While the laughter of joy is in full harmony with our deeper

“While the laughter of joy is in full harmony with our deeper life, the laughter of amusement should be kept apart from it. The danger is too great of thus learning to look at solemn things in a spirit of mockery, and to seek in them opportunities for exercising wit.” Thus spoke Lewis Carroll, the whimsical yet profoundly moral mind behind Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Beneath the dreamlike riddles and curious nonsense of his tales, Carroll hid deep rivers of wisdom. In this reflection, he warns us of a subtle but powerful danger—the corruption of the sacred through mockery, the loss of reverence that comes when humor, that bright and noble gift, is misused. He calls us to discern between the laughter of joy, which uplifts the soul, and the laughter of amusement, which, when wielded carelessly, can erode our respect for truth, beauty, and holiness.

Carroll was a man of paradox—both mathematician and storyteller, logician and dreamer. He understood better than most the delicate balance between reason and imagination, between playfulness and depth. In his time, Victorian England was a world awakening to science, wit, and progress, yet also in danger of losing its innocence and awe. Amid this tension, he wrote stories filled with delightful absurdity, but his heart remained anchored in reverence for life’s mysteries. In this quote, he distinguishes two kinds of laughter: one born of the heart, flowing from gratitude, wonder, and love, and another born of the ego—cold, clever, mocking. The first unites man with the divine; the second separates him from it.

The laughter of joy, as Carroll saw it, is the natural song of the spirit. It springs from gratitude, from the recognition that existence itself is wondrous. This laughter does not scorn—it celebrates. It can rise in a temple, in the fields, or in the home, and it strengthens rather than diminishes the soul. Such laughter was known to the ancients, who gathered around their hearths or altars not to deride, but to rejoice. Even the great philosopher Socrates, known for his irony, laughed not at others’ expense, but at the folly of human pride, his humor a tool to reveal wisdom. The laughter of joy heals; it purifies the heart, reminding man that, despite sorrow and imperfection, life remains profoundly good.

But the laughter of amusement, Carroll warns, can become a snare if it turns inward and cynical. When man learns to laugh not out of wonder but out of superiority, when he makes a jest of sacred things, he begins to hollow out his own reverence. In his desire to appear witty, he loses the capacity for awe. What was once holy becomes a punchline; what was once tragic becomes spectacle. The Romans, in their decadence, turned execution into entertainment, making mockery of human suffering. Their laughter echoed in the Colosseum, but it was laughter without compassion—a chilling reminder that amusement without empathy leads to cruelty.

In our modern age, Carroll’s warning rings truer than ever. We live in a world overflowing with noise and jest, where irony has replaced sincerity, and where the sacred is often treated as material for entertainment. The constant pursuit of amusement dulls our hearts; we learn to laugh at everything, and thus feel nothing deeply. The laughter of amusement, repeated too often, becomes a kind of armor—a shield against vulnerability, against faith, against grief. But without the ability to feel reverence and sorrow, the soul grows light, unanchored, shallow. Carroll calls us back to balance—to remember that not all things are meant to be mocked, that laughter must serve love, not pride.

Consider the story of Abraham Lincoln, who, even amid the horror of civil war, retained both humor and gravity. He laughed often, but never cruelly. His humor was a balm to others, a reminder of hope and humanity in dark times. Yet when solemn matters arose, he met them with the weight they deserved. He knew that leadership required not constant jest, but the capacity to discern when laughter heals and when it harms. In this way, Lincoln embodied Carroll’s wisdom: he allowed joy to coexist with sorrow, but never permitted mockery to profane what was sacred.

Let this be the lesson, then: guard the sanctity of your laughter. Let it spring from joy, not derision; from love, not scorn. Laugh with the world, but not at its pain. There is power in humor, but greater power in restraint. Revere the mysteries of life—death, faith, love, truth—and approach them not with mockery, but with awe. The wise man can laugh even in sorrow, but he will not turn sacred things into jest, for he knows that reverence is the root of meaning.

Thus, Lewis Carroll’s words remind us of the eternal harmony between joy and wisdom. The laughter of joy is the song of a heart aligned with the divine; the laughter of mockery is the echo of a heart estranged from it. Choose, then, the laughter that uplifts, not the laughter that diminishes. For to laugh rightly is to honor life itself—and in that laughter, pure and radiant, the soul finds both strength and peace.