Humor as a Higher Level
of Consciousness

Mystics in most of the major religious traditions refer to different "levels" of consciousness. They don’t all describe them the same way, or provide the same kind of instructions for accessing them. A generation ago, some drugs were touted as non-religious means for achieving extraordinary states of consciousness. For most people, "common sense" might be thought of as the standard state, and other states, however described in glowing terms, are better left alone. Many scientists, even neurologists who concentrate on matters of the brain and nervous system, are reluctant to make sweeping statements about the nature of consciousness.

Writers such as Aldous Huxley, who wrote The Perennial Philosophy back in the 1940s, and Ken Wilber, who is still prolific in his attempts to organize our concepts of reality, describe consciousness as a continuum, beginning perhaps at the bottom of the hierarchy of life forms. (Wilber suggests that there may not even be a "bottom," for even the movement of heavenly bodies could be thought of as reflecting some form of consciousness.) The upper reaches of the continuum are referred to variously as religious ecstasy, nirvana, or enlightenment. What we refer to as "lower forms of life" could be seen as evidencing less complex awareness of their environment than most humans, with less effective means for organizing their experiences. Some people insist that "consciousness" begins with human beings, who seem uniquely gifted with a sense of "I."

I’ll take as my starting point for the sake of this discussion an assumption that we humans do, indeed, possess consciousness, defined rather vaguely as an awareness of self and not-self. I’ve noticed that many people appear to have "something" in their mental makeup that is beyond my capacity to understand, let alone hope to achieve. They might be called "geniuses," or "saints," or "prophets," or something similar; and to many people they seem to operate at a level beyond us ordinary folk. Their specialness seems not just a matter of degree. They not only understand things we do not, they know things that we cannot even dream of. They may not be in a different world than we, but they obviously see it differently. When I watch my dog Tasha trying desperately to understand me when I’m explaining something to her, something that affects her directly but of which she is totally unaware, I remember listening in awe to the Dalai Lama a few years ago, and feeling just as I imagine Tasha does. And I’m likely to be gentler with the "poor, dumb animal."

Wilber did much to illuminate my thinking about levels of consciousness. We do move up, he said, as we learn to integrate our experiences at different ages. A six-year-old cannot be expected to respond appropriately to, say, sexual situations. Usually, but not always, there comes a time when he or she understands more of the complex emotional and physical and social aspects of sexuality. This advance in perspective is often taken for granted, but if one thinks about it, it’s pretty remarkable. When a person grows up enough in different areas of experience, they understand more, and their range of responses is greater. At some point, we call it wisdom.

"Ah, yes," I’ve said more than once, "I’ve been here before. I’ve felt this tightness in my gut and my sudden desire to escape. And I know also that I’m really not in danger, and I can control my urge and make the most out of what’s happening right here, right now." Sometimes, I might even make a joke about it all.

The ability to laugh at oneself at times is usually considered a desirable trait. If I’m frightened by something that turns out to be benign, and I can laugh about it, I’m not so apt to be at its mercy in the future. If I feel insulted by someone unexpectedly, and then realize that their intentions were not hostile, a little humor can disperse the difficulties in the transaction. When I suddenly realize that it’s the little kid in me who is responding to a situation, I can choose to act more adult, and at the same time have compassion for that part of me who is still four years old and fearful of abandonment.

I’m talking about gentle humor. There’s also another kind, a hurtful kind, expressed in sarcasm and even sadistic glee. Enjoying another person’s suffering is not a higher level of consciousness. But humor—any humor—requires a degree of sophistication to understand. Humor, as a response, is often a matter of seeing some familiar situation and twisting it, creating a paradox or an unexpected result. The enjoyment of "getting the joke" is in perceiving both ends of the paradox. Relating two things that are usually not thought of as related. My wife thinks "Humor as a higher level of consciousness" is itself funny. Why? I believe it’s because we ordinarily think of humor as a leveler, a folksy thing.

I could relate some incidents in which my dog Tasha has fun with me—not playing the way animals often do with each other, exercising abilities that are to be used in very serious ways, such as fighting off intruders or competing to get food, but in a gentle teasing behavior, pretending to give me her ball to toss, then slyly pulling it just out of reach. If I stop reaching for it, she brings it back, and repeats the tease until I manage to grab it, then instantly she lets go and bounds off, looking back at me waiting for the toss. This little game is fun for her and fun for me, and we both know it and appreciate the humor. It’s a delicate dance, what James Carse calls an "infinite game," played for the fun of playing and not to have a winner and a loser. That’s humor, too, the "good" kind. Laughing at oneself is not destructive. On the contrary, it helps to bond people (and animals). What I’m enjoying when Tasha plays her little game with me, is my own limitation—my dog outwitting me! If I were truly embarrassed or humiliated, my responses would not encourage her to repeat the game. It wouldn’t be fun for either of us.

Since I’ve become aware of all this, I’ve begun to pay more attention to my own humor, checking now and then to see whether it’s destructive or constructive to the relationship. Laughing at another person can be either. It’s a fine line to walk, requiring sensitivity and skill—and a lot of knowledge about the other person. Psychologists tell us that humor at someone else’s expense is always a hostile act. The important word there is "expense." If I’m aware of my own forgetfulness, for example, and make jokes about it, someone I trust can also kid me about it—a little. To gauge the word "little," I guess it would be less than I do. If I can laugh at myself, it indicates an acceptance of my own shortcoming, a level of comfort. A perspective. In perhaps only a small way, I have "risen above" myself and my ego.

About other personal topics, such as my deteriorating physical condition, I’m not so sanguine. I can’t readily joke about it, and I can be easily hurt if someone else jokes about it. My level of consciousness related to that is rather stuck. My ego reigns.

So, perhaps it’s clearer to say that humor can be an indicator of higher consciousness, rather than the state itself. When it reflects that ever-important perspective, or that bit of insight, humor might be thought of as one characteristic of wisdom. Logically, the next question is: does God have a sense of humor?

Personally, I have no doubt.

Donald Skiff, May 30, 2002

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