The Man Who Took the Smoke Out of God’s House
He came from the South.
Not Rome, not Vienna—
but from streets
where the poor knew his name
and the rich never bothered to learn it.
He didn’t wear gold.
He didn’t need thrones.
He walked in simple shoes
and let the dust follow.
When he entered God’s house,
it was already full—
not of prayer,
but of smoke.
Whispers of ash,
cigarettes sold beneath painted ceilings,
incense masking addiction
with ritual.
He said:
“This cannot be holy.”
“This cannot be health.”
“We will not sell death beneath heaven.”
And with that,
he pulled the smoke out.
No rage.
No fire.
Just air,
returning to a place
where breath should have always been sacred.
They called him soft.
They called him naïve.
But behind his silence
was a roar
no CEO could match.
The tobacco industry cursed his name
in meetings they didn’t televise.
Because he took something from them
they thought eternal—
permission.
He wasn’t just the Pope.
He was the pause between inhale and exhale.
The lung that said “no more.”
The man who made the altar
clean again.