Things can be funny only when we are in fun. When we're 'dead

The words of Flip Wilson, “Things can be funny only when we are in fun. When we’re ‘dead earnest,’ humor is the only thing that is dead,” shine like a mirror to the human soul — a gentle reminder that laughter, that divine spark of joy, can only live where the heart is open. In this saying lies an ancient truth: that humor and spirit are born not from the world outside, but from the state of our being within. When the mind grows rigid and the heart hardens with self-importance or fear, even the brightest jest loses its light. But when we are in harmony — when we are in fun, as Wilson says — the world itself becomes a comedy of wonder, a stage where every stumble is a dance and every mistake a melody.

The origin of such wisdom comes not from the stage or the spotlight, but from the eternal human experience of finding meaning through mirth. Wilson, a master of comedy, understood that humor is not a trick of wit, but a way of seeing — a vision that transforms sorrow into perspective, tension into release. The ancients, too, knew this truth. The Greeks, who revered both tragedy and comedy, believed that laughter was a form of divine cleansing — catharsis for the spirit. They told of Democritus, the philosopher who laughed at the follies of mankind, not in cruelty, but in understanding. He laughed because he saw that seriousness, when it consumes the soul, blinds us to life’s beauty. Thus, to live “dead earnest” — with no joy, no levity — is to live as one already buried in one’s own solemnity.

Humor, Wilson reminds us, cannot breathe in the tomb of earnestness. The moment we take ourselves too seriously, we lose the ability to see beyond our pride, our fears, our illusions of control. The wise of old often mocked the pomp of kings and the pretensions of scholars, not out of disrespect, but to restore balance. The jesters of medieval courts, those sacred fools, wielded humor as a sword of truth — daring to speak the things no one else could, cloaked in laughter. Their mirth was medicine, their folly wisdom. When the king grew “dead earnest,” the jester’s laughter resurrected his humanity. So too, in our own lives, must we learn to play, to laugh, to remember that lightness is not weakness, but the strength that keeps the soul alive.

Even in the darkest times, humor has served as the flame that keeps despair at bay. Consider the soldiers in the trenches of the First World War, who shared jokes under the sound of artillery. Their laughter was not ignorance — it was defiance, the soul’s rebellion against fear. They were “in fun,” not because the world was kind, but because they chose to remain human amidst its cruelty. Laughter, in such moments, is not a denial of pain — it is the transformation of it. Wilson’s words remind us that humor is not born from comfort, but from courage; it lives only in those who dare to look at the absurdity of existence and smile.

To be “in fun,” then, is not to be childish — it is to be alive, unafraid to dance with life’s contradictions. The ancient Taoists spoke of this state as wu wei, the art of effortless action — of moving with the current, not against it. When the mind is at ease, it perceives harmony even in chaos. When it is tense and “dead earnest,” it sees only obstacles and enemies. Humor flows from this inner ease, from the ability to release control and allow the moment to unfold. A person who has lost humor has lost flexibility, and thus, lost freedom.

Wilson’s warning is not against seriousness, but against attachment to it — the kind of solemnity that suffocates life. Seriousness without joy becomes pride; duty without play becomes burden. The ancients taught that wisdom must walk hand in hand with laughter. Even the philosophers of India called the universe Lila — the divine play — for they believed that existence itself is a kind of cosmic comedy, a dance of creation and destruction where every soul must learn to laugh with the gods. To be “in fun” is to participate in that dance consciously, to recognize that while life is brief and fragile, it is also infinitely playful.

Let this, then, be the teaching: guard your humor as you would guard your heart. When life grows heavy, do not surrender to solemn despair. Laugh, not because all is well, but because laughter is a light that endures even in the storm. Be “in fun” — not frivolous, but free; not shallow, but deeply alive. Learn to smile at your mistakes, to find grace in absurdity, and to meet seriousness with the calm wisdom of joy.

For as Flip Wilson teaches us, humor is life’s resurrection — the breath that revives the spirit when all else seems lost. To lose it is to lose the music of existence; to keep it is to remain human, even in the face of fate. Therefore, let the world be your stage, your sorrow your script, and your laughter the song that turns tragedy into triumph. For the one who can laugh, even when “dead earnest,” will never be truly dead at all.