First Prophet American Church of Good Humor

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We live in a golden age of humor, quite probably the greatest comedic age in the six thousand years of patrimony. The problem is that most of the jokes are unbelievably grim, and the jesters don't know that they're funny. They don't even bill themselves as comics. They call themselves politicians or economists or consultants. Mostly, these clowns are men. Sometimes they're even writers---like me.

For years, I considered myself to be a serious writer. I didn't realize how hilarious I was. Then I saw the light. I had a full blown, honest-to-god epiphany. During this time, I met Chuckles --- Creator of the Universe.

Chuckles wasn't my first choice of names for God. As I was getting to know Him, I was tempted to use many other words, most of them crossing the boundary into the scatological. I'll give you a blunt example. I was raised a Christian, and I had some really ingenious suggestions about where Christ could shove his cross. Unfortunately, my imagination was limited by the number of orifices in his body. Believe me, on the day that I settled for the name of Chuckles, I truly made a great advancement in piety, comparatively speaking. (Piety is a word that I normally despise, incidentally---except when it's my piety that's on parade)

This time of spiritual growth took about twenty years of uncomfortably close contact with God. It was preceded by twenty years of me avoiding Him as much as possible, mostly by imbibing various intoxicating substances, usually---but not always---alcohol. (Unlike President Clinton, I have been known to inhale.)

And so what was getting me so angry? It was Chuckles' insistence that our relationship be carried out within the framework of two major decisions that He had made about me (and probably everybody else): (1) I was a creature of free will (2) I was eternal.

In practice, this means that Chuckles spoke in a whisper that I could barely hear. After all, if I had free will, He couldn't shout at me, could he? Oh no, He had to whisper, and I had to make a free will decision to strain my ears trying to hear what he was trying to say. It was a little like being at a loud party where you have to shut out every other sound to hear a guest who's speaking in a barely audible voice. Worse, since I was eternal, Chuckles made no effort to talk to me in a timely matter. If I asked a question, he might whisper the answer today, tomorrow, or next century. His motto seems to be, "If not today, maybe tomorrow. If not in this world, surely in the next." Believe me, you can mess up a lot of parties hanging around with Chuckles. Often, it can seem like you're missing most of your life with questionable results.

Somewhere along the way, I made a decision that my first gift to God in the next world is going to be a watch. One with a calendar. If he can be absurd in my temporal world, I can be absurd in his eternal one.

God’s jokes are interesting. I've experienced his sense of humor ever since I was a baby. For instance, my mother was born on April 16, anniversary of St. Bernadette of Lourdes’ death. I was also born on April 16.

Chuckles must have been particularly delighted to mysteriously link the Knapp and Powers clans to Lourdes through an accident of birthdays A significant number of the family members---including myself---were alcoholics, and that of course, provided Chuckles' punch line. "Drinking too much??? Here, have a glass of water."

Of course all of this heavenly concern would normally have gone for naught because historically, the Knapp and Powers families were Protestant and highly unlikely to even know about St. Bernadette, let alone notice any connection between their lives and hers. However, my maternal grandmother, maiden name Brown, had been raised as a Catholic and educated in a convent school before dropping away from the church. Many years later, her daughter---and my mother---married a catholic after effectively having been abandoned and divorced by my father who used his World War II Army duty as a golden opportunity to court and marry a wealthy and amazedly ugly widow. There's an interesting little story connected with this romance. My father was a psychiatrist, an oddity in the army at the time but not enough of one to rate more than the automatic rank of captain held by every physician. As part of his strategy for wooing the widow, he decided he needed a promotion to captain, but that plan presented a problem. The combined duties of Army shrink and suitor left little time for the homework assignments to get his promotion, and so he called upon my mother to help him. He said that he was overwhelmed by the math necessary to solve artillery trajectory problems; would she be so kind as to do the work and mail it back to him. Please. After all, it was for both of them. Love and kisses.

(More to follow, soon.)

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David M. Knapp