology would be bankrupt. Ironically, I almost see it as a move to preserve his high regard for Jesus’ divinity above anything else.
Like all theology, shooting for the via media is also preferable. We’ve seen countless instances of heresy in the Church’s past (and present) when someone wants to take part of a balanced issue to far. I don’t think John errs on the side of saint-worship in an effort to maximize Jesus’ divinity here. I think, instead, he shows us lucidly why surrounding ourselves with the saints is not a bad thing.
Obviously, as Christians, we want to be “little Christs.” But the reason we look to saints is because they start out with everything we start out with; they are fully human, fully capable of both going astray and staying the course with God. Despite some who seem to have dipped their hands in the utterly and almost unbelievably miraculous, saints are people we can truly imitate. I can only imitate Christ insofar as he was fully human; I can’t truly imitate Christ in his fullness. I can never be begotten from the Father like he does, nor can I experience divinity through the power of the Holy Spirit (that was for Ben…for the rest of us: “I can’t allow the Holy Spirit to proceed from me ;-) ). I don’t have two natures somehow united yet unconfused in my self. My death will not affect anything. Worshipping me will only get you sent to the wrong place. I want my being to be as close to Christ as possible, but I’m not so concerned about turning into a Messiah.
On the other hand, I can grow in relationship to God. It is possible that I may have to preach to thousands of people one day and train them in the Faith. It is possible that one day I might have to face an untimely death at the hand of those who have a problem with my faith. I can relate more easily to people who don’t have the option to call legions of angels from heaven to help me, what can I say? None of this is to say that I’m trying to distance myself from Christ, nor that I want to be more distant from Christ. In fact, I think the opposite; I’m a huge proponent of understanding Christian growth as theosis. The thing is, because of that, and not in spite of that, I find it appealing to look toward people who bridge the gap even further between myself and Christ.
I look toward saints as people who were utterly used by God, despite problems, despite obstinacy, despite physical shortcomings, despite emotional setbacks. I don’t believe Christ was used by God to accomplish anything; Christ is God, for crying out loud! True, Christ “bridged the gap”; Christ experienced everything a human could experience in the fullness of his humanity. But at the end of the day, despite being made in the form of a servant, and subjecting himself to such a death as that on the cross, Christ was more than a fabulous guy; and because of this, the gap between he and I is very, very real. Since I want to bridge that gap any way I can, I look to the saints who have done so the best.
Tagged: church historytheologybook review
10th April 2009
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In my 2 Corinthians class, we have been discussing various interpretations of Paul’s soteriology/theology of atonement. One of the books we read, Paul on the Cross by David Brondos, highlights the deficiencies of several “popular” (though I’m not using that word in a derogatory fashion, simply trying to connote something that has held the most weight for the longest time) readings of Paul particularly on Jesus’ death and resurrection. That we should be reading such is ironic, especially since Dr. Reese didn’t think about these readings’ proximity to Holy Week beforehand.
What really stuck out to me concerning this book is that, despite many areas where Brondos lacks in his historical and exegetical analyses, he is not afraid to ask questions which have, to this point, generally been assumed or worked around. Questions such as, “Did Jesus have to die, and why?” have really plagued the development of biblical soteriology throughout the centuries, generally with the result of working backwards from logical conclusions to the text rather than the other way around. Brondos asks what it means for Jesus to die for (ὑπερ) us or for our sins; what about Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection are actually salvific? Is it proper to ask questions of mechanics concerning the atonement (i.e., how salvation is brought about)? All of these are formed under the general concern for what, specifically in Paul, we have inducted from Scripture and what we have deducted.
A classical penal-substitutionary theory of the atonement holds that Jesus had to die to ransom us, or to pay back a debt we owe though cannot pay back. Did Jesus really have to die? Is God under any compulsion to act? Judaism says “no”; God acts as he pleases. Who is this ransom paid to? The devil? Surely not! The Father? Yet what kind of Father would make his son die, and why should he to pay back our “debt”? What kind of logic is really involved here?
Were blood sacrifices really required in the Old Testament for the remittance of sins? Didn’t the Law make exception for those who couldn’t bring lambs? Or even birds?
And what about a participatory understanding of the atonement? How can we actually (whether ontologically or spiritually) be said to “participate” in his death and resurrection? Well…ok. I have to stop here. I tend to agree with Brondos on much, but here he lost me.
Essentially Brondos now shows that we basically imitate Christ through our lives, and minimally through the sacraments. What about divine participation? What about Augustine, Irenaeus, Athanasius, or the Cappadocians? Though Paul may not explicitly evince the possibility of “divine participation” (which, admittedly, is what he is looking at - Paul - despite also bringing Hebrews into the discussion at one point), I don’t think what Brondos does is quite fair. He looks at overarching atonement theologies, pointing out their faults just through looking at Paul, and though Paul is of course a main influence in the development of any NT theology, one also has to factor in other writings of the NT. What does Peter say about divine participation? How does he connect the seemingly-impossible event of the Word’s incarnation with our salvation? Why is it “unbiblical,” as Brondos attempts to show, that to a large extent our salvation comes from the Word’s assumption of humanity in order to heal us rather than simply Christ’s “life plea” to the Father for our salvation?
I think here, we lose part of the wonder of Jesus’ death if we look at it only under the lens of the “logical conclusion” of Jesus’ life lived for our sake. Maybe I want to out-Brondos Brondos here…God’s love for us went beyond living a holy life to plea for our salvation: the Word became flesh that we might become divine.
Of course, none of this comes to fruition until the Son is raised, and the Holy Spirit is given. So we wait…
Tagged: theologybook review
