I Earned 5 Degrees, Then...Started Stand-Up Comedy

Sharing (Some of) My Comedy Origin Story (Comedy Mindhacks #141)

Origin stories matter. The Bible itself, as most of us know, begins with one. And Genesis doesn’t just tell us what happened first; it establishes the world in which everything happens. It’s an ancient origin story that was and still is in competition with other origin stories. Nations have origin stories, too. We Americans tell ours through everything from the Declaration of Independence to the “The Star-Spangled Banner.” And we keep reminding ourselves of and returning to origin stories because knowing where we came from affects how we understand ourselves.

So, yeah, origin stories tell us that something began. Lately, I’ve been thinking about my own origin story with regard to stand-up comedy. The less complex version goes something like this: I was a Minister & Bible professor who decided in his 40s to become a stand-up comedian. By the time I stepped onto a comedy stage, I had five degrees, including a PhD, had written nearly 40 books, taught college students for two decades, worked in ministry, and spent decades becoming educated. I was and still am super comfortable operating in contexts where my ministerial and biblical knowledge and expertise matters.

BUT…I eventually walked onto a comedy stage and almost none of it seemed to matter. I’ve learned that stand-up comedy has a way of humbling us like that. I mean, I’ve done a lot of shows and not once, not a single time!, has anybody in the audience ever cared about how many degrees I have. Nobody’s ever asked how many books I’ve written or how many lectures I’ve given. They just don’t care. Period! Nobody’s gonna laugh because I have credentials. And so, after spending decades gaining expertise in biblical & theological studies, comedy had a way of making me feel like a beginner again.

Becoming a beginner at anything in one’s 40s, 50s, or 60s is pretty different from becoming a beginner in one’s twenties. That’s the case because, by midlife, we’ve usually spent years becoming competent at things, building careers, raising families, developing reputations, and figuring out how parts of the world work. There’s comfort in competence like that because, in general, we know what we’re doing and other people often know that we know what we’re doing. But becoming a beginner means giving some of that comfort up. It means willingly walking into a room where we might be terrible at something again or have no real idea of what we’re doing.

That’s what comedy did to me. Suddenly, I was surrounded by people who had started years or even decades before I had. And let me tell you: Some people are more than happy to try to remind me of that as often as they can. Stepping into comedy, I encountered gatekeeping, seniority culture, mysterious unwritten rules, and a lotta conventional comedy wisdom that everyone seemed to know: “It’s all about stage time.” “Get reps.” “Pay your dues.” “It takes five years to find your voice.” And so on. And for each saying or rule or practice, the scholar in me kept wanting to know why.

At first, my questions were mostly about jokes and joke writing. Why does this joke work while that one doesn’t? Why can one comedian say something and get a huge laugh while another person delivers almost the same premise and gets nothing? How much of comedy can actually be learned, and how much is natural ability? So, I started reading, watching, studying, writing, experimenting, and interviewing other comedians because that’s how I learn.

Over time, though, my questions started changing. I became curious about why some comedians seemed to improve quickly while others could perform for years, decades even, without developing very much. I wondered why comparison motivated one comedian but completely destroyed another, why experienced performers sometimes choked during important opportunities, and why some people seemed terrified of taking certain creative risks. I started thinking more seriously about where comedic persona comes from, how confidence develops, and why criticism can affect us so deeply. Somewhere along the way, I became increasingly interested in how both jokes and comedians become better.

That distinction changed everything for me. I entered comedy thinking the main thing sitting on the workbench was the joke. I tighten the setup, sharpen the punchline, add tags, change a word, move a pause, adjust the delivery, and try it again. That work matters, of course, and I absolutely love doing it as anyone engaging my content can tell. It’s fulfilling for me. But there’s also something else that’s really important sitting on the workbench: Me.

And so, as I continue to make my comedy journey public in a myriad of ways, my baseline has essentially become this: It’s all about workshopping the comedian and the comedy. In fact, I think I’m going to begin using that as a primary motto or slogan alongside “Laughter > Outrage.” I’m saying this because I think way too many people in the comedy space place an inordinate amount of emphasis on jokes. Again, all that’s important. But comedians gotta work on themselves, too. And many times that’s overlooked.

This realization’s been sitting with me for a while now. Over time, I’ve noticed, for instance, that every bomb’s done something to me. Every successful set, rejection, competition, awkward open mic, new room, difficult audience, criticism, opportunity, and failure has revealed something about how I think and react. And I’ve realized something I think is profound, at least for me: Sometimes, yes, the joke needs to change; but, sometimes I, the person writing and performing the joke, need to change. Once I landed on that insight, comedy immediately became a much larger experiment for me.

That’s probably the more complex origin story behind almost everything I’m building now. My Messed-Up to Set-Ups podcast grew out of conversations about how comedians develop material and think about their craft. My “Comedy Mindhacks” grew out of my fascination with the psychology surrounding creativity, failure, confidence, comparison, risk, and momentum. My courses, coaching, livestreams, Comedian Persona Explorer app, Joke Writer’s Lab, as well as writing, producing, and performing stand-up are really all just different expressions of the same basic curiosity: Growth.

That doesn’t mean I think I’ve figured comedy out. In fact, the entire point of every single thing I do is almost the exact opposite of that. I’m not claiming I’ve solved some mystery everyone else has missed. I’m simply inside my workshop, trying things, bombing, succeeding, asking questions, changing my mind, testing ideas, and paying attention to what happens. And I’m making much of that journey public because, as I’ve said numerous times, I’ve found that documenting what I’m learning helps me learn, and every once in a while something I discover seems to help somebody else, too.

That’s also why I don’t think “time served” should EVER settle an argument about someone’s status as a comedian. Experience matters, of course, and I’ll gladly listen to most who’ve traveled the road longer than I have. (Again, see my Messed-Up To Set-Ups podcast for 140+ episodes of that.) But here’s a fact: Doing something for twenty years and deliberately studying how to improve at something for twenty years aren’t the same thing. They’re just not. I’m less interested in whether an idea is traditional than whether it’s true, useful, and helpful. And so, a question I keep asking myself is: Can I get better at getting better?

I think that question is especially important for those who come to comedy later in life. I mean, I don’t know about you, but I don’t have another twenty years to spend waiting around before I become curious about how improvement works. I want the reps, yes, but I also want to understand what those reps are teaching me. I want to perform more, but I also want to understand why one performance moves me forward while another simply repeats what I already know. I’m not interested in just accumulating experience; I personally wanna become better at converting that experience into momentum and growth.

Maybe that’s one of the unexpected advantages of becoming and being a learner or lifelong learner. Learners have permission to ask questions that experts sometimes stop asking because everything has become familiar. Learners can look at the rules, traditions, assumptions, and conventional wisdom surrounding something and wonder why things work the way everyone says they do. They can experiment because they haven’t spent decades protecting a particular way of doing things. Curiosity becomes a huge advantage because they know they haven’t arrived.

In general, I think there’s something healthy about being a learner, regardless of what age that happens. It completely undermines the illusion that growth belongs mostly to an earlier stage of life, and it forces me into situations where I have to learn, fail, adjust, and try again. And one of the real upshots is that stagnation becomes much harder when I keep putting myself in rooms where I don’t already know everything. Being “unfinished,” as it were, becomes less a weakness and more an invitation.

When I look back now, I don’t think my comedy origin story is merely about a Bible professor who unexpectedly became a comedian. That’s the less complex, quirky version, but it’s really too shallow. The deeper story is about someone who spent decades becoming an expert and then voluntarily became a learner again. And once I did, I became obsessed not only with becoming a better comedian but with understanding how becoming better actually happens.

And to my main point: Maybe that’s why origin stories matter so much. They don’t simply tell us where something started; they help us understand what the story that follows is really about. I walked onto my first comedy stage after several weeks of workshopping jokes, but I didn’t realize it was the start of a long process of workshopping myself. And for that, I’m immensely thankful. And regardless of what anyone else in the comedy world thinks, it’s an origin story I’m proud to share.

Now, one last thing while you’re still here: Recently, I created a new app, a tool I wish I’d have had early on: Comedian Persona Explorer. It can help comedians figure out what they didn’t realize they were missing regarding their persona. Whether you begin with a single report or continue using it as you grow, my goal in creating it is simple: I hope you’ll spend more time becoming the comedian only you can be. Check it out HERE.

Along the same lines, let me just say that, if reflections and tools like these are helpful to you, that’s also exactly why I wrote Comedy Mindhacks. My goal isn’t simply to help comedians write better jokes. It’s to help comedians understand the invisible thinking behind better comedy. Every mental model becomes another tool for building momentum, and over time those small shifts in thinking have a way of producing much bigger shifts on stage.

This entire book is built around helping comedians identify the mental obstacles, hurdle over them, and boost their momentum. If this article resonated with you, you’ll find a lot more like it inside the book. You can check out sample pages HERE. If you’re not yet a subscriber, use code MH10LIVE at checkout HERE for 10% off. Free subscribers automatically receive 15% off, and paid subscribers receive 35% off because I’m a big believer in rewarding people who invest in themselves. 👉 Click HERE to grab the book.

And if you’re ready to double down in a BIGGER way, consider joining my Comedy Vault. It’s my private collection of premium resources, trainings, workshops, and tools designed to help comedians continue growing long after the initial excitement fades. The first bet gets you into the game. Doubling down is what changes who you become.👉 Click HERE to unlock the Comedy Vault.