I once saw a man genuflect in front of St. Louis Cathedral in New Orleans. He looked skyward, crossed himself, then picked up a half-smoked cigarette—still glowing—from the asphalt and put the butt in his mouth.

He was still young, though with a drawn, worn-out look that came from the way he was apparently living. His blonde hair was greasy and his clothes looked heavy with dirt. His state could’ve been put down to any number of causes, some his fault and some not.

But it didn’t seem he came every night scouring the pavement for tobacco stubs, so he wasn’t doing this for show, as so many people are prone to do there. I might’ve been the only one to see him. It was late, even for New Orleans, and he was just passing by Jackson Square in the hot summer time.

But the thing that made me marvel most was the mix of glory and abasement in the one act—the blend of sacrament and sacrilege. He seemed to be sincerely thankful for this thing, a germ-ridden cast off that most people wouldn’t touch without a glove on.

Is that the kind of thing you cross yourself over? I wondered then, wonder still.

At first impression, it seemed both right and wrong—an act of strange but inapt beauty—like a drunk saying a decade over a fifth he’s stumbled upon in a gutter, or a man in a strip club breaking into the Te Deum while ogling a dancer’s naked body.

Gratified, yes; happy to have what you’ve longed for, yes.

But thankful? Truly and honestly thankful?

Still, it looked to me that the man was just that; abundantly, even beautifully so. He pulled heavily on that used fag, drinking the smoke down into his lungs and shutting his eyes in a shiver of pleasure. Then he staggered off with what he deemed to be God’s great largesse, enjoying an evanescent ecstasy for the minute or two it would take for heaven to smolder away between his second finger and his third.

There goes a man, I thought, thanking his God for garbage—something that had value to him, though it was probably killing him as well.

I suppose he was so addicted, so in longing, so unable to provide what he desperately wanted on any regular basis, that when this trash found its way beneath his gaze, it did indeed seem like God had provided it.

And then there was the church, so naturally….

A filthy cigarette stub as an act of unlooked for grace? Could it be? Did William Empson include this category in his catalogue of seven ambiguities?

All I can say is that it resembled an act of honest piety; gratitude returned for divine favor. In fact, I wonder if I’ve ever looked like that when I’ve been provided for. I hope so; I doubt it.

So what then are the proper objects of thanks? And what crosses the line?

Someone told me once I should never be thankful for money coming my way, and certainly should never ask for it. Well, too bad; I have done and probably will do so. It’s not the money I want, but a way to provide the things I simply have to provide.

Or is that my cigarette butt?

And I was warned against being thankful for sports victories, for my teams’ outlasting their foes; again, too bad. Have done and will do.

Some objects can surely be ruled out though: you can’t be thankful for finding your enemy prostrate in the road; you can’t be thankful for calamities befalling those you think deserve them.

But what about force majeure—acts of nature that get you out of something you didn’t want to do or that allow you something you wouldn’t otherwise get to have (e.g., a sickness that cancels a dreaded trip; a tree falling on a worthless car that entitles you to its replacement value)?

And what about things that are self-destructive? Like that cigarette, that fifth of whisky, that….

Now, it might be objected how fanciful it is to believe God provides these things anyhow—that God would drop them in our paths. But that’s beside the point; I’m not interested in the cause of windfalls, but in the motivation for gratitude.

For the question remains whether any act of true thankfulness—save those that are returned for things themselves evil—can be mistaken, misplaced, or misguided? Regardless of context, is such a thing an act of faith? Act qua act, setting aside other considerations?

To be grateful is to acknowledge grace—and that much seems okay at least, doesn’t it? Any act of appreciation and gratitude reaffirms the proper relationship, however unwise the subject of the praise.

Or is this a case of too many angels dancing on the tip of a filter?

Maybe it’s best just to stop right there; safer to be done with it and venture no further down that road. Because it gets very confusing carrying on in the wake of that man I saw—following the hymn-singing joy of a secondhand smoker—one who recedes from sight with elation in his every step, with hosannas in his every cough, trailing clouds of glory as he goes and goes.