This past Sunday, we opened a time capsule that had been buried for fifty years—which, in church time, is approximately three liturgical eras, four carpet changes, and at least one regrettable sermon series.

The children dug it up (because of course they did—tiny humans* with shovels are basically the church’s special forces). They processed down the aisle with it like it was the Ark of the Covenant, only with more hand waving and less smiting. What followed was something rare and holy: we laughed. Not polite chuckles. Not “that’s nice, Pastor” laughter. Real, unscripted, belly-deep, slightly snorty laughter.

And here’s the thing: that kind of laughter is not just delightful—it’s sacred.

Science, of all things, agrees. Researchers have found that laughter literally changes our bodies. It lowers stress hormones like cortisol, boosts immune cells and infection-fighting antibodies, and releases endorphins—the brain’s own “everything is going to be okay” chemical cocktail. In other words, when we laugh together, we are not just having fun—we are healing.

Even our hearts get in on the action. Laughter improves blood flow and helps blood vessels function better, which can lower the risk of heart disease. So yes, technically speaking, our church potluck plus a good joke is a cardiovascular intervention. Take that, Peloton.

But the most miraculous part isn’t what laughter does inside our bodies. It’s what it does between us.

Laughter is deeply social. Studies show it helps people bond, regulate relationships, and navigate even serious or awkward moments together  It’s a kind of emotional glue. Or maybe holy WD-40—loosening the rusty hinges of our guarded, grown-up selves so we can actually be with one another.

And let’s be honest: we don’t get enough of that anymore.

We are efficient. We are scheduled. We are productive. We are, frankly, a little bit bunched in the panties. But shared laughter? That requires presence. It requires noticing. It requires letting go of control just enough to be surprised.

Which is exactly what happened as we pulled out a mildewed, 50 year-old church bulletin, a ruler (“To be used for measuring things.”), a quill pen, a bicentennial quarter dollar, Shrinky Dink name tags, launching of the Kingdome and baseballs cards, (though sadly no Mickey Mantle)

We circulated around the Narthex and tried to guess who-was-who in old photos. (Turns out everyone either had a mustache, a perm, or both. It was a simpler time.) We laughed at hairstyles, at outdated language, at the delightful absurdity of our younger selves. We wondered at how the Bon Marché sold housecoats for $9.99. And what in the heck was a “television antenna?”

We laughed together as a community. Not a collection of committees. Not a roster of names. A community.

There is a reason joy shows up so often in scripture, and I’m increasingly convinced it sounds less like a harp and more like a room full of people laughing until they can’t breathe. Laughter interrupts fear. It loosens grief. It reminds us—gently, irreverently—that we are alive, and that being alive together is a gift.

So yes, we sang “American Pie.” Loudly. Questionably. With gusto.

And for a moment, in the echo of laughter and crumbs of cake, it felt like church in its purest form: joy made audible.

Honestly? Let’s do it more often.

*Parental permission obtained to post this photo.

If you could not be there, you can watch the excavation and opening HERE.