In Communion With The Spaghetti Monster

Some of you may be aware of the Spaghetti Monster - a humorous "fictional" diety created by atheists to point out the absurdity of all religion. I actually happen to be a fan of the Spaghetti Monster, whether he be an atheistic attempt at deicide or not, because I think it does a great job of not only pointing out religious pretentions, but also points out the sillyness of atheists. Regardless of the inherent risk of blasphemy this weekend, I partook in communion with the Spaghetti Monster, consuming its body (noodles) and drinking its blood (sauce) with great gusto. Its my grandmother's recipe for spaghetti and its almost a religion in itself.

Of course, that's part of the problem.

In Galatians, Paul talks about the body and the spirit being at war with each other. He suggests that when we live in the spirit, we will seek to abandon those things which make our body greatly rejoice. I'm assuming this includes spaghetti, particularly that which was created by my grandmother.

As a foodie, I find it particularly difficult to sacrifice things that taste good - seeking instead to satisfy my earthly desires, rather than my heavenly ones. I have progressed enough on the road to spiritual enlightenment however to recognize that I am in need of a diet. Not one that is diagnosed in all the health and beauty magazines - I will never look like Mr. Olympus - but a diet of the body in favor of the soul. In short, I need to subvert my desire for food and replace it with my desire for God.

When I have achieved a healthy relationship with food, only then will I be able to have a healthy relationship with God. This is not a disparaging remark for people, like me, with a few extra pounds on their frames, but simply a realization that a person can not have two masters. I cannot be a follower of Christ and Ronald McDonald at the same time. If I can't control my urges towards food, how can I fully embrace the divine?

C.S. Lewis understood this part of human nature. We are all tripped up by the smallest, meanest of things - the basest of desires. For Edmund in The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe it was a piece of candy - a Turkish Delight - that caused him to sell out his brothers, sisters, and Aslan. When he realizes what he has done, even the White Witch mocks him with his incredible foolishness - "You betrayed them all for a piece of candy!" We can expect that after the events of this book, Edmund probably never touched a piece of Turkish Delight again.

I am not trying to root out all the Turkish Delights in my life and get rid of them. The problem with over-enjoying food is that you still need to eat it, whether your tendency is to over-indulge or not. Its kind of like being addicted to air - its a hard habit to break. I am instead concentrating on the good foods that I can eat and replacing the spaghetti's of this world with the more truly divine foods that will help me come to a right relationship with food and with God. I am not giving up food to become thin. I am giving up food to become something even greater than I am now.

And that's something that no spaghetti monster could ever help with, no matter how fictional its supposed to be. The only one with that kind of power is the one who created us all, and on Him, shall I depend.