God is a great big belly laugh

I can’t shake the word “hilarious” these days when I contemplate the recent activity of my life.

This whole work of the Montpelier Atrium is so perfectly incapsulated in that word. It’s been downright hilarious—from the two straight weeks of expedited training and all the happenstance things that made that possible, to the audacity to start a level I & level II atrium simultaneously, to the random free perfect donations we “stumble upon,” to the overwhelming generosity of others pouring into the building of this space.

I think God is hilarious. He’s the origin of laughter—the original comedian. And it’s the purest kind of humor—I don’t mean to say what might be defined as “clean” by any stretch of the imagination (I mean, have you seen the world in spring? So saucey). I mean that even when it shakes us up, it never spits us out. And when the jokes hit hard, I wonder if the sting we feel says more about the state of our spirits than the character of the joke-teller. I think he’s not above using gaiety to smack us across the face, kind of like the Swedish chef on the Muppets, wielding a sloppy wet fish. He’s ever so kind with his jesting, even when the kindness comes in the form of a wake-up call that feels jarring.

This work of Catechesis of the Good Shepherd is hilarious through and through. How absurdly funny to take on an endeavor that constantly requires the deepest of sacrifices—from the money in our pockets, to our independence and self-sufficiency, to our control in every sense of the word. We pour time and money and effort into making beautiful things for hands that learn to be careful by breaking and trying again. No one could ever convince me that Sophia, Giana, and Maria—all three!—didn’t have a good grasp of the mirthfulness of God when they developed these environments of care for children. CGS is an invitation (I imagine it as a giant neon card bursting with color and covered with glitter and texture and sound—a sign you can’t miss!) to put on the playfulness of God and drink deep of that well of life.

The kids are excellent teachers in jubilance. They find God’s bright and beautiful smile in all the hidden places—hidden because the treasure hunt is enlivening and fun, not because he is trying to keep himself from us. He is playful and wild and invites us to follow him where we don’t expect to go: the kids are always up for a scavenger hunt, and have the eyes to follow the clues.

This whole work of atrium-building is a mirthful expedition. All the clues I have to follow are the footsteps of God and the children that are seeking them out first, going before me and keeping the path clear. I keep wanting to know where they lead, but the destination is shrouded. I know I’m going the right way because of the little gifts littering the path—a perfect bookshelf here, a cheap table in good condition there, a free topographical map of Israel over yonder (pardon me while I stop to belly laugh), a stack of hundred dollar bills in an envelope, a hefty electronic donation from a stranger states away who has joined the work of friendship, a free sacristy and tabernacle that just needs a coat of stain.

Instead of saying “where are you going, God?” I want to be able to say “I can’t wait to see what the next thing is!” The kids are so good at that. They wonder aloud at the silliest things. I confess I often roll my eyes, but they have proven time and again the wisdom of silliness, and how that buoyancy of spirit is a thread leading straight to the bright heart of God.