On the Cigar: A Theological Reflection
The spiritual
difference between smoking cigarettes and cigars
. . . As is my
habit, I see this as a spiritual difference. The cigar has far more existential
depth than the pale chalk-like sticks currently being institutionally taxed and
socially ostracized within an inch of their lives. Contra Freud, a cigar is
never just a cigar. This is apparent from the first moments of their existence.
In a little shop in Lower Manhattan, I watched with wonder over the shoulders
of two men as they turned a pile of cured tobacco leaves into the subjects of
this essay. Most conspicuous was their care. Leaves were broken, laid out,
pressed like clay, broken again, laid out again and rolled like a fine bread
dough. The cylindrical shaft was then wrapped as snugly as a baby in a dark
moist wrapper, which became almost like skin for how tightly it bound to the
inner tobacco. This wrapper was hand cut and applied with the most delicate
movements of the fingers.
It was this
finishing touch that called to mind the Christian doctrine of divine creation. For
each cigar, like each of us, was “wonderfully made.” The maker formed each
with his own hand. When finished, though similar to each other in many
respects, each cigar is absolutely unique and we who smoke them can say the
same of ourselves. We are similar, a fact which grounds all philosophy,
science, art and literature, but all unique in our abilities, interests and
situations. Like cigars we may be slimmer or wider, darker or lighter, longer
or shorter, but this variety gives flavor to both the world of men and the
world of the humidor.
We also, especially
those of us who write essays of this sort, have another aspect mirrored in the
cigar. Because we are fallen creatures, we will produce far more smoke than
heat in this life. Most of our words and most of our actions will have the
same fate as a silver curl of smoke. Seeming at first to be dense, solid and
substantial; they will dissipate and eventually be lost to the wind. Perhaps
they will, in the manner of smoke, bring some momentary happiness to those
around us but they may just as easily be a cause of discomfort or even pain. Saying
the wrong words to the wrong people is eerily similar to smoking in the wrong
company. I ought not tell the clerk in this smoke shop, “I love you.” But I
also ought not smoke a stogie in the presence of the woman mentioned at the
start.
What is more, we
like cigars must eventually turn back to ash. The Christian habit of
annually applying ashes to the forehead does much to clear up the thinking that
goes on in those particular heads. We may each burn for a little longer or a
little shorter, but we will each of use, eventually, burn out. Often, like our
cigars, this will happen before our full load of tobacco has been burned,
before our full potential has been given away. The best cigars, like the
best people, are burned right down to the very last and we call these people
saints, for they gave all they could and all they had been given.
But this last
thought leads to the most glorious difference between ourselves and our cigars.
According to the pagans of yesterday and the pagans of today, our story ends
where our cigar’s story ends: in the communal ashtray call the cemetery.
We burn for a while and then extinguish forever after. Yet, the pagans
were as wrong yesterday as they are today, for we have a certainty that this is
not the end. Our maker does not form our core and wrap us in skin to have us
simply expire. We are called back from our ashes and our bones are gonna
rise again. This means that there will be no cigars in heaven. But this
ought not darken the heart. Each extinguished cigar is a reminder that our own
fate is not so bleak. We have a chance never given to these pillars of rolled
tobacco. We can know and love Him who made us. I submit to you, that the cigar
can be an aid to this end. I believe my reflections above sketch how this may
be achieved. Let me then conclude with the words written on a placard currently
mounted on the wall above my head. “We are each of us made and lit and
burning. What comes after will not be of this passing nature.”
But while we are in
the world, I submit to you: “It is better to smoke here, than in the
hereafter.”
John
Goerke is a writer pursuing a Master of Arts in Catholic Studies, and
he is a frequent contributor at the Institute on Religion and Democracy.
He resides in St. Paul, MN.
