King David’s Hit Job or Why I’ve Never Told a Hittite Joke
My guess is that no one reading this has ever told a Hittite joke. In fact, I doubt most will have ever heard a Hittite joke, either. Truth be told, I haven’t heard or told a Hittite joke, myself. So why am I even bringing it up? And what even is a Hittite joke? These are good questions—all of them. So a little background, and then we will wade into the topic.
Not long ago, a friend of mine was extolling the virtues of her pastor, as one does. From her description, he sounds like a truly exceptional person. As she went through her list of the good things he always does and the bad he never does, my respect for him grew exponentially.
When she said he’s adamantly opposed to telling jokes that put down various groups of people, she had my undivided attention, because I’ve also been known to speak out on that topic. Clearly, her pastor deserves accolades for his principled stand against such insults, put-downs, and sling-offs against others.
However, my friend went on to explain that her pastor does love jokes because they pack a punch, elicit laughter, and can help win over a crowd. So in an attempt to have his cake and eat it too, he decided to only use jokes about groups of people generically.
The only problem is that generic jokes don’t deliver the same wallop as personal ones. So to overcome that problem, he decided to focus on a specific group it would be impossible to offend—that wouldn’t be hurt by being the butt of his otherwise generic jokes. He could use the name of an extinct tribe. And what better place to find such a name than in the Bible? He chose the Hittites.
The word Hittite appears 58 times in the Old Testament and is never mentioned past the book of Ezekiel. There isn’t a single mention of Hittites in the New Testament. Besides, if you’re looking for a name from the Bible to serve as the butt of jokes, the word Hittite rolls off the tongue more readily than, say, Jebusite, Perizzite, or Girgashite.
The Hittites get a mixed review in scripture. We know that Esau, son of Isaac and Rebekah, married two Hittite women. We also know that Rebekah couldn’t stand them and feared that their son Jacob might marry a Hittite as well. So she said to Isaac, “I’m disgusted with living because of these Hittite women. If Jacob takes a wife from among the women of this land, from Hittite women like these, my life will not be worth living,” (Genesis 27:46, NIV). This isn’t a ringing endorsement (pardon the pun) from a mother-in-law.
We know that the Hittites were among the tribes occupying Canaan—tribes the Israelites were intent on driving out. But the reasons behind the decision of my friend’s pastor to convert all racial, ethnic, gender and whatever-else jokes into Hittite jokes was primarily that there are no Hittites around today to feel be belittled. The Hittite line faded out long, long ago. So his strong objections to telling such jokes about modern groups no longer applies. No hearer of his jokes will say: “Hold on there, preacher! My great-grandmother was a Hittite! Stop trashing Hittites!”
Although the pastor’s reasoning does indeed avoid some of the pitfalls of telling jokes that put down current people groups, might an avalanche of Hittite jokes lead people to unfairly diminish and disparage all Hittites retroactively?
I mean, in the jokes, Hittites would be described as possessing every quirky, negative, and sinister characteristic perceived to be present in any people belonging to any group existing today. It would be the whole collection of stereotypical, negative characteristics rolled into one collective persona. So when we read in the Bible about honorable Hittites, could we believe such persons actually existed?
For example, there was a rather upstanding Hittite named Uriah—one of the 37 best fighting men in all of Israel in the time of King David. Uriah apparently had lent his combat prowess to the Israelites, had probably become a worshiper of Israel’s God, and seems to have joined the ranks of the ancient equivalent of a “naturalized citizen.” He was an impressive, loyal, and committed soldier.
But if I’ve listened to a gazillion Hittite jokes, will I be blinded to how upright Uriah was? Will he be reduced in my eyes to just another lazy, stupid, evil Hittite? And when I read about King David impregnating Uriah’s wife, Bathsheba—while Uriah was out fighting a war for him—will I seek to justify David’s actions? Because David was, after all, simply providing a way for Bathsheba to escape an ill-conceived marriage to one of those “despicable” Hittites.
The more I ponder the pros and cons of telling Hittite jokes, the less attractive the idea becomes. If I really get into telling Hittite jokes, I might, by accident or design, become known for them. And the long-term implications of that are truly frightening.
Imagine with me . . . I get to heaven and I’m hanging out in a beautiful green space along the banks of the sparkling River of Life, catching up with long-ago friends. We’re all reminiscing about the things we did during our life on earth, when someone bursts into loud laughter and says, “Jim, I remember all those Hittite jokes you used to tell! They were absolutely hilarious! How could anybody be as quirky and blind and dumb as those Hittites were?”
When the laughter subsides, a man, a woman, or even a child—it really makes no difference which, because I’m describing a nightmare, not a reality—steps forward and says, “I’m intrigued! I want to hear all of those hilarious jokes, because I’m a Hittite!”
I don’t answer immediately because a bunch of my most disparaging Hittite jokes come crowding into my mind, and I’m embarrassed and ashamed. I don’t look at the flesh-and-blood Hittite. Instead, I gaze down at my heaven-issued golden sandals. I feel my face turn red and my palms begin to sweat. My mouth feels like it’s full of cotton balls, and at that moment a highly disturbing thought leaps into my brain: “Am I forever going to experience this form of hell, notwithstanding the fact that I have already been ushered through the pearly gates?”
And that is why I have never told a Hittite joke.
Title Image: Pieter Lastman, King David Handing the Letter to Uriah, 1611, oil on panel, 51.1 x 61.3 cm Detroit Institute of Arts.
