Approaching 50, I became intimidated that my age would hinder my ability to communicate with younger people. So I tried to be cool. I wore a sport coat with no tie in the contemporary service. I put gel on my hair (both hairs).
Soon I discovered my Sunday morning fashion statement was not the issue. While overall attendance at my church had increased the previous seven years, the percentage of attenders ages 18 to 25 had decreased.
Something about our church lacked appeal to the younger generation, and I hoped it was not my sermons. I had always considered myself in touch with the “kids.” The college Sunday school class once had a friendly habit of calling me “Dennis” or “Pastor Dennis.” In recent years, however, the college students were calling me “Pastor Beatty.” I was growing older, and the gap was getting wider.
Then late one night I found myself flipping channels between David Letterman and Jay Leno. I was intrigued. Both men are exactly my age, yet their communication styles clearly appeal to younger audiences. (They even wear ties.) I paid close attention to both hosts’ opening monologues and Letterman’s “Top Ten.”
But it’s hard to get preaching tips from “The Late Show.”
In three semesters of preaching classes, I not once heard how to deliver a joke. Homiletics focused on exposition and skipped the humor. Thus I was intrigued when I noticed that our local community college was offering a class on stand-up comedy. Would this help my communication skills? I wondered.
And that’s how it happened that, at age 50, with two seminary degrees under my belt, I returned to night school—to become a comedian.
It was a plot straight out of Seinfeld.
A class about nothing
Patsy, the instructor, was very encouraging when I explained my goal. I was convinced that comedy could teach me about connecting with my younger listeners. She recommended I take the more advanced comedian’s course, since I had so much experience in front of an audience. True, I had experience, but telling jokes to strangers was something new. All the material I presented for this class had to be original—no one else’s jokes re-told, just my own humor exposed. That was daunting.
My six classmates ranged in age from 30 to 45. (Not facing a class of 20-year-olds was a relief in my pastoral mid-life crisis.) Most of my classmates came to class straight from work. My slacks and collared shirts blended well. So age and wardrobe didn’t set me apart, but after more than twenty years in full-time ministry, I had to overhaul my vocabulary. Christian cliches had crept into my routine.
Patty critiqued my word choice. Out went phrases like “when you go out into the world” and “my calling,” and in came non-spiritual terms like “grocery shopping” and “career choice.”
I had been savvy enough to avoid words like “sinner” and “saint,” but I wasn’t aware of some of my religious jargon. In church, “neighbor” means anyone you meet, but in a nightclub, it means the guy who lives on your block. In my usual crowd, “brothers and sisters” are fellow Christians; but to comedy patrons, it means blood-related siblings.
Patsy had to remind me that these terms would not communicate to my audience the way I intended. My classmates were forgiving of my occasional religious references.
During one of the first class meetings, we introduced ourselves and stated our professions. Most of the class had office jobs there in the San Francisco Bay area where I pastored. A few were pursuing stand-up as a future career. When I revealed my vocation, some wanted to know if I had decided to change jobs.
After our first in-class rehearsal, the comedians recommended I keep my day job.
Patsy emphasized dramatic and comedic proficiency, and that excluded any crude humor. She demanded clean comedy.
We learned how to give theatrical flow to our routines by utilizing a four-step dramatic formula: set up, conflict, resolution, and reprise.
And we learned to improvise. We developed our skills by playing games such as Alphabet Soup, in which two people act as if they are on a date or long lost brothers. The first word of their first line must begin with the letter A, the next line with B, and so on through the alphabet. Such exercises developed my spontaneous humor and the ability to think on my feet without hours of preparation, a manuscript, and reference materials (a new skill for me).
This was good practice for the final performance, which would put me in the spotlight before sixty strangers in a dark nightclub, an audience that would not be as kindly disposed as my class or my Sunday morning congregation.
Take my pulpit pleas
It had been 25 years since my last exam in seminary. I don’t remember being this nervous over a Greek final. But I must say this exam was the most unique and practical I ever had on communication.
In a nightclub full of sophisticated San Franciscans, I had to deliver my routine of 14 original jokes mostly about my rural roots.
“Growing up in Thayer, Missouri, is growing up in the sticks. You cannot find any more authentic rednecks in one place. I mean out here, if you want to impress someone, you get them a room at the Ritz Carlton. In Thayer the best room in town is at the Malfunction Junction Motel.
“Around here, if you go to church, you probably get up early and polish your best Sunday shoes. Well, in Thayer, they get up early to polish their best guns.”
I hoped Missouri was funny. Frisco would show me.
The entire routine had to be done without notes. My greatest anxiety was getting on stage with nothing in my hands. My Bible (complete with sermon notes) is my Sunday morning security blanket. The other comedians were already comfortable speaking to the audience in this hands-free fashion. For me, it was a challenge. I marveled at the way each comedian just let his own personality and style flow from the stage to the audience.
They had no pulpit or title to hide behind, they just shared themselves and even made themselves the butt of their own jokes. I knew how genuine their performances were, because these comedians were also my classmates.
In fact, as each one performed, I found it was like laughing with an old friend.
This feeling of familiarity made me reconsider my performance style, even at the last second. I had, up until this point, failed to create the kind of close connection with my audience (or even my congregation) that my classmates were achieving.
I watched two comedians go on before me and develop this rapport with the audience. Now it was my turn, and I could not afford to lose that connection. I decided to let the audience see Dennis Beatty (minus “Pastor”), which meant admitting I was nervous.
For my first time as a stand-up comedian before a live audience, I was fairly well received. When the host introduced me, I must admit I hoped the laugh track from the previous act would continue.
Not so.
Once the mic was mine, the audience grew silent. They just stared at me. I could sense them thinking, “Go ahead, make me laugh.”
My first few jokes received only courtesy chuckles. A couple in the back with a few too many drinks in them had laughed at everything the previous guy had said, but two of my jokes didn’t coax even a giggle from them. A couple of my one-liners got some good laughs. One joke I forgot to tell altogether because I was so nervous (my best one, too).
Overall the audience was less receptive than a Sunday morning crowd. That reminded me to consider the visitors. Even if the members who know me are laughing, a first-time guest might find church-grade humor cheesy. I learned that I must work harder to connect with the people who don’t know me.
And I’ve learned to depend less on the opinions of the regulars. Compliments from members are often like laughs out of the tipsy couple in the back: they’re nice, but they don’t actually let you know how you’re doing unless they’re absent.
My instructor, Patsy, was impressed that I actually made it through my whole routine without any note cards or cues. All things considered, it was a successful evening.
But I think I will hang onto my day job.
Dennis Beatty is pastor of First Baptist Church of Prescott, Arizona. His daughter, Elizabeth, is a writer.
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