Article in
The Guardian
The Christians whose
protests forced the BBC to drop its cartoon about the Vatican should
lighten up.
Apparently, the prophet Elisha couldn't take a joke. And neither,
it seems, can the 6,000 Christians who have successfully petitioned
the director general of the BBC to scrap plans to show the Vatican
cartoon comedy Popetown. Apparently, depicting the Pope on a pogo
stick (with voice by Ruby Wax) surrounded by scheming cardinals is
likely to offend believers and threaten their faith.
Well, I'm offended too. But unlike the 6,000, I'm offended by the
implication that, as a Christian, I am a humourless over-sensitive
wimp whose faith requires special protection. I'm offended by always
being classed alongside the offended.
For being offended by the prospect of the Pope on a pogo stick is a
transparent form of passive/aggressive manipulation - casting oneself
as the hard-done-to victim while pulling all the strings. Using the
mock innocent vulnerability of "being offended" as a weapon with which
to make others do things your way is never going to win any friends.
Moreover, it is precisely because religious people get in a huff so
very easily that they are so funny. The reason you can't stop
sniggering in church is because of the perceived disapproval of
others. Without the disapproval, there's nothing to laugh about.
Ironically, therefore, it's the 6,000 outraged Christians and all the
others like them that keep the writers of Popetown, Father Ted and
The
Life of Brian in business. The best way to become an object of fun is
to act like the boot-faced Puritan relatives that went to stay with
Edmund Blackadder.
At what point, I wonder, did Christians loose their sense of
humour? Dairmaid MacCulloch begins his great work on the Reformation
in the small English country church at Preston Blisset in
Buckinghamshire. Looking up from behind the altar the priest cannot
avoid noticing the carving of an ample early-14th-century arse
directed straight towards him. Professor MacCulloch doesn't know its
purpose but reminds us that "this was a religion where shouts of
laughter as well as roars of rage were common in church, where the
clergy waged a constant if perhaps sometimes half-hearted battle
against the invasion of fun".
Ridiculing the church, the clergy, bishops and the Pope has a long
history. For early Protestants, the ecclesiastical establishment
represented by the Pope was perceived as an instrument of domination
and self-serving power. In Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose, the
monastery librarian finds Aristotle's lost work in praise of comedy.
Realising its potential to undermine the status quo, he poisons its
pages. The moral of which is that the church is afraid of laughter
because laughter is impossible to control.
It is little wonder that the earthier reformers used laughter as a
weapon against the Vatican. Unlike many of today's Christians, the
Luther who offered the Pope "a fart for a staff" cared little about
giving offence. Not that causing offensive was the end purpose. For
Luther, humour was a way to cast down the mighty from their thrones.
Humour works to expose the pious, the pompous and the arrogant.
Laughter is the sound of resistance.
The point being made here has nothing to do with Roman Catholicism.
Laughter seeks out those in power. And if power bites back against
laughter, then we begin to glimpse the grim face of absolute control -
which is why the divine, above all, must have a sense of humour.
The decision to withdraw Popetown suggests a religion that cannot
laugh at itself, a religion of claustrophobic disapproval, a religion
where control is smuggled in under the guise of sensitivity. OK,
sometimes the laughter is cruel - but there are bigger issues at
stake. For the ability to laugh at oneself is perhaps the most
effective litmus test which detects healthy from dangerous religion.
Elijah mocked the prophets of Baal for the impotence of their gods.
He sarcastically lays into their lifeless divinity: perhaps "he is
meditating, or he has wandered away, or he is on a journey, or he is
asleep and must be awakened". It's not side-splitting stuff,
admittedly. But it suggests a scriptural licence for having a go at
some contemporary idols of thought. Christians can't stop the
laughter. And we shouldn't want to. For we really ought to be laughing
back.