Fall from Grace

I happened upon a rather enlightening documentary today when I got home from school and collapsed onto the couch after a day of stress and stomach-growling. In the movies, people say too often that they need “pain to feel alive” every once in a while, but with me, I just need a good reason to rage. So I turned on Netflix and sifted through documentaries until I stumbled onto Fall from Grace, a documentary on Fred Phelps and the Westboro Baptist Church.

You may or may not know that the Westboro Baptist Church consists almost entirely of Fred Phelps’ immediate family and direct relatives, perhaps a few friends. By definition, yes, he’s a minister, but he preaches to his family. In essence, the Westboro Baptist Church is a cult. Phelps, while not being the common mental image of “charismatic”, has managed to not only brainwash his family into following his harsh- to put it lightly -teachings, continue to pass on the tradition.

I know that there’s probably nothing I can do about Phelps and his opinions; he has his rights to them. So I tried to watch the documentary with a light heart. Christians tend to look at Phelps and feel pity for him, “loving him” because that’s what he needs the most, evidently, but I’m incapable of that. I’ve come to accept that there’s a line, and on one side of it are people that I can love, or at least pity, even though I may not agree with them in the least. But on the other side of the line lies Phelps’ church, right alongside racist skinheads and the KKK.

I can laugh at it, though. Anger is the foremost emotion in my mind, but borderline beside it is giddy humour. After all, it’s easier to laugh at something you can’t change rather than feel empowered by it, or at least it should be.

I can laugh until I see the kids. Phelps’ grandchildren, being raised in an environment where they’re not even given the chance to see the other side. In Fall from Grace, there’s a scene where the cameraman interviews his grandchildren at a family pool party. He asks them how they feel about what they do for the church, such as picketing. The general response from the kids was, “it’s fun,” and when asked why, they all had a general habit of slowing their responses and focusing more on the toys in their hands than the interviewer. “We tell these…evil beasts, the fags, that they’re gonna go to Hell if they don’t repent for their sins,” says one little blonde boy without hesitation. Another boy, maybe six or seven at most, was asked how he felt when people disagreed with their picketing. He answers with, “I feel mad, mad enough to, um…to kill them, but I can’t kill them, God has to. Cast them down to hell.”

It really and truly scares me to see these little kids brought up in an environment where their lives will be ruled by a blatant fear of God, and a hatred for anyone who doesn’t conform to their own miserable standards.

These wars aren’t for children. They’re for the adults of the world, who have already chosen to see, or not to see, different sides of the battle and were then given the opportunity to choose their angle. These kids weren’t given that privilege. They were raised on street corners, their mothers holding them in one hand and a “GOD HATES FAGS” sign in the other. That’s no environment for a child to grow up in.

It unnerves me, this kind of thing. At the same time, it makes me feel a bit more responsible, as though there’s more that I’m obligated to do about these problems, even though I know the mentality of organizations such as the Westboro Baptist Church leaves no room for persuasion.

They’ve got no intention of listening, but perhaps our hope for tomorrow starts with the children. Education is all it takes.