God Hates Fred Phelps

[Gob]

The former leader of a US church that was widely known for its inflammatory anti-gay protests has died, his family has said.



The Reverend Fred Phelps Sr, founder of the Westboro Baptist Church in Kansas, died on Wednesday evening at 84.

The church, made up mostly of his family, rose to international notoriety with its practice of picketing funerals of fallen US troops.

It claimed their deaths were punishment for America's tolerance of gays.



Later, he and his small congregation - founded in 1955 and later dubbed "the most hated family in America" by the BBC's Louis Theroux - aimed their vitriol at many groups, including immigrants and Jews. But their signature slogan was "God hates fags".

"You're not going to get nowhere with that slop that 'God loves you,'" Mr Phelps once told the Religion News Service. "That's a diabolical lie from hell without biblical warrant."

In 2009, Mr Phelps and his daughter were barred from entering the United Kingdom due to their anti-gay preaching.

The church's actions inspired a federal law and numerous state laws limiting picketing at funerals.

In 2011 the church won a major legal victory when the US Supreme Court ruled it could not be sued for monetary damages for inflicting pain on grieving families.

[Econoline]

http://www.esquire.com/blogs/politics/f ... s-politics

A TALE OF TWO FREDS: HAPPY BIRTHDAY AND GO TO HELL
Fred Phelps, the hatemonger who picketed Mr. Rogers' funeral, died on Mr. Rogers' birthday.

By Tom Junod on March 20, 2014

I only had one encounter with Fred Phelps and the Westboro Baptist Church. It was, of course, at a funeral. The funeral, of course, was for a man in whom the Reverend Phelps discerned either a sympathy for—or simply an insufficient hatred of—homosexuals. And he, of course, managed to turn it into a scene, a mockery of the purpose for which it was intended.

The funeral in question took place eleven years ago, in downtown Pittsburgh. Phelps was still new to the national awareness. American soldiers had just begun dying in Iraq, and Phelps and his congregants had just begun the task of profaning their funerals. I still remember the sense of near panic their presence inspired, and most of all the confusion: Wait a second, I’m at the funeral of a beloved man, and there are people across the street protesting because “God hates fags,” and he didn’t…?

It didn’t make any sense, so I crossed the street. I was not alone; there were the counter-protesters who became a regular part of Phelps’ dismal theater of outrage, and they gathered in front of Westboro’s picket line and confronted them. The police moved in, out of fear that the confrontation might escalate into the violence that Phelps apparently craved. (What I heard, even then, was that he made his living filing lawsuits against those he’d provoked into some kind of physical response.)

But there was no violence. There could be no violence, at this particular funeral, and all the counter-protesters did was sing the song indelibly associated with both the deceased and with American childhood—because the deceased was indelibly associated with American childhood. “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood,” they sang, and I had a chance to talk to some of the people from Westboro, and to observe their own American children.

I don’t remember anything they said. What I do remember was how their children looked, and the keen and nearly overwhelming sense of loss the appearance of their children elicited. There were so many of them, for one thing; the Westboro congregation turned out to be a young one, and even some of the lank-haired women holding signs and spitting epithets turned out be, on closer inspection, teenagers. And they were all so poor. I’m not speaking simply of their clothes, and their teeth, and their grammar, or any of the other markers of class in America. I’m speaking of their poverty of spirit. Whether they were sixteen or six, they looked to be already exhausted, already depleted, with greasy hair, dirty faces, and circles under their eyes that had already hardened into purplish dents. They looked as if they were far from home, and didn’t know where they were going next. They looked, in truth, not just poorly taken care of, but abused, if not physically then by a belief inimical to childhood—the belief that to be alive is to hate and be hated.

It was the condition of those children that was the true profanation of the funeral of Fred McFeely Rogers, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in 2003, and it is eerie symmetry that the day of Fred Phelps died is also the day Fred Rogers would have turned 86. I am tempted to call it karma, and to crow that such coincidence offers indisputable proof that in the mind of God, the good Fred wins. But hey, it’s Mister Rogers’ birthday, and so I can only do what he would do:

Pray that now, with the Minister of Hate gone, some poor soldier can finally get his rest, and some poor child get her sleep.

[MajGenl.Meade]

Oh dear - the poor fellow just had his first (and last) meeting with God. Bet that was a surprise ending for him!

[Big RR]

Well I'll trust him to god's grace; and deep down I hope god is better than me because I would give Fred none.

Then again, perhaps finally realizing that your life was wasted perpetuating an asinine lie, and having to come to terms with all the grief you caused, is really what hell is. I would think eternal torment in a lake of fire would be far preferable to that.

[Rick]

Oh dear - the poor fellow just had his first (and last) meeting with God. Bet that was a surprise ending for him!

[Joe Guy]

I wonder how Freddie reacted when he realized that everyone in heaven is gay?

[Crackpot]

Apparently ol Freddie was excommunicated from his own church last August. I wonder what the story behind that is?

[Big RR]

No one knows, but before the tape self destructed it said, "The secretary will disavow any knowledge of your action", so maybe we'll never know what happened with Mr. Phelps.

[Rick]

You ain't right in the head

[Big RR]

Perhaps, but then you're the one reading my post.

[Rick]

Tru dat

[TPFKA@W]

When I was a kid I always envisioned a secretary, steno pad in hand, when they said the secretary would disavow.

[Gob]

“Next!” says Saint Peter, beckoning an old man with cold blue eyes and a cowboy hat towards the Pearly Gates.

“Ah, Mr Phelps,” says the gatekeeper as the old man approaches. “What time do you call this? Twitter has had you down as practically dead since Monday.”

“Tweeter. . .” says Phelps, gazing furrow-browed into the clouds.

“Never mind. Right, let’s get started, shall we? I’m afraid we’ve had to up security here a little, since the Thatcher Incident last year. I’m going to start by asking you a few questions about your time on earth.”

“By all means, sir. I know darn well I’ve led a righteous life. Ask away.”

“Great! Right then, Mr Phelps,” says Saint Peter, picking up a clipboard, “I’m going to present you with some statements. In response to each one, I need you to tell me if you strongly agree, agree, somewhat agree, disagree or strongly disagree. All clear?”

Phelps slowly nods his Stetson-topped head.

“Number one: ‘To the best of my ability, I did unto others as I would have them do unto me.’”

“Strongly agree,” shoots the unblinking Phelps.

“Right,” says Saint Peter, chewing on the end of his pen. “I’m afraid that answer presents us with a slight administrative problem. I’m not actually cleared to deal with this sort of thing yet – these security measures really are very new. I’m going to have to get Maureen from the Department of Heavenly Prerogatives and Standards to come and lend a hand. Please bear with me.”

“But sir,” says Phelps, eyes widening into vicious blue marbles, “I’m a true Christian. I lived my entire life according to the Lord’s word. Surely there’s no need for this?”

Ignoring Phelps, Saint Peter picks up a crackling walkie talkie, “Maureen,” he says into it, “We have a possible A1327 violation here.”

The walkie talkie squawks something indecipherable to Phelps, but a winged woman in a pencil skirt, with a Heaven Border Security tag on a lanyard, soon appears.

“Hello Mr Phelps, my name’s Maureen. I’m going to be helping you through security today.”

“This is a downright outrage!” bellows Phelps, “I did not dedicate my life to preaching the word of our Lord Jesus Christ to be held here, outside of Heaven’s Gate, like a godforsaken sodomite.”

“I understand that you’re upset, Mr Phelps” says Maureen in a tone that suggests that she has no experience dealing with the upset whatsoever, “But I’m afraid you’ve violated section A1327 of the Heavenly Security Code – that’s the Love Thy Neighbour clause.”

“This is BS!” says Phelps, raising his arms.

“Please, Mr Phelps,” says a decidedly bored Maureen. “If you’ll just bear with us. . .”

“I want to speak to God,” says Phelps, “He knows I’m a good Christian.”

“Mr Phelps, I’m afraid it’s that church of yours,” says Maureen, emphasising the word “church” with a pair of elaborate air quotation marks. “Your whole ‘God hates fags’ thing. See, what you’ve actually done is libel God. And to put it mildly, Mr Phelps, he’s not a happy bunny.”

“Libel?!” shrieks Phelps, his red face twitching like an electrocuted rump steak, “Leviticus 18:22: ‘Do not have sexual relations with a man as one does with a woman; that is detestable’. Those are His own words.”

“I’m sorry Mr Phelps, but all of that. . . wrathful stuff was overwritten in the Gospel of Matthew. You know, ‘love thy neighbour as thyself’. God decided to do a bit of a rebrand at that point, you see. And to be quite honest, you can’t just hate your way into Heaven like in the olden days. In fact, all of these security measures are part of Operation Cuddly Pants. Jesus has personally demanded a crackdown on all the ‘haters’ (his word, not mine) getting through the Pearly Gates.”

Phelp’s jaw creeks into its full extension.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to fill out these forms,” says Maureen.

Phelps is nudged out of his catatonic state by the thud of a War and Peace-thick stack of paper hitting Saint Peter’s desk.

“It’ll take six to eight months to process,” adds Maureen, “In the meantime, you’re in luck – a room has just become available at the YMCA in Purgatory.

Two muscle-bound angels appear.

“Adam and Steve,” Maureen addresses them, “Please will you escort Mr Phelps downstairs.”

[Gob]

God has admitted he’s delighted to finally have someone to live with him in Heaven, after the death of Westboro Baptist Church leader Fred Phelps.

God welcomed the Church leader, claiming he had waited thousands of years for someone who finally ‘got it’ and could therefore be welcomed into through the pearly gates.

His heavenliness explained, “Every day without fail I have these do-gooders and bleeding heart liberals turning up on my doorstep claiming they’ve lived a good life. But so what?”

“Did you picket the funeral of a soldier I had killed because the gays can get married? No, you didn’t.”

“Did you harass passers-by on the street about how I completely and utterly hate fags? No, you did not.”

“So why do you expect to get a place in Heaven with me? I thought I’d made myself pretty clear in the Bible.”

“It’s all in there if you look closely enough and ignore all the right bits – and thankfully Fred Phelps did just that.”

“We’re getting on great, thanks for asking. He’s a lovely fella, though he’s insisting on wearing a t-shirt with the slogan ‘I told you so’.”

“Plus I’m enjoying spending time with someone other than Jesus – who let’s be honest is a bit of a soppy sod when it comes to the gays.”

God went on to reiterate that Heaven is only for the deserving, and that no-one in the history of mankind is more deserving than Fred Phelps.

He explained, “I don’t care how much you did for charity, or how many ‘neighbours you loved’ – you’re not getting in unless you’ve done as I wanted, like Fred did.”

“I’m half tempted to have a lightning bolt hit the Westboro Baptist Church, as we could maybe get a bit of a bowling league going on up here. That would be fun.”

“But then who would be down there telling you how to get up here?”

“It’s a tough one, for sure.”

[MajGenl.Meade]

First one mildly amusing. Second puerile