Blessings and demons

The old Priest looked at me as we said goodbye and said, "You know you're going to burn."
Needless to say, the message was somewhat disconcerting - which is exactly what I said.
"Uh, you know, hearing a priest say I'm going to burn is kind of disconcerting."
He laughed.
"Take it in context,'' he said.
We were standing in 101-degree heat on the dock at the Small Craft Harbor in Biloxi, waiting for the annual Blessing of the Fleet. The old priest - Father Gregory - probably isn't really that old, but somehow it always sounds better to say "the old priest." He was getting ready to go out on the boat to do the blessing, both of us were extremely hot, but the good Father even more so in his priestly black.
"I wear a white robe when I do the blessing,'' he said. "But it doesn't help."
It is interesting, the things that go through your mind when you talk to a priest - particularly when you're not Catholic, and haven't talked to that many priests in your life.
We were talking about the history of the Blessing of the Fleet, the traditional start of the shrimping season when the shrimp boats line up and pass by the boat with a Catholic priest on board who sprinkles Holy Water toward each boat and offers a blessing of safety and good shrimping for the coming season.
It's a pretty cool event, with the boats all brightly decorated, kind of like a Mardi Gras parade on water except without the masks and beads ... which means it's not really like a Mardi Gras parade at all.
Anyway, people take boats out to Deer Island and camp out so they can be on the far side of the waterway; others take their own boats out to line the parade route, and sill more simply set up on the near shore to watch.
Basically, it has become another excuse to a party in a part of the country that seems to find a reason for a festival or celebration every weekend.
But any time I talk to a priest, I can't help but think of The Exorcist.
I remember when The Exorcist came out. The guys on my dorm hall decided to go. I said no, because I've never been a fan of horror movies - particularly those that involve The Devil or Demons.
It sounds silly now, but The Exorcist was incredibly frightening for its time. The guys came back and couldn't talk about any thing else. They were scared witless (and a few halfway there already). One of the guys down the hall was especially terrified. I found out the next day that he'd stayed up all night, reading the Bible, refusing to let anyone turn out the lights. He swears he read it all the way through.
But being guys, they goaded each other into going back the next night to see it again. And again. And again. Until it was no longer frightening and had become almost a comedy. They would come back and figure out elaborate ways to re-enact scenes from the movie in the dorm room. Soon, "Tubular Bells'' - that frightening theme from the movie - echoed up and down the dorm hallway like it was Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Sweet Home Alabama."
There was a lot of interest in exorcisms back then, about how they were performed by a special class of priest and there were only a few who could do them.
But the first exorcism I ever saw - and that in itself sounds strange - but the first exorcism I ever saw, I was part of.
It remains also the only exorcism I've ever witnessed.
It was two years after The Exorcist came out. I was working a summer job with a billboard company outside of Athens, Ga., before my senior year of college. It was a summer full of interesting stories, but the best had to be when Phillipi asked ... no, he didn't ask, he told me we were going to cast out a demon.
Needless to say, he had my attention.
Phillipi was an artist. He was a big ol' country boy and a deacon or Elder in his Pentecostal Church. His name wasn't really "Phillipi,'' but that was his nickname. We all had nicknames that were earned in the most unusual ways and stuck with us.
But Phillipi was the old man, and one of the most amazing artists I'd ever seen. This company, in addition to traditional paper and glue billboards, also did painted billboards and Phillipi was the painter. He'd put a big board in the warehouse, stick a verse of Scripture that he was memorizing at the top, a picture of what the client wanted on the side, and he could free-hand like nobody's business.
And sing. Phillipi had one of those nasally tenors that you only hear on AM gospel stations. He was a musician at church as well as a part-time preacher, and he'd sit there while he painted and sing during breaks (free-hand painting took all his concentration).
Anyway, Phillipi knew I was a Christian because at the company picnic, I'd reached into the drink cooler and picked up a beer, then dropped it to pull out a Coke. Later, he told me "I know you're a Christian because I've been watching you."
I hoped it was because he'd been watching the way I acted at work, my language, my work ethic. But the reality was he had seen me pick up that can of beer and drop it for a Coke, and that, to him, was a sign that I was a true Christian.
I didn't bother to tell him I just never liked the taste of alcohol.
So anyway, one day Phillipi got a call from someone in his church, and the next thing I knew was he was grabbing me and heading out the door to his truck, telling me to come on, we were going to cast out a demon.
Why me? I asked. Because you're a Christian, he said, and he was going to need serious Christians to "wrestle with this demon, just like in the Acts of the Apostles."
I have to admit, I was intrigued. Part of me really wanted to do this; part of me suddenly wished that I drank beer.
Now, apparently casting out demons was something Phillipi had done before. At least he acted like he had. He seemed awfully convinced this guy we were going to see was indeed demon-possessed, and in truth when we got there the guy was shaking and sweating and groaning and in general displaying a lot of the more gross symptoms of Linda Blair in The Exorcist.
Inside, we were joined by a few other Pentecostals who were waiting on Phillipi.
"This is Ray,'' Phillipi said, by way of introductions in passing. "Ray, we're going to cast out a demon. Start praying."
I was way ahead of him.
The old man was lying on his bed when we walked in. The room reeked. He was shaking and sweating and recoiling in apparent fear of Phillipi.
Phillipi walked over and boldly put his hands on the man, and while the rest of us dropped to our knees praying, he called out, "Demon, I know you're in there. I command you in the name of Jesus to come out and leave this brother alone. Come out, demon! Come out!"
Nothing happened, except the man sat up on the edge of his bed, groaning.
Phillipi looked around at us and said, "Pray harder,'' then turned back to the man.
"Demon!'' Phillip called. "Speak to me, demon! I command you in the Name above all Names, the Name of Jesus! Speak to me demon! Tell me your name!"'
In the corner, I was praying all right. I was praying, "Please, Lord, don't let the demon speak. Please protect me and get me out of here. Please, if there is a demon, keep him quiet.  In the name of Jesus, demon, keep quiet!"
Counterproductive? I felt a little bothered that I was praying against what Phillipi was praying for. But I couldn't help it.
"Speak to me, demon!" Phillipi roared, bouncing the man up and down on the bed with the force of his hands on his head. "I command you! Speak to me! Tell me your name!"
"Please, demon,'' I silently but fervently prayed. "Don't speak. Just leave! Get out!"
And nothing happened.
The man continued to shake and groan, but there was no demon voice, no sense of a demonic presence, no "Tubular Bells'' playing off in the distance.
Eventually, Phillipi quit. The man got quiet, rolled over and passed out in his bed.
We walked out through the kitchen, and I noticed a trash-can full of empty beer and liquor bottles. I showed them to Phillipi.
"The demon of alcohol!" Phillipi said. "Well, as least now we know his name."
Phillipi checked the cabinets and found one lone six-pack. Phillipi took it, and we headed back to his truck. We drove back to work in silence, except when we crossed a bridge over the Oconee River. Phillipi stopped and threw the six-pack far over the side of the bridge, to shatter on the rocks below.
As it turned out, Phillipi's friend was simply going through the "DTs" (delirium tremons). It was one of the scariest things I'd ever seen.
But it did make me realize I must believe in demons. And I was kind of pleased that I'd had the guts to go along.
Although I don't know that I'd want to do it again.
Oh, and the Biloxi priest?
To his credit, before I turned to leave, he said, "If you're really worried about burning, I'll be happy to talk to you afterward."
No need, Father.
No worries here.