Enter a Catholic or Orthodox church, visit certain art museums, open a book of Western paintings, or search online for “paintings of saints,” and you’ll find portraits and scenes in paint or stained glass of men, women, and children recognized for their holiness.
These saints are often depicted in quiet prayer or devotion, the palm of one hand over their heart, their gaze turned toward heaven. Some are shown working miracles, like Reubens’s painting of Ignatius of Loyola or Tintoretto’s “St. Mark Working Many Miracles.” Martyred saints may be depicted at their execution accompanied by the instruments of their torture; these canvases are sometimes almost unbearably gruesome.
Books written by the saints—Thérèse of Lisieux’s “The Story of a Soul,” Augustine’s “Confessions,” de Sales’s “Introduction to the Devout Life”—are often insightful. They’re calls to holiness that contain a blend of Scripture, prayer, and personal anecdotes. Some approach matters of faith with prose as formal as a High Mass, while others like Thérèse of Lisieux speak from the heart.
For the casual observer, the overall impression of saints represented in the arts is one of no-nonsense sobriety:austere people who were well-intentioned but a bit grim about the mouth.
And yet, a surprising number of saints had a humorous streak running through their reverence, enjoying wit and jokes just as we do today. Let’s take a look at some of them.
The Patron Saint of Comedians
Lawrence ( A.D. 225–A.D. 258) was the archdeacon of Rome when the emperor Valerian ordered Pope Sixtus II arrested. The Romans customarily confiscated wealth from those who would be executed, and so Lawrence began selling off some of the goods of the Church to avoid this theft, distributing the money among the poor. When the prefect of Rome ordered Lawrence to bring him the riches of the Church, Lawrence replied, “I’ll be back in three days with the treasures of the Church.”
On the appointed day, Lawrence showed up with a crowd of the poor, the crippled, and the widows and orphans of his flock. “Here is the treasure of the Church,” he blithely declared.
Unamused, the prefect ordered his arrest, and Lawrence was sentenced to death for his insolence. Condemned to die by slowly roasting on a red-hot gridiron, legend has it that Lawrence at one point said to his executioners: “You can turn me over. I’m done on this side.”
“The Martyrdom of Saint Lawrence,” 1647, by Bartholomeus Breenbergh. Oil on canvas. Stadel Museum, Frankfurt. Public Domain
Someone in the Church exercised a similar sense of dark humor, because Lawrence today is also the patron saint of cooks as well as comedians.
A Man for All Seasons
Though more than a millennium separated Lawrence and Thomas More (1478–1535), the two men shared one commonality. Like Lawrence, More faced his executioners with a jest on his lips.
The author of the satire “Utopia” was popularboth in England and abroad for his wit. The philosopher and humanist Erasmus, a longtime friend, described More’s humor in a letter to a mutual acquaintance:
“In company his extraordinary kindness and sweetness of temper are such as to cheer the dullest spirit, and alleviate the annoyance of the most trying circumstances. From boyhood he was always so pleased with a joke, that it might seem that jesting was the main object of his life; but with all that, he did not go so far as buffoonery, nor had ever any inclination to bitterness. ... When a thing was facetiously said, even though it was aimed at himself, he was charmed with it, so much did he enjoy any witticism that had a flavor of subtlety or genius.”
“Sir Thomas More,” 1527, by Hans Holbein the Younger. Oil on oak wood, 29.4 inches by 23.7 inches. The Frick Collection, New York City. Public Domain
When More refused to acknowledge Henry VIII’s divorce from Catherine of Aragon and to take the Oath of Supremacy, he was arrested, imprisoned in the Tower of London, and eventually beheaded. As he climbed the scaffold, More said to his executioner: “I prithee, friend, lend me thy hand to help me up. As for my coming down, let me alone, I’ll look to that myself.”
Arranging himself on the beheading block, More took care to ensure that the long beard he’d grown in prison was out of the way of the executioner’s blade. “Pity that should be cut, for it has not committed treason. Allow me to set it aside.”
Deliver Us From ‘Sour-Faced Saints’
More would likely have agreed with a pronouncement from Teresa of Avila (1515–82): “From silly devotions and sour-faced saints, Good Lord, deliver us!” The Carmelite nun, reformer, and mystic was renowned for her tart wit and blunt speech. Once while on a journey, the cart in which she was riding overturned, and she was splashed all over with mud and water. Claiming that God then said to her, “This is how I treat all my friends,” Teresa shook her fist at heaven and exclaimed, “Then it’s no wonder you have so few friends!”
As a girl, Teresa loved music, dancing, singing, parties, and telling jokes. Her parents eventually dispatched their headstrong daughter to a convent, in the hope that there she might learn some self-discipline and restraint. Years later, Teresa began her autobiography with this comical self-effacing comment: “Having virtuous and God-fearing parents would have been enough for me to be good if I were not so wicked.”
A stained glass window of St. Teresa of Avila at St. Joseph's Catholic Church in Central City, Ky. Nheyob/CC BY-SA 4.0
Teresa’s early life of pleasure and self-indulgencemade her kinder and more understanding of the foibles of others, especially the nuns in her care and the lay people who sought out her spiritual counsel. To one man who asked for advice, she wrote: “Your imperfections do not shock me, for I see myself with so many.”
God’s Jester
Teresa’s contemporary Philip Neri (1515–95) became a beloved figure in Rome during the early upheavals brought by the Reformation. He chatted with everyone from nobles to beggars, hearing confessions for hours a day and spreading laughter wherever he went. Like Teresa, he also experienced ecstasies in prayer, which brought him even more renown.
To undercut his growing reputation for sanctity and to reinforce his own humility, Neri sometimes acted the part of a jester, as when he attended a formal party with half his beard shorn, giving no explanation. As an old man, he occasionally skipped instead of walked, causing some to mock him and call him an old fool. Some of his favorite reading material came from a beloved joke book, and his quarters were at one time called the “Shelter of Christian Mirth.”
A statue of St. Philip Neri in the facade of the church of Santa Maria Maddalena in Rome. Livioandronico2013/CC BY-SA 4.0
Neri became the patron saint of joy and humor. Interestingly, in the United States he was also selected as the patron saint of the Army’s Special Forces. He received that honor because of his disregard for self, his superb teaching skills, and his talent for inspirational leadership.
Go Gaily in the Dark
Here we have only scratched the surface in looking at saints who demonstrated and advocated humor and joy. Francis of Assisi, Francis de Sales, John Bosco, and many more of these men and women relished laughter, jokes, and the solaces of mirth.
Modern saints have likewise relied on humor to lighten situations. The recently sainted Pope John XXIII, for instance, was famous for his repartee. When asked by a reporter how many people worked in the Vatican, he replied, “About half of them.” He often poked fun at his own appearance—his large ears and nose, and his considerable girth. After one session with photographers, he said to American archbishop Fulton Sheen: “From all eternity, God knew that I was going to be pope. He had eighty years to work on me. Why did he make me so ugly?”
We read and study literature, history, and biography for entertainment, knowledge, and counsel, looking in the last instance for information pertinent to our own lives, inspiration, consolation, and everything that lies between. We look for exemplars, whether real or fictional, who might act as guides to life and point us to the right path.
Whatever our religious affiliation, the saints give us a way, as G.K. Chesterton once put it, to “go gaily in the dark.”
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Jeff Minick
Author
Jeff Minick has four children and a growing platoon of grandchildren. For 20 years, he taught history, literature, and Latin to seminars of homeschooling students in Asheville, N.C. He is the author of two novels, “Amanda Bell” and “Dust on Their Wings,” and two works of nonfiction, “Learning as I Go” and “Movies Make the Man.” Today, he lives and writes in Front Royal, Va.
