Laugh Lines and Hope

I was listening last week to Kim and Penn Holderness’ podcast, Laugh Lines (it drops on Tuesdays), and I found myself nodding along more than I expected. They were naming the very real struggle of trying to keep people’s spirits up in tumultuous times—how exhausting it can be to show up with humor or lightness when the world feels like it’s unraveling. They also spoke honestly about the tension of wanting to speak up for their neighbors while worrying about the safety of their kids in a climate where doing so can invite real harm.

Honestly? I am right there with them.

There are days when it feels irresponsible to laugh, or sing, or dance when the headlines are so heavy. The Doomsday Clock sits closer to midnight than it ever has—closer to the symbolic moment of total destruction than any generation before us. The threat to humanity, to the fragile web of life as we know it, feels painfully real. And I find myself longing—aching—for people in power to choose a different path than the one they are charging down right now.

I grieve how far some have dug themselves into the ditch of believing lies about “the other side.” Lies about immigrants. Lies about queer and trans people. Lies about the poor. Lies about anyone who doesn’t fit neatly into a narrow vision of who belongs. It is disorienting and heartbreaking to watch truth treated as optional and cruelty reframed as strength.

So yes, the struggle to lift spirits is real. And it’s not because we don’t understand how serious things are. It’s because we do.

Yesterday, in the middle of a rainy Pacific Northwest day, I was busy having fun with my family, so I didn't watch the Super Bowl halftime show. However, I took time later to sit down and watch Bad Bunny’s performance all the way through. I won’t say too much about it, except this: it held a powerful tension. There was an honest acknowledgment of Puerto Rico’s history as a colony of the United States, marred by racism and white supremacy, and at the same time there was palpable joy—resilience, artistry, and compassion on full display. And the ending reminder was potent: "the only thing more powerful than hate is love."

And that, I think, is exactly the kind of joy that keeps people alive. Not shallow happiness, but joy that knows the truth and keeps singing anyway.

Listening to Laugh Lines also reminded me of a quote by journalist and activist Dan Savage that has been echoing in my heart:

“During the darkest days of the AIDS crisis we buried our friends in the morning, we protested in the afternoon, and we danced all night, and it was the dance that kept us in the fight because it was the dance we were fighting for.”

That line stopped me in my tracks when they used the quote from a reader comment.

They danced not because things were easy, but because things were unbearable. Joy itself became an act of resistance. Hope was not a denial of reality; it was a muscle they had to keep exercising in order to survive. There is something scriptural about turning mourning into dancing.

It also made me think about what’s being called the “Singing Resistance” in Minnesota. I love that they are using songs of justice and peace—using their literal voices—to call for change. In one interview, organizers named their inspiration as Otpor, a movement in Serbia that helped overthrow a dictator in 2000. Protesters showed up at police stations and even officers’ homes, singing and chanting, inviting them to join in doing what was right for their neighbors.

There have been moments throughout history when people quite literally sang their way through oppression and toward freedom. Songs carried courage when words failed. I think of Miriam singing as they crossed the river into freedom during the Exodus. Harmonies stitched together communities when fear threatened to tear them apart. Singing reminded people who they were—and what they were fighting for.

Because this is often what faith looks like in hard times—not grand solutions or tidy answers, but small acts of defiant joy. A laugh shared. A song hummed under our breath.

A body that remembers how to sway, even when the soul is tired.

I am not naive about the darkness. I know how close the clock is to midnight. But we also know this: despair is not neutral. It will not save us.

Joy, on the other hand, just might.

So we bury our grief when we must. We protest when we can. And yes—we sing, and laugh, and dance, because that is the world we are fighting for. A world where life is cherished. Where truth matters. Where love is stronger than fear.

Keeping spirits up is hard right now. But maybe it’s also holy work.

And maybe—just maybe—it’s what will keep us in the fight.