A Lighthearted Query on Being a Friend

by Leesa Whitson

“I’ve got some news,” I announce over the phone to longtime friends. “I’ve decided to attend Quaker meeting.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why,” I respond with a small degree of defensiveness. “I want to. It feels like a good spiritual fit.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good, I guess, but I thought you would miss writing. I hate to see you give that up.”

“HUH?” I answer. I roll my eyes and shake my head at the wall. “Give up writing?”

“Well, aren’t they against that sort of thing? I thought they frowned on that.”

“No.” I think about it, annoyed, realizing I never checked. “Although I didn’t ask anyone about it, but I can’t imagine it’d be a problem.” I make a note to ask at next meeting. I hope no one snickers at me. I picture all the people in the pews turning to each other, repeating the question until the laugh rises then falls like a wave through the quiet of meeting.

“So do you have to eat oatmeal?”

I sigh, in growing annoyance. “I’m telling you the same thing that I tell the kids. I eat oatmeal because I LIKE it. We have food at Meeting and none of it seemed to contain oatmeal. I can’t vouch for what they eat for breakfast.”

“Doesn’t the hat bother you?”

I’m becoming less Friendly by the moment. “What hat are you talking about?”

“The bonnet you have to wear. Is it hot? Do they wear it during the meeting? Or do you take it off?”

“The last time I wore a bonnet I was 10 and in a sesquicentennial parade. I have not worn a bonnet and no one else does either!” I take a deep breath, reaching for my fledgling centering skills.

“No one wears a bonnet. Or corset or gauntlet or any other -et.”

“So are men segregated from women?” I consciously unlock my jaws. “No, we all sit wherever we want to sit.”

“They’re against music though, right?”

“Doubtful,” I murmur. “There’s a piano in the meetinghouse.”

“So do they sing much in their service? Do you know any of the hymns?”

“Well, actually it’s a silent service.” I wait, wondering if the connection has broken.

“Hello? Are you still there?”

“Did you say this is a silent service? For an hour? You sit there and don’t talk?”

“What’s the big deal with that?” What irksome friends. What did I ever see in them?

“Uh, you’re you, Leesa. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you be quiet for that long. You even talk in your sleep. Do you think they’d let me come watch? I’d love to see that. They could probably sell tickets to all your friends and coworkers. I’m sure we’d all pay to see you be quiet that long. It’s an easy fundraiser.”

“Oh, thank you so much for your support,” I huff. “It’s a silent service or what they call a Conservative Meeting.”

Choking laughter blares from the phone’s earpiece. It’s mixed with my name and “conservative” being gargled repeatedly until I start banging the phone on the nearest hard object. Being a Friend is sometimes harder than it looks.

Query: Have we, as Quakers, lost our sens of humor? If so, where did we put it? And why?

I began thinking about Quakers and humor, Quakers and laughter. What brought about the idea that we have no sense of humor? Well, there were a couple of early Quaker texts that didn’t help. I’m sure at least one eldering episode was involved.

I asked for guidance from the Light within. It told me a knock-knock joke and said to go look it up myself. My Light apparently has a juvenile sense of humor and a knack for imitating my mother.

It seems to me that Quakers are well suited to humor – and I’m not talking about clothing. Humor is subjective and that’s a realm the Religious Society of Friends knows experientially and well.

Let’s exclude all racial jokes and jokes at the expense of others. Do politicians count as a minority group? Puns, while frequently considered low humor, should be right up our alley. Somewhat cerebral in nature, if not overdone, they usually don’t offend or depict negative images unless you count all the groans and wrinkled noses after the punch line.

We have to try a little harder. We try to respect each other’s truths as well as our own Light and its leadings. Could it be that with humor we show trust that others will understand our humor and experience those truths in the same laughing way?

Perhaps the secret lies there. Our barriers drop when we are laughing, making us more open to understanding. After all, in the words of Victor Borge, “Humor [is] something that thrives between [our] aspirations and [our] limitations. There is more logic in humor than in anything else. Because, you see, humor is truth.”

Humor is but one more way to seek the truths we search for. Sometimes it is palatable and sometimes it is bitter. But most times it’s more accessible. It’s frequently another avenue to self-realization and worldly awareness. It’s the spoonful of sugar that helps the medicine go down, with the hopeful result of improvement and good humours.

I refuse to believe the Light has no sense of humor. We can laugh at ourselves if nothing else. A poster hung on my wall as a teenager. “Blessed is he who can laugh at himself, for he will never cease to be amused.” I’ve been giggling ever since.