On his first Sunday of his first church as the pastor of a rural Southern Kentucky congregation, the young man was approached by an elder following worship at the “Dinner on the Grounds,” a pot luck in honor of the new pastor and his wife and young son.

Because it was in their honor, it would be the only pot luck the pastor’s wife didn’t have to bring a “dish to pass.”

“Reverend, you’ve got two strikes against you.”

“What? I just started.” the young pastor replied being taken aback. He had hoped he was going to get a compliment on his sermon.

“First, you are a Yankee.”

Trying to bring a bit of humor to the situation, the pastor said, “I thought Mark Twain wrote that Yankees live in Connecticut. I’m just an upper-Midwest kid.”

“Anything north of Munfordville, Kentucky is too far north for me,” the elder responded, “And number two, you are a big city boy.”

“Well, actually I grew up in kind of a small suburb just south of Chicago. My friends and I only went into the city once a year to visit the Museum of Science and Industry.”

Undaunted, the elder exclaimed, “In fact, you have three strikes against you.”

“Three!” the preacher exclaimed back.

“That’s right. You are a Presbyterian.”

“Wait a minute. You’re a Presbyterian. We’re all Presbyterians. This church is a Presbyterian Church.”

“Naw. That’s just what it says on the sign. We’re all Southern Baptists down here. If you’ll excuse me now, I’m goin’ to get another piece of fried chicken. Good luck, son.”

The pastor cut his teeth on ministry for four years with the congregation and that elder turned out to be his biggest supporter.

Halfway through the four years, the pastor started catching on to Southern Kentucky humor.