My Priest Chews Tobacca

It has been said that no man can be a prophet in his homeland. I have nearly always heard this expression used with a negative connotation, usually when someone in the ministerial profession is relating a problem with a friend or family member they cannot change.

But a few days ago, as I sat on the porch of my friend’s old farm house, downing Yuenglings and eating steak and chicken, I couldn’t help but thank God for this fact. Most of the people gathered that day were not regular church goers, or even Catholic. They’re the kind of folks that find God in nature and have little tolerance for organized religion.

Many of these people I only get to talk to a few times a year. They wonder why this seemingly normal person has gone to seminary, and always let me know they don’t consider me better than anyone else.

It’s a far cry from school, where so many of my peers practice one-upsmanship when they begin to doubt that they indeed channel God, or when they get the inkling that every other person has the same call to holiness.

Joining a group standing around near the coolers on the porch, it wasn’t long until I was found by the father of a good friend.

“My priest,” he said. What’s that?” pointing a bony finger at the can of beer in my hand.

“Just a beer,” I replied with a grin on my face.

“Well,” he said, considering the implications. “That’s okay.”

We reminisced about shooting and gutting a deer back in November, and his Christmas present to me, a shell casing on a chain.

“You know,” he mentioned out of the blue. “You’re never going to get me to go to church.”

“Sir,” I replied. “I never said I wanted to get you to go to church. You can believe what you want.”

“I believe in Jesus,” he said. “But Jesus never told me to go to no church. The first time he went to church he told all the elders how it was, and the second time he opened up a can of whoop ass.”

I could only laugh as I walked with him out to his car. He told me to pray for him when no one was listening, and motioned to the crowd gathered on the porch as he made his exit.

“Hey,” he said loudly, causing the ruckus around the grill to pause for a moment. “Did any of you know that my priest chews tobacca?”