Thistlewood

By Megan Johnson 

“A good laugh heals a lot of hurts.” 
— Madeleine L’Engle 

Have you seen the videos of people laughing uproariously on the subway? It is an experiment on the contagion of laughter. They say that if you witness someone laughing recklessly, joyously, unabashedly, it’s likely to stir laughter in you too ~ not because you know what’s funny, but because laughter itself is infectious. Often if you see someone laughing, it bubbles up in you too. But sometimes it bubbles up for no particular reason and ~ strangely ~ at the most inopportune times.  

I caught a really bad case of inappropriate laughter last Thursday during the Maundy Thursday service. Are you familiar with that affliction? It is the kind of laughter that cannot be held in no matter how hard you try. You’ve heard of projectile vomiting? This must be its cousin. It seems only to flare up in especially inappropriate situations. My mother claims she was plagued with it whenever she and my grandmother were carrying something large and awkward together like a mattress. My husband’s whole family suffered from it during a piano concert once at the Notre Dame Hotel in West Jerusalem. Though we all contained the noise of our laughter, we could not stop our bodies from shaking while tears streamed down our faces. There was no hiding it. Though you could not hear us laughing, all signs pointed toward it.  

There, in the Upper Room in Jerusalem, Jesus broke bread and shared the cup, not just as a farewell, but as a gift ~ a new covenant in his body and blood, given for us and for the world. As we gathered in the parking lot of our still-being-renovated church, we received the bread and the cup in remembrance of Jesus. We stepped into that sacred story once more, offering our own thanksgiving for the grace, love, and hope that continues to be poured out.  

At least until I started laughing.  

I later confirmed with her that the bowl is made from Hebron glass. For centuries this hand-blown craft has been handed down through generations in the West Bank city of Hebron, one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world. Glass blowers melt recycled pieces in a traditional furnace often fueled by olive pits, then shaped into flowing, luminous forms.  

What I love most is this: Hebron glass is made from what once was broken. Nothing is wasted. Every vessel carries within it the memory of its former use, now made new by the hands of an artisan and the breath of creation. 

The craftsmanship behind Hebron glass makes it even more special. Its colors aren’t painted on but infused into the glass during the heating process. And because each piece is hand-blown using traditional tools and techniques, no two are exactly alike. Each glass or bowl or chalice is distinct, even if somewhat uniform. We have full sets of stemless wineglasses and juice glasses and though they create a cohesive whole, upon closer examination, no two are exactly alike.  

The particular bowl I was using for communion last Thursday is unique to our other glassware from Hebron. It is thinner and more delicate, and the amber color is translucent, allowing for the variations in color and trapped air bubbles to be clearly seen.  

I have to confess, I filled the bowl too full and was struggling to hold the juice steady inside as I walked around the circle, repeating to those gathered, “the blood of Jesus, shed for you,” an echo to Tim’s “this is the body of Christ, broken for you.” I stumbled once or twice on the uneven pavement of our parking lot that has not yet been milled and repaved. I even spilled some of that sacred deep purple liquid; it splashed onto my foot and onto the blacktop, immediately staining my foot and disappearing into the asphalt surface.  

Despite it all ~ communion outdoors, standing together in a haphazard circle, with no liturgy or published program, we spoke the words that are familiar to us all ~ “They shall come from north and south and east and west to gather at the table of the Lord … On the night that Jesus gathered with his disciples to celebrate the Passover meal ~ the night that he was betrayed by one of his closest friends ~ Jesus took a loaf of bread, and after giving thanks for it, he broke it saying, ‘This is my body, broken for you; all of you, eat from this.’” We made our way around the circle to share the bread and dip it into the cup.  

I was three-quarters of the way through the gathered congregation when I came to my husband, who was standing between our oldest son, Scott, and our soon-to-be daughter-in-law, Frances. In his hand was the biggest chunk of challah I’d ever seen someone take for communion. Later, he sheepishly admitted it took more than two bites to finish ~ and that others had not only witnessed it , but affirmed his choice. It felt, perhaps, like a small and harmless act of defiance against the pinky-nail-sized crackers we’ve been eating from the pre-packaged communion sets in our temporary worship space.  

As I breathed a sigh of relief ~ bowl sloshing, breeze soft ~ I thought I was in the home stretch. But my husband’s enormous chunk of bread set off raucous, unanticipated laughter in me. Truly inappropriate laughter. So much so that I couldn’t speak to Frances as I offered her the cup. And it bubbled up again as I made my way to Larry Sale and the last two people in the circle. I had to pause, look over Larry’s shoulder, take a deep breath, and clench my teeth in an attempt to suppress the laughter that insisted on making its way out.  

Even as I laughed, I was aghast: this is Communion. On Maundy Thursday. This is a solemn occasion. This is the Lord’s Supper. It is such a privilege to preside at this table, to offer this bread and this cup to these people I love.  

My lip twitched as the service concluded. Scott sang a cappella two more verses of, “Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?” I stumbled through the benediction.  

And then the service was over. I chuckled with Eric over his gargantuan piece of communion bread. “Taste and See” he said. The Lord is good. 

I’ll admit it’s been a stressful week. Two of our family members have been sick. The construction project is dragging on beyond our hoped-for timelines. And we had some difficult conversations with The GLOBE this week regarding their expectations about the parking lot renovations.  

I kept thinking to myself, “This is Holy Week!” Aren’t we supposed to set aside the mundane to reflect on the sacred? And yet, truly there is no such distinction.  

The sacred, like the colors in Hebron glass, is infused into the ordinary of our daily rhythms. The invitation is to notice.  

The baker of the bread from Kelly’s market likely had no expectation that her elegantly plaited loaf would serve last Thursday as the outward sign of the inward truth of our Lord’s gracious and precious gift. And sometimes, it seems, that God also infuses a little holy ~ or wholly inappropriate ~ laughter as a sacred release valve for the burdens of our days.  

So, here’s to inappropriate laughter. May it bubble up in you this week ~ leaking out of your tear ducts, stealing your breath, and surprising you with grace. I have to trust that God laughs with us.  

“You have turned my mourning into dancing; 
 you have taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.” 
— Psalm 30:11