Teach the Controversies

Vice-Presidential candidate Sarah Palin has gone on record as saying that she believes public schools should “teach the controversy.” Normally, most people would understand that phrase as referring to the bogus debate between Scientists and Creationists. But the press has so far failed to uncover an amazing fact: Palin believes that there are other disputes in which the theories of Fundamentalist Christians have been unfairly banned from the classroom. Because of my skill and dedication, I’ve managed to dig up some important news for my readers. Believe it or not, I’ve learned of eight other controversies Governor Palin would like to see addressed in the schools.

Controversy One: The Light Bulb
Atheists say: Thomas Alva Edison invented the light bulb.
Fundamentalists say: God invented the light bulb.
Rationale for Teaching the Controversy: The history books say that Edison purchased the patent for the light bulb from one Henry Woodward, and then perfected it. However, Edison was a well-known fraud who falsified records. It wasn’t Woodward or Edison who said “Let there be light!” — it was God! Therefore, He’s responsible for all indoor and outdoor illumination, including light bulbs, the sun, and fireflies.

Controversy Two: The Ceiling of the Sistine Chapel
Atheists say: Michelangelo painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
Fundamentalists say: God painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
Rationale for Teaching the Controversy: No human since Biblical Times has seen the face of God. Yet, the portrait on the ceiling is a perfect likeness of the Lord. Only God himself could have painted that, because He’s the only one who knows what He looks like. Plus, do you know how high up that thing is? It’s impossible that Michelangelo could have reached it.

Controversy Three: The English Dictionary
Atheists say: There are many versions of dictionaries in English. Some of the earliest ones were compiled in the 17^th century. As the language evolves, dictionaries change, adding new words, and omitting old ones.
Fundamentalists say: There is only one True English Dictionary and God compiled it.
Rationale for Teaching the Controversy: The Gospel of John tells us that “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” So even as far back as a few days before Man was created, God knew English. When He gave language to His beloved Children, He must have already known beforehand what every single word meant. It stands to reason, then, that He presented Adam and Eve with a dictionary. Since He gave Man free will, He allowed Adam to name the animals. But because Adam believed so sincerely in Jesus, the Lord spoke to him, and whispered the correct names. That’s how dictionaries are still compiled today. God speaks to the faithful, and they add new words that have existed since the Beginning of Time.

Controversy Four: The Calculus
Atheists say: Either Isaac Newton or Wilhelm Gottfried Leibniz, or both, “discovered” the Calculus. But it could also have been developed by Indian, or Islamic, or Japanese mathematicians.
Fundamentalists say: God discovered the Calculus.
Rationale for Teaching the Controversy: The atheists’ explanation involves too many variables, and it’s impossible to prove whether Newton or Leibniz came up with this great mathematical advancement. However, one well-known fact about Newton and Leibniz is usually ignored: Each one of them loved God with all his heart and soul. Therefore, God created the Calculus, and gave it to these two loyal servants. The claims of Indians, Muslims, and Japanese are obviously erroneous.

Controversy Five: “Casey at the Bat”
Atheists say: Ernest Lawrence Thayer wrote “Casey at the Bat” in 1888 as a column for the San Francisco Examiner.
Fundamentalists say: God wrote “Casey at the Bat” and dictated it to Ernest Lawrence Thayer as a lesson for potential sinners.
Rational for Teaching the Controversy: It’s not commonly known, but Mudville was a small town in liberal Massachusetts, populated by secularists, feminists, and homosexuals. God tested the local fans by allowing Flynn and Blake to reach base, and gave the populace ample opportunity to pray to Him for a win. Instead, they pinned their hopes on Casey, a famous agnostic of the period. At the end of the poem [Spoiler Alert: Casey struck out], “there is no joy in Mudville.” This is because the people there had failed to be saved, and they realized that they would shortly be watching losing game after losing game in Hell.

Controversy Six: Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony
Atheists say: Beethoven composed his Ninth Symphony.
Fundamentalists say: God composed “Beethoven’s” Ninth Symphony.
Rationale for Teaching the Controversy: Everyone who has any familiarity at all with classical music has heard that Beethoven was deaf for many years of his life. How could a deaf person compose music? That’s just absurd. Could a deaf person have written “D-I-V-O-R-C-E” or “Don’t Take Your Guns to Town”? Think about how ridiculous that idea sounds. So imagine how much harder it would have been for Beethoven, who wrote for about a zillion instruments and a gigantic chorus and four soloists. God must have sung into Beethoven’s ear, and the man just wrote down what he heard. That’s the only explanation that makes sense.

Controversy Seven: Cookies
Atheists say: Elves make Keebler cookies.
Fundamentalists say: Jesus makes Keebler cookies.
Rationale for Teaching the Controversy: There’s absolutely no evidence that the Keebler Elves exist. But the Bible tells us how great Jesus was at preparing food. In the Gospel of Mark 6:30-44, we learn that the Savior fed the multitudes with loaves and fishes. Not only that, but John 2:3-10 tells us how Jesus turned water into wine. Compared to those great miracles, baking up a batch of cookies would be a snap. Clearly, Jesus makes Keebler cookies.

Controversy Eight: This Post
Atheists say: The Exterminator wrote this post.
Fundamentalists say: Satan wrote this post.
Rationale for Teaching the Controversy: In the Name of All That’s Holy, it’s obvious, isn’t it?

Christian Misadventures

I live in Florida, where 99% of the people are old farts waiting to die, and the other 1% of the people are members of some old fart’s family, also waiting for him or her to die. So it’s no surprise that at least once a week I get a solicitation phone call from one of the area funeral homes.

Last night at around 8:30, my phone rang and the Caller ID flashed the information: “Christian Adventures.” Naturally, I took the call. The woman on the other end was pukily perky in that TV weathergirl kind of way.

TV Weathergirl: Hello. Is this [the formal version of my name, a version I haven’t used since I was in the 5^th grade, and which appears on no official records except my Federal Income Tax returns and my driver’s license, and which, for purposes of this dialogue, will henceforth be written as “Eximundo”]?

Me: Who’s calling?

TV Weathergirl: Is this Eximundo?

Me: Who’s calling?

TV Weathergirl: Eximundo?

Me: I’ve asked you twice to identify yourself.

TV Weathergirl: This is [I forget, but let’s call her Mindy, because she sounded exactly like a Mindy].

Me: What do you want, Mindy?

Mindy: I’m calling on behalf of Death-Wish Funeral Homes.

Me: Oh, my god! Who died?

Mindy: Well, nobody died, Eximundo.

Me: Things must be slow over there.

Mindy: Well, of course people died. But not anybody you know.

Me: Do you have a list of everyone I know? How’d you get that?

Mindy: I’m not calling you about anyone who died.

Me: So, what are you doing? Trying to drum up some business? Why are you calling me? I don’t know anybody who died recently.

Mindy: No, I was calling about you. You are Eximundo, right?

Me: I didn’t die.

Mindy: Well, sometimes the unexpected ...

Me: It says on my Caller ID that your name is Christian Adventures. But you told me Mindy. Is Christian Adventures your last name?

Mindy: No, that’s just my business.

Me: I thought you said you were working for Death-Wish Funeral Homes.

Mindy: Yes, uh-huh, Eximundo, I am. But this is my home phone.

Me: So somebody in your home is named Christian Adventures?

Mindy: No, that’s my business.

Me: Let me get this straight, Mindy, because I’m a little confused. You’re calling for one business, using a phone belonging to another business, but you’re really home?

Mindy: Yes.

Me: Well, I’m not interested in getting calls advertising Christianity.

Mindy: Oh, I’m not advertising ...

Me: See, here’s the thing, Mindy. When I notice “Christian Adventures” on my Caller ID, I get the feeling – don’t ask me why – that either your name is Christian Adventures or you work for some group called Christian Adventures. Isn’t that a reasonable assumption on my part?

Mindy: No, I’m just ...

Me: But that’s your home phone, right?

Mindy: Yes. I’m not calling for ...

Me: Well, here’s my problem. Whether it’s your home phone or your business phone or somebody else’s business phone or maybe even Jesus’s iPhone, I see “Christian Adventures” and right away I think you’re shilling for god.

Mindy: No, that’s not what I’m doing. I’m just ...

Me: So could you please tell Death-Wish Funeral Homes that I’m not interested in getting any more calls from them if they’re a front for a Christian organization?

Mindy: No, they’re not a front ...

Me: Because they must be, since my caller ID says it in plain English. “Christian Adventures.” That’s not a Muslim group, is it?

Mindy: No, you don’t understand. You’re just seeing my ...

Me: Shall I spell “Christian Adventures” for you, Mindy? Maybe I’m reading it wrong.

Mindy: Wait. You don’t understand.

Me: Yeah, I think I do. Goodbye, Mindy.

Today, I called my local branch of Death-Wish Funeral Homes. I began, without saying who I was, by blurting out a question: “Do you folks cater specifically to Christians? I mean, would you call yourselves a Christian funeral home?”

The woman who answered the phone sounded horrified – even though she didn’t know whether I was an overzealous fundy, a Jew, or a heathen. She probably knew I wasn’t a Muslim, because if I were, why would I call a business that I didn’t want to threaten?

Anyway, she immediately volunteered the information that DWFH was non-denominational. She said it twice. I found that oddly endearing, because there was no way she could know whether she was gaining a sale or losing one.

So I identified myself, although not as Eximundo, and told her about the gaggingly cheerful evangelist who was calling on DWFH’s behalf. The woman at the funeral home, sounding sincerely concerned, apologized profusely, and said that they’d track down the caller and take immediate action. Because of her tone of voice, I believed her.

So perhaps Mindy will actually have a Christian Adventure, herself.

Barefootin'

People whose ancestors were Jews don’t usually feel fully comfortable complaining to governmental officials. There’s a famous picture of a Jew being forced to walk barefoot through the streets during the early years of Nazi Germany. He’s surrounded by mocking polizei. A sign has been hung from his neck, and it says something to the effect of: “I complained to the authorities, and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.”

But this is America, right? And yesterday I wrote that I would take some action about the genuine Jesus Christ paper prayer rug scam. Remember that the thick envelope containing that sacred relic arrived in my mailbox under the no-stamp-required guise of a message from a nonprofit organization.

I neglected to mention in my previous post that I was supposed to return the prayer rug — along with my “seed” money — to Saint Matthew’s Churches. “It is a must that you get this unusual blessing Church Prayer Rug out of this house and back to us, here at the church’s chapel prayer room, in faith.” Why? So that the very same scrap of paper can be rushed to “another family that’s in need of a blessing.”

Essentially, we’re talking about a bogus chain letter here. The urgent plea for me to return the prayer rug is clearly made to encourage an immediate response. It’s a taxpayer-financed get-rich-quick scheme.

So, I made some phone calls: the post office, my U.S. senators, and the IRS.

After introducing myself, here’s how I opened each conversation.

There’s a group of con artists that have apparently been given tax-exempt status as a nonprofit organization. They’re doing a mass mailing of a fraudulent chain letter asking me to send them money to a post office box. The group is posing as a church, but they’re criminals; the whole thing is clearly a scam. I object to using my hard-earned tax money to finance a crooked scheme.

I emphasized "my hard-earned tax money." If I could have spoken in red, boldface, italic, capitalized, underlined type, I would have. In lieu of that, I reached into my linguistic arsenal and found my pissed-off voice. That's the one I've borrowed from Donald Duck.

The Response at the Post Office

The woman at the post office took my name, address, and phone number. Then she asked for the name and address of the bogus church. After she got this information entered into “the system,” she apologized for my inconvenience. I told her that I accepted her apology but that, really, she wasn’t responsible.

“I don’t believe in killing the messenger,” I joked.

She didn’t understand what I meant, so she apologized again. I’m hoping that the Feds don’t show up to arrest me for making threats over the telephone.

The Response at (titular Democrat) Bill Nelson’s Office

I’m not a fan of either political party, but I tend to lean a bit more toward the Democrats’ line of bullshit these days. So first, I called Senator Bill Nelson’s office in Washington.

A too chipper guy answered the phone, and I rattled off my introductory paragraph.

He said, “Thanks for calling. I’ll pass that information along.”

I said, “Wait a minute. I didn’t give you any information.”

He said, “Oh, OK. Give me the information.”

I asked, “Will you pass it along?”

He said, “Mmm-hmmm. Yes. Definitely.”

I said, “No you won’t.” Then I hung up.

The Response at (Republican) Mel Martinez’s Office

The man who answered in Mel’s Washington office listened to my spiel and said I’d better call the senator’s local office in Florida. He gave me the number and told me to say I was phoning about “case work.”

I did so. A very charming woman listened carefully to my gripe and asked whom the letter came from. I told her and she said, “Well, obviously the IRS has given them tax-exempt status because they’re a church.”

I went into detail about the contents of the envelope. She chuckled a few times.

“Doesn’t that sound like a con to you?” I asked.

She laughed again. “I can’t really say,” she replied. “Lots of people have faith in different things. I go to church every Sunday and tithe, so I can understand when someone sends money to a church. But let me look this one up for you to see if there are any other complaints.”

I didn’t know where she was searching, but my astute Sherlock Holmes mind interpreted the tapping and I assumed it was somewhere on the Internet. I waited patiently for a few seconds. “Well,” she said, “you’re not the first person to make a charge against them.”

Then I heard the tapping again. She said, “I went to their Web site. It looks like they actually do have a church building. So it’s not just a post office box.”

“But, tell the truth. It looks kind of fishy, doesn’t it?”

She repeated: “Lots of people have faith in different things. I’ve heard of churches that sell water that’s supposed to be from the Sea of Galilee.”

“Yeah, other crooks. I mean, have you ever heard of a Christian prayer rug? Does that sound kosher to you?”

She tittered ever so slightly. “Well, I can’t say. But you might want to report this to the IRS and have them look into it.”

More tapping. “OK,” she said, “I’m at the IRS Web site and it looks like there’s a form you can fill out to complain about tax fraud.”

“Yes,” I said, “but isn’t that only if you’re trying to report a person or company who’s cheating on taxes? Like Al Capone.”

She giggled. I mentally gave her some points for recognizing my reference. “All right, I’ve got it. Here’s instructions about how to write a personal letter to them. That’s probably what you should do.”

She also gave me a phone number to call. I thanked her and told her that I was impressed with how non-commital she could be. She laughed yet again and wished me good luck.

The Response at the IRS

By now I felt like just some old crank, but I decided to finish what I’d started. After dialing the number and pushing the right buttons to get to the department I wanted, I was placed on hold. The music I heard was from “The Nutcracker Suite.” I checked my calendar to make sure it’s the middle of May. We old cranks sometimes forget stuff.

An agent finally answered and identified himself by name and official number. I went through my intro.

He told me I could either write a letter and mail it, fax a note with the appropriate details, or send an email. I said an email would be great, and he gave me the address. Then I asked him if it would be worth my time and effort. He said, “Yes. Give us as much information about the organization as you can. We like to investigate these things.”

So now, having spent a few hours mostly on hold, I’ll follow through. Tomorrow. By that time, I'll have recranked my crank.

More — if I actually get a response — in the future. In the meantime, watch for my barefoot photo in your local newspaper.

My Friends Call Me "Rezz"

Well, I guess Jesus is all-seeing after all. Even though I’m clearly identified here on No More Hornets as “The Exterminator,” the Christ has figured out that I don’t usually go by that title in my day-to-day life. I got a piece of mail from his representatives today, and it was addressed to me by the actual name I use in my non-blogging existence: RESIDENT. (Confession: It used to be RESIDENTOWITZ, but my grandparents changed it to make it sound more American.)

The envelope was dated “Sunday — May 2008.” I was under the mistaken impression that there were four Sundays in May 2008, but I guess I was wrong. However, I did wonder: If Jesus is so magical, how come I received the letter on a Wednesday? I guess we all know that the lord works in mysterious ways. As god always says: “Sunday, Shmunday. What am I, a watchmaker?”

Also on the envelope, there was a lot of red type and underlining and double-underlining and italics and boldface and BOLDFACE CAPS. And, of course, what would a note from Jesus be without at least one exclamation point! Not only is he omnipotent, omnibenevolent, and omniscient, but he's also omnifonted. In the beginning was the MS Word.

Contained inside the package was some hoopla about an accompanying paper prayer rug, and how the closed eyes on the Jesus face would open if I stared "into" them hard enough. They didn’t, but I was briefly able to see the messiah's face in complementary colors when I quickly looked up at my white wall. There was also the text of some mumbo-jumbo I was supposed to repeat while kneeling on the rug or holding it over my knees, as well as some instructions for where I should stick the thing overnight. No, not there. And of course I was asked — gently — to make a contribution to St. Matthew’s 57-year-old Church (not to be confused with St. Matthew’s 58-year-old Church), the institutional sender of this First Epistle to Residentians.

The prayer rug was a folded piece of 11 x 17 paper, tinted in lavender and orange, which is certainly the most holy color combination. Near the bottom, it was conveniently labeled "Church Prayer Rug," so I wouldn't mistakenly think it was just some run-of-the-mill unfolded picture of Jesus. The thorn-crowned savior's face sat smack in the center and some ersatz Persian-ruggish design surrounded him as a border. On the back of this treasure, a short text informed me that it had been “Soaked with the Power of Prayer.” It didn’t feel moist, but maybe that’s because I’m an atheist. Anyway, I was ordered to use it immediately, and return it because “Timing is important to God.” (That's probably why he's such a great comedian.)

So I had in my hands:

• a very personal letter (Dear ... Someone Connected with This Address);
• a genuine paper prayer rug with Jesus's authentic face, complete with a pathetic, solitary tear streaming down from his closed left eye;
• testimonials from women who had received financial windfalls from J.C., but neither of whom, judging from their pictures, saw fit to use the cash for a much needed makeover;
• an offer for a “FREE, DEUTERONOMY 8:18 PROSPERITY CROSS, BLESSED BY THE CHURCH (Look it up, you lazy bastards);
• special Christian fortune-cookie prophecies personally meant for me, RESIDENT (apparently, I may feel my inner power growing);
• a checklist designating exactly how I’d like the church to use their power of prayer for my family and myself (e.g., A New Car, A Money Blessing, or A Closer Walk With Jesus);
• an important shilling notice reminding me that I should “Pray about sowing a seed gift to the Lord’s work,” and asking me to “give God your best seed and believe Him for His best blessing" (yeah, I was tempted to do what you’re thinking of);
• and an enclosed return envelope (addressed to “PRAYER BY LETTERS”).

All this had been stuffed into a business envelope that had a printed notice in place of a stamp:

NONPROFIT ORG.
U.S. POSTAGE
PAID
PERMIT No.
636

So our tax dollars, yours and mine, are being used to pay mailing fees for a scamming CHRISTIAN CHAIN LETTER!!!

I’ll be calling the postal authorities tomorrow. I’ll also be contacting my congressman and both senators. More later.

An Atheist Goes to a Wedding

On Sunday, I went to a wedding.

Intellectually, I’m a cynic when it comes to weddings. Not marriages, necessarily — but weddings. I believe that neither a god nor a government should have a role to play in announcing that two people love one another and have decided to make a mutual commitment. In the United States, as in many other countries, there are certain legal ramifications to being married, but I don’t see why families should spend thousands and thousands of dollars to declare, in essence, that a man and a woman have decided to pool their property. It’s a contract, is what it is.

Emotionally, I’m not such a cynic. Weddings are symbolic rituals that go back to the beginnings of civilization. When a couple gets married, they’re joining hands with their ancestors, with all of our ancestors. They’re enrolling in a very non-exclusive club of humans who have recognized that life, in one way or another, is more livable with a partner. They’re making the same kinds of promises that their great-great-grandparents made, promises that may be kept or broken, but promises that are as old as history. Time stops. The couple reaches backward to the past and forward to the future to carve out their own traditional but complex relationship that we need only two words to define: “They’re married.”

The wedding that I went to on Sunday was held on a large projecting balcony area of a hotel. Beyond it lay the ocean, a beautiful and natural backdrop. As the guests seated themselves, the waves, timeless but ruled by time, pleaded again and again with the shore: Let us stop moving; let us stay here. Give us a break.

Pelicans, whose faces resemble the flying lizards from whom they’ve evolved, soared in formation overhead. They flapped their wings infrequently and — to my thinking — reluctantly: Let us stop moving; give us a break.

In the distance, someone on the beach was listening to rap music with a bass beat we could feel in our shoes, music that tried to propel us up out of our seats (and onto an imaginary dance floor) as it competed with the Bach, Vivaldi, and Pachelbel played so solemnly by the string quartet. Our bodies cried out to the faraway sounds: Let us stop moving; give us a break. Wedding marchers walked slowly and awkwardly in time to the strings, pausing every few steps so as not to get too close to those who preceded them. Their nervous eyes and pasted-on smiles said to one another: Let us stop moving; give the people in front of us a break.

So here’s what the preliminaries of the wedding made me think of. In all the crazy motion of life, a wedding is an attempt to fix a certain moment in time: If only for a few minutes, let us stop moving; give us a break. We humans, for whatever evolutionary reason, require our ritual occasions to put us back in touch with the rest of our species, both living and dead. Some of us may even choose to reflect for a short time, to revel briefly in our commonality. Let differences be forgotten for this instant; give our reciprocated animosities a break.

But, of course, that was not to be. The fatheaded officiant brought her god into the proceedings and made the whole thing trivial and silly. She rattled on and on and on: Jesus wants the couple to do this, Christ wants the couple to be that. Her ADHD deity, who never takes a break to smell the roses that he allegedly created, after who-knows-how-many failed attempts, had hand-selected this pair to be “one.” He was deliriously happy that they’d come together in front of relatives and friends to build their futures on the rock of his Christianity. Despite all the crap that’s going on in the world, he managed to put other concerns aside to come to this insignificant small-time wedding on a beach in the middle of nowhere. He smiled on the bride and on the groom and gave them their marching orders; get busy leading a holy life. In Jesus’s name amen.

Meanwhile, the sea — carrying countless lifeforms as it has done, without any supernatural commands, for well over three billion years — kept saying to the priestess: Give them a break. Shut up, and give them a break.

Kickin' It with Christ

After refusing to grant IDer Guillermo Gonzalez tenure as an astronomy professor, Iowa State University is back in the religion news again this weekend.

It seems that the school’s football coach, Gene Chizik, thinks his boys need divine inspiration, and he’s willing to solicit private donations to hire an official team chaplain. ISU’s athletic director, Jamie Pollard, thinks the coach’s idea is heavenly. According to an AP story on May 31, Pollard claims that his “student-athletes are under a lot of pressure and need access to spiritual guidance.” Neither Chizik nor Pollard specify why the players couldn’t receive such guidance in a church, but it’s obvious. The coach will order some heavy-duty praying done precisely at a moment when his team needs supernatural help to score a touchdown, or, if the deity is feeling stingy about points that day, at least a field goal. Christ, apparently, gets his kicks on the football field.

What a tawdry little godlet sports figures seem to have. The character they pray to gives a shit whether or not they make a first down on the next play. That’s why Chizik’s Jesus died on the cross, so the Cyclones can out-score their opponents. “Forgive them, Father, for they’ve got fifty bucks on the game.”

But the world of reason has not yet succumbed to the outrageous. Well, at least not in Ames, Iowa. A large number of faculty and staff — reports differ as to whether it’s 100 or 126 — have the audacity to believe that there actually is a separation of church and state in this country, and that such separation should be operative on the football field at a public institution. That’s why they’ve signed a petition to present to Iowa State’s Athletics Council.

One of the prime movers of the petition was atheist Hector Avalos, a professor of religion studies at ISU. The fundies already have their pious panties in a twist over him. According to the Discovery Institute (and no, I’m not going to link to them), Avalos “led the charge against Gonzalez and intelligent design on ISU's campus, helping to draft a 2005 petition denouncing intelligent design that ultimately was signed by more than 120 ISU faculty.” Interestingly, Avalos was promoted to a full professorship at the very same time that Gonzalez was denied tenure.

So far, the tally is Avalos 1, Theocrats 0. The Theocrats’ offense is tough, though, and they’ll be fighting hard in this next contest to even up the score. We Avalos fans probably won’t need to paint our faces, but let’s do what we can to show our support. Gimme an A! Gimme a V! ....

Lettuce Pray

I received an email from a person who read my Falwell obit. Basically, she pitied me, and told me so. “I feel sorry for you,” she wrote. “Obviously, you don’t even believe in human decency. You should be ashamed of yourself for speaking ill of the dead.”

Well, sorry, lady, but I’m not ashamed at all. I can’t think of a time when I’ve felt even the least pang after strongly expressing my views. It’s only when I keep my mouth shut that I occasionally feel like kicking myself.

Last week, for instance, I was a guest at a university awards dinner, at which my wife was one of the hundred or so honorees. In recognition of the occasion, I wore a serious suit, not my favorite attire by a long shot, and promised her that I would behave, which meant no political or religious talk, and absolutely no unsolicited puns — even though I pointed out that I was a groan man.

We mingled sedately during the thirty-minute “cocktail hour” and eventually found our way to seats at a table full of strangers. Before the ceremony began, we joined our neighbors in small talk — minuscule talk, really — about local restaurants, the crappy weather, and the delights of free alcoholic beverages even when the selection is poor.

A ding on a bell summoned us to hearken to the emcee. As we all continued to pick at our salad, he greeted us attendees and made a few unfunny in-jokes, so far “in” that I would have needed an X-ray to see their point. Then, he introduced the chaplain to lead us in prayer.

Now, anyone who has been reading my blog knows that I respect everyone’s right to practice any fool religion he or she chooses, as long as it doesn’t threaten my freedom or my life. I do not, however, respect his or her religion, and I don’t pretend to. While I’m occasionally friendly, I’m never, ever a friendly atheist; I’m a curmudgeonly one. I see no reason whatsoever why I should feel obliged to bow my head, close my eyes, and stop what I’m doing just because somebody else has an itch to pray.

But I didn’t stand up and complain, or start screaming obscenities, or swing from the chandeliers. I even restrained myself from humming “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” All I did was roll my eyes at my wife, who — an unfriendly atheist herself — rolled her own right back at me. When we got our eyeballs sorted out again, I continued to dig around my mixed greens. There wasn’t any point, I felt, in letting my romaine go soggy in the vinaigrette just because the rest of the room wanted to say hi to Dad. My wife, only a smidgen more respectful than I, did stop eating. But she stared down at her salad in disgust, holding her fork poised like a dive-bomber over the bowl.

I don’t know how the people whose eyelids were closed in communion with their imaginary pal managed to notice that we didn’t participate in their nonsense, but they did. While no one at our table actually came out and called us commie god-killers, I could tell, when the prayer was over, that a pious pall had settled over us. My neighbors were no longer as enthusiastic about the new Italian place as they had been, nor anywhere near as engaged by the rainstorm that was heading our way. Our second round of free rotgut passed without comment. We were being subtly shunned.

Had I not promised to watch my behavior, I might have begun a thought-provoking dialogue by asking one of the believers nearby: “If I had sat you down and subjected you to a short anti-god speech, would you have remained quiet, eating your salad like a polite idiot? Or would you have stormed out of the room in revulsion?”

But I didn’t say that. Instead, in deference to my wife’s sense of propriety, I acted like a semi-friendly atheist — and was totally ashamed of my silence.

Question: Were the Nails Made of Almonds?

You've probably read in various atheist blogs, or perhaps your hometown newspaper, about the six-foot tall, anatomically correct, chocolate Jesus sculpture that was scheduled to be hung up in a Manhattan art gallery. That was, until the Catholic League crankily decided that the statue should melt away.

In searching for more info on various candy Christ phenomena, I stumbled across Village Voice Media's Jesus of the Week Web site, which — if you've been looking for J.C. light switches, balloon figurines, rubber squeeze toys, and/or band-aids — I highly recommend.

Religious Literacy: And Behold, It Ain't So Good

In the past few weeks, both Time Magazine and the L.A. Times have published articles on the need to teach the bible in America’s public schools. One of the most noteworthy spokespeople for this view (and the author of the newspaper piece) is Stephen Prothero, chair of the religion department at Boston University. Part of his sense of urgency is related, no doubt, to his shameless shilling of his new book Religious Literacy: What Every American Needs to Know — And Doesn’t. But he does make a few valid points.

Prothero’s argument is, basically, this: Let there be intellectual light! Despite all the constant go-Jesus hoopla from the religious right, most Americans, pious churchgoers included, are biblically illiterate. Their knowledge of their own religious screed has been weighed in the balances, and found wanting. In fact, their scriptural ignorance busts the scale. This situtation makes them unable to understand the history and literature of Western Civilization, which, for better or worse, is rife with biblical references.

It’s impossible to dispute that assertion. As unhappy as we atheists might be with the fact, there’s no denying that the bible has been a major force in shaping our society. It has played, and continues to play, a huge part in economics, politics, and the arts. Throughout the ages, the sciences have had to respond over and over again to its irrationality; the superstitious voice crying in the wilderness has always striven to outshout reason.

Prothero also points out far more dire consequences of our lack of religious knowledge: “Americans are easily swayed by demagogues on the left or the right who claim — often incorrectly — that the Bible says this about war or that about homosexuality.” In other words, the truth shall make us free.

Clearly, the last assertion is Prothero’s attempt to dissociate himself from the godpushers. But it’s disingenuous. Can two walk together, except they be agreed? The theocrats would love nothing better than to have their religion taught at public expense. Behold, they stand at the schoolhouse door and knock! The idea of opening that door to a parade of bible-thumpers should be enough to make the hair of anyone’s flesh stand up.

But Prothero claims that he doesn’t necessarily see eye to eye with the Jesus fanatics. He says that his biblical literacy could be taught in a neutral way, neither favoring nor disfavoring the views expressed. The bottom line, though, is that no man can serve two masters, both secular education and the spread of sectarian religion. How could classroom teachers keep themselves out of the clutches of the evangelicals? It’s hard to kick against those pricks. After all, the voice of the fundy is heard in the land.

Is it possible for all things in a biblical literacy class to be done decently and in order? O me of little faith; I doubt it. But at a bare minimum, public schools should be forced to adhere to the following rules for such courses:

• God should always be referred to as “the god character in this section.”
• No events mentioned in the bible may be taught as fact or "truth."
• Morally abhorrent sections of the bible must be liberally included in the course.
• For every passage of the bible covered, the teacher must relate it to either an important historical event or literary work to which the verses act as a reference.
• The teacher must point out parallels to biblical stories in other works of mythological literature, as well as in folklore and fairy tales.
• The teacher must refer to the “author” of each passage studied, and analyze the writing critically in the same way that other texts would be treated.
• The teacher must use a textbook or other accepted reference work, not his or her personal bible, for all quotes and information.
• No teacher of the course may wear any religious item of clothing or jewelry.
• No teacher of the course may attend any outside religious services at which a student in the class might reasonably be expected to make an appearance.
• A teacher must not, either explicitly or implicitly, endorse the content of any biblical passage.
• No teacher of the course, either directly or indirectly, may refer to his or her own religious beliefs, nor allow classroom discussion in which students talk about their religious beliefs.

While I’m on the subject, I’d also like to address the age-old mantra that the bible should be taught as great literature. Yes, there are some beautiful passages and interesting turns of phrase in various books, and any cultured person should recognize them. (For those interested in games, see if you can find fourteen biblical references sprinkled throughout the above.) But there’s also plenty of inartistic crap. Could anyone read the dry-as-the-desert rulebooks Leviticus and Deuteronomy, and not be bored out of his or her mind? The first book of Chronicles is loaded with uninteresting lists. Dull minor prophets like Obadiah and Haggai? Who would even look at them today if they were collected in any other volume? The Gospel of Mark is mediocre writing at best. And some of those epistles, like Titus and Philemon, are on a par with junk-mail solicitations.

Now, I’d normally be the last person to criticize school systems for trying to teach ineducable louts about important cultural achievements. The bible is certainly one of these. However, it's by no means the only one. Nor is it the most important, unless you already come to the table with a predigested notion that every word was inspired by you-know-who. Lots of the bible is tiresome and/or repugnant — badly written, morally reprehensible, unhistorical hogwash. To civilize our kids, we need to expose them to Greek philosophers, Shakespeare’s plays, Beethoven’s symphonies, Rembrandt’s paintings, and the actual texts of the Declaration of Independence and the United States Constitution. The latter contains a little something forbidding the government from establishing religion.

If Prothero were completely honest — which he’s not — he would also be making a fuss that public school students are taught next to nothing about Greek/Roman mythology, world drama, classical music, fine art, and the history of science. Shouldn’t those subjects be mandated in the public schools as well?

So why is he worried specifically about religious literacy? Anyone who reads blogs regularly — or ever listens to the president — knows how poorly many Americans communicate their ideas. What we really need to teach in this country is just plain old unadorned literacy.

Bong Hits 4 ... Establishment?

A nice thing about blogging is that friends and strangers send you email suggestions. Some of the ones from strangers—like “Hey idiot, why don’t you check out JesusNeedsYourCash.com” or “I sincerely pray that you find the loving God before your hateful ass is doomed to eternal hell”—are easily dismissable. Others, like solicitations from Web sites that sell, say, condoms for skeptics or atheist-themed cupcakes, are also no problem to brush aside.

The recommendations from friends, however, are not so easily ignored. Some of my classier correspondents deserve to be acknowledged. That’s why I’m finally going to write about Morse v. Frederick, or, as most of us know it, the “Bong Hits 4 Jesus” affair, which was argued before the Supreme Court last Monday. I’ve weaseled out of this one long enough.

And why? Because I’ve got a problem. Which right is more important: (1) Freedom of Speech or (2) Freedom from the Establishment of Religion? Both these rights are guaranteed in the First Amendment. On rare occasions, though, they seem to come into conflict. The Bong Hits case, itself, has nothing to do with religion, despite Jeezy’s name. But the potential ramifications of the forthcoming decision may well be a First Amendment schizophrenic episode waiting to happen.

If you’ve read my posts with even the attention of a stoner, you know that I’m both a free speech absolutist and a staunch opponent of religion rearing its ugly head in the governmental arena.

Because of these two strongly held views, I still find myself scratching my head over the 1995 case of Rosenberger v. University of Virginia. The school had set aside a fund to subsidize the printing of student publications. Rosenberger asked for $5800 to help pay for “Wide Awake: A Christian Perspective at the University of Virginia.” The school said, “Hey, wait a minute. We’re not going to use what are essentially tax dollars to help you preach religion; that’s an unconstitutional establishment.” Rosenberger countered by pointing out that his publication was being unconstitutionally singled out, due solely to its content, from a general program; what happened to his free speech guarantee? The 5-4 Supreme Court majority agreed with him. My gut tells me that I oppose this ruling, but I can’t figure out why. Free speech, after all, is free speech.

Which brings me to last Monday. Here, greatly simplified, are the facts of the BH4J situation: Joseph Frederick was a senior at Juneau-Douglas high school. He failed to show up for classes at the start of the educational day. Later that morning, the students were let out of the building to watch the Olympic torch being carried by. Some cheerleaders and band members from the school had been appointed tasks to perfrom during the rally, and a few students even got to bear the sacred object. The school system claimed to be sponsoring the event, although those students released from classes were not required to attend. Nor was the hoo-ha in the street limited to students; there were plenty of non-students watching, cavorting, and throwing snowballs in the general moronic celebration.

Frederick showed up, still not having officially checked in at school that day. He and some other individuals — who may or may not have been students — held up a 14-foot-long banner that carried the phrase, “BONG HITS 4 JESUS.” This was an attempt, according to Frederick, to make it onto the TV news that night with a meaningless slogan fashioned to gain attention.

School principal Deborah Morse, seeing a sign that she was convinced encouraged drug use, crossed the street from in front of the school, and approached Frederick. She asked him to take down his banner, which he refused to do. She then forcibly took it down for him, and crumpled it up. Eventually, she suspended Frederick for 10 days.

Morse’s side claimed that at a school-sponsored event, the principal has the right to enforce school policy, which, in Juneau-Douglas’s instance, specifically forbade promotion of drug use. Frederick’s side claimed that (1) he wasn’t at the rally in his capacity as a student; (2) it’s ridiculous to say that the event was school-sponsored, since the members of the crowd were part of the general populace; (3) the phrase was nonsense, so it couldn’t have been promoting drug use; and (4) even if he was a student, and was at a school-sponsored function, and was holding up a sign that promoted drug use, he still had a right to free speech.

The Court’s acceptance of claims (1) and/or (2) would make the case easy. The First Amendment guarantees private citizens the right to behave like idiots in front of television cameras. Accepting claim (3) would make Morse’s actions indefensible under the school’s policy. Only claim (4) raises serious constitutional issues.

In a series of past rulings, the Supremes have said that a student does indeed have a right to free speech; however, that right is not absolute. But the details of specific situations in which a student’s speech might be curtailed are vague.

Naturally, the usual First Amendment protectors —the ACLU, the National Coalition Against Censorship, and the Center for Individual Rights — supported Frederick’s cause. In addition, the Drug Policy Center and Students for Sensible Drug Policy filed briefs high on his argument.

But, then, the bad guys entered. Those great champions of free speech — the Alliance Defense Fund (James Dobson, a founder), the American Center for Law and Justice (Pat Robertson’s legal arm), the Christian Legal Society, the Liberty Counsel, and the Rutherford Institute — also decided that Frederick and students everywhere should have a right to say, verbally or symbolically, whatever they want. School attendees should be able to sport jeans promoting Jesus, wear hats demeaning homosexuals, distribute pamphlets on the evils of evolution, display baby-killer buttons, and tote signs against stem-cell research. Hey, the theocrats had just noticed that it’s a free country.

If the Morse decision, as I fervently hope, reinforces a student’s right to speak his or her mind, then what? Must public schools allow religious proselytizing in their buildings, which, of course, are paid for with taxpayer cash? I’d like to think otherwise, but how not? Under what justification? What content-neutral school policy could prohibit speakers with a religious agenda?

Which First Amendment right trumps the other?

I've Just Seen a Face

On January 1, I spotted the head of a triceratops in a cloud. Immediately, of course, I called my local news media to alert them to the fact that dinosaurs had not really gone extinct.

Unfortunately, the press had no time for my story because they were all drooling over another fantastic sighting. It seems that Jesus’s face was seen on the bark of a tree—the specific kind was apparently not important enough to be mentioned—in the Arlington section of Jacksonville, Florida.

While my dinosaur attracted absolutely no attention, TV camera crews and reporters flocked into Daryl Brown’s yard to catch a glimpse of the Christ. Pictures of the holy plant presence were posted on the “News4Jax” and “Local6” web sites, so viewers could decide for themselves if they agreed with Brown: "Jesus don't just pop up like that. If you know the word of Jesus and you believe in Jesus, then there you go. He does exist." An unnamed neighbor was a bit more circumspect: “I can’t say what I feel, I just feel it.”

According to the story (which was earth-shaking enough to be repeated in a number of non-Jacksonville markets, like mine), a dog-walker was the first to spot the sacred timber. She said she’s comforted knowing that the Messiah is watching over her as she strolls with her pet through the neighborhood. The news report did not mention what, if any, images she sees in her pooch’s poop.

People who spy the paraclete’s puss in a tree – or a tortilla (1978 in Lake Arthur, New Mexico), rock (2005 in Hallettsville, Texas and 2006 in Long Island, New York), paint splotch on a wall (2005 in Detroit, Michigan), dental x-ray (2004 in Phoenix, Arizona), or Pizza Hut billboard (1991 in Atlanta, Georgia) – are experiencing pareidolia. Pareidolia is the illusory perception of a recognizable pattern in a random, vague stimulus. In other words, it’s the vision of god peeking out from the trunk of a tree.

A medical name for this phenomenon, coined in 1958 by Klaus Conrad, an internationally renowned neuropsychologist and psychopatholigist, is apophenia. According to Wikipedia, Conrad called apophenia "unmotivated seeing of connections" accompanied by a "specific experience of an abnormal meaningfulness." Interestingly, Conrad’s original description of apophenia applied to the kinds of distortions of reality experienced by psychotics. The word is now used more often to describe the mirages of so-called normal persons, like those of us who see prehistoric animals in clouds or genitalia in seashells.

Usually, we enjoy our sessions of apophenia alone, or perhaps share them with a loved one: “Honey, this is amazing. My wine spill looks like Mickey Mouse.” It’s only when some religious kook sees Jesus or Mary in the spaghetti sauce that the vision becomes newsworthy. Whereas no one but a nut would believe for a second that the world’s most famous rodent had appeared magically in the merlot to deliver a message of hope, allegedly sane people do become stubbornly convinced that god has embossed his picture on their belongings to show how much he loves them.

It’s nice to begin the new year with a story about religious silliness that didn’t hurt anybody, except perhaps for the birds and squirrels who will be shooed away from the savior’s woody mug. But the truly delusional Jesus-tree-huggers are not going to evanesce the way my sky-dwelling dinosaur did. We must remember that the nation’s deranged god-worshipers are constantly experiencing apophenia, seeing and hearing imaginary dangers to their nonexistent deity. They deal with their hallucinations by trying to influence our kids’ education, our neighbors’ sexual behavior, the progress of science, and the direction of our government.

Johnny Jesusseed is coming soon to a yard near you.

Signs from God

Evangelicals who whine about being marginalized in America have not taken a road trip lately. Drivers on the nation’s highways are smothered in a steady cloud of religious exhaust. Sitting behind the wheel, you can choke on the toxic fumes from all the Christian gas.

As you travel through the South, from Florida to Kentucky, you learn one important fact. Billboards, road signs, and bumper stickers tell you again and again that “Jesus is Lord.” Considering the impeccable sources, the statement must be true. My favorite version is the one painted on the outfield fence of a baseball field in a roadside sandlot that abuts I-4, not far from Orlando. I’ve passed this site dozens of times, at all hours, and have yet to see a single kid playing there. Jesus lords it over emptiness.

Other billboards sport alarmist verses from the bible. A faux U-turn sign tells motorists that Christ urges them to “change direction,” even though traversing the median on the highway is illegal. One gigantic message warns—ungrammatically—that the wages of sin is death. (Someone other than Jesus must be Lord of English Usage.)

In case the continuous print barrage doesn’t nail you, crosses of all sizes practically smack you in the face from the edges of the interstate. The crucifixes are user-ready in case Jesus-is-Lord decides to come back and get hammered up again. He has a number of appetizing sites to choose from nestled amongst the Fireworks! and Boiled Peanuts! signs. My guess is that he’d favor the huge metallic eyesore that casts its shadow about 100 feet onto Tennessee’s porn-again landmark, XXX Adultworld XXX.

Another symbol of Jesus-is-Lordness is the ubiquitous fish. All kinds of variants propel themselves along the backsides of cars and trucks. On some of these finned friends, the word “Jesus” leads you to the truth—just in case you mistakenly think that the vehicle’s owner works in the tuna business instead of angling for soul. On others, a cross is planted like a sloppy kiss on the swimmer’s cheek, so that the fish seems to be looking forward from the point where the horizontal bar meets the vertical beam; the creature is cross-eyed.

Interestingly, the people who cart around the portable marine life often festoon their autos with ribbons that urge other drivers to “Support Our Troops.” Apparently, Jesus-is-Lord does not offer sufficient assistance to our men and women in uniform. While evangelicals believe wholeheartedly in him, he apparently does not believe in them—or at least in their war effort.

And that’s something they should be whining about.

Get Me to the Polling Place on Time

In the county where I live, nearly half the polling places are in churches. Allegedly, these are convenient venues in which to gather votes because they have good locations, plenty of parking, and wheelchair-accessibility. They’re also easy to find for even the most directions-impaired; church structures often lord it over neighboring edifices.

Of course, these qualifications are equally true of Wal-Marts, Targets, and Home Depots. Churches, however, are willing to rent out their space at the low, low rates the government pays. Some churches even waive the fee and serve doughnuts and coffee while you wait your turn to vote. For houses of worship, election day is a loss leader.

If you’re uncomfortable voting in a church, though, our county’s Supervisor of Elections reminds you that you can still do your civic duty by voting early and elsewhere or sending in an absentee ballot.

My particular polling place is not in a church and I am only marginally uncomfortable about voting in the community room of a trailer park. (My discomfort is due to taste rather than principle). What I am uncomfortable about, however, is all the other people voting in churches.

Many churches—and I use that in the non-Catholic catholic sense to include synagogues, mosques, and other supernatural profit-centers—adopt an explicit political stance. Religious leaders gull their believers into thinking that voting in a certain way will induce omnibenevolent glee. Some churches go as far as printing position papers, fliers or pamphlets telling congregants what their sky-buddy thinks about specific issues, and comparing his views with those of the candidates. On election day itself, all political literature is, by law, removed from within 100 feet of the polling place. But voters who belong to a politicizing church have already gotten their marching orders drummed into them. Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum.

You might make the argument that the particular voting site is not important. Most believers claim that god is everywhere. He sees you when you’re sleeping; he knows when you’re awake; he knows if you’ve been bad or good, so vote ultra-conservative for goodness sake. But to the mass of Sunday worshippers, god seems especially to enjoy hanging around churches. Those are his houses, aren’t they? Members of the electorate who might otherwise dare to think for themselves if they were entering a library or a Wal-Mart or the community room of a trailer park, may find themselves blinded by the holy light. The minute they set foot in Our Lady of the Far Right, they are reminded that the heavenly punisher is peering over their shoulders while they cast their ballots.

In a phone call to the Supervisor of Elections’ office, I was told that most churches “probably” removed their religious iconography from the space used for voting. Even though the woman I spoke with could give me no guarantees, she tried to reassure me. “I think it’s likely that they mostly use church gyms and community rooms,” she said. “You might have to look at some basketball hoops, but I don’t think there’s any religious art around.”

Still, it's an unfair advantage for the Jesus-jumpers. The ball’s in their court, isn’t it?