HOW CAN any of us celebrate the death of another man, we who are mortal ourselves? Word came this week that Fred Phelps, the founding pastor of a church more known for protesting at military funerals than for anything of spiritual worth, had died at the age of 84. He died, his family said, of natural causes, demonstrating again that the good die young.
We’ve run into his church on a couple of occasions, including one in 2008 right here in Arkansas. That’s when the Democrat-Gazette was playing host to a convention of editorial writers (a clatter of editorial writers?) held at the old Peabody in Little Rock.
The hotel has since changed names and management, and for that matter so has the National Conference of Editorial Writers, which for now goes by the more generic title of Association of Opinion Journalists-so not to exclude columnists, not-so-innocent bystanders, and such.
But, oh, what a group the old NCEW was. The stories we could tell. If we weren’t certain that somebody would tell on us in return.
Now and then a few of us recidivist editorial writers try to pick a piece of prose that is just purple enough, but not too purple, to get past a copy desk and make it into a newspaper-call it lavender prose-and any opinionator who can pull off the feat, and have his phrase appear in print, is eligible for membership in a less than prestigious outfit we’ve dubbed The Order of the Occult Hand.
The name is a tribute to the overused phrase some reporters with nothing better to do tried to get into print back in the Fifties-“It was as if an occult hand . . . .” But our plot was exposed by some sharp-eyed stoolie, and we’ve had to change the “secret” phrase from time to time. It seems opinionators are very bad at keeping secrets, which is a good thing for the reading public. ‘Cause it’s not nice to keep secrets from our readers. They’re our bread and butter.
FOR SOME reason back in 2008. a delegation from the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kan., thought this clatter of commentators not so solemnly assembled in Little Rock was important enough to protest. Easily stroked editorial writers were thrilled. Copy on the hoof! And protesting us no less! At last we were important enough to incite a protest, and not just self-important. The editorials wrote themselves!
Then the members of the church appeared on the street. And the thrill was gone. To be replaced by an overwhelming (1) sadness, (2) pity, and (3) desire to take a shower. Because these people young and old were carrying picket signs designed to offend common decency, complete with the usual epithets and even stick figures in sexual positions. And in the middle of it all, and worst of all, little kids. From the church.Holding said signs. So much for the age of innocence.
The supposed adult from the church we talked to was rage personified. Hatred dripped off his elbow like so much sweat. He didn’t talk so much as spit out his words. He said he was teaching his children that God hated America. The reason, it seems, was that this country didn’t persecute homosexuals sufficiently.
A little while before our annual clatter began, a good friend and fine writer named Tony Snow had died. You may remember his columns, his television appearances, and maybe the all too short time he spent as George W. Bush’s press secretary. He did a fine job at that, too. Indeed he was-and still is-the only presidential press secretary we can remember who wasn’t just a hack. Sure enough, somebody in this gaggle of crazies at the Westboro church protest in Little Rock carried a sign denouncing Tony! Our Tony.
That’s when another emotion replaced the pity we felt for the whole bunch: anger. Tony’s unforgivable sin, according to the indictment from these terribly sincere, and we mean terribly, members of the Westboro Baptist Church, was that he didn’t use his time on the national stage to humiliate homosexuals. Common decency just seemed to offend these specimens. All in all, it was a spectacle best forgotten.
But we can’t forget that the founder of the church, Fred Phelps, wasn’t there. As he often did, he’d sent others in his place. After all, his emissaries sometimes protested at military funerals, too, mocking grieving families with signs saying God enjoyed their pain. That kind of a message could put a man in harm’s way. And has.
BUT NOW the leader and founder of the church has himself died. We are sorry to hear it, we keep telling ourselves-and have to, lest we allow Old Nick into our heart. Most of us can only hope that Pastor Phelps’ message will die with him. But there’s little chance of that.
Unfortunately, there appear to be too many people out there who would celebrate the death of another man. And are. Which only brings the rest of us down to the Westboro Baptist level. It’s bad enough to celebrate the death of another mortal with the same tenuous tenure on life as ourselves, but to stomp on his grave, too . . . . It is too much.
The address for the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kan., is easy enough to find on the internet. Why not send a sympathy card? It’s the Christian thing to do. Faith, hope and charity, and the greatest of these, as it used to be said, is charity. As in Caritas. Caring. Grace. Benevolence. Love.
Not all that long ago really, as eternity is measured, a rabbi now of some repute told his followers to love thy neighbor. If memory serves, He didn’t tell us to do it only when it was easy.
Editorial, Pages 16 on 03/22/2014