One bright December morning, I showed up at work and found a brand-new, still-in-the-box nativity set lying there. There were many possible culprits, of course, but Beth was the most obvious, so I wandered into her office.

“Did you put this nativity set on my desk?”

“It’s not a nativity set, it’s a crèche.”

“Did you put this crèche on my desk?”

“Maybe I did.”

“Why did you put this crèche on my desk?”

“Perhaps I thought you needed a little Christmas spirit!”

Satisfied with her answer, I returned to my desk and unpacked the crèche from its neat styrofoam casing. Wanting to share my “Christmas spirit” with the rest of the office, I neatly arranged the figurines in a common area of the office.

And, of course, in order to really take ownership of the manger scene, I naturally supplemented the traditional cast of characters with my collection of Hercules and Xena action figures.

(This was long enough ago that I can’t remember why I had a collection of Hercules and Xena action figures, but it was my first “real” job and I probably didn’t know what to do with my salary other than spend it on toys.)

At first I merely scattered Hercules and Iolaus and Xena and Gabrielle throughout the scene. After a bit of reflection, I decided Xena might be more comfortable if she was holding her sword, and after this I realized the scene needed some fake blood (for which I used ketchup from the cafeteria). The scene still seemed a little bit sterile, so I scattered more weapons around, let Iolaus carry the baby Jesus, encouraged Hercules to put the moves on the radiantly post-pregnant Mary, and added an additional wise man, Jack-in-the-Box.

My crèche lasted only a day or two before I arrived at work and found it disassembled, all the pieces dumped in a pile on my chair. No one took credit for this anti-religious vandalism, although I think I know who did it, and a decade later I almost have enough evidence to hire a lawyer.

Luckily, digital cameras had just been invented at this point in history, and I got a few pictures of the manger crèche before its demise.

This morning I was greeted not only with the aforementioned journalistic staples, but also by the op-ed piece “Atheists: No Zeus, no reason, just whining”:

The problem with atheists — and what makes them such excruciating snoozes — is that few of them are interested in making serious metaphysical or epistemological arguments against Zeus’s existence, or in taking on the serious arguments that theologians have made attempting to reconcile, say, Zeus’s omniscience with free will or Zeus’s goodness with human suffering.

Although it may be tough to believe, I have in the past been accused of lacking seriousness. Nonetheless, I am perfectly capable of being serious, as the following argument demonstrates:

A Serious Metaphysical Argument

1. I am not an excruciating snooze.
2. Typically, extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence.
3. “Zeus exists” is an extraordinary claim.
4. A recurring appearance on a syndicated television drama does not count as extraordinary evidence.
5. Therefore, we shouldn’t believe in Zeus.

Given this serious argument, there’s little point in further addressing the arguments trying to reconcile Zeus’s omniscience with free will. That’s no better a use of our time than taking on theologians’ “serious” arguments about whether Zeus was raised by the goat Amalthea, the nymph Adamanthea, or the nymph Cynosura. Or theologians’ “serious” arguments about why Zeus would have married his sister. Or even theologians’ “serious” arguments about whether Zeus punished Tantalus for cannibalism or for stealing a golden dog.

In fact, given the wide range of things Zeus is claimed to have done, one could spend one’s entire life grapping with philosophers’ “serious arguments” about them. It’s pretty obvious that this wouldn’t be a productive use of anyone’s time.

(The article also contains a wide variety of name-calling, which doesn’t really merit my attention, as it didn’t mention me explicitly.)