the laughing Jesus

We are told that Jesus wept, and from this we carve entire solemn theologies of grief. But where is the gospel that records his laughter—his wild, belly-deep, dust-kicking joy? Did he not laugh when wine overflowed and the wedding stretched long into the night? Did he not grin when children swarmed him like bees, sticky with wonder and mischief?

We sanctify sorrow because it fits our architecture of sacrifice. But ecstasy threatens the temples we build from solemnity and shame. Irreverent joy—laughter that erupts like thunder—is a holy rebellion against despair. In our broken world it is not denial; it is resurrection, redemption, and salvation. It is the soul remembering it is still alive, still absurd, still ungovernable. If the divine is love, must it not also include delight unburdened by propriety? Why must our sacred always be cloaked in grief when it can also wear the unfiltered sunlight?

Perhaps we do not record his laughter because we fear its freedom. We fear a God who dances barefoot, who jokes with fishermen, who spits wine laughing.

Yet joy, real joy, is not a betrayal of suffering—it is its counterspell. In every parable not written, I hear him laugh—and I believe that sound can heal just as deeply as his tears.

Inspired by Ecclesiastes 3:1-11 and John 11:35