I have a very dark sense of humor. I swear. I have a very playful

“I have a very dark sense of humor. I swear. I have a very playful relationship with Jesus.” — thus spoke Anne Lamott, the poet of imperfection, whose laughter rings in the halls of sorrow and whose faith dances upon the thin line between despair and grace. Her words, light in tone yet deep in truth, remind us of an ancient paradox: that laughter and faith, darkness and light, can dwell together within the same heart. For Lamott’s voice is not the voice of piety untouched by pain, but of one who has walked through suffering and found that humor is a lantern by which one may still see God.

To claim a dark sense of humor is to admit a kinship with life’s shadow. It is to laugh not because all is well, but because one has looked into the abyss and decided to live anyway. Lamott’s humor is not cruel, but redemptive — it transforms pain into perspective, fear into friendship. The darkness she jokes about is not evil; it is the deep soil from which her compassion grows. Those who laugh amid sorrow are not mocking life; they are honoring it — they have discovered that to survive, one must sometimes find light in irony, and holiness in the absurd.

Her playful relationship with Jesus reveals the kind of faith that does not hide behind solemnity. It is the intimacy of one who dares to speak to the divine not with trembling reverence alone, but with affection, honesty, and mischief. In this playfulness lies an ancient wisdom: that God does not demand perfection, but presence; not ritual, but relationship. Lamott, with her wild humor and her tender belief, shows that faith need not be stiff or scripted — it can laugh, it can stumble, it can sigh in disbelief and still be real. For what greater faith is there than to trust that even laughter can be holy?

The ancients, too, understood this union of laughter and reverence. Saint Teresa of Ávila, when her cart overturned in the mud, cried out to God, “If this is how You treat Your friends, no wonder You have so few!” — and then she laughed. Her jest was not blasphemy, but intimacy. Like Lamott, she saw that humor is not the enemy of holiness but its companion. The divine does not dwell only in sacred silence but in the joy that survives disaster. To play with God, as Lamott does, is not to mock Him, but to love Him boldly — to speak as one who has nothing to hide.

Her words also carry a challenge to those who take life, or faith, too seriously. There are many who seek righteousness by denying their humanity, who believe that to be devout one must be dour. Yet Lamott, in her honesty, turns this notion on its head. She teaches that laughter can be a form of prayer — the exhale of the soul after holding too much pain. Her swearing, her humor, her rawness — these are not flaws, but signs of her wholeness. For truth is not polished; it is lived. Faith that cannot laugh is brittle; humor that cannot love is hollow.

The origin of Lamott’s wisdom lies in her own story — a life marked by addiction, loss, redemption, and grace. From her brokenness emerged not despair, but a faith shaped by humility and laughter. She has often said that she came to believe in God not because she was strong, but because she was desperate. It is from that depth that her dark humor blooms — as the flower that grows from the grave of pain. To her, Jesus is not a distant deity, but a friend who listens when she rages, forgives when she falters, and chuckles at her folly. Their relationship is “playful” because it is real — it carries the ease of love that fears nothing, not even doubt.

Let this be the lesson, O seeker of truth: do not fear to laugh in the presence of the divine, nor to weep in the midst of joy. Life will break you and heal you, often in the same breath. Carry your humor as a shield against despair, and your faith as a lamp in the darkness. Speak to your own sorrows as Lamott speaks to her God — with honesty, with warmth, and, when the world grows too heavy, with a good laugh.

For the soul that can laugh and pray in the same moment is the soul that has understood both suffering and salvation. The heavens, it is said, delight in such laughter — for it rises purer than incense, forged from the heart’s endurance. Thus, remember Anne Lamott’s wisdom: let your dark humor be your candle, and your playful faith be your prayer. For in laughter, too, the divine whispers, “You are still alive — and I am still here.”