One Reason Your Jokes Bomb

The speaker steps to the podium and begins.

“Good Evening. It’s great to be here tonight. By here, I mean up here on this stage. I have sat where you all are sitting many times and wondered what it would like to stand up here and look out at such a crowd. Now that I’m doing it, I must say . . .you guys are ugly!”

I’ve told a joke or two in my sermons and presentations. (Never the one above. Whew!) A few hit their mark and hilarity ensues.  Many get a few polite laughs. Some bomb. Awkward silence. Crickets. Clear my throat and move on.

One thing I’ve realized about some of the bad jokes I was telling was that a few of them were at my audience’s expense. Audiences usually don’t like to be the punchline of a joke. You can make fun of yourself. You can make fun of a common enemy. You can tell Aggie jokes, (as long as you’re not in College Station). But don’t make fun of your audience. Unless you’re one sneaky good comedian they’re not going to laugh. The exception to this is when you include yourself in the joke with them. “We” can be a funny pronoun. “You”–not so much.

Why am I telling you this? Because it came to me while sitting in the bathtub and I thought it would make a good blog post. I’m probably the only speaker dumb enough to try to establish rapport with audiences by making fun of them. If I’m not, and you’ve been wondering why some of your jokes are bombing, check and see if this might be one reason.

Lost in Thought

I stayed up late last night watching it and woke up early this morning thinking about it. Of course I’m talking about the Lost finale. If you’re not a Lostie then you can stop reading now. If you haven’t seen the finale yet, you probably ought to bookmark this post and move on as well.

I’ve read a variety of reactions to the finale online and can’t help but throw my two cents into the fray. I know what I want to say, but I’m not sure how long it will take or what route I’ll use to get there, but like the series itself, I will get there in the end.

Overall, I found it to be a satisfying finale on a number of levels.

From a narrative standpoint, I think Darlton did about as well as they could do with the sprawling narrative they’d created over the past six years. Unlike so many critics, I’m going to cut them some slack in this area because I think there are few things harder than bringing an epic tale to a satisfying end. How many times has it been done? The Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter come to mind.

How many great narratives have been started with a bang only to fizzle out before the end? I’ve been disappointed by a number of stories like The X-Files, The Matrix movies, and John Twelve Hawks’ Fourth Realm Trilogy. Recently, I’ve learned to turn my disappointment into a question: if you were telling this story how would have finished it? I usually come to the conclusion that I can’t come up with a better ending than the one that has already been told. At first, I didn’t like the way Stephen King ended his Gunslinger series, but the more I thought about it, the more I came to appreciate that it was the necessary ending to the story he had been telling.

In most epics there are a limited number of options for how to bring closure anyway. In a good vs. evil epic, either good wins out and everyone lives happily ever after or you reset the cycle and things continue with a new cast of characters. Jack and Kate kill the smoke monster and everyone moves on to something else, or Hurley takes Jacob/Jack’s place and Ben throws a fit and gets himself thrown into the cave of light and becomes a new smoke monster. Instead of the final shot being Jack dying a sacrificial hero’s death, we get Hurley and Ben sitting on the beach and Ben saying to Hurley, “Do you have any idea how badly I want to kill you? (fade to black)

I know there were lots of questions left unanswered, but again, how can you tell an episodic epic story that must have a dramatic arc in every installment without introducing some mysteries that play well in the present moment, but ultimately don’t fit into the larger narrative?

I’ve done this before as a preacher, if only on a slightly smaller scale (he says with a wink). It used to be that my favorite sermon in a series was the first one. That would be the sermon where I would throw out a bunch of questions and teasers and try to get everyone interested in what I’d be talking about over the next six weeks. I’d bring up lots of problems and then promise to solve them with a careful exposition of Philippians or some other section of scripture. People would leave the service excited and saying, “This is going to be a great series. Can’t wait til next week.” Invariably, as the series progressed, I found it far easier to introduce questions than to answer them. My solutions weren’t nearly as exciting as were my descriptions of the problems I used as a hook. What began as a roar would conclude with a whimper. Luckily, most people don’t geek out on a sermon series the way fans of a TV show do, so no one ever seemed to notice that I’d finish the series without ever dealing with all the stuff I brought up at the beginning. I was incapable of tying up all the loose ends of a six week series. Can you imagine how hard it would be to tie up the loose ends of a story you’ve been telling for six years? Impossible. I don’t care who you are. Let the critics of Lost tell their own stories and do a better job of it.

Besides, are you sure having all your questions answered would leave you any more satisfied than you already are?

One of my favorite things about the reunion scene was that in the end, the questions the characters had about their experiences seemed to be unimportant. They didn’t get all of their questions about the island answered any more than we did, but none of that seemed to matter. What really counted was that they were together again. The unanswered questions were overwhelmed by the beauty of the light and their love for each other.

This reminds me of a challenge from John Stackhouse in his brilliant book, Can God be Trusted? He challenges the notion that someday in heaven we’ll get an answer to all of our questions about why God allowed certain things to happen in our lives. Where in Scripture does it say that eventually God will sit down with us and explain it all? If we think of heaven as a place where we’ll finally get some answers, we could be sorely disappointed. It may be that when we’re reunited with those we love in the new creation, the questions about who? and why? and how? will be neutralized by the light of God’s glory. I’m preparing myself for this possibility by not freaking out about all the unanswered questions I still have about the island.

Speaking of questions, one of the questions about heaven that used to bother me when I was a kid was whether or not we’d recognize each other on the other side. I remember thinking that heaven didn’t seem like that great of a place if you wouldn’t know anyone when you got there. The early flash-sideways scenes were intriguing, but it was also empty and odd to see these characters who shared so much history together bumping into each other with no sense of recognition. Of course this was a set-up for the payoff of the recognition scenes in the finale. Those scenes gave me an imagination for what it might be like someday to recognize our old traveling partners in the new creation and in a flash of recognition have the sum total of our shared experiences come together in a gestalt of joy from being together again.

Probably the most interesting thing of all was listening to Jimmy Kimmel try to summarize the teachings of Christianity on his show after the finale. I’ll have more to say about that later and what I’ll say will change your life forever.

How’s that for a teaser?

Why Do Storytellers Embellish?

If you’ve ever tried to tell someone a story about a memorable personal experience, you know how difficult it can be to communicate the event in such a way that the listener experiences a similar impact. Thus the phrase, “I guess you had to be there.” In order to overcome this obstacle, a good storyteller will embellish a few details to heighten the listeners second-hand experience of the event. Whatever was funny, scary, or embarrassing to you when it happened has to be made a bit funnier, scarier, or more embarrassing when you’re telling someone else about it.  That’s just the way storytelling works. I’m betting that just about every true story worth worth listening to is actually “based on a true story.” It happened, but details have been embellished for effect.

Of course, it’s possible to embellish enough details that the story being told has almost no connection to what actually happened. There is an ongoing debate in Hollywood about how many details can be changed in a movie that is “based on a true story” before a line is crossed and fact becomes fiction. How do you know when the line has been crossed? Most of the time, the audience will have a sense that somewhere in the telling the story was no longer grounded in reality. Even if the audience doesn’t know when the line has been crossed, the teller will know. At least for awhile. If he tells the story enough times, he’ll eventually forget which parts were true and which ones he made up.

Nevertheless, storytelling without some embellishment isn’t much fun, for either the teller or the listener. So the next time someone tells you a story worth listening to, rather than wondering whether the details were embellished, just assume that they were. Instead of holding that against the storyteller, be glad that he did it.

Otherwise, you probably wouldn’t have paid attention long enough to care.

By the way, I had a hard time deciding whether to use the word “embellish” or “exaggerate” for this post. Did I choose the right one? Is there a difference between the two words?