Jesus on Rollerskates
The Spiritual Practice of Having Fun During Hard Times
A few months ago, I was standing in a worship service minding my own business when the clearest picture of Jesus on roller skates popped into my head.
The image was almost technicolor in its joy. There was Jesus, with his brown skin and tunic, but instead of sandals on his feet, he was sporting bright pink and purple light up roller skates. He was wobbly and grinning, hair blowing in the wind, arms stretched out to balance as he rocked back and forth—delighted, undignified, free.
I felt an instant burst of joy bubble up in my chest and had to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud. I mean, the absurdity of it—Jesus windmilling his arms to keep from toppling over. It was a gift, this image. I could never have told you I needed to see Jesus in roller skates, but I did. It was exactly what I needed.
It’s so easy for me to imagine Jesus like Rachel Dratch’s famous SNL character, Debbie Downer, always ready to put an abrupt halt to the fun with a one liner about sin or suffering.
But Scripture actually shows us something quite different. Sure, Jesus had some zingers he used to shut down the religious elites, and yes, we know he was well acquainted with human suffering, but most of the vignettes we get of Jesus’ life and ministry show him right in the middle of community life—not too precious or too holy to join in the fun.
This is, after all, the man who turned water into wine at a wedding party1, who nicknamed his friends “the sons of thunder”2, and who has such a good time at dinner parties that he’s accused of being a “lush, a friend of the riffraff.”3
If we exercise a little sacred imagination, we can glimpse the full humanity of Jesus, not just the part that suffers. We can see a man who had friends, who needed rest, who broke rules, who sat around campfires telling stories. How lovely to imagine a God who played games, told jokes, and lingered over a good meal. A God who wasn’t afraid to be spotted with the outsiders and misfits of society.
If we reduce Jesus’ humanity solely to his suffering, we miss out on a huge part of what makes him (and all of us) human—our desire for joy and connection, community and celebration. We know Jesus faced unjust systems, deep and devastating grief, and physical pain. But my hope is not in Jesus’ unrelenting suffering, but in his ability to embrace joy and lightness alongside grief and pain. I take comfort in Jesus identifying not only with my pain, but with my enjoyment too.
My hope is not in Jesus’ unrelenting suffering, but in his ability to embrace joy and lightness alongside grief and pain. I take comfort in Jesus identifying not only with my pain, but with my enjoyment too.
I wonder if this ability to embrace fun and play, curiosity and wonder, is part of what Jesus meant when he told his disciples, “Unless you return to square one and start over like children, you’re not even going to get a look at the kingdom, let alone get in. Whoever becomes simple and elemental again, like this child, will rank high in God’s kingdom.”
Just a few verses later he says, “Doom to the world for giving these God-believing children a hard time! Hard times are inevitable, but you don’t have to make it worse (emphasis mine)—and it’s doomsday to you if you do.” (MSG)
In Gaza, where over 39,000 children have lost one or both of their parents in the current conflict and every child has experienced a traumatic, life-altering event4, experts say play is needed as desperately as food, water, and basic safety.
Play is, quite literally, a weapon against dehumanization, giving children a sense of normalcy and community in unstable times and allowing them to experience freedom, agency, and creativity. Play mitigates some of the side effects of PTSD. Indeed, it lies at the very center of “the pleasure and dignity of a human person.”5 It is, in many ways, square one.
It seems to me that in hard times, one of our best defenses is play. After all, play reminds us that our joy matters, that work, even good work, is not what makes us human. Play is a form of resistance—against capitalism, against violence, against a world that would prefer us exhausted and numb. When we carve out space for joy, even among the wreckage of war or unjust political policies or deep personal losses, we declare that life is more than suffering and oppression will not have the last word.
When we carve out space for joy, even among the wreckage of war or unjust political policies or deep personal losses, we declare that life is more than suffering and oppression will not have the last word.
Perhaps it’s in times like these that we must put on a pair of roller skates and wobble our way forward. Perhaps it’s when we’re most tempted to despair that we can set aside our grown-up priorities of productivity and efficiency, competency and usefulness, and instead make way for play and silliness, friendship and sacred imagination.
Ever since the roller skates image popped into my head, I’ve made a practice of imagining other ways Jesus might have let his oddball human/God light shine. It’s an intentional re-framing for me, an opportunity to let God show up in new and unexpected ways. Instead of imagining judgey-Jesus or downer-Jesus or suffering-Jesus, I let myself imagine fun Jesus. I let myself imagine God enjoying himself.
Sometimes I imagine Jesus ungracefully slurping spaghetti, little splatters of tomato sauce staining his shirt.
Sometimes I imagine him at a pool party, floating on an inflatable flamingo, drink in hand.
Sometimes I see Jesus at a thrift store, rifling through the racks, pulling out a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt and holding it in front of himself, wondering if he could pull it off.
Sometimes I see him playing a rowdy game of backyard soccer with a group of kids.
Sometimes I see him on the dance floor. Does Jesus have rhythm? I don’t know, but I don’t think it matters much. He’s out there either way, throwing his head back and letting his body move freely through space.
I know what you might be thinking. Fun?? In this economy?! How could I?
And I feel that, too. The guilt of it. The impossiblity of reading news of bombs in Iran in the morning, then splashing in a pool with my kids in the afternoon. No matter how I try to arrange the delight and the agony, the balance always feels off. My arms don’t seem equipped to hold it all.
Enjoyment just for the sake of enjoyment can feel pointless, even irresponsible, when so much of the world seems to be hurting. How dare Jesus show up on rollerskates when I need him to be a healer or a peace maker, when I’d much rather he be cracking a whip and turning over tables.
But maybe, just maybe, fun and delight are the things that make all of this survivable. What if joy is actually the engine that powers us through sickness and grief, injustice and anger and pain? What if Jesus needed laughter and dance and feasting in order to face violence and death?
What if today, right in the midst of the chaos and confusion, we need Jesus on rollerskates—playful and free—skates flashing purple and pink along the path?
John 2:1-11
Mark 3:17
Matthew 11:19