…is that things fall out.
Story of my life, I suppose. Though that might just be motherhood.
Here’s the thing: no one really believes that truth is relative. They may say that. They may argue you into the ground, passionately, and with great sentiment, that everyone’s got a different way of seeing things, and they are all just as true, just as right, just as valid.
“We’re all just looking for the same things”, or “there’s no ONE right way”, or “that’s just your point of view, molded by anthropological and social forces beyond your conscious control”. “That’s not how I feel” is a nice one. As if your feelings on things had any ability to determine anything other than biological necessity or social coercion.
I think we’re more comfortable with relativism, more fuzzy-wuzzy with our girlfriends. Less bumps in the road when differences (in childrearing, in faith, in ways of seeing the world, in life choices) rear their always-inconvenient heads.
But secretly, in places we don’t hardly acknowledge except under the influence of wine or concerted introspection, we don’t really believe that. We certainly don’t live like that. When someone tramples into our little truthgarden we are very affronted. How inconvenient! How insulting! How closed-minded and prudish!
Forgetting, of course, that our little truthgarden is, by our own assertion, absolutely trample-able. All things being equal.
Which they’re not.