The old Jewish man finally died.

He closed his eyes one night and when he opened them again he found himself in what he immediately recognized as the stereotypical portico of heaven, a grand, white, columned gateway set upon a bed of clouds. Before the ornate gate sat a nondescript metal office desk, behind which was seated a mildly smiling, bland little man with a neatly trimmed beard and a tied-back ponytail dressed in a white robe.

The old Jewish man smiled back at the man behind the desk and ventured, “Peter?”

“That’s right,” the angel told him.

“Well, I would have guessed different,” the old Jewish man said. “But here we are. I suppose there is some paperwork to attend to?”

“Not really,” Peter answered. “The process is really quite simple. All you need do to enter the Kingdom of Heaven is prove you have a sense of humor.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” the old Jewish man replied. “You see I was a very serious person in my life. I worked, I studied, I read the Torah. I did not have much time for frivolous pursuits. I’m not sure I ever developed a sense of humor.”

“Oh, come on,” Peter said. “Surely you have a sense of humor.”

“Maybe I do, but what if I don’t? Do I go to the other place?”

“There is no other place,” Peter said. “The alternative is simple obliteration. You will simply cease to be. But that’s for extreme cases. We have an open admission policy here, the Big Guy loves his children and wants them all here around him. The great lesson is that love is all powerful, it can redeem any and everyone. There is no sin that cannot be forgiven, whatever occurred in the other realm is meaningless here in this Eternal Moment. The only qualification is to ensure that one is capable of appreciating the KOH. And besides, if we allowed in the humorless, then it wouldn’t really be heaven, would it? We can’t have that sort of thing here, it would ruin for everyone. But the Gospel is, practically everyone has a sense of humor. Surely you can think of one funny thing that happened to you—surely you can tell me a joke that will prove you deserve admittance.”

“Maybe I can, maybe I can’t,” the old Jewish man said. “But do you have those who prefer not to enter? I mean, I’m just curious, but can you volunteer for this obliteration?”

“Yes, of course,” Peter said. “But it is a very serious decision. We do have some percentage of clients who choose that option, but usually they only come to that decision after having entered the KOH. It’s always an option if everlasting joy and happiness does not appeal to you.”

“People get tired of everlasting joy and happiness?”

“You can get tired of anything, I suppose. People get tired of eating ice cream too. But I must tell you were’re talking about a very small percentage. And even fewer decline to enter at all once they’ve been declared eligible.”

“So it is normal to want to come in, at least look around for awhile?”

“Yes, that’s what the overwhelming number of the Big Guy’s children choose to do.”

“So I try it out? No strings?”

“No strings. Free will.”

“So maybe I’ll come in?”

“Yes. But first the formality—I need to see evidence of a sense of humor.”

“OK, I’ll try. You want I should tell you a joke?”

“A joke would be fine.”

So the old Jewish man proceeded to tell Peter a story. It was a long story, full of significant details and compelling characters. Peter was enthralled by it. But then the old Jewish man got to the end.

“That’s it?” Peter said.

“Yes, that is my joke. That is the best that I could do.”

“Well,” Peter said. “That was certainly something. It absolutely moved me. But I have to tell you, I didn’t find it funny. I don’t think I can laugh at such a story.”

“Oh well,” the old Jewish man said. “Obliteration does not sound that bad. Does it hurt?”

“Wait, wait,” Peter said. “Just because I didn’t find it funny doesn’t mean it’s not funny. I think we should appeal it.”

“We can do that?”

“Well, I haven’t tried before, but I think the Big Guy will go for it. I want to arrange an interview for you with Him, you can tell him the joke and let Him decide.”

“When can we have this interview?”

“Oh, we’ll do it right now. Obviously His eye is on the sparrow. He knows. He reads our hearts. Just step this way.”

Suddenly the old Jewish man found himself in a comfortable room, well-appointed but not ostentatious, something like the library of a prosperous country doctor in the American Midwest, circa 1955. Seated in an armchair wearing a cardigan was a 40-year-old Bob Newhart.

“Bob Newhart?” the old Jewish man asked.

“No, not really,” God answered. “I simply try to appear in nonthreatening forms. I want you to be comfortable. It’s painful to me when I cause people to be afraid, though considering my awesomeness, I suppose it’s only natural. Now tell me this joke.”

The old Jewish man took a deep breath and began.

“When I was a young man, I had a wife, Leah. She was beautiful, with dark eyes that sparkled when she laughed. And she laughed often, even when things were hard. We had two children, Aaron and Miriam. I worked as a tailor—nothing fancy, but enough to keep my family clothed and fed. We lived in Kraków.

“When the war came, I thought, ‘This will pass. We are good people. We do no harm.’ But one day, they came. They took us from our home. We were pushed onto a train, my children clinging to Leah, Leah clinging to me. We could barely breathe.

“At the camp, they separated us. The men to one side, the women and children to another. I saw Leah holding the hands of our children, pulling them close, whispering to them. She did not cry. I did not cry either.

“I never saw them again.

“In the camp, I worked. I starved. I watched men die. I stopped feeling surprise. One day, an officer called for volunteers. We did not know for what. A trick? A punishment? But I stepped forward. Maybe I wanted to die. Maybe I just wanted something different.

“They took us outside. They gave us shovels. ‘Dig,’ they said.

“So we dug.

“When we were done, we stood at the edge of the hole we had made. A man beside me began to pray. Another cursed. I said nothing.

“The officer looked at us and smiled. ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘Fill it back in.’

“We looked at each other. Was this a test? A game? A new cruelty we had not yet learned? But we obeyed.

“So we filled in the grave.

“When we were done, he said, ‘Dig it again.’

“We dug again.

“And when we finished, he said, ‘Fill it back in.’

“We were exhausted. Some of the men could barely stand. But we obeyed.

“Then he told us to dig it once more.

“I couldn’t help myself. I laughed.

“The officer looked at me. ‘Why are you laughing, Jew?’

“I said, ‘Because this is the first time I’ve ever seen a German waste labor.’”

The old Jewish man spread his hands. “And that’s my joke.”

God’s face was still, unreadable.

Then He let out a long sigh and said, “No. I’m sorry but I don’t find any of this the least bit funny.”

The old Jewish man looked at Bob Newhart and smiled.

“I know,” he said. “And that’s why I can forgive you.”