“God hates America, and God demonstrated that hatred to some modest degree only last Tuesday—sent in those bombers, those hellacious 767 Boeing bombers, and it was a glorious sight. What you need to do is see in those flames—those sickening, twisting, burning, life-destroying flames, brightly shining from every television set around the world! You need to see in those flames a little preview of the flames of Hell that are going to soon engulf you, my friend. Burn your soul forever.”
The September 11 attacks didn’t change our message, but they did become our symbol of God’s wrath, and from that point on, we really ramped up our message and our pickets. When we held our signs THANK GOD FOR 9/11, GOD HATES YOUR TEARS, BUSH KILLED THEM, and GOD SENT THE PLANES, we always provoked really angry reactions. People would swear, throw things at us, cry, tell us we were horrible, say that we were going to hell, and call us communists who needed to leave the country. I had already developed a sort of tough exterior to get through any aggression that might flare up at a picket, but things were definitely starting to heat up after September 11. Even at our weekly local pickets, we noticed an increasingly violent reaction to us. But I had such a strong sense of entitlement and protection that I quickly overcame any sense of fear. I was also told that it was good to have the whole world hate you. It made you a better Christian.
Because the attack was a sign of God’s wrath for a nation that tolerated homosexuality, we had to remind everyone that God hated fags, and anything supporting or enabling them. The country was corrupted by evil. Anyone who supported a country that supported homosexuals was a sinner. The pastor believed there was no longer a fundamental religious community in America, which was why it had strayed so far. According to him, the country had started out right, as a melting pot for citizens from many nations who were escaping religious persecution in their own homelands. He said it used to be the best place in the world, founded on godly principles and guided by a Constitution with a lot of protections for religion. No other country had freedom as we had established it here. Freedom of speech and freedom of religion were the cornerstones of our liberty.
The pastor didn’t think that God had always hated America. He said for three hundred years, from the time the Pilgrims landed forward, the population had been God-fearing and had lived obedient lives, until the tolerance of homosexuality became its undoing. He liked to cite Alexis de Tocqueville’s book Democracy in America. In it, Tocqueville referred to homosexuality as the worm in the American apple. The pastor agreed, believing when homosexuality ran rampant in our country, the fruit of America would go bad.
The pastor said that when you had God at the center, evil was kept at bay. But now, Americans either didn’t care about God anymore or practiced a fake religion, one in which a distorted God loved everybody. When prophets like us, who spoke only for God, were persecuted, our country was doomed. God was punishing it with various catastrophes. God was also willing to punish anyone who lived in a country where His prophets were vilified or attacked. Sodom was the pastor’s ideal example of retribution. In the time of Abraham, Sodom had become so overrun with sin and sinners that God chose to eliminate the city entirely by raining down fire. The word sodomy, the sin of deviant sex and homosexuality, was derived from Sodom. God’s destruction of the evil city was a precursor of what he had planned for the modern world.
Despite the fact that God hated America, the church used to celebrate traditional patriotic holidays along with the rest of the country. The pastor thought that there were still enough good Christian leaders preaching against homosexuality that God still had hope. Our family had moved to Topeka a few days before the church’s annual Fourth of July celebration, when everybody had gathered together in the churchyard for a communal picnic of fried chicken, potato salad, coleslaw, watermelon, cookies, and pies. Kids had been diving in and out of the pool and jumping on the trampoline until evening, when the older ones had mischievously set off small firecrackers and Roman candles. After September 11, 2001, however, the pastor realized just how angry God was. He canceled future Fourth of July celebrations and any other holiday that celebrated America, like Memorial Day, Veterans’ Day, and Labor Day. In fact, the Fourth of July became a major day to picket Gage Park and a few large parades. The Thanksgiving holiday was celebrated for a year or two more, but eventually it was canceled, too. The pastor said it was a pagan feast that had been created to allow the governor of Massachusetts a chance to “lust after the semi-naked bodies of the Indians he invited.” Also, we thanked God every day for our blessings, so we thought it was disingenuous to do it once a year.
After September 11, Shirley, Margie, and Dad created new mockeries of patriotic songs. “America the Burning” being especially fitting. Megan, Bekah, Jael, and I used the new material in our biweekly high school lunchtime pickets, which of course, incited even more rage from our fellow students. We just laughed in their faces, our usual response to hostility. We were trained to treat everything as though it were a joke, because then our attackers wouldn’t be able to engage us. September 11, as supersensitive an issue as it was, was no exception. We were probably the only ones in the country who believed God had acted properly and justly when he caused so much carnage, death, and destruction on that day. Everybody else thought it was terrorism, but we knew it was the wrath of God.
When the United States overran Afghanistan with American armed forces a few weeks later, the pastor used the invasion to talk about his outrage that homosexuals were allowed in the military. He loved when soldiers were killed, saying that God agreed with him that the military was infused with perversion, and that fighting men deserved to die. He had celebrated when soldiers died in action even before September 11, but he became more hard-line after God showed him His unmistakable wrath.
I had heard accounts that the pastor started really loathing homosexuality in earnest somewhere around the time of his high school graduation. He had been prepped for a military career from the time he had been very young. His father had had high hopes of him being a military man; he had risen through the Boy Scout program from a Cub Scout all the way to an Eagle Scout, its highest honor; and his congressman had written him a letter of recommendation for West Point. However, he never enrolled. According to the story the pastor once told us, he went to an orientation weekend in the summer of 1946 and came out of it with a change of heart. He said he had been really excited about his trip to upstate New York, but something must have happened during his visit. He never said what sparked his religious epiphany there, but after that weekend he made a total about-face and decided he was going to be a preacher rather than a soldier, and he has hated homosexuality and the military ever since.
The pastor insisted that there were homosexuals at every level of the military. Sometimes, interviewers would ask him if he had ever engaged in homosexual activity, and he would always get outraged, stop the interview, and refuse to continue on any line of questioning.
I always found it odd that whenever the pastor had a pulpit, his most vicious attacks against homosexuals seemed to come when he was talking about the military. I knew precisely where and how many times in the Bible God said He hated homosexuals. I wasn’t quite as clear as to why the pastor also found military men abominable. The pastor didn’t like being called homophobic, either, because, he said, he had no fear of homosexuals. But his intense hatred seemed more personal. He never seemed to mind talking about the details of his personal history, but any discussion of his weekend at West Point seemed to hit a nerve. I often thought that something in particular had happened there, but it was nothing more than a hunch.
Picketing funerals of soldiers killed in Afghanistan and Iraq didn’t begin in earnest until 2005. Of all the pickets we did, none of them excited the pastor as much as the protests at the funerals of fallen soldiers. They were his most satisfying protests. To me, this seemed like an overreaction, but we all got into it, like we did at every kind of picket.
As far as the pastor was concerned, fighting for a count
ry that did not have godly principles was not honorable. If the laws of a country were bad, such as the law allowing homosexuals in the armed services, then it was only a matter of time till God would punish that country. The population was throwing itself on its deathbed, because God would turn His back on everyone, sinner and sin enabler alike, just as He had in Sodom. God had sent America many warnings before September 11, so many forebodings in the form of natural calamities and smaller deadly incidents, but America hadn’t changed its ways. It was just getting weaker and weaker, more and more evil. The pastor said it was the church’s duty to tell our countrymen they were doomed, not to save them but to open their eyes.
CHAPTER TEN
For by one Spirit are we all baptized into one body, whether we be Jews or Gentiles, whether we be bond or free; and have been all made to drink into one Spirit.
—1 Corinthians 12:13
We had been in Topeka only a few months when I decided to be baptized and become a permanent member of the church. I made my decision in the afternoon of a regular school day in October. I had just come back into the building after picketing outside with my friends, and I was feeling especially moved and excited. September 11 had shown me how temporal and fragile life on earth was, especially when God was feeling vengeful. I believed in hell; I wanted to be baptized, and I wanted it to happen fast. The members of the WBC were the only true Christians left in the world, and things were so much better at home now that I knew God was telling me my path to spirituality and fulfillment was through obedience. Mom and Dad seemed a lot happier with me and even a little proud.
Baptism was an irreversible decision. Every child brought up within the church had to decide if he or she would commit to a lifetime in the church through baptism. Once baptized, your membership in the church was sealed, save for a fall from grace. Dad had been baptized during the summer. His ceremony was held outside by the swimming pool, with Taylor, my mother, and me joining the rest of the congregation around the pool’s edge. The pastor recited a verse from John the Baptist, then dunked my father in the pool. Every member of the congregation was there—in fact, baptisms weren’t performed unless everyone was able to attend. I knew this rite of passage was a turning point for our whole family now that my father had made his life commitment. Now my own baptism was going to be the true testament of my belief.
The evening after I’d made my decision, I broke the news at dinner. Mom, Dad, Taylor, and I were seated around the table in our tiny dining room off the kitchen, where Mom had just served us her fallback midweek meal of pot roast, buttered noodles, and something green. Mom wasn’t a fancy person. She usually set the table with washable place mats and practical, heavy green plates. Her better stuff, like her wedding china, was displayed in two china cabinets inherited from her grandmother, but we rarely used it. I could see the hideous duck-and-chicken border of the kitchen from my place at the table.
Dad stopped eating and immediately started asking me questions about my decision. “What is your reason for wanting to become a member?” he began.
“I believe in God, and I believe in the church,” I answered sincerely. “I feel this is where I want to be.”
He explained that I would have to speak with the elders, who would question me and assess the validity of my request, but he was really excited for me. Mom and Taylor were also over the moon. Mom, always taking things more slowly than anyone else in the family, hadn’t made her own commitment yet, although she was certainly moving in that direction.
Babies weren’t baptized in the WBC. You were allowed to participate in the sacrament of baptism only if you were serious about your commitment, and you made a formal request. The process was laborious and thorough. After you had made the request, you had to be interviewed by the elders of the church. They would ask questions like “Why do you want to be baptized?” and “Do you know what it means?” They’d challenge you on the Bible and on your behavior. I had to make sure I wanted to be part of their fellowship as much as they wanted to include me.
Four of Shirley’s eleven kids, including Megan and Bekah, had already been baptized. A couple of the Phelps cousins had been baptized as young as age six. As long as someone could intelligently answer questions about his or her faith, he or she could be baptized. The commitment was a big deal and not to be taken lightly. Jael still hadn’t even done it. She said she was too nervous about the consequences. “What if I get baptized and then I mess up?” she asked. We both knew that after baptism, a serious mistake guaranteed you infinitely more excruciating torture in a hotter place in hell.
Not everybody who asked to be baptized was granted permission, but Danielle, one of Tim’s daughters, was the only one I heard of who was denied. The membership felt she was requesting it only because the other kids her age were, not because she was committed to joining. But she was allowed to make the request again when she felt she could prove her commitment.
As soon as we finished eating, Dad called Shirley and told her that I had something really important to discuss. Shirley hosted a dinner for our family a few nights later. She always had room for everybody, between her huge open kitchen island crammed with dining stools and her dining table for ten. The younger kids sat at the island, and the rest of us were at the dining table, Megan and Bekah on either side of me. Everybody seemed genuinely enthusiastic about my decision, which was a great relief.
I knew I wanted to be baptized, and I thought my friends were happy for me, but I didn’t want to give the impression that I was being rash or self-indulgent or just trying to impress everybody.
In my case, twelve elders, one from each family, had to interview me before I could make an appointment to speak to the pastor. I was very nervous during the series of one-on-ones, but for the most part they seemed to go well, and I proceeded to schedule an interview with Pastor Phelps.
Our meeting took place on a late October afternoon in the wood-paneled library of his home. The walls were lined with bookshelves crammed with historical and theological texts. I could see the spines of Absolute Predestination by Jerome Zanchius, The Five Points of Calvinism by R. L. Dabney, and Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God by Jonathan Edwards popping out from the rest of the collection, as if they had been read recently.
I wore nice pants and a T-shirt, making sure I didn’t look too dressy. The last thing I wanted was to look fussy, fake, or vain. When the pastor came in, I realized this was the first time I had ever been alone with him. Our few conversations before this were always in a group setting with his granddaughters. He sat down at his mahogany desk across from me and gave me a warm smile, which put me only slightly more at ease.
“Why do you want to be a member?” he asked, right after our brief greeting.
I was so nervous, I could barely speak, but I managed to say, “Well, I believe in God, I believe in hell, and I don’t want to go to hell.” I immediately started tearing up at the thought of writhing in pain forever, but he didn’t seem to notice. He asked me for my interpretation of a verse or two in the Bible, and about what kinds of things the other elders had been asking me.
There were only a few questions but I felt like it went on for hours. I was so intimidated in the presence of such a devout man, wondering if he was skeptical or excited about my confession of faith.
Finally, he got to his last question: “Are the rest of the members happy with you joining?”
“They seem to be, yes,” I said sincerely. Even Libby, who still hadn’t warmed up to me much, hadn’t objected to my petition to join.
Once the pastor was satisfied with my commitment, he asked everyone else who had interviewed me what they thought, and then made the decision to admit me through the sacrament of baptism. Shirley and Dad told me the good news. I was really anxious for it to happen right away, but it kept getting pushed back because of the picket schedule and work conflicts. It was always hard to pick a day when everybody could be present. The delay scared me, because we preached that God would return any day, and I was
terrified he’d come before my baptism and that I’d be sent straight to hell. Finally, a date was decided by the elders.
My baptism took place during a Sunday service in late fall. I was wearing a frumpy tan-and-black business suit from the 1980s that Mom had hanging in her closet. The outfit wasn’t my style, but I was trying to look formal, conservative, and grown-up, and I loved that Mom lent it to me. My hair was two shades of blonde, now that my natural darker blonde roots had pushed my golden color from Florida a good way down the side of my face. I wasn’t allowed to cut off the dyed portion, and I wasn’t allowed to dye the roots, so I was now half and half. I was too excited about my baptism to even think about it.
Dad was really proud of me that day. He hugged and kissed me before I took my place in the front of the church. The pastor quoted verses that talked about being born into this life in sin, about baptism washing away the old sins, about being immersed in the water and coming back pure. There were two baptismal fonts: one outside, which was the swimming pool, and one inside, the size and shape of a bathtub, behind the pulpit and hidden by a curtain. My baptism, a full immersion style, took place inside because of the time of the year. The pastor opened the curtain behind the pulpit and summoned me to come with him. He blessed me and dunked me. When my head came up, I started crying. I was in awe of being a full member of the church and one of God’s chosen few. I felt truly blessed.
The reception was in Shirley’s basement. Fred Jr. played hymns on the piano while we ate a delicious spread made up of various potluck dishes brought by the members. Everybody congratulated me and welcomed me into the fellowship. I didn’t think it got any better than this.
Once I was baptized, I became a real part of the community. I was now going to be held to the strictest standards of the church. I knew I had an even higher responsibility to my fellow church members than before. If I saw somebody doing something wrong, I was expected to report it. Likewise, I was going to be more accountable to them. More than ever, people would inform my parents if they witnessed something out of line on my part—maybe if my shirt was too short, or if I was acting lazy. I lived in constant fear of disappointing my parents and other members, of the embarrassment of being called out for “transgressions,” of going to hell, or even of being banished from the church.
Banished : Surviving My Years in the Westboro Baptist Church (9781455518470) Page 13