When Laughter Isn’t Shared

This was my late 1980's dream bag!

When I was a girl, there was an older kid on my bus who teased me relentlessly. Every afternoon, it was the same routine. I carried a bright red bag my mom had made for me — handmade with love, but shaped, unfortunately, like a bright red pizza box carying bag. I had wanted a GAP tote bag like everyone else. Instead, I got laughter. Kids called me “pizza face,” which cut even deeper because, on top of everything else, I was battling teenage acne. It went on and on. The jokes weren’t funny; they were relentless.

One day, something shifted. A neighbor girl, a few years older than me, decided she’d had enough. She came and sat beside me on the bus after school. She didn’t make a big speech or confront anyone; she just sat down. But her presence said everything: You’re not alone. The teasing stopped. It turns out, sometimes it only takes one person to change the story.

That’s the thing about bullying — it’s not just about words or actions, but about power and persistence. It’s not teasing when it doesn’t stop. It’s not joking when the laughter isn’t shared. Teasing might make everyone giggle; bullying leaves one person shrinking smaller and smaller while everyone else looks away.

Children often know this difference instinctively. They know when their laughter is forced, when the air feels heavy, when they start to dread being around someone who “just jokes too much.” What they need from us — the adults — is belief. When we say, “Oh, they didn’t mean it,” or “Try not to be so sensitive,” we teach them that their pain doesn’t count.

And if we’re honest, we adults aren’t always great at this either. We mask cruelty in sarcasm, gossip, and “playful banter.” We say things we wouldn’t want said to us and call it humor. We use laughter as a shield to avoid accountability. We tell others they “can’t take a joke” instead of admitting that maybe we went too far.

But being believed matters — at every age. When someone gaslights you, denies what happened, or insists it was all in good fun, it’s disorienting. It can make you question your own memory, your feelings, your worth. That’s why listening — really listening — when someone says, “That hurt” is an act of grace. Believing them is an act of love.

I was going to do a different worship series this November, but have since shifted to developing a series around the the idea of belonging. We'll been talking about how belonging isn’t a static state — it’s a sacred process. We move from being noticed, to being named, to being known, and finally, to being needed. That process begins when one person has the courage to see another — to really see them — and to say through word or action, You matter. I believe you. You belong.

I’ve been doing this pastor thing for a while now, and what I’ve come to realize is this: it takes just one human to believe another person. To see and recognize another’s humanity. To sit beside them on the bus, in the pew, or at the table, and remind them they are not alone.

And friends, that truth stretches far beyond the school bus. We live in a time when public cruelty has been normalized — when powerful people mock those who are different, when leaders laugh at pain, when policies are written to strip dignity from the poor and benefits from those who need them most. We see immigrants dehumanized, people with disabilities ridiculed, and working families blamed for struggling to survive. That’s not leadership. That’s bullying at a national scale — and it corrodes the moral fabric of who we are meant to be.

Belonging demands something better from us. It asks us to stand with those who are being mocked, to speak up when truth is twisted, to insist that every person is worthy of compassion and respect. It asks us to be that neighbor on the bus — the one who sits down, quietly but firmly, and says through presence and courage: You are not alone. You are seen. You belong.