Fries Offered to Idols?

I slid into the driver's seat of my stifling car and carelessly tossed my green apron with the ever-so-identifiable embroidered siren onto the seat beside me. I made ready to pull out of the parking lot and opened the bag with my hasty lunch. The breakfast sandwich was halfway to my mouth when I caught someone waving from the car to my right out of the corner of my eye. I immediately rolled down my window and greeted my friend (for the purposes of this post called) Carl with a cheery smile. Some of my coworkers--and I'm sorry to say it--are pretty nasty pieces of work, but there are kind and gentle exceptions. Carl is one of them. He was hired after I was, and so even I--who still qualify as 'new'--taught him some of the ropes. He's tall and thin, has short bleach-blonde hair, always smells good, and wears a gold-colored ring on his left index finger. He squinted over his sunglasses at me as a wispy tendril of smoke rose from the end of the cigarette held loosely between the fingers of his left hand.

"Do you want some fries?"

"Uhh, sure! I'll take some fries." I set my sandwich down on top of my green apron, opened my car door and skirted around the back to meet him at his door.

"There's even some honey mustard in there for you if you like," he said, offering me a warm Wendy's bag.

"Do you just not do fries?" I asked him, curious. Sometimes people do fast food with stipulations, after all. You never know, these days.

"No, I do fries. But when the guy who hands them to you out the drive-thru window also yells 'Faggot!' as you pull away, it's easy to lose your appetite."

The bottom of my stomach hit the baking asphalt beneath me. It didn't matter, in that moment, that it was the asphalt of a Starbucks parking lot--a company that has, since the very beginning, for all of its problems, been very humane to all its workers and a vocal advocate for gay rights. It didn't matter, in that moment, that Carl, as of very recently, now had the freedom and knowledge that, should he fall in love with someone and decide to commit to that person someday, he could, with full rights and recognition. In that moment, another human being in front of me was hurt--had  just been treated like dirt by a complete stranger.

"Oh. Carl. I'm... I'm so sorry. I... that's awful," I stammered uselessly. I didn't know what to say.

"Yeah. Kind of put a downer on my day."

"Yes, I imagine so. Ugh. Why are people AWFUL?"

"Yeah. Really."

"I don't really think I want these either. They're like... tainted." I said, frowning down into the bag I'd just taken and slowly moving back around the back of my car toward my driver's side door. "Well, I hope the rest of your day goes a little better than it has so far."

"Thanks,  have a good afternoon" he said as he closed his car door, his own green, siren-emblazoned apron clutched in his hand.

~~~~~~~~~

Some people are going to think this is a silly post. It is, after all, about a bag of French fries. Dumb, right? But it brought something to mind.

I love French fries. Actually, in these last four months I've eaten the least fast food I've ever eaten (perhaps besides the summer I spent in Europe). But I find it very hard to say no to a thin little cardboard container of deep-fried salty goodness. Just... why do they taste so GOOD, amiright?

But today, as I drove back to Staunton after my encounter with Carl, the situation brought to mind a kind of allegory.

"Now concerning food offered to idols: we know that 'all of us possess knowledge.' This 'knowledge' puffs up, but love builds up. If anyone imagines that he knows something, he does not yet know as he ought to know. But if anyone loves God, he is known by God.

Therefore, as to the eating of food offered to idols, we know that 'an idol has no real existence,' and that 'there is no God but one.' For although there may be so-called gods in heaven or on earth—as indeed there are many 'gods' and many 'lords'— yet for us there is one God, the Father, from whom are all things and for whom we exist, and one Lord, Jesus Christ, through whom are all things and through whom we exist.

However, not all possess this knowledge. But some, through former association with idols, eat food as really offered to an idol, and their conscience, being weak, is defiled. Food will not commend us to God. We are no worse off if we do not eat, and no better off if we do. But take care that this right of yours does not somehow become a stumbling block to the weak. For if anyone sees you who have knowledge eating in an idol’s temple, will he not be encouraged, if his conscience is weak, to eat food offered to idols? And so by your knowledge this weak person is destroyed, the brother for whom Christ died. Thus, sinning against your brothers and wounding their conscience when it is weak, you sin against Christ. Therefore, if food makes my brother stumble, I will never eat meat, lest I make my brother stumble."

Some people are going to think this is a silly post. It is, after all, about a bag of French fries. Dumb, right? 

I have pondered this passage in 1 Corinthians many, many times. In my growing up years I heard dozens of sermons preached on it. But, almost always, I've approached the passage from Paul's viewpoint. "You possess knowledge--you know it's just meat. The fact that it was sacrificed to idols is incidental. If it doesn't bother you and you recognize that those gods are fake gods anyway, what's the harm in eating the meat? But remember that, even though your conscience is clear, someone else's might not be. So if it's going to bother someone, don't eat it." 

I've almost always been on that, "I recognize that it's just meat and my conscience is clear" side. But today... today was different. Today I was the one whose conscience wasn't clear.

I could've eaten those fries. After all, the guy didn't yell "Faggot!" after me as I pulled away from the drive-thru window. And Jiminy Cricket did they smell good. I haven't had fast food fries in months I don't think.

So as I pulled away in my car, I ate a couple. But I didn't feel right inside. I kept imagining Carl's downcast eyes staring at the parking lot pavement. I wondered to myself how many times he's heard that. How many times he's had to deal with people calling him names because of the way he talks or walks or dresses. And even though it was just a stupid carton of fries like any other stupid carton of fries, I threw them away. Maybe that's silly, but I didn't want any part of it. Much like, I'm sure, some of the people Paul's talking about in Corinthians didn't want anything to do with anything that came near idol worship. It was too offensive to them. To each his own.