Meatless Fridays and the Relativity of Truth

by Niko Mackey

Having come from Portugal, my mother’s family is Catholic. My mother claims to be Catholic, but she never goes to church, and neither does she make a decent effort to avoid eating meat on Fridays. Not wanting my mother to burn in Hell for all eternity, I took it upon myself to avoid eating meat on Fridays, although I must admit I’m not consistent.

I was raised Catholic, but took up Deism (look it up), and thus I obviously don’t share my family’s Christian beliefs. You might be thinking, “Wait a minute . . . Why would you be concerned about the fate of your mother’s soul if your beliefs don’t justify your fears?”

I’m not going to divulge the details of my religious beliefs, because I don’t want a religious blog, but please bear with me for a moment as I get metaphysical.

I hold onto my beliefs with a vice-like conviction. I’m also able to admit the following: if one honestly believes Saint Peter will determine his final resting place, then Saint Peter will determine his final resting place. I don’t care that it contradicts my own steadfast beliefs.

“So what you’re saying is that there are multiple true religions?”

No. To me there is only one true religion, and that is mine. But(!) it is not a matter of religion; it’s a matter of truth, and, to me, truth is relative. Christianity is true to Christians, Islam is true to Muslims, and Scientology is true to Scientologists; one’s faith determines one’s fate, and my own beliefs mean absolute crap to any other person.

To many of you, that might sound like complete bullshit. Screw you.

Presuming my mother is a true Catholic in beliefs (because she certainly isn’t one in practice), she’s going to the fryer for enjoying a pork cutlet on the wrong day. Like any loving son, I’d rather my mother go to Heaven. That’s why I’ve decided that I would take upon myself the burden of not eating meat on Fridays.

Last time I checked, the Judeo-Christian god doesn’t barter over someone’s soul, and my god certainly couldn’t give a damn what my mother eats, but I refuse to let the details stop me from trying. It might be a fruitless effort, but I’ll keep hoping my personal meatless Fridays can absolve my mother’s dietary failure.

Now sometimes I forget and end up eating meat. What can I say? It’s not my life that’s on the line; I’m only human. I’ve been getting better living with a Catholic diet, but I could still use some practice.

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