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Have you found Jesus?
Because I haven’t, but what I did find the other day was that missing sock. It was behind the dryer, naturally, communing with seventeen bobby pins, a Guatemalan quetzal, and what looks like a relic of the religious kind (so there is that).. Not sure how any of it got back there. The sock definitely wasn’t there when I looked three days ago, which is either a miracle or proof that my dryer is a portal to somewhere I don’t want to visit.
But that’s not why we’re here.
We’re here to talk about sawfish. And absurdist religious humor. Mostly the sawfish thing, though.
The Sawfish Conundrum
Not swordfish. Everyone knows about swordfish. They’re the Renaissance hipsters of the ocean, all pretentious and pointy, probably sipping small-batch plankton from artisanal kelp forests while explaining why you’ve never heard of their favorite current. “Yeah, I only swim in the Gulf Stream’s earlier work, before it sold out.”
But sawfish? They have saws on their snouts. Actual, literal, serrated saws jutting out of their faces like they’re perpetually mid-renovation on some underwater HGTV show that never got greenlit.
Which raises an important theological question: What the hell is this for?
I mean, God’s usually pretty efficient with the whole design thing. Teeth for eating. Wings for flying. Thumbs for texting your ex at 2 AM. But a saw? On your face? That’s not efficient. That’s either divine comedy or God took a long lunch break during marine biology and let the intern have a go at it.
“Just… I don’t know, put a saw on it.”
“On what?”
“The fish.”
“Which part?”
“Does it matter? Make it stick out the front. Make it look busy.”
Maybe sawfish are the carpenters of the sea. That would explain why they’re always running late. Have you ever met a carpenter who showed up on time? Of course not. They’re always “held up on another job” or “waiting for materials” or “stuck in the digestive tract of a tiger shark.” Perfectly reasonable excuses.
Jesus was a carpenter, you know. Which means, scientifically speaking, sawfish might be the Jesuses of the sea. This is the kind of satirical theology that keeps me up at night.
Think about it. This is a horror story in the making.
“Hey, I can cut my own cross.”
“Efficient. What else are we gonna use the wood for?”
“Can’t exactly start a fire down here.”
“Well, I bet BP could.”
Too soon? It’s been fifteen years. That’s the statute of limitations on oil spill jokes, right? No? Fine. BP is very sorry and has learned absolutely nothing.
What If Jesus Was a Carpenter Ant?
This is where things get interesting. Where the irreverent religious comedy really picks up steam.
What if Jesus wasn’t a carpenter at all? What if the translation got muddled somewhere between Aramaic and King James, and it turns out He was a carpenter ant?
Changes everything. It’s almost as dramatic as Bohemian Rhapsody’s life advice.
The Last Picnic instead of The Last Supper. Twelve disciples gathered around a dropped Dorito in Gethsemane Park. “Take this chip and eat it, for it is Cool Ranch, and Cool Ranch is forever.”
No crucifixion. Just Raid. The Romans show up with a can of Black Flag, and suddenly you’ve got the Passion of the Pest Control.
“Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they spray.”
I actually talked to a bunch of carpenter ants the other day just to see if they liked my theory. I’m an ant whisperer, which sounds impressive until you realize it mostly means I get overwhelmed at picnics and have to lie down in the grass while explaining my feelings to invertebrates. It’s the kind of comedic theological analysis that makes sense at 3 AM or after too much coffee. Or both.
“Have you guys read about this?” I asked them.
They looked up at me (well, I assume they looked up, it’s hard to tell with ants) and said they’d only just begun.
“Could you maybe do it on rainy days and Mondays?” I suggested.
They said sure, and honestly, I felt on top of the world.
Then they bit me. Because ants are assholes.
The Problem With Religious Symbolism
Here’s the thing about getting bitten by ants you’ve been having a theological discussion with: it makes you think about suffering. And suffering makes you think about martyrdom. And martyrdom makes you think about the cross.
Which brings me to an uncomfortable realization about Catholic iconography. This might be my most sacrilegious satire yet, but bear with me.
Catholics make the sign of the cross to bless themselves. Forehead, chest, shoulder, shoulder. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” It’s a classic showdown of faith.
They do it because Christ died on the cross for our sins. The cross is the whole symbol of the faith. The merchandising opportunities alone are staggering. You can get a cross on anything: necklaces, bumper stickers, those weird wall hangings your aunt has that are somehow both ceramic and depressing.
But here’s the thing nobody wants to think about: We got lucky with crucifixion.
I know, I know. “Lucky” seems like the wrong word when you’re talking about a guy getting nailed to wood and left to die on a hill. But hear me out. This is where alternative religious commentary gets weird.
Imagine if Jesus had died from gunfire.
Every time you wanted to bless yourself, you’d have to do finger guns. Forehead (click click). Chest (pow pow). Left shoulder, right shoulder, and then jazz hands for the Holy Spirit because the Holy Spirit deserves jazz hands.
“In the name of the Father” (finger guns to the forehead) “and of the Son” (double finger guns to the chest) “and of the” (shoulders) “HOLY SPIRIT!” (full jazz hands, maybe throw in some spirit fingers if you’re feeling charismatic).
You’d look like you’re trying to audition for a megachurch production of Chicago.
Sunday Mass would be absolute chaos. A thousand people all doing synchronized finger guns and jazz hands. The older parishioners struggling with the choreography. Some youth pastor in the back getting way too into it, adding spins, maybe a kick-ball-change.
“Is this reverent?”
“I don’t know, but my delts are getting a great workout.”
The Stations of the Cross would be performed like a Bob Fosse number. Jesus stumbles the first time (jazz hands!). Then, Jesus meets His mother (finger guns!). Jesus dies on the… wait, no, Jesus gets shot by the… you know what, the whole narrative really falls apart here. It’s like dismembered feet in a hat shop.
Or, and stay with me here, what if Jesus had choked on a Popsicle?
Just died from a Fudgsicle during a particularly hot Sermon on the Mount. There He is, talking about meekness and inheritance, takes a bite, and boom. Heimlich maneuver doesn’t exist yet. Game over.
We’d all be out here making the sign of the frozen confection. Up, down, left, right (careful not to drip on your vestments). Every church would have a giant Popsicle hanging over the altar instead of a cross. Cherry flavor, probably. Definitely cherry.
The Last Snack.
Communion wouldn’t be bread and wine anymore. It’d be fun-size ice cream bars and Capri Suns. Which, honestly, would probably improve church attendance among kids. Though the sticky floors situation would get out of hand.
“This is my body, which has been given for you. It is strawberry shortcake flavored and may contain traces of regret.”
The Apostles’ Creed would need a full rewrite: “He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified (wait, no) he choked on a refreshing treat, died, was buried, and on the third day, rose again, possibly because the brain freeze wore off.”
The Divine Comedy Special
Sometimes I think God has a sense of humor about all this. Maybe that’s the real foundation of absurdist religious humor: the universe itself is the joke, and we’re all just trying to figure out the punchline.
Why else would He make sawfish? Or carpenter ants? Or The Carpenters, for that matter (a band so wholesome they make white bread look edgy, singing songs that make you feel feelings you didn’t know you had about rainy days and furniture)?
Maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe God’s up there running the longest improv show in history, just throwing random stuff at the wall to see what sticks.
“Okay, what if… giraffe?”
“Lord, that’s just a horse with a long neck.”
“Right, but the nerve that controls its voice box? Make it go all the way down the neck, loop around an artery near the heart, then come all the way back up to the throat.”
“But that’s fifteen feet of unnecessary nerve.”
“I know. Hilarious, right? Do it.”
“Wouldn’t it be more efficient to just…”
“Did I stutter? Fifteen. Feet. Of. Nerve.”
We’re all just trying to build something down here, whether we’ve got saws for faces, mandibles for chewing through your deck, or Karen Carpenter’s voice for making people cry in grocery stores. We’re cobbling together crosses and meaning and three-chord pop songs, all while running perpetually late to whatever it is we’re supposed to be doing.
Maybe we’re the joke. Perhaps we’re the punchline. Maybe we’re the sawfish (absurd, impractical, and somehow still here, sawing away at nothing in particular while the ocean rolls on indifferent).
This whole essay probably qualifies as blasphemous humor writing, and I’m okay with that. Because if you can’t laugh at the cosmic absurdity of existence, what’s the point?
But we’ve only just begun.
And if that’s not worth a blessing (whether it’s a traditional cross, finger guns and jazz hands, or just a respectful nod to the Fudgsicle that could have been) I don’t know what is.
Click click. Pow pow.
Jazz hands.
Amen.
Key Takeaways
- The article humorously explores the absurdity of religious symbols and animals, focusing on sawfish and carpenter ants.
- It questions the efficiency of divine design using comedic examples, such as what if Jesus was a carpenter ant instead of a carpenter.
- The author proposes ridiculous scenarios, such as Jesus dying from a Fudgsicle or how church rituals would change with different symbols.
- Religious humor highlights the cosmic absurdity of existence, encouraging readers to laugh at life’s complexities.
- Ultimately, the piece combines theology and humor, suggesting we are all part of an ongoing cosmic joke.
