I love a laugh. It’s probably my favourite thing in the world—better than sex, even! And so I’ve often wondered, particularly as I’ve spent more and more money on stand-up tickets, what’s so good about it? It definitely feels good to laugh, but I think it goes even deeper than that.

For a start, I would point out that people don’t just laugh at feel-good things. I, for one, laugh at a lot of horrible things. (What can I say? I have a dark sense of humour!) And judging by the success of many, shall we say, raunchy comedians, I’m not the only one. You can think of basic slapstick comedy, or the classic crotch-shot, but then it’s not limited to the physical. People joke about race, sex, cancer, religion, politics, and all kinds of sensitive subjects that have riled up more than one Twitter-twit. And not to dismiss the gravity of horrible things whatsoever, I sense this is reflective of humour’s ability to disarm horrible things of their power. You see, it is precisely because of their gravity that we laugh. Yes, it’s true that this creates the capacity for offence, however innocent the laugh may be. These laughs have the capacity to harm, which is why true and good humour comes from a heart of compassion, not of discomfort nor judgement. Nevertheless, it is also true that these jokes have the capacity to heal.

For example, if someone were to threaten you, you would understandably feel (and probably look) frightened. Consider: what if, instead of shaking in your boots, you laughed instead? Yeah, maybe it wouldn’t go so well. Or, maybe the individual would feel less threatening themselves, not being taken seriously. (This isn’t advice for you to take, by the way.) Maybe to laugh in the face of adversity, or horrible things in general, is to say, “Fuck you! I get to have the last laugh!” It’s a reclamation of power over the fear that can so often control us. For this reason, humour can also function effectively as commentary, lightening the mood of what would otherwise be a heavy discussion. That’s just one reason I love humour. It’s the quintessential way to kick the suffering of humanity in the balls, and have a good ol’ fashioned laugh at its expense.

You might recognise this disarmament of horrible things as the “transfiguration of suffering”, which is essentially my driving interest in religion and spirituality. This is why, more importantly than anything else, I would (predictably) argue that humour is a spiritual practice on a number of levels. For one, when one laughs in concert with another, there is an unmistakable bond in the moment. This bond seems indescribable, but it’s undoubtedly there. It’s not simply friendship or camaraderie. It’s not simply love. It’s more like you’ve let your guard down, and stopped taking yourself and the world so seriously. It’s kind of a vulnerable thing when you think about it. The things you laugh at and the way you laugh (i.e., whether with or at someone/something) can say a lot about someone, perhaps more than even their shopping habits. There is a sort of spiritual communion in laughter.

That’s not all, though. Spiritually-speaking, laughter is just so zen. It’s beyond words, it’s irreverent, it’s spontaneous, and it’s non-thinking. It frustrates intellectualisms in this way, and takes you straight to the heart of the matter. Namely, the present moment—the only moment you’ll ever have. Were I so verbose—and indeed I may be—so as to provoke laughter among my readers, you would find yourself in a place where my own little ideas crack right open. They’re nothing, not really; and that’s precisely where my ideas will lead you, and your laughter sustain you: in a world foreign to the seriousness of our ideas. Instead, “we’re all mad here,” like Wonderland. And in this land, you are free of all earthly attachments, free to be as madly engaged to the humour of this moment as you possibly can be.

Or maybe this is just the kind of person I am. So, the next time you laugh about something, after you’re done, try to think about why or for what purpose you laughed. For me, it’s often to cope with anxiety, the trouble of not knowing, and the many injustices of our world. Were I without laughter, I’m not sure I could find much joy amidst any of that. So I wonder, what do you think your laugh say about you?