Remember our little local dust-up about flying the Christian flag at the veteran's memorial in King? Imagine how nutty folks around here would get if, like Leesburg, VA, we had the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster vying for space with the traditional manger scene.
For the better part of 50 years, a creche and a Christmas tree were the only holiday displays on theLoudoun County Courthouse grounds.
Then came the atheists. And the Jedis. And the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster – each with its own decorations. A skeleton Santa Claus was mounted on a cross, intended by its creator to portray society's obsession with consumerism. Nearby, a pine tree stood adorned with atheist testimonials.
Flying Spaghetti Monster devotees are scheduled to put up their contribution this weekend. It's a banner portraying a Nativity-style scene, but Jesus is nowhere to be found. Instead, the Virgin Mary cradles a stalk-eyed noodle-and-meatball creature, its manger surrounded by an army of pirates, a solemn gnome and barnyard animals. The message proclaims: "Touched by an Angelhair."
Given our recent debates about the Christian flag and the controversy over the right (or not) to carry concealed weapons in local parks, there's a little part of my brain that would love to see what would happen around here if we had a similar setup to Leesburg's. In that juvenile little part of my head I picture this scene:
Bible-quoting sharpshooters taking aim at spaghetti-eating atheists and agnostics who dive for cover, sending sauce and meatballs skyward during their panic, asking Mama Celeste for help since God's out of the picture until their own contingent of pistol packers can get their firearms unholstered and de-trigger locked to return fire. Thankfully no one's hurt since none of the participants ever served in the military and thus never received truly effective arms training, although two bullets do somehow hit something – one Christian is saved by the lucky (divine?) presence of a condensed pocket-sized King James and one innocent bystander who picked a wildly inopportune time to squat for a meditation is spared when his tattered copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance takes a direct hit. Eventually cooler heads prevail when the Occupy Wall Streeters, who were minding their own business in their designated protest box, step across their chalk line to broker a truce in which the atheists and agnostics provide a spaghetti supper for everyone at the park free of charge, the Christians put on their Christmas production, collection plates are passed and everyone splits the proceeds.
I'd pay to see it.