Jesus told jokes. Subtle jokes, not necessarily those producing guffaws. It’s one of the Gospels' big secrets. Not that Jesus tossed off strings of one-liners as if He were Galilee’s answer to Bob Hope. Jesus finessed His listeners with parables, little lessons about God, around which Jesus wrapped sometimes amusing touches to incidents in ordinary life. I learned this fact because of the wondrously special Daws Butler.
Not once in nearly 50 years have I re-read a parable without recalling this tiny man with a gigantic talent. Daws was recognized throughout Hollywood as a gifted voice-over actor who made cartoon characters such as Huckleberry Hound, Yogi Bear and Quick Draw McGraw so memorable.
Long admiring his work in the fondly remembered “Beany and Cecil” TV show, as well as his working with Stan Freberg’s record albums of hilarious, often-biting satire, Daws honored me with an invitation to attend his workshops in which he taught aspects of vocal dynamics, writing, directing and acting.
Each Thursday evening, gathered 'round the long table in the studio in back of his home “on the poor side of Beverly Hills,” a number of us young writers, would-be actors and directors — along with older, well-established personalities on occasion — would take turns acting out four-page, four-character “sides.” These scenes were, in effect, parables which Daws wrote every week to accentuate the humanity so necessary to effective writing or acting, physical or vocal.
One night, Daws asked me to express my character with a French accent. It came out Russian, Italian, Irish, perhaps even Serbo-Croatian. At the end, I looked up at Daws sheepishly.
“I’ve never done a French accent before.”
He lifted his head, mischievous eyes dancing in a bemused expression. “Your record stands, Sean. You’ve still not done a French accent.” Good-natured laughter erupted from us all.
Patiently passionate, Daws prized subtlety, wit and thoughtful interpretations. By the time his loving, attentive wife, Myrtis, joined us with a plate of cookies or brownies to end the evening, this masterful teacher had given us so much of himself we found many new perceptions to consider in our writing, theatre or film work.
On top of that, Daws was one of the reasons I returned to the Church, after setting my Catholicism to one side to indulge in a period of youthful flings. Returning to weekly Mass attendance, I began again to read the Gospels with insights Daws had imparted to us. I now saw Jesus less as the Somber Savior and more as a Merry Messiah. I don’t mean to state this lightly. Jesus spoke with majesty and authority, to be sure, yet seasoning His teaching with subtle humor or ironic remarks.
Take the story of the corrupt judge who’s on the take — a situation only too well known in Galilee. The unjust judge keeps putting off recognizing the rights of a pesky widow. She begins to hound him with her demands, so much so, the unjust judge grants the woman her rights. He does this, Jesus makes clear, not because of God or justice, just to get her off his back! Surely, Jesus explains the God of justice will hear the persistent prayers of those who love Him (Luke 18:1-7). No matter how long it takes, we must pray and never lose heart, is St. Luke’s editorial conclusion.
Jesus told another tale about a woman so happy to find a lost coin she threw a big shindig for her neighbors — no doubt using the same coin to pay for it, if not spending more. In like manner, says Jesus, a vast, overwhelming joy rises from the angels in heaven when any sinner is truly repentant (Luke 15:8-10).
Daws’ little scenes showed me how Jesus used subtly amusing touches in his lessons to throw light on serious truths. Because of Daws’ influence, I used his techniques to teach the parables of Jesus to my son DeForeest when he was a toddler.
Many’s the time I’d have the boy bursting with laughter as I read various parables to him, expanding them just a bit while using funny voices for certain characters to be sure DeForeest would remember the lessons contained in them.
I showed my son how much Jesus enjoyed making up nicknames, such as when James and John, indignant at a village which had closed its gates to Jesus and the Twelve, asked — themselves, mind you — if they should call down fire from heaven for the slight offered the Lord (Luke 9:54,55). After dryly pointing out that He had come to save sinners, not destroy them, Jesus archly dubbed the two “Boanerges,” meaning “Sons of Thunder” (Mark 3:17).
More seriously, when warned that Herod Antipas wanted His death, Jesus indulged Himself in a bit of political irony. Unhesitatingly, Jesus made light of the easily manipulated Herod, his vacillating loyalties and inept schemes to bump Him off by christening Galilee’s ruler as “that fox” (Luke 13:31). Foxes are cunning. Antipas was not.
With self-deprecating banter, Jesus noted that John the Baptist fasted and refused wine for the love of God. For this the Pharisees, threatened by his acts of self-renunciation, dubbed him “a devil.” “But,” Jesus continued, “the Son of Man goes to parties, eating and drinking with sinners to bring them the Good News of God’s love. For this, I’m denounced as a glutton and a drunk, a friend of tax collectors and whores!” (Matthew 11:18, 19). Jesus thus demonstrated that there is no satisfying hypocrites.
Jesus valued paradox above all. St. John shows Jesus constantly using it, as when he miraculously opened the eyes of a man born blind, a man who sees this as God’s doing. When Jesus asks him if he believes in the Son of God, the man asks, “Who is that?” With gentle irony Jesus says, “You’re looking at Him.”
With a harsher irony, Jesus then revealed the blind envy and hatred of the Pharisees, who had perfect eyesight but deliberately refused to recognize God’s goodness when they saw it (John 9:1-40).
Most importantly, Jesus founded His Church on the paradoxical figure of the impetuous Simon Peter. As G.K. Chesterton notes:
“He chose for its cornerstone neither the brilliant Paul nor the mystical John, but a shuffler, a snob, a coward … All empires and kingdoms have failed because of this inherent and continual weakness, that they were founded by strong men on strong men. But … the historic Christian Church was founded on a weak man, and for that reason it is indestructible. For no chain is stronger than its weakest link.”
Daws Butler, my friend and mentor, died in 1988. Inspired by his example, I became a lector at Mass, as he was then a lector at Good Shepherd Parish in Beverly Hills — which Jonny Carson always referred to as “Our Lady of the Cadillacs.” I once suggested to Daws that he might get the congregation’s attention by proclaiming Scripture using, say, the voice of Yogi Bear:
“Aaaaaa reading from the first letter of Saint Paul toooooo the Corinthians, nyah ha hee hee! BREthren …”
Daws rolled his always sparkling leprechaun eyes and chuckled, “Monsignor would kill me if I did that.”
Be that as it may, I suspect that Daws is getting along quite well in heaven with Jesus, trading quips with Sts. Philip Neri and John Bosco, both of whom were irrepressible jokesters.
Sean M. Wright, MA, award-winning essayist, Emmy nominee, and Master Catechist for the Archdiocese of Los Angeles, is a parishioner at Our Lady of Perpetual Help in Santa Clarita. he answers comments at [email protected].
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