The first time I attempted contemplative prayer — the exercise of being present in God’s presence, beyond my own words or thoughts — I panicked. What do I say? What do I do? Why am I here??? my brain shouted. My reaction felt familiar; where had I felt it before? Then I remembered: My brain had shouted the exact same things the day of my first improv lesson 10 years earlier, when I showed up in a classroom I’d never seen with people I’d never met to try something I’ve never done before. So, as I sat avoiding my contemplative prayer, it occurred to me I had not only survived improv but thrived in it, for exactly the same reasons I could come to thrive in prayer.
For those unfamiliar, improv refers to an entirely improvised performance, typically comedic, where two or more people make up entire scenes for the first and only time. While many people might know short-form improv from the show “Whose Line Is It Anyway?”, long-form improv (the type I generally perform) focuses less on games and more on characters, relationships and dialogue. There are no sets, save for a few stools or chairs, and no physical props, just object work (i.e., shaping objects in the environment through physical movement). Improv is not stand-up, sketch or sitcom, and woe to the neophyte who uses the terms interchangeably.
But while these details help define improv, what they don’t tell you is that improv is essentially discernment through play. As with Ignatian discernment, improv asks a player to notice what’s moving within them, identify the attendant emotions and thoughts, and draw on those insights to find a path forward. And because improv is a team sport in pursuit of collective imagination, it’s uniquely positioned to hone three essential skills — acceptance, listening and teamwork — that I can lean on to deepen my relationship with God.
Improv is essentially discernment through play. As with Ignatian discernment, improv asks a player to notice what’s moving within them, identify the attendant emotions and thoughts, and draw on those insights to find a path forward.
Let’s start with improv’s golden rule of “yes, and.” Saying “yes” means I first accept each new detail, offer or gift as it arises in a scene. Saying “and” then commits me to develop that offer further. Following this fundamental principle means I actively participate in “building a cathedral brick by brick” as a former improv teacher once put it, co-creating with my teammates an environment, its inhabitants and their stories out of thin air.
Of course, being able to recognize these details, offers and gifts in the first place requires deep, attentive listening. What are all the words, actions and feelings my teammates are bringing to the scene? What patterns are emerging? What paths or scenarios might we want to explore together? When my antennae are tuned to the people and scene around me, I am better able to support them and help create something greater than the sum of our parts.
This collaborative, accumulative approach means that I don’t have to rely on a single person (myself included) to make up everything in a scene. In fact, the most compelling performances are 100% due to the strength of the players’ relationships, in which everyone trusts one another to bring their full creative gifts to the table. Often before we go on stage, my teammates and I all give each other hearty pats on the back, saying as we go, “I’ve got your back, I’ve got your back, I’ve got your back.” A small gesture, yes, but a mighty symbol of how mutual trust is built over time, through practice and presence, as we attend to and care for each other in our creativity.
When I consider improv’s generative nature in the context of prayer, I’m moved to reflect: Am I being a good scene partner to God? Am I listening closely to what God is saying and paying attention to how God is moving? Am I relinquishing my own desire for control and welcoming God’s collaboration? Are we cultivating a relationship built on trust, respect and delight, so when the time comes to build something new, we are prepared to create it together?
After years of playing, I’m convinced improv has rewired my type A brain chemistry and made me a more flexible, adaptable person. After all, I’ve laughed so hard on stage during a performance that I openly wept. I’ve bombed at a festival and recovered from embarrassment within hours because my teammates and I had each other in stiches over dinner at the local diner. I’ve auditioned for musical improv and felt proud of myself for branching out even though I wasn’t cast. I’ve learned I have a tendency to play characters who fret, and I now challenge myself to push past that default. I’ve definitely gotten worse at accents over time … or maybe I have just become wiser and more self-aware about where my true gifts lie.
What unites these experiences is my vulnerability — the same vulnerability that arose the first time I tried contemplative prayer. But as that experience helped me remember, any time I have taken a sincere, curious, open-hearted stance, be it on stage, in life or with God, I am much more likely to stumble into glory. So, I think what improv has really taught me is this: When we are attuned to the Spirit’s movements and patterns in our lives, we are better equipped to turn “yes, and” into “yes, let’s” — a full-throated acceptance of the gift on offer.