Feb. 15 can mean different things for different people. Some find relief in the 364 remaining days until the next “Singles Awareness Day.” Others suffer from the V-day hangover and realize their bank accounts are now empty and their significant others are still not happy with them. But for other, non-Cupid possessed zombies — this is the holiest day of the year. A group of natives across the world in Tanna, Vanuata, are hoisting the stars and stripes at sunrise while the entire village observes and applauds with bewilderment. Then, a battalion of well-trained pseudo-G.I.’s bearing bamboo rifles marches in unison to the tune of a drill sergeant. Each of the performers has a U.S. flag painted on their chests — and the love of John Frum in their hearts.  Religious relics litter the area — but don’t expect to find holy burial sites or erected crosses. Mock-airstrips lie in fields, wooden and straw airplanes dot the landscape and coconut headphones alongside soup-can radio towers surround the village. You may be asking yourself at this point, “What the hell is going on here?” — and you’d be justified in your confusion.  This little group of potential patriots are not devotees of our constitution, nor our American Jesus. Rather — in John Frum they trust. In place of the ambiguous “God” that graces our current currency — they have deified a G.I. who once toured their insignificant corner of the Earth.  Who then, is this commando-deity, John Frum?  He is white, American and  destined to return to Tanna to bring his followers prosperity in the form of Coca-Cola and Spam. Most Americans think themselves divine — this one actually is.  World War II brought death to tyranny for many, but it also birthed a new religious movement for Pacific Islanders. Cargo Cults, as they’re often called, are the direct result of U.S. and Japanese forces trekking through exotic jungles and encountering natives, who mistook them as gods because of their technological advancements and material wealth. One of these soldiers, apparently named John Frum, convinced the natives he would return in the future to bring prosperity to his faithful followers. The remnant of this epiphany now exists in small groups of villagers eagerly awaiting the homecoming of their messiah. With diligent prayers and sincere hearts they salute the American flag — hoping for answered prayers that brings radios, washing machines, canned meat and soda. Think about their situation before you start laughing too hard. It might be similar to flying cars whooshing by us today, with purple skinned humanoids bearing a soda that is far superior to any we’ve yet tasted. Would we not consider the bearers of this newer-new-Coke as somewhat divine? And would you not sell your soul for a sampling of that refined-sugar substance and hopes to venture to the planet of the wealth-bringers?  Or perhaps you could be swayed with promises of prosperity in the afterlife. Mansions of gold, surrounded by white things — I know, this is crazy talk, right? When a journalist asked why John Frum devotees still await their doubtless deceased savior — Chief Isaac, head of the faith, gave an unsettling yet befitting reply: “You Christians have been waiting 2,000 years for Jesus to return… and you haven’t given up hope.” However irrational and ludicrous the John Frum cult may seem to our Western eyes, it exemplifies that timeless religious phenomenon — also called the “God-shaped hole” that supposedly lies within each of us. Blaise Pascal originally coined the phrase — though his description of the filler was rather discriminatory.  It’s been called the Jesus-shaped hole, the God void — yet now we can tack on another deity to fill that apparently hollow abyss that longs for domination within each of us: John Frum. They’re not much different than Western religion — as both deify material sensationalism — despite the seeming audacious nature of these beliefs. For Tanna natives, the God-hole is apparently shaped like a Coke bottle — and for them, “it’s the real thing.”In John Frum’s name — Amen.  Andrew Robertson is a 23-year-old religious studies senior from Baton Rouge. Follow him on Twitter @TDR_arobertson.–Contact Andrew Robertson at [email protected]