No mistakes, only gifts

I was one of an eclectic mix of middle-aged strangers perched nervously on folding chairs in a defunct yoga studio. We had all been enticed to the gathering through a Facebook ad or street poster announcing improv classes. Most of us introduced ourselves to the circle as looking for some post-pandemic fun. Our collective experience with the medium amounted to some exposure through high school drama clubs and an affection for The Office or Saturday Night Live.

I kept my more serious reasons for joining to myself. Of course, I was there for fun, but I was also there to solve an existential problem I’d been having. A recovering perfectionist, chronic overachiever and mindfulness drop-out, I had been hunting for an activity that could double both as a non-work-related hobby and a method of forcing me to be more present. As most writers do, I live primarily in my head, which leads to all sorts of complications I won’t bore you with. I wanted to be more embodied and less self-critical. Since improv is all about making it up as you go and trusting the process, I imagined it as a form of exposure therapy.

Moving toward delight

Many of the core tenets of improv will be familiar to you if you’re a follower of pop culture, but I was surprised how much more resonant they were to me as a follower of Christ. A good improviser lets go of their plans and builds on whatever exists by agreeing to the premise of what has been offered by the other players and adding to it. This is where the famous expression “yes, and” comes from. It refers to approaches that are adaptive, generative and co-created as opposed to closed, agenda-driven and rigid. Improv is better when you get out of your head and trust yourself and your scene partners (faith). It’s better when you make others look good rather than taking the glory for yourself (sacrifice and service). It’s better when you’re less focused on appearances and more focused on making strong choices (integrity), knowing that even failure is going to be more interesting than playing it safe (grace and courage). In fact, there is a saying in improv that, “there are no mistakes; there are only gifts.” Even when you think you’ve messed up, it can be the biggest gift to the scene if you learn to incorporate it and move forward (redemption). Good improv requires a lack of self-consciousness and a willingness to look silly for the sake of the game (King David dancing in his underwear comes to mind).

In the minutes and weeks that followed the initial awkwardness of introductions, we first-time improvisers were playing games, passing imaginary items around a circle, making up rhymes, trying out characters, making each other laugh and truly engaging in make-believe. This sounds (and was) somewhat terrifying, but the difference between it being embarrassing and being delightful was completely about the attitude of the players. We could only enjoy it when we stopped judging ourselves for it. In many ways, improv is an object lesson in childlike faith.

A childlike faith

In our quests towards adulthood, while we may gain wisdom and knowledge, we often lose our innocence and playfulness. We spend years unlearning the very childlikeness that Jesus identified as the access point to the Kingdom of Heaven. To identify God as Father is to identify ourselves as children, but few of us go the extra step of actually being child-like. This makes the Christian walk more difficult on many levels by limiting our joy and making us resentful of being weak, vulnerable and dependent.

Children rarely realize they are vulnerable because they don’t expect to be otherwise. As a grown-up child of my earthly parents, I am independent and rarely in need of their help. When I do need it, I may feel embarrassed and highly aware of my own vulnerability. But as an actual child, this didn’t occur to me. I wasn’t abashed to be dependent, but rather, fully expected provision and care. I assumed my weaknesses would be mitigated to the point of probably not even thinking of them as weaknesses. I can’t remember ever saying as a toddler, “I’m so embarrassed that you had to feed me this month” or “I feel so guilty that you had to clothe me and clean me,” or “I’m so ashamed that you had to nurse me when sick last night.”

When the scriptures say that God’s power is made perfect in our weakness or that we are to keep in step with the Spirit, it can feel like a powerplay if we don’t first adopt a childlikeness. The more we become like children of our Father God, the less tedious the surrender, and the more homecoming we experience. Just like an improv game, the same act can be grueling or gratifying depending on the posture of the player.

Everyday applications

Improv has had much of the desired impact on my life. I’m finding more grace, more trust, and more light-heartedness through play. Through repetition, I’m slowly building the muscles that guard against overthinking and taking myself too seriously. I’ve also met some cool people and made some good friends. Exploring unique ways of helping people shake off their serious selves and connect from the heart has even infiltrated my work life in consulting, counselling and team building.

But improv has also given me a new vocabulary for understanding and communicating the gospel. That we don’t need to be perfect or have it all figured out to experience the good things God has for us. We need only to say “yes” to our Scene Partner and cooperate with him to make something beautiful, and maybe even entertaining, out of what he started.