Over centuries, organized religion has impacted untold millions of Earth’s denizens in a myriad of positive ways. But throughout history, much of mankind’s self-inflicted harm has been performed in the name of one God or another.

There’s never been a shortage of divinely inspired zealots willing to commit acts resulting in the shedding of innocent blood. Those who embrace religion as a rationale for engaging in faith-based terrorism and call themselves Muslims, Catholics or Protestants are in reality nothing of the sort. It is because of such mass murderers that, fair or not, the adjective “Fundamentalist” all too often denotes “fanatical extremist,” whether the proper noun following it is “Islamist,” “Christian,” “Jew,” or any other specific denomination.

A person’s religion shouldn’t be anyone else’s business. No one should feel compelled or entitled to like, dislike, admire or look down upon any fellow human being based solely on that individual’s faith (or lack of one). I’m unaware of the ecclesiastical affiliation, if any, of nearly all of my friends and colleagues. Similarly, most or all of them are unaware of (and unconcerned with) whatever spiritual leanings I may harbor.

In their entire adult lives, neither of my parents ever formally attended services in a church, temple, mosque, kingdom hall or synagogue. Yet any shred of humanity, decency and kindness their children (and by extension their children’s children) possess is due almost entirely to their influence. And while they never formally practiced religion, neither did they ever criticize or deride anyone who did.

A wonderful woman I love dearly and to whom I owe much is a devout Catholic. For nearly nine decades, her religion has been an integral part of who she is. And while she devotes herself completely to living her faith, she doesn’t judge those who don’t. Her immersion in Catholicism has helped make her a wonderful person. Were she typical, we should all be Catholic.

But my high school gym teacher, an impulsive and often angry man universally known as “Mad Dog” by students justifiably frightened of what he might do were they to run afoul of his hair-trigger temper, claimed the Catholic Church was responsible for his exceptionally messed-up life. (Although in fairness, two tours of duty in Vietnam might have had something to do with it as well.)

Six years after graduating, I returned to my old school to serve as an assistant softball coach to that same man. But in my absence, he had been transformed into someone who’d have given me the shirt off his back even if he didn’t have another one for himself. He credited his life’s startlingly positive turnaround to having joined the Jehovah’s Witness, and who was I to argue? What provides salvation for some, it seems, can be totally wrong for others.

Holier-than-thou religion-flaunters of any denomination should be distrusted every bit as much as those who loudly and ostentatiously proclaim their fervent patriotism on a daily basis. I attended college with someone who spent his spare time binge drinking, experimenting with narcotics, and actively seeking women whose obsession with promiscuity equaled or exceeded his own. However, he never missed his church’s Sunday afternoon “folk mass.” He also never tired of chiding non-churchgoers, reminding us that unlike him, we would NOT be headed anywhere desirable after our earthly days were finished.

Early one Sunday afternoon, the two of us went down to the grocery store to get some dinner. We hadn’t eaten since Friday night’s poker game, which hadn’t gone well for either of us. We had just two dollars (both mine) between us, which even in 1976 wasn’t enough to get much more than generic spaghetti and a can of red sauce. As we hungrily walked up and down the aisles, my pious friend spied a can of sardines, sighed, and said, “Oh man, do I love sardines. Rip those off for me, pal.”

I looked at him incredulously.

“Just put them in your pocket. They’re too expensive to buy, but I really want ‘em.”

Once I realized he was serious, I replied that if he really wanted those sardines I’d buy them for him, but under no circumstances would I consider shoplifting. I also asked him why, if he desired them so much, he couldn’t just steal them himself.

“I can’t,” he replied. “It’s Sunday.”

Ultimately, we bought the spaghetti and sauce. He was pretty unhappy with me for not grabbing those sardines, and under other circumstances, we might have argued about it at greater length.

But not that afternoon. My friend didn’t have time to press the point.

He didn’t want to be late for the folk mass.

— Andy Young teaches in Kennebunk and lives in Cumberland.

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