We’ve all been in that uncomfortable moment—someone makes a joke that gets a laugh, but something feels off. The humor lands, but it leaves a bitter aftertaste. Why does some laughter feel uplifting while other laughter feels cruel? What separates a joke that brings people together from one that tears them down?
Rabbi Pinchas Polonsky finds the answer to this question in a biblical story. When Sarah finally gives birth to Isaac in her old age—a miraculous event that defied all logic—she declares:
Her son’s very name, Isaac (Yitzchak in Hebrew), means “he will laugh.” Laughter, it seems, is woven into the fabric of this miracle.
But the story takes a dark turn. Sarah witnesses Ishmael, Abraham’s other son, laughing—and she immediately demands his expulsion. Same word, same act, yet one child becomes the carrier of blessing while the other must leave. What’s the difference?
Rabbi Polonsky explains that the Hebrew word for laughter, tzechok, can be read as tzei chok—”go beyond the law.” Laughter is what happens when reality breaks its own rules in a beautiful way. It’s the recognition that life contains something higher than mere logic, that miracles and unexpected grace are real. When Abraham and Sarah laugh, they’re learning to see beyond rigid correctness, to embrace the divine playfulness that makes room for the impossible.
But here’s the crucial insight: going beyond the norm can mean rising above it or falling below it. You can transcend the rules by reaching toward something greater, or you can abandon them by descending into mockery and destruction.
The key lies in one simple question: Can you laugh at yourself?
Abraham, Sarah, and Isaac all learn to laugh at themselves—at their doubts, their limitations, their excessive seriousness about religious correctness. This self-directed humor is essential for survival because it demonstrates humility, self-awareness, and the ability to see yourself from a higher perspective.
Ishmael’s laughter is different. It’s directed outward, mocking others, seeking to diminish rather than elevate. It’s the laughter of someone who cannot bear to see themselves honestly, and so must tear down everything around them to feel superior. This kind of laughter doesn’t transcend boundaries—it violates them. It doesn’t point toward a higher harmony; it creates chaos.
The implications are striking. Rabbi Polonsky suggests that we must learn to laugh even at our most sacred beliefs and traditions—not because they’re false, but because our understanding of them is always incomplete. “No idea or belief should ever be treated with fanatical seriousness,” he writes. “If you cannot laugh at your ideas and beliefs, your own dogmatic pedantry can easily be your undoing.” The moment we become too rigid, too certain, too serious about our own correctness, we lose the very thing that laughter teaches: humility before the Divine.
This is the laughter test, then. Before you laugh—or make others laugh—ask yourself: Am I laughing up or laughing down? Am I celebrating the beautiful absurdity of existence, or am I using humor as a weapon? Can I direct this same laugh at myself, or does it only work when pointed at others?
The next time you feel laughter rising in your throat or hear it from those around you, pause for just a moment. Let it be the kind of laughter that Sarah discovered—the kind that celebrates miracles, embraces our own imperfections, and sees in life’s unexpected turns not a breakdown of order but a glimpse of something higher. That’s the laughter that builds worlds. The other kind? That’s the laughter we need to send away.
To learn more of Rabbi Pinchas Polonsky’s insights on the Bible, order The Universal Torah: Growth & Struggle in the Five Books of Moses – Genesis Part 1 today!
