Praise, Profanity and a Cigarette

He was the short, greasy little guy who lived upstairs from me when I was a junior at the University of Missouri–Rolla. It was 1984. He chain-smoked and chain-cussed. He smelled of body odor, stale tobacco, and cheap cologne. He had shoulder-length greasy black hair, a pockmarked, acne-scarred face, and a smudge across his upper lip that may have seen the business end of a razor once a month—if that.

He was a gross little guy in a likable sort of way.

He was my friend.

So I invited him to church.

He’d never darkened the door of a church—not once. He had barely heard of the Gospel. After several invitations, he agreed to join me.

We walked into the packed little church one evening and found a couple of seats on the front row. My greasy little friend just sat there, taking it all in. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t sing. He showed no visible emotion.

Halfway through the song service, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a glass bottle of Coke. Twisting off the cap with a loud pfffsssttt, he took a long sip.

“Okay,” I thought. “Not too big a gaffe. We can talk about it later.”

But then…

When he finished his Coke, he reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a pack of Marlboros, lit one up, and began puffing away—politely dropping the ashes into his empty Coke bottle—all while dutifully listening to the pastor’s sermon.

The pastor looked at my friend, smiled broadly, and kept right on preaching.

Thin little smoke rings floated lazily over the altar.

I was mortified.

I don’t think I heard another word the pastor said.

After what felt like an eternity, the pastor gave an impassioned altar call. To my amazement, my friend went forward and gave his heart to God. Tears streamed down his face as he prayed a prayer of salvation.

Then, in gratitude, he lifted his hands and proclaimed loudly:

“Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Jesus! You’re so f#$&#ng wonderful!”

And then he said it again—just as loudly. Just as passionately.

The pastor hugged him.

A few little old ladies hugged his stinky little neck.

As for me? I stood there, dumbfounded.

I wish I could say I rejoiced with him in that moment.

I didn’t.

I was embarrassed—more concerned with how his words and actions reflected on me than with what had just happened.

It wasn’t until the next day, after reflecting on the whole experience, that I understood what I had witnessed. Beneath the veneer of my friend’s uncouth persona was a heart reborn—a new creature expressing himself in the only way he knew how.

The pastor rejoiced with him.

Those little old ladies rejoiced with him.

I’m certain the angels in heaven rejoiced as well.

His praise was uncouth, uncensored, and raw—but it was absolutely sincere.

It was perfect praise.

And God loved it.

I am sure of that.