I'm going to take this God-given gift of being funny, and I'm

Host: The sunset painted the city in deep strokes of gold and amber, as if the sky itself were trying to remember how to laugh. From the open windows of a small comedy club, came the faint echo of applause, laughter, and a lingering hum of stories told in jest. Inside, the air was thick with smoke, neon haze, and the quiet afterglow of joy.

Host: Jack and Jeeny sat at the back, nursing their drinks, their faces lit by the dim spotlight that still burned on the empty stage. Behind them, Steve Harvey’s quote was painted across the brick wall in white script: “I’m going to take this God-given gift of being funny, and I’m going to spread it out like peanut butter on everything I do.”

Host: The room still buzzed faintly, as if the walls themselves were laughing.

Jack: “You ever notice how comedians talk about humor like it’s a calling? Like they’ve been touched by some divine mischief and now it’s their duty to make the world laugh?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is a calling, Jack. Maybe humor’s one of the last holy things left — a kind of grace that sneaks in through laughter instead of prayer.”

Jack: “Grace? You think a punchline can save a soul?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes, yes. I’ve seen people in pain — deep pain — and one honest laugh did more for them than a thousand sermons.”

Host: The light flickered. Outside, a train horn wailed through the night, a long, mournful sound that faded into stillness. Jeeny’s eyes shone, soft and earnest; Jack’s hands drummed idly on the table, his mind caught somewhere between cynicism and wonder.

Jack: “You make it sound sacred. But Harvey’s line — it’s practical. It’s about using what you’ve got. He’s saying: I’ve got a gift, and I’m gonna make it work for me. It’s ambition, not sanctity.”

Jeeny: “You always reduce everything to ambition, Jack. But humor — real humor — isn’t about success. It’s about connection. It’s about making someone feel seen for a moment. Like saying, ‘I’ve been there too, friend.’”

Jack: “That’s what people say when they’re selling something soft. But comedy’s not soft. It’s brutal. Every joke walks a tightrope — fall an inch too far and you’re offensive, go too light and you’re irrelevant.”

Jeeny: “True. But that’s why it’s a gift. Not everyone can walk that tightrope and still make people feel lighter. Steve Harvey didn’t say he’d weaponize his humor — he said he’d spread it out, like peanut butter. That’s love, Jack — sticky, messy, comforting love.”

Jack: (smirking) “You really think comedy’s love? Because I’ve seen enough late-night monologues to think it’s just ego wrapped in punchlines.”

Jeeny: “Then you’re watching the wrong comedians.”

Host: A waiter passed, collecting empty glasses, his movements slow and rhythmic. The smell of bourbon and burnt sugar lingered in the air. On the stage, a lone microphone stood waiting, thin and fragile under the soft light, like a relic of confession.

Jack: “I remember reading that Harvey started out broke. Slept in his car for years. Funny how the same mouth that once begged for work ended up filling arenas. Maybe that’s the real divine part — the stubbornness to keep telling jokes when the world’s not laughing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Humor born from struggle. That’s why it’s sacred. It’s resurrection through laughter. You think God didn’t know pain when He gave humans the power to laugh? That’s how He made the unbearable bearable.”

Jack: “So you’re saying laughter is theology now?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The theology of survival.”

Jack: “And Steve Harvey is its prophet?”

Jeeny: “Why not? He took his pain and made it funny. That’s the purest sermon there is.”

Host: The neon sign outside buzzed faintly — COMEDY IN TONIGHT — though most of the crowd had gone home. The last of the ice melted in their glasses, time slipping quietly between them.

Jack: “You know, I used to think being funny was about control. You make people laugh, you control the room, the energy, the moment. But I think I get what Harvey meant. It’s not about power — it’s about generosity. You share your light, however strange it looks.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You spread it out. Like peanut butter.”

Jack: “That metaphor kills me.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “That’s the point. It’s supposed to. It’s humble and human. God doesn’t give us our gifts to hoard. He gives them to be shared — generously, messily, on everything we touch.”

Jack: “But that’s risky. You spread it too thin, and it loses flavor.”

Jeeny: “Not if it’s real. Real humor — like real kindness — doesn’t dilute. It multiplies.”

Host: A soft wind blew through the open door, rustling the old flyers on the wall — faces of comedians long gone, names now fading into dust and memory. Yet somehow, their echoes still lived in the cracks of the room, in the faint aftertaste of laughter.

Jack: “You know, I envy that kind of faith — to believe your words can feed the world like peanut butter. To believe what you do matters that much.”

Jeeny: “It does matter. Every time someone laughs, the world forgets its pain for a heartbeat. That’s no small miracle.”

Jack: “You make laughter sound like prayer.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe laughter is how God answers without words.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick, golden, filled with the breath of meaning. Jack stared at the stage, and for a moment, he wasn’t a cynic. He was just a man remembering how it felt to believe in something simple and good.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? I think spreading your gift — whatever it is — is the closest we get to grace. Doesn’t matter if it’s humor, or kindness, or fixing engines. The act of giving it away makes it divine.”

Jack: “So, the joke isn’t the miracle — the sharing is.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The miracle’s in the spreading.”

Host: The spotlight flickered once more, then dimmed to a soft, warm glow. Jack’s gray eyes softened, reflecting the last glint of light before the room fell quiet.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe the world’s starving for peanut butter.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Then let’s make sandwiches.”

Jack: (chuckling) “You’d make a good partner in crime.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. A partner in creation.”

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped. The streetlights shimmered on the wet pavement, each reflection a tiny ripple of laughter from the heavens. Somewhere in the night, someone told a joke — and someone else smiled, maybe for the first time in weeks.

Host: The echo of it drifted into the club, brushing past Jack and Jeeny like a quiet blessing.

Host: Steve Harvey’s words glowed faintly on the brick wall, their paint chipped but still bold — “Spread it out like peanut butter.”

Host: And in that moment, Jack finally understood. The divine doesn’t always appear in thunder or light — sometimes, it comes as a laugh shared between two souls and a promise to never stop spreading the light, one smile at a time.

Host: The night exhaled. The city hummed. And somewhere, unseen, God laughed — not because it was funny, but because His children had finally learned to be.