06-08-2006, 05:02 AM
So-called pastor preaches sermon of hatred
Matt Sedensky, Associated Press
OGDEN, Iowa -- The soldier's flag-draped casket is set on the gymnasium floor, below the unlit scoreboard. The bleachers are crowded with mourners for Sgt. Daniel Sesker, a young man with an infectious laugh who was killed by an improvised explosive device in Iraq.
Outside, picketers thank God for Daniel Sesker's death, talk approvingly of his entrance into hell, and mock those who mourn. Amid gusting winds, they struggle to hold up signs that read Thank God for IEDs and God Hates Your Tears.
Back home in Kansas, tucked away in an office over Westboro Baptist Church, Pastor Fred Phelps cracks a smile when he thinks of what his 15-year campaign of hate has wrought.
Phelps and his followers have branded the U.S. a country of sinners bound to live eternity in a fiery hell. They have called homosexuals the disgusting face of evil, and fallen American soldiers proof of God's wrath.
They don't care whether you like or accept their message because they're not spreading it to save you. They believe it's their duty to let you know that God hates you.
It was this time last year that Phelps and his followers began appearing outside funerals of American troops killed in Iraq, and they've already attended about 100. They've offended people so thoroughly that 31 state legislatures have debated bills to curb such protests, and Congress passed a law restricting demonstrations at national cemeteries.
But Westboro's protesters first gained widespread attention in 1998. A 21-year-old University of Wyoming student, Matthew Shepard, had been lashed to a split-rail post, pistol-whipped, robbed, and left to die because he was gay.
Millions were horrified, but Phelps and his followers showed up at the funeral with signs bearing their trademark message: God Hates Fags. "Fags die, God laughs," they chanted.
They've also graced the funerals of Mister Rogers, victims of Sept. 11 and West Virginia miners - attending more than 25,000 in all, by the church's count.
Westboro Baptist in Topeka, Kan., has only about 75 members, nearly all of them Phelps' relatives. Those who choose to stay in the church must be willing to live an insular life. They must give at least 10 per cent of their earnings to the church and spend thousands more travelling to spread its message.
Their belief in predestination - the idea that God has already determined who's going to heaven and who's going to hell - stems from the Calvinist branch of the 16th century Protestant Reformation and is taught in mainstream churches.
Where Westboro parts ways with Calvinism is in its emphasis on God's hatred and the way it spreads this message. Members believe they must alert the world's depraved sinners of their fate even though such people have no chance of redemption.
While there might be fundamentalist churches in the U.S. that don't disagree with Westboro's basic message - Christian broadcaster Pat Robertson, for example, has said that hurricane Katrina was God's response to the choice of lesbian Ellen DeGeneres as Emmy host, and Moral Majority founder Jerry Falwell said homosexuals "helped (the Sept. 11 attacks) happen" - they haven't stepped forward with signs to join them at their peculiar funeral marches.
The small sanctuary at Westboro Baptist recalls a 1970s living room more than a house of worship. There, the congregation prays that all of God's chosen people will make their way to this church. When the last person comes, they believe, Christ will return and the world will end.
The only ornamentation is a world map and a few signs: "Thank God for Maimed Soldiers," reads one.
Two hymns sung in perfect harmony serve as bookends for the service. The centrepiece is an impassioned sermon by the lanky, 76-year-old Phelps, which focuses on the media and on attempts to silence him - and on how God might get rid of those he hates.
"We pray for more tornadoes, we pray for more hurricanes, that Katrina's just a tiny little preamble," he says near his closing. "That's what we pray for."
Phelps grew up in a typical American, Methodist family, says a former neighbour.
Phelps was bound for West Point when he attended a Methodist revival meeting and said he felt a calling to preach.
He became a civil rights attorney honoured by minority groups for his dedication to cases of poor blacks. But he was disbarred from state courts for improprieties and when the widow of Martin Luther King Jr. died in January this year, Phelps picketed her funeral.
He ran as a Democrat for mayor, governor and senator, but he failed in each campaign and is now uniformly derided by politicians on both sides of the aisle.
Nine of his 13 children defend him without question. Others tell of an abusive, unstable patriarch driven to fits of rage by nearly anything - from the way a child peeled an apple to forgetting to wipe one's shoes.
Once Phelps was on the path to ministry, contact with his father - who he now calls a "wonderful, good old man" - began to wane. The elder Phelps had remarried a woman who was divorced, the sort of evil his son was beginning to preach against.
Other non-believing family members have been similarly marginalized.
"These doctrines and things you believe have an inherent power and effect of sequestering you from all mankind on a close personal level," Phelps explained.
Shirley Phelps-Roper, a daughter of the pastor who frequently acts as a church spokeswoman, lost one of her sons to the outside world.
"Of course it's heartbreaking, on a level, for a short period of time," she said. "Because what you come to terms with is that the child is going to hell."
Many of Phelps' detractors say he is brilliant. He belittles those who question him and makes it clear there is no room for debate.
"That's one of the luxuries of being 100 per cent right, absolutely 100 per cent right," he said. "If you can read, you would agree with me."
Phelps' followers take that message to heart.
"They believe that what my dad says is law. He's the shepherd of the flock and he gets his inspiration from the Bible - he's the voice of God on earth," said the former Dortha Phelps, an estranged daughter who has taken the surname Bird to signify her freedom.
Neither Phelps nor his congregants - who believe both he and they are prophets - claim to be without sin, but the pastor is infuriated when asked about their wrongdoings.
Children have had babies out of wedlock. Some have drifted from Westboro, which they believe to be the only true church on earth. The Bible's messages - as Phelps preaches them - have, at times, been ignored within this very family.
Why are some sins different? Why are followers forgiven for sins that would gain an outsider the label of hell-bound whore?
Phelps rises from his chair and walks away, refusing to answer.
Phelps' steps are cautious, his stare vacant, his speech slightly drawled. He will die soon. His lifetime of preaching God's hate, he believes, has earned his place in heaven. And as his spirit ascends, protesters, no doubt, will assemble to celebrate his death.
Phelps has made it clear that he is overjoyed by the prospect. Bring a sign, he implores. Denounce me, defame me, he says. Dance on my grave, spit on my casket, laugh at my passing.
He knows the truth, he says. And in heaven, he'll just smile.
Matt Sedensky, Associated Press
OGDEN, Iowa -- The soldier's flag-draped casket is set on the gymnasium floor, below the unlit scoreboard. The bleachers are crowded with mourners for Sgt. Daniel Sesker, a young man with an infectious laugh who was killed by an improvised explosive device in Iraq.
Outside, picketers thank God for Daniel Sesker's death, talk approvingly of his entrance into hell, and mock those who mourn. Amid gusting winds, they struggle to hold up signs that read Thank God for IEDs and God Hates Your Tears.
Back home in Kansas, tucked away in an office over Westboro Baptist Church, Pastor Fred Phelps cracks a smile when he thinks of what his 15-year campaign of hate has wrought.
Phelps and his followers have branded the U.S. a country of sinners bound to live eternity in a fiery hell. They have called homosexuals the disgusting face of evil, and fallen American soldiers proof of God's wrath.
They don't care whether you like or accept their message because they're not spreading it to save you. They believe it's their duty to let you know that God hates you.
It was this time last year that Phelps and his followers began appearing outside funerals of American troops killed in Iraq, and they've already attended about 100. They've offended people so thoroughly that 31 state legislatures have debated bills to curb such protests, and Congress passed a law restricting demonstrations at national cemeteries.
But Westboro's protesters first gained widespread attention in 1998. A 21-year-old University of Wyoming student, Matthew Shepard, had been lashed to a split-rail post, pistol-whipped, robbed, and left to die because he was gay.
Millions were horrified, but Phelps and his followers showed up at the funeral with signs bearing their trademark message: God Hates Fags. "Fags die, God laughs," they chanted.
They've also graced the funerals of Mister Rogers, victims of Sept. 11 and West Virginia miners - attending more than 25,000 in all, by the church's count.
Westboro Baptist in Topeka, Kan., has only about 75 members, nearly all of them Phelps' relatives. Those who choose to stay in the church must be willing to live an insular life. They must give at least 10 per cent of their earnings to the church and spend thousands more travelling to spread its message.
Their belief in predestination - the idea that God has already determined who's going to heaven and who's going to hell - stems from the Calvinist branch of the 16th century Protestant Reformation and is taught in mainstream churches.
Where Westboro parts ways with Calvinism is in its emphasis on God's hatred and the way it spreads this message. Members believe they must alert the world's depraved sinners of their fate even though such people have no chance of redemption.
While there might be fundamentalist churches in the U.S. that don't disagree with Westboro's basic message - Christian broadcaster Pat Robertson, for example, has said that hurricane Katrina was God's response to the choice of lesbian Ellen DeGeneres as Emmy host, and Moral Majority founder Jerry Falwell said homosexuals "helped (the Sept. 11 attacks) happen" - they haven't stepped forward with signs to join them at their peculiar funeral marches.
The small sanctuary at Westboro Baptist recalls a 1970s living room more than a house of worship. There, the congregation prays that all of God's chosen people will make their way to this church. When the last person comes, they believe, Christ will return and the world will end.
The only ornamentation is a world map and a few signs: "Thank God for Maimed Soldiers," reads one.
Two hymns sung in perfect harmony serve as bookends for the service. The centrepiece is an impassioned sermon by the lanky, 76-year-old Phelps, which focuses on the media and on attempts to silence him - and on how God might get rid of those he hates.
"We pray for more tornadoes, we pray for more hurricanes, that Katrina's just a tiny little preamble," he says near his closing. "That's what we pray for."
Phelps grew up in a typical American, Methodist family, says a former neighbour.
Phelps was bound for West Point when he attended a Methodist revival meeting and said he felt a calling to preach.
He became a civil rights attorney honoured by minority groups for his dedication to cases of poor blacks. But he was disbarred from state courts for improprieties and when the widow of Martin Luther King Jr. died in January this year, Phelps picketed her funeral.
He ran as a Democrat for mayor, governor and senator, but he failed in each campaign and is now uniformly derided by politicians on both sides of the aisle.
Nine of his 13 children defend him without question. Others tell of an abusive, unstable patriarch driven to fits of rage by nearly anything - from the way a child peeled an apple to forgetting to wipe one's shoes.
Once Phelps was on the path to ministry, contact with his father - who he now calls a "wonderful, good old man" - began to wane. The elder Phelps had remarried a woman who was divorced, the sort of evil his son was beginning to preach against.
Other non-believing family members have been similarly marginalized.
"These doctrines and things you believe have an inherent power and effect of sequestering you from all mankind on a close personal level," Phelps explained.
Shirley Phelps-Roper, a daughter of the pastor who frequently acts as a church spokeswoman, lost one of her sons to the outside world.
"Of course it's heartbreaking, on a level, for a short period of time," she said. "Because what you come to terms with is that the child is going to hell."
Many of Phelps' detractors say he is brilliant. He belittles those who question him and makes it clear there is no room for debate.
"That's one of the luxuries of being 100 per cent right, absolutely 100 per cent right," he said. "If you can read, you would agree with me."
Phelps' followers take that message to heart.
"They believe that what my dad says is law. He's the shepherd of the flock and he gets his inspiration from the Bible - he's the voice of God on earth," said the former Dortha Phelps, an estranged daughter who has taken the surname Bird to signify her freedom.
Neither Phelps nor his congregants - who believe both he and they are prophets - claim to be without sin, but the pastor is infuriated when asked about their wrongdoings.
Children have had babies out of wedlock. Some have drifted from Westboro, which they believe to be the only true church on earth. The Bible's messages - as Phelps preaches them - have, at times, been ignored within this very family.
Why are some sins different? Why are followers forgiven for sins that would gain an outsider the label of hell-bound whore?
Phelps rises from his chair and walks away, refusing to answer.
Phelps' steps are cautious, his stare vacant, his speech slightly drawled. He will die soon. His lifetime of preaching God's hate, he believes, has earned his place in heaven. And as his spirit ascends, protesters, no doubt, will assemble to celebrate his death.
Phelps has made it clear that he is overjoyed by the prospect. Bring a sign, he implores. Denounce me, defame me, he says. Dance on my grave, spit on my casket, laugh at my passing.
He knows the truth, he says. And in heaven, he'll just smile.