Banished: Surviving My Years in the Westboro Baptist Church (11 page)

The pastor was determined to keep the model going, even if he was only preaching it to a handful of us. On the easel beside his pulpit, he had letters from the word
TULIP
stacked along the left margin of his poster, which was the acronym for the five points of Calvinism.
T
stood for "total depravity,"
U

stood for "unconditional election,"
L
was "limited atonement,"
I
was for

"irresistible grace," and
P
stood for "perseverance of the saints."

"Total depravity" was an easy concept--every single person was born a sinner. Sometimes, it was referred to by the grimmer phrase "infant damnation." The idea was that after Adam and Eve's fall from grace, the rest of us were born innately evil. By no means did it imply we were pathological murderers or criminals, but because of original sin, we were all sinners. In fact, this was why men could not save themselves.

"Unconditional election" was the concept that seemed to rile people up the most. It was hard to buy into the idea that there was no chance you could earn your way into heaven, that you had to be chosen by God before you were even born. No amount of faith or repentance or righteousness would change your destiny. To me, the biggest misapprehension about Westboro was that we picketed to try to convince people to come to our side before it was too late, telling them "repent while you can." This couldn't have been further from the truth; we were just spreading the word that sinners were going to hell, because God wanted it that way.

"Limited atonement," or partial redemption, also caused a lot of consternation from other Christians. They were under the impression that a true, selfless faith in Christ would secure them a place in heaven. But limited atonement meant only the elect would be so graced. If you weren't a chosen one, you weren't destined for God's kingdom of heaven no matter how sincerely and how often you repented. There was no salvation for you. On the other hand, if you were one of God's elect, then atonement for transgressions was possible, because the error of your ways had really been part of God's master plan for you.

"Irresistible grace" was pretty straightforward. God's call was invincible, infinitely more powerful than hatred and hating hearts. Nothing could change the predestiny of the chosen ones, who were guided by God's grace alone.

God would not forsake anyone he had chosen.

"Perseverance of the saints" was also known as "eternal security." Again, it didn't really have anything to do with man's life on earth but referred instead to God, who, having predestined people to His kingdom, would sustain them with faith until they got there.

It came down to this: Salvation was conditional, and election was unconditional. Salvation had to do with time, and election was God's decree, plain and simple, predestined without time or place. God's election was a mystery known only to Him. Every single person was guilty before God, and therefore deserving of His wrath. Certain sinners were chosen to be saved, but they were not saved yet. Without the elective intervention of God, salvation would be impossible. All sinners but the chosen few were justly and eternally condemned. The proof of everything the pastor said was written in the scriptures, but I was quickly learning that the ignorant were not aware of the message. The WBC was only spreading the Word of God.

On Sundays, the sanctuary would be pretty much filled to capacity. The atmosphere was always festive and energized. We weren't required to dress up for the service, although a few people liked to come in dresses or suit jackets and ties. Anybody who was just arriving from a local picket was usually dressed for comfort rather than ceremony. If it was cold, we'd be in sweat suits and layers, all of which were acceptable. The women had to have their heads covered, so most of us wore scarves, but a few opted for hats or bonnets.

We'd all take our seats in the pews. By habit, families sat together and in the same place each week. The Drain family pew we'd been assigned was the last one in the back on the right-hand side. Like all the families, we had a cardboard carton at our pew holding all the things we needed on a regular basis: pencils and notepads to take notes, extra scarves and head coverings, and our Bibles.

We all had the regular King James Bibles, each encrusted in gold leaf. The cool teenagers brought their electronic Bibles and their laptops with them, as wel . That way we could look up passages from the Bible when we needed to or refer to any of the current events that the pastor would be talking about.

The service always started with a song or two, straight from the traditional Christian hymnbook. Fred Jr., who sat at the upright piano in the front left of the church for the entire service, accompanied us while his wife, Betty, led the singing. The whole congregation, men, women, and children, were allowed to sing. Marge Phelps, the pastor's wife, dutifully sat directly in front of the pulpit to listen to her husband.

When we were on the final verse of the opening hymn, the pastor would enter through a door close to his pulpit. He usually wore a rumpled sports jacket and slacks. His long, wiry gray hair was hack-combed, giving him the look of someone who had just gotten out of a convertible. He was in his early seventies when we first got there and very fit. He loved to bike and run daily.

Members of the congregation, even the ones not related to him, called him Gramps.

The pastor's first action after he took the floor each Sunday was to distribute a newsletter that he had written covering current events of the week. Then, he would begin his sermon in his distinctive Southern drawl. These sermons were the best opportunity for me to get up to speed on the opinions of the church. The first few weeks, I thought they were a little difficult to understand.

The pastor presented them as if everyone knew every reference he was using. I understood them, but on a rather rudimentary level. I soon discovered they could be appreciated on many levels. They were layered.

The more seasoned a Christian you were, the more you would understand.

The pastor led the entire service and delivered 90 percent of the sermons.

On occasion, if he was sick or at an out-of-town picket, then one of the other elder men would take his place. Women were not allowed to deliver the sermons, let alone speak, when we were gathered in the sanctuary.

Alternates filling in would base the homily on one of the pastor's hot topics.

Nobody would want to usurp him by coming up with an independent idea, and the pastor never ran out of ideas. He was a cause monger, always with something on his mind. He read newspapers and monitored Fox News 24/7, trolling for issues.

The pastor would start a story at a regular volume, then crank it up a few decibels for dramatic effect before returning to his normal speaking voice.

When he was specifying a sin, like a homosexual act, he'd grow more animated and make sure the words were clearly enunciated, not to be lost in the rest of the sentence. He was always very graphic, telling us that homosexuals were the type of people who would eat each other's feces, have sex with each other's feces, take "golden showers," and drink each other's semen. His sermon always connected a current event to a Bible story. First, he'd elaborate on a tale from the Old or New Testament, then demonstrate how it applied to his theme of the day. For example, he would equate George Bush with the Pharaoh of Egypt, saying that Bush viewed himself as America's best president, just as the Pharaoh thought he was the best leader of Egypt. He'd then draw parallels between all the bad things happening to America and the plagues that befell Egypt. I found his sermons fascinating, unlike any I'd ever heard at any of the churches I had been to.

They were filled with the scary consequences of God's judgment. I loved that. I wanted to learn something new and be able to connect what the Bible was telling me to real-life situations. I thought that the pastor did that on a pretty large scale, and he drew parallels that I could follow.

Behind the pastor's podium was a big easel on which he'd display whatever current event was being discussed. If the subject was more specific than homosexuality or American politics, such as a recent natural disaster that had killed a lot of people or a catastrophic plane crash somewhere in the world, we'd learn that God wanted these people dead, and of course, they were in hell. The pastor had a lot more fervor and animation at the pulpit than he did away from it. Perhaps it was because all of his sermons were recorded and posted on the Internet, so he wasn't just preaching to us.

Knowing that people outside of the church were going to be watching him, he wanted his sermons to be really dramatic, powerful, and memorable. If we were on an away picket, we'd take the time to listen to them on the Internet.

They were organized by date on the website, so we could easily access the ones we wanted.

From the pulpit, the pastor would sometimes read us a letter or e-mail that had arrived at the church during the week from a complete stranger. The letter would confirm that we were not the only ones who thought God's wrath and violence against sinners were justified. Writers would congratulate the pastor for shining a light on these issues, saying the view of our church was correct and thanking us for having the courage to speak out against sins such as homosexuality. Sometimes they would have actually been in a crowd at a place where we had picketed, but hadn't had the courage to side with us. Even if it was a small voice somewhere, we had reached somebody.

During one sermon, the pastor read us a letter from someone who had been homosexual and turned straight. The writer told us his life had been miserable until he heard our message and changed his sinning ways.

Others told us how happy they were that we protested the Catholic Church on behalf of the victims of priest abuse.

There was a reason letters of gratitude were so rare. "There are only a few of God's people on earth who know the Truth," the pastor would say. That would explain why only one in a million letters we got would be a thank-you.

The rest would be everything from threats on our lives to vile attacks on our souls. But that one thank-you would be enough for us to say, "Wow, someone gets it." Shirley would respond to the positive letters right away to show our appreciation for the endorsement.

Sometimes we'd have a follower who was rejuvenated by our message. He would join us for a Sunday service or a picket or two, and then he would fall away. We didn't mind if we never saw these people again. We were a very tight community, and we were spiritually connected to one another. We were not in need of any reinforcements.

After the pastor had finished his sermon, he would make his brief announcements. These were usually about local news events and the upcoming picket schedule. When they were finished, the service was officially over. At that point, we'd have a chance to greet the pastor and have a quick talk with him about anything we wanted. Megan, Rebekah, Jael, and some of the other girls would go up to the pulpit and hug their grandfather, but I preferred hanging back. He was so powerful that no matter how much I wanted him to think favorably of me, I'd inevitably tighten up when he was in my proximity.

For the rest of Sunday, we might picket again if there was something on the schedule. Otherwise, we'd do schoolwork, help out with jobs around the compound, or do something with our nuclear family. On the last Sunday of each month, we'd celebrate the birthdays of people who had been born that month. In good weather, the party was held in the yard, where we'd play volleyball and basketball; otherwise it was held in Shirley's basement. There was always lots of food and the singing of "Happy Birthday" to the guests of honor.

As I became more familiar with the pastor, I decided that the impression that most of the world had of him was wrong. I was aware of what people said about him, but he was not a vulgar, whacked-out, misanthropic crab. His truth was anchored in fundamental Christian theology, he didn't make it up as he went, and his passionate issue was that Christians underestimated the wrath of God. Within the church, the pastor was revered and respected by everybody.

I didn't know what the proper relationship I should have with him should be.

He seemed so omniscient that I feared anything I said would sound dumb. I couldn't take my cues from his granddaughters, because as family members their rules would be different. I was worried that if I was too friendly, my behavior might be interpreted as disrespectful. If I was too detached, he might think I was bored or, worse, vain. I wasn't sure why I was scared to ask Megan, Rebekah, and Jael what they thought, but I couldn't. I just hoped and prayed that I was worthy to be in the church in the eyes of the pastor.

He was friendly to me, but not warm. "So, Lauren, how are you doing? How's everyone treating you?" he'd ask. "Do you like being here? Are you getting along well with the girls?" I felt mildly uncomfortable, but I thought he was genuine and sincere. One-on-one, he seemed gentle, humble, honest, and patient. Like the stereotypical gentle grandfather, he was very nonthreatening. He used big words and knew a lot of history and biblical concepts. Sometimes, I felt a little intimidated by his knowledge. He'd ask me a biblical question, and I would try to answer, but in my head, I worried that I was wrong.

I was probably being oversensitive, but I'd feel particularly awkward when the pastor would tell his biological grandchildren how much they meant to him right in front of me. "You're not going to leave me," he'd say, giving them a big embrace. I took these to be slights, a subliminal communication that I was an outsider. I was always on guard, wondering what he had heard people saying about me. Most cultures labeled people who talked about you behind your back as gossips, but in the church it was a way to keep people from straying toward evil. As time went on, the pastor warmed up to me. He would tell me I was like his real granddaughters, right there in his heart.

Things like that made me feel much more included.

I could tell that the pastor's devotion to his church was genuine. He had founded the WBC when he was just twenty-six years old. The name he chose, Westboro Baptist Church, was a bit of a misnomer. The word
Baptist
in the title didn't mean it was aligned or associated with the Baptist world.