I try to remind myself that Christmas is in fact a religious holiday. Because if I’m not on guard about that, I’m more likely to screw something up.

I’m not anti-religious. In fact, I consider myself to be a fairly spiritual guy. I believe in God and that things happen for a reason. I’ve just never been into the kind of religion that happens inside of a building, although I’m totally in support of those who are as long as they don’t annoy the piss out of everyone. 

Nonetheless, I’m dumb about religion. Always have been.

It started back when I was maybe 5 or 6 and my mom took me to one of those animatronic Christmas displays. There were elves and Santas and Rudolph and a lot of lights. And toward the end was a quiet nativity scene, where a group of families were admiring Mary, Joseph, and Baby Jesus under the Star of Bethlehem. 

Now, I’d been to church. I’d done a bit of Sunday School. I knew the Christmas story. But that didn’t stop me from asking loudly, “WHO ARE THOSE GUYS?” 

My mom was really happy. Not everyone has had to slink away from a situation while trying to convince onlookers that you aren’t the Devil’s concubine. Unsuccessfully, by the way.

Later, in my first real apartment (just after leaving dorm life and the likes of testicle-blowdrying Jesse Lee), I lived with three guys. One was Andy, the developer of the fruit cannon. Another was Matt, who has lived in this country since birth but still can’t speak English. The third was Paul. The Catholic.

I’m pretty sure that Paul and his family thought that the other three of us were hellspawn. Every Sunday, Paul went to church while the rest of us stayed at home and watched cartoons. His family would come to visit and find my girlfriend (who eventually became my wife) already there on the weekends. Before these visits, Paul would use Post-It Notes to censor controversial items on our fridge (mainly newspaper headlines containing the word “probe”) from the eyes of his younger siblings. And once, when the family celebrated a birthday, we three heathens gained some favor when we helped sing “Happy Birthday to You,” but lost it right back when we reached a second verse we didn’t know was there — the one that goes “May the dear Lord bless you.”

If Paul had some sort of an appointment on Sunday morning and missed church, he’d go at night. I didn’t understand it, but I did respect it. Honestly I did.

So really, I wasn’t fucking with Paul when every… single… year I’d point helpfully at him and say, “You’ve got some black shit on your forehead.”

Every year, he’d look at me solemnly — not with irritation but with the exasperation you’d feel when dealing with someone really slow — and say, “I know.”

This last came out in a sigh, as if he felt genuinely sorry for my abject idiocy. He used the same tone of voice when, every Friday during the following weeks, he’d have to remind us that he’d really prefer to have our collective dinner-out night on Saturday up until Easter. 

“Because if we go out on Friday, I can’t order anything with meat in it,” he’d patiently explain. 

“Why?” we’d ask.

And then that sigh. 

But we’d oblige once we were given our weekly reminder, because we heathens liked our Catholic friend and because we never had other social plans anyway. So during Lent, we’d go out on Saturdays so that nobody would have to be wary of meat.

“Here’s what I don’t understand,” I’d say. “You can’t eat meat on Fridays, but what time zone are you going by? If you wait until just after midnight here and eat meat, it’s still Friday in Central time.”

“Jesus wasn’t born in Chicago,” said Matt. “Although records from that time were sketchy at best.”

“It’s kind of like the movie Gremlins,” I continued. “After midnight where? And what if your clock is wrong? And when does it stop being ‘after midnight’ and become ‘morning,’ when it’s okay to feed them? These are the things that trouble me.”

“Jesus wasn’t a gremlin,” said Matt. “Although records from that time were sketchy at best.”

I took a bite of my food. “Or would you go by Bethlehem time?” I wondered. “That might make sense.”

“I’m thinking you’d go by Bethlehem time,” Andy agreed.

Matt looked at his watch. It was Saturday, early evening. “What’s the time difference there? Maybe it’s still Friday.”

“No, no,” I said. “It’s later as you go East.”

“Use the place you’re at,” Paul said, rolling his eyes. “Just go by the local time.”

Matt pursed his lips thoughtfully. “What if you’re eating meat on Eastern time just after midnight, and then step over into Central. Do you have to stop eating?”

“I… yeah, I guess.”

“Well, what if you’re flying west? Out of Cleveland. You notice it’s after midnight, so you ask the stewardess for the steak meal. But at some point, you’re going to fly into Central time. But you don’t know it’s happened. You’re still eating meat, but it’s 11:45. Do you go to Hell?

“That’s a dumb scenario,” I interjected. “No airline serves dinner that late.”

Paul put down his burger. “You just… I don’t know, try not to eat when there’s some question about the time, I guess.”

Andy looked at Matt. “Loophole. God didn’t know there would be planes.”

Matt shook his head. “God knows all.” 

I raised my hand. “I have a question. What if you eat meat accidentally?”

“How the hell do you eat anything accidentally?”

“Maybe someone sneaks you some meat. Like a wily protestant, eager to bring about your fall from grace.” 

Paul rolled his eyes. “Then you wouldn’t know. So you’d be fine.”

“But what if you did know? Maybe you knew about it, but you didn’t want to eat it?”

“How the hell…”

“Someone threatens you,” Andy offered. “Or your family.”

“Yeah,” Matt said. “A gunman breaks into your house. Puts a gun to your head and says, ‘Eat a hot dog or I kill you.’”

“Well, you’re being forced…” 

“Ooh, ooh, I have one,” I said. “Okay. You’re shopping in a meat market. The butcher in the back just had a full bottle of pep pills or is on meth or something and he gets carried away with the meat cleaver. Meat is flying everywhere. Suddenly, without warning, a lump of beef comes zinging across the market and lodges in your throat. You start to choke, and nobody knows the Heimlich maneuver. But you’re in luck, sort of, because the thing’s real high in your throat. It won’t come up, but you might be able to swallow it. Do you swallow and save your life and be condemned to Hell? Or do you die a righteous choking death?”

I thought Paul was having a stroke. But then he yelled, “YOU JUST DON’T EAT MEAT ON FRIDAYS! YOU JUST DON’T!”

There was a silent pause. Then Matt spoke. 

“I think if it was that high in your throat, you could breathe through your nose.” 

In the end, maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe faith and ritual mattered more. And maybe Matt was right. Maybe the beef-throat was an unrealistic scenario. I’ve mis-eaten foods many times and had them end up in my sinuses. Seriously. But I’m not Catholic, so I don’t know the spiritual ramifications. 

Part of me is struggling to resist calling Paul right now to ask him what would happen if you ate meat on Thursday, got it into your sinuses, and finally dislodged it on a Lenten Friday. But I won’t. Really.