If you live in the Neatherlands then, congratulations,
because in addition to decriminalized marijuana
and legal prostitution, you now have the Church
of the Flying Spaghetti Monster as an official,
state-recognized religion.
Also known as "pastafarianism ," the Church
of the Flying Spaghetti Monster -- or FSM
-- originated in 2005 as a sort of protest
religion. The Kansas State Board of Education
had decided to allow intelligent design into
the science curriculum, as an evolution alternative.
Then-25-year-old physics graduate Bobby
Henderson presented HIS religious vision for
inclusion as well.
To be clear, no one was suggesting pasta gods
and the ritual wearing of colanders was anything
other than abject goofery. It was all about
standing up for science education, and taking
a shot at the creationists. But here's the
thing: People KEPT having fun with pastafarianism
-- both passively, through the promotion of
FSM iconography, and aggressively.
Some of the faithful tried to wear colanders
in their state ID photos, while other adherents
pushed for official religious status. What
better way to poke a little fun -- and maybe
a few eyes -- in the name of church/state
separation, freedom of religion and the right
to believe in utter silliness or nothing at
all without facing discrimination?
In order to obtain its Dutch status, FSM representatives
had to define a marriage ritual and prove
it was more than a fad. Having passed those
tests, the parody religion now enjoys varying
levels of formal recognition in a handful
of countries.
But here's where the topic gets even more
interesting: At what point does pastafarianism
cross the line from mere parody to actual
faith? And what truly constitutes a religion
to begin with? Does it need to feature a god?
Does it have to be old? The Church of Scientology
boasts neither of those things, and it enjoys
official recognition as a religion in several
countries, including the United States.
Various new religious movements, from the
Church of Latter Day Saints to Falun Gong,
force us to reconsider our definitions -- and
then we have to consider a host of so-called
"fiction-based religions." We're talking Jediism,
Dudeism, the Church of All Worlds and Tolkienesque
neo-paganism.
These religions draw inspiration from fictional
narratives that don't claim adherence to actual
reality. They're what sociologist Adam Possamai
refers to as "hyper-real religions." In Carole
M. Cusack's "Invented Religions: Imagination,
Fiction and Faith," she posits that… let's
say… "overtly" invented religions such as
these demonstrate that what meaning-hungry
humans really want is a powerful narrative
-- particularly one in which unseen agents
effect causality in our world and in our lives.
So what if that narrative features historical
figures, mythological heroes or some guy with
lightsaber?
Because, ultimately, does a Christian have
to believe absolutely that a guy named Noah
built an Ark? If I have "fear is the mind
killer" tattooed on my chest, does it matter
that I'm gaining personal strength form a
fictional sci-fi future full of sand worms?
And, finally, what if I find solace and hope
for a rational society in the hyper-real message
of a ridiculous noodle-and-meatball god?
I'll tell you what: You tell me. And in the
meantime, visit now.howstuffworks.com each
and every day for more reality-warping contemplations
of the infinite.
