If God did not intend for us to eat animals, then why did he make

Host: The restaurant was one of those sleek, modern temples of taste — all brushed steel, soft lighting, and hushed conversations murmuring over glasses of red wine. Every table looked like a stage, each plate a performance.

Rain pattered softly against the tall windows, and the city’s neon lights reflected on them like streaks of melted color. The faint sizzle from the open kitchen filled the air, mingling with the smell of roasted garlic and charred meat.

At a corner table sat Jack and Jeeny — their plates half-eaten, their drinks forgotten. A candle flickered between them, casting a lazy shadow that trembled with their laughter and argument in equal measure.

Jeeny: with a mischievous grin “John Cleese once said, ‘If God did not intend for us to eat animals, then why did he make them out of meat?’”

Jack: laughing, fork raised like a philosopher’s baton “Now that’s theology I can get behind — pragmatic, protein-based logic.”

Jeeny: “You would say that. You’ve probably got steak sauce in your bloodstream.”

Jack: smirking “It’s called character, Jeeny. You can’t build civilizations on kale and apologies.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can avoid heart disease and climate collapse.”

Jack: leans back, grinning “Ah, so here comes the sermon. The gospel according to quinoa.”

Host: The waiter passed by with a tray of sizzling plates, and the faint crackle of seared meat punctuated their banter like divine irony. Jack inhaled deeply, theatrically.

Jack: mock reverence “You smell that? That’s history, Jeeny. Fire, hunger, survival. The first language humanity ever spoke was the sound of something sizzling.”

Jeeny: rolling her eyes but smiling “And the first sin was probably overcooking it.”

Jack: laughs “Touché.”

Jeeny: “But seriously — Cleese’s quote, it’s a joke, yes. But it’s also a mirror. It’s about how humans justify appetite by philosophy. We make our cravings holy.”

Jack: nodding, swirling his drink “Yeah. We do that with everything — food, love, war. We call it divine when we want to feel less guilty.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We wrap instinct in scripture.”

Jack: “So, you’re saying eating meat is sin?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying the joke works because it reveals the absurdity of our reasoning. We call something natural just because it’s convenient.”

Host: The candle flame fluttered as if leaning closer to listen. The rain outside thickened, smearing the city lights into impressionist streaks.

Jack: “But isn’t that what humor’s for — revealing hypocrisy without drawing blood?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Sometimes. And sometimes it hides guilt under laughter. The joke works because deep down, it feels wrong but tastes right.”

Jack: “That’s humanity in one sentence.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We’re built on contradictions. Compassionate hunters. Ethical consumers. Spiritual carnivores.”

Jack: grinning “You sound like a poet trapped in a salad bar.”

Jeeny: mock serious “And you sound like a butcher quoting Nietzsche.”

Host: Their laughter cut through the ambient hum of the restaurant — light, genuine, slightly defiant. A couple at a nearby table turned and smiled, perhaps remembering their own half-serious debates about morality and menu choices.

Jack: after a sip of wine “You know, maybe Cleese wasn’t defending meat at all. Maybe he was mocking the very idea that humans can make divine sense of appetite. It’s all appetite — dressed up in robes, fed through rituals.”

Jeeny: “Yes. We make jokes about God so we can keep playing God.”

Jack: leans forward “And every culture writes a theology that excuses its hungers.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The Greeks had Dionysus. The Victorians had etiquette. We have the wellness industry.”

Jack: smiling wryly “And steak houses with moral debates.”

Jeeny: “Which is somehow worse, because we pretend to feel guilty while ordering dessert.”

Host: The waiter brought a small dish of chocolate mousse and set it between them. Jeeny looked at it like temptation itself; Jack grinned like a man already forgiven.

Jeeny: teasingly “So what’s your theology of dessert, then?”

Jack: “Simple. If God didn’t want us to eat chocolate, He wouldn’t have made bitterness so seductive.”

Jeeny: laughs softly “You’d make a good televangelist.”

Jack: mock solemn “And you’d be my conscience on live TV.”

Jeeny: “A doomed partnership.”

Jack: “Or divine comedy.”

Host: The candlelight shimmered, the air rich with warmth and irony. Outside, the rain softened to a drizzle — the city exhaling after a long argument with itself.

Jeeny: more thoughtful now “But here’s the thing — behind the humor, there’s something real. Cleese’s line, it’s funny because it exposes the way we dodge moral responsibility. We joke about instinct to escape introspection.”

Jack: “Right. The way we say ‘everyone does it’ to quiet the voice that says ‘maybe we shouldn’t.’”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Humor as anesthesia.”

Jack: pausing, serious now “But isn’t laughter the only way we survive our contradictions? I mean, if we had to face every moral dilemma straight, we’d never eat, never love, never act.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “True. Maybe laughter is our compromise with hypocrisy — not forgiveness, but truce.”

Host: The restaurant’s noise dimmed to a murmur. The last of the wine glowed darkly in their glasses, like distilled memory.

Jack: quietly “You know, Cleese probably didn’t mean it as philosophy, but it works as one. It’s absurdism at its finest — saying the most logical thing in the most illogical way.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes humor powerful. It sneaks truth past the walls of defense.”

Jack: “And exposes how fragile those walls really are.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Behind every laugh is a confession.”

Jack: smiling faintly “So what are we confessing right now?”

Jeeny: after a pause “That we’re still trying to justify being human.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened. He lifted his glass — not in triumph, but in quiet acknowledgment.

Jack: raising it “To contradictions, then.”

Jeeny: clinking her glass against his “And to the jokes that make them bearable.”

Host: The candle flame leaned and straightened again — a small, flickering witness to the fragile peace between appetite and awareness.

Outside, the rain had stopped completely. The world reflected back through the window — imperfect, shimmering, alive.

And in that moment, as their laughter faded into the hum of the night, John Cleese’s irreverent words lingered — funny, foolish, and, somehow, profoundly true:

That reason may make us civilized,
but it’s absurdity that keeps us human.

Fade out.