CultNEWS101 Articles: 5/27/2021 (Former Member Stories, The Missionaries of Charity, Westboro Baptist Church, Vatican, Pope Pius XII)

Former Member Stories, The Missionaries of Charity, Westboro Baptist Church, Vatican, Pope Pius XII

Forbes: From Growing Up In A Cult To Building A 7-Figure Business

"Julia McCoy is the CEO of Express Writers, educator and founder of The Content Hacker, and bestselling 3x author. But it didn't start out all rosy for this successful entrepreneur.

Having been raised in a Fundamentalist cult led by a narcissistic father in the state of Pennsylvania, Julia learned how to make decisions for herself and follow her passion. She escaped the prison that she had been confined to for the first 21 years of her life. It was then that Julia began her new life. But it took courage to escape the confines she grew up in and boldly pursue a life of happiness, especially when the odds were stacked against her."

Salon: "The Turning": The dark side of Mother Teresa's order, according to nuns who left

Salon talks to the maker of a new podcast on abuse, suffering and forbidden love within The Missionaries of Charity.

"One of the most striking things about the new podcast "The Turning: The Sisters Who Left" is how some of the former nuns describe their experiences with life behind the walls of Mother Teresa's world-famous order, the Missionaries of Charity: in language reminiscent of the way we talk about cults. 

They use terms like "isolation" and "brainwashing." They were only permitted to write home once a month and visit home once every decade. They describe what it feels like to look at a single human: as having a direct line to holiness. 

Of course there were beautiful, spiritually affirming moments, too — times where these women felt achingly close to the God for whom they'd given up their normal lives — but for some, the suffering and separation were too much. "The whole idea was to make you feel as alone as possible," Kelli Dunham, a self-described "ex-nun," said. 

It was enough to make some fantasize about escaping — and some did. Through "The Turning," a new 10-episode podcast by Rococo Punch and iHeartMedia, producer and host Erika Lantz tells their stories."

" ... The sisters kept a rigid schedule that began at 4:30 a.m. and only included 30 minutes of unstructured recreation time, which was most often spent catching up on work that hadn't gotten done. Though they were required to go everywhere in pairs, the nuns were never allowed to have private conversations and would instead recite prayers together. 

This was to encourage chastity, a virtue that, as Lantz found out in her reporting, Mother Teresa was strict about maintaining, almost to the point of paranoia. After all, the Missionaries of Charity were spiritually wed to Jesus and were organized to "satiate the thirst of Jesus Christ on the Cross for Love and Souls."

It's a telling detail that Mother Teresa was so intently focused on Christ's crucifixion. While, as Lantz put it in "The Turning," one would anticipate that the scriptural passages that would have most impacted Mother Teresa would have centered on Jesus' interactions with the poor, sick and hungry, she was perhaps most moved by how his pain catalyzed his holiness. 

This was reflected in how the sisters lived in their respective convents, the series reports. Why would you pray from a chair when you could kneel on the hard ground? Why would you open the windows or wear one less layer when you could simply swelter? Why, as in the case of one nun, would you rest in bed after sustaining major burns when you could go back to work in almost unspeakable pain? 

However, as Lantz found out, the emphasis on achieving holiness through suffering didn't stop there. As is revealed early in "The Turning," the sisters would frequently engage in self-flagellation. 

Mary Johnson, a former nun and author of "An Unquenchable Thirst" — who also spoke with Salon back in 2013 about her experiences in the order — joined the Missionaries of Charity when she was 19 after seeing Mother Teresa on the cover of TIME Magazine."

Insider: A man bought a home right across the street from a homophobic church and painted it the colors of the Pride flag

"When Aaron Jackson found a property for sale across the street from the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kansas, right away he had the idea to buy the house and paint it the colors of the Pride flag.

The founder of Planting Peace — a global nonprofit whose initiatives include environmental conservation and LGBTQ advocacy campaigns — Jackson wanted to make a statement with his choice of paint colors.

While a number of religious groups are supportive of LGBTQ inclusion and equality, according to the Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD), the Westboro Baptist Church is not one of them.

The organization is considered to be an extremist and anti-gay religious group, according to the Southern Poverty Law Center. And its members believe that homosexuality is a sin, according to the church's website (which includes a homophobic epithet in its URL)."

NCR: No 'smoking gun' yet in Pius XII archives, researchers say

" ... According to the experts, much of what is in the seemingly endless secretive archival records are actually kind of boring — housing documents like requests for money to buy shoes. But scholars predict the vaults will shed light upon the range of opinion within church leadership at the time about how to respond to the reports about treatment of Jews in Nazi Europe.

Rioli described the opinions of bishops on the continent as "a mosaic" that will "give us a more wide view of mid-century church leadership."

Valbousquet said she had recently uncovered Vatican correspondence from shortly after the war that suggested officials had a deep lack of understanding of what had happened during the Holocaust and harbored antisemitic sentiments.

Valbousquet found a 1946 letter from a Vatican official about Jewish refugees performing a hunger strike to be allowed to immigrate to what was then Palestine. In the letter, the official commented that: "I don't believe that the hunger strike will last very long because Jews do not like to suffer and they are not used to suffering."

Kertzer stressed the importance of understanding the length of Pius' tenure, which went well past the war into the era of post-war reconstruction, the founding of Israel, and the theological debates that would eventually lead to the 1962-65 Second Vatican Council.

Understanding the postwar era of his papacy is crucial to understanding what Pius signifies today, said the researcher.

"Part of the reason that Pope Pius XII has such staunch defenders is that there are some who believe that the Second Vatican Council is where the church went wrong and Pope Pius XII was the last pre-Second Vatican pope," said Kertzer."

News, Education, Intervention, Recovery

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CultNEWS101 Articles: 1/14/2020

Westboro Baptist Church, Video, Workshop, Jehovah's Witnesses, Abusive Therapies, LGAT, Shincheonji, Korea, Deprogramming, Human Rights, Counter-extremism, UK

TedEx: I grew up in the Westboro Baptist Church. Here's why I left - Megan Phelps-Roper

"What's it like to grow up within a group of people who exult in demonizing... everyone else? Megan Phelps-Roper shares details of life inside America's most controversial church and describes how conversations on Twitter were key to her decision to leave it. In this extraordinary talk, she shares her personal experience of extreme polarization, along with some sharp ways we can learn to successfully engage across ideological lines."

Workshops: for Former Members, Helping Professionals, and Families

Workshop Day 1 -- Saturday, February 8th -- Recovery Issues After Leaving an Abusive Church. Workshops aimed towards addressing the specific needs of former Jehovah's Witnesses and others recovering from spiritual abuse. A variety of topics will be covered to help former members identify psychological challenges that may arise when they leave the faith.

Workshop Day 2 -- Sunday, February 9th -- Helpers That Abuse. An educational and recovery workshop focused on serving the needs of those who have experienced abusive therapies, large group awareness trainings, and abusive bootcamps.

Workshops are 9:30-5:30 on February 8th and 9th

$50 one-day

$75 two-days includes ICSA Membership

No one will be refused for lack of money. If you need financial assistance to attend contact ICSA at mail@icsamail.com

https://icsahome.networkforgood.com/events/17800-recovery-workshops-for-survivors-of-cultic-and-high-control-groups

Human Rights Without Frontiers Int'l: Change of religion: Psychiatric internment of Hye-won SON

"Hye-won SON was forced to spend 81 days in a psychiatric hospital.

When her parents found out, they contacted a Presbyterian 'cult counseling center' which advised them to abduct Hye-won and confine her for a de-conversion program.

2 February 2017: Hye-won was kidnapped by her parents but managed to escape. She went to the police for help, but they refused to intrude on what they considered a family matter. Her parents then had her examined by a psychiatrist, but she was declared psychologically sane. Her parents were dissatisfied because they had hoped she would be diagnosed as suffering from religious delirium.

Hye-won's parents insisted to get the name of another psychiatric hospital outside of Seoul where it would be easier to intern her 'without too much trouble'. They finally got a name and an address: the mental hospital in Cheongsong, four hours' drive from Seoul. There was no psychological evaluation administered at admission, instead she was interned on the sole basis of a conversation between the doctor and her parents. This was the start of Hye-won's 81-day forcible psychiatric internment.

Hye-won was unable to have any contact with the outside world except for her parents' visits twice a month. Every time, they threatened that she would stay there until she promised to stop attending the Shincheonji Church.

A nurse in the hospital was moved by her situation and tried to help. She discreetly advised Hye-won to write to the authorities about her forced internment. Hye-won did so, sending a letter of petition calling for help to two city councilors. They answered and sent two officials to visit her on 21 March. However, they did not ask about her hospitalization and instead asked about her life in Shincheonji. After the visit, there was no change.

On 25 April, Hye-won wrote a letter to the court requesting her release but, before she sent it, her doctor tried convincing her not to. The next day, she was released without any explanation. She believes that her calls for outside help prompted the hospital to release her so as to avoid legal trouble.

For 81 days, she had been illegally interned in a psychiatrist hospital and had undergone a forced medical treatment.

After her release, she went back to the mental hospital to ask the doctor, Hyun-soo KIM, why he had interned her. He confessed that he knew she was sane, but despite that, she had been prescribed sedatives, anti-depressants, and antipsychotic medicine for bipolar depression. His confession was recorded.

This case is reminiscent of the misuse of psychiatry against political and religious dissidents in the Soviet Union in the 1970s and later.

Hye-won also claimed to have the right to religious dissent."

Independent: Terrorists who 'self-radicalise' online are bigger threat than attackers sent by Isis, counterterror chief says

"Terrorists who "self-radicalise" using online material are a now a greater threat to the UK than those directed by Isis, a senior police officer has said.

The national coordinator for the Prevent counterextremism programme warned that young and vulnerable people, including those with mental health issues, were being exploited.

Chief Superintendent Nik Adams told The Independent: "Our biggest concern is those individuals who are self-radicalising and may go on to become lone actors in the terrorism space.

"That is now a far greater risk for us, in terms of the volume, than individuals who are directed and mobilised by a terrorist organisation overseas to come and attack people in the UK."

The officer said an "international explosion of propaganda" had made material inciting violence accessible from anywhere in the world."

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Intervention101.com to help families and friends understand and effectively respond to the complexity of a loved one's cult involvement.

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TedEx: I grew up in the Westboro Baptist Church. Here's why I left - Megan Phelps-Roper

Let’s Begin…

What's it like to grow up within a group of people who exult in demonizing... everyone else? Megan Phelps-Roper shares details of life inside America's most controversial church and describes how conversations on Twitter were key to her decision to leave it. In this extraordinary talk, she shares her personal experience of extreme polarization, along with some sharp ways we can learn to successfully engage across ideological lines.

'I was a monster': Why Megan Phelps-Roper left the extreme Westboro

Melanie Kembrey
Sydney Morning Herald
October 18, 2019

For the first time Megan Phelps-Roper wasn't the ex-cult girl. She was not introduced as a former member of the extreme Westboro Baptist Church, the fanatical religious group infamous for claiming "God hates fags", celebrating September 11 and picketing the funerals of US soldiers killed in combat.

When we speak, Phelps-Roper has recently returned from The Nantucket Project, a high-profile event held annually in the US and attended by innovators, leaders, artists and activists. It often feels a little strange, Phelps-Roper says, being introduced before such esteemed gatherings as an ex-member of a church regarded as a hate group. But this time, to her grateful surprise, she was simply Megan Phelps-Roper, author.

The new appellation comes with the publication of Phelps-Roper's insightful memoir, Unfollow, which details how she grew up in, and grew out of, Westboro. In 1991, Phelps-Roper was just shy of kindergarten when she joined the church's earliest picket at Gage Park in Topeka, Kansas, where members held signs declaring, "Watch your kids! Gays in restrooms". Her grandfather, pastor Fred Phelps, a dis-barred civil rights lawyer, launched a campaign against the city after he discovered the park was considered a popular location for gay sex. He had founded Westboro in 1955 as an offshoot of the town's East Side Baptist Church, but they split ties as he became increasingly righteous and radical.

The signs Westboro held during their first pickets are subdued compared to the invective that would emerge over the next two decades as Westboro developed its reputation for hate — signs such as "Gays are worthy of death" and "Thank God for dead soldiers". The aggressively anti-gay, anti-semitic church has celebrated and mocked mass tragedies, school shootings, natural disasters and the deaths of public figures and servicemen and women, claiming such events are God's way of punishing non-believers for their sins. The followers preach predestination — that everything is God's will — and as Phelps-Roper writes, "we were a law unto ourselves, and all bets were off as long as our words were justified by the Bible".

Westboro followers mainly consist of Fred Phelp's children, grandchildren and now great-grandchildren. The families live on the same street, their houses encircled by a tall fence, and share a backyard. On the one hand Phelps-Roper, one of 11, experienced many elements of a conventional childhood — games nights, family barbecues and pool days, chores and loving parents. But obedience and discipline reigned supreme and rule-breakers were condemned and punished harshly. Meaningful relationships with outsiders were banned. Phelps-Roper picketed her own public school during lunch breaks; her 19-year-old brother left the church in the middle of the night and was hardly spoken of again; and she shared her dinner table with an endless stream of journalists.

A "cherished daughter", Phelps-Roper became the church's voice on Twitter, posting comments such as “Thank God for aids!” but also developing a reputation for using wit and humour to engage in biblical combat. It was engagement with her "enemies" and their kindness that gradually revealed to her the "logical blindness" in Westboro's beliefs. Once she started to see the contradictions within the church's doctrine, she couldn't look away. To her, the most grievous was the church's use of hate, a revelation compounded by the church's harsh disciplinary treatment of her mother, sister and cousin, the introduction of restrictive new rules and a change in leadership.

"With stark clarity I understood that whether the church was wrong or right, I was a monster," Phelps-Roper writes.

In November 2012, Phelps-Roper, then 26, left the church with her sister Grace. So entrenched was a bible verse used as an attack on those who absconded – oh that mine adversary had written a book – that she never wanted to write about her experience. Unfollow instead started as an essay for her husband, Chad, one of the outsiders she met online who helped her question her beliefs. The wounds were fresh and she found it too painful to look at the dozens of family videos and photographs she had copied before she left, aware she might never see her family again. Phelps-Roper says she obsessively checked Westboro's social media feeds in the months after she departed, but when she finished writing she discovered it had been weeks since she last sought to look.

"Writing definitely allowed me to process things and to let go of some of the really painful aspects. I had been so terrified of forgetting, I think that was a big part of it, so to now to have spent all of this time writing it out, I have this record now and I don’t have to hold it to me quite so tightly."

I hope there will be something in it that will reach them.

Westboro usually tries to erase the existence of ex-followers – they went out from us but were not of us – but the exception is when they get public attention, in which case the church will try to co-opt it and redirect it to their message. Phelps-Roper is prepared for the church's wrath. She expects her book will be discussed within Westboro, although they might not want younger members to read it. Followers will claim she is corrupted and evil, or pity her loss of faith. She still reaches out to her family in the church, privately and publicly, but rarely gets a response. Letters, postcards, cupcakes and birthday presents are posted. She can't imagine a time when she would stop trying to contact them.

"To know how I was changed, how my mind and heart were changed, the idea of not doing the same thing for the family who loved me and raised me and exacted so much time, love and patience into me, the idea of not doing that for them doesn’t occur to me."

When we talk, Phelps-Roper, who has a one-year-old daughter, is planning to send a copy of her memoir to her parents. It's dedicated to them: "I left the church, but never you – and never will."

"I don’t have any expectation that they will read the book and then just decide to leave and give it all up I don’t have that expectation or hope even," Phelps-Roper says.

"I hope there will be something in it that will reach them and even if it doesn’t cause them to leave, if it causes them to think twice about something, if it causes them to moderate their position in anyway, I would be extremely happy."

There are currently about 80 members of the church, almost the same number as when Phelps-Roper left. Fred Phelps died, stripped of his role as pastor and church membership, in 2014 aged 84, after apparently coming to see Westboro as cruel and unmerciful. Another of Phelps-Roper's siblings and other cousins have also departed the church. Non-believers were always painted as evil, and one of the great discoveries of leaving the church for Phelps-Roper was the kindness of outsiders.

It’s not just Westboro. There are very common human forces that made them what they are.

"We try to support each other, not just emotionally but practically and financially. There’s a learned helplessness for a lot of people who are leaving Westboro because you’re not allowed to have any kind of independence when you are there so a lot of people don’t have practical life skills."

Phelps-Roper continues to keep abreast of developments within Westboro, aware that if she wants to change the minds of followers she has to know what they believe The biggest encouragement that change is possible, she says, is that Westboro has stopped praying for death and have replaced their hateful signs.

Add to shortlist

The ex-cult girl is a title that Phelps-Roper knows she can't avoid. But she's been channelling her experience of deradicalisation and the importance of kindness into TED talks, speaking events, documentaries and working with academics and law enforcement agencies. Her new faith is in the power of hope, reserving judgment, kindness and the power of reaching across ideological divides.

"I feel like I was transformed by the kindness of people who had every reason to show me cruelty and the transformative power of their decision to treat me like a human being, that was so huge, that anytime somebody wants me to talk about that I feel like I absolutely want to do that.

"I am looking forward to pivoting away from having it be so intensely about my own experiences because I think the themes here are so much bigger. They are not just me. It’s not just Westboro. There are very common human forces that made them what they are. I am really interested in studying those forces and seeing how they manifest in the lives of other people and what I can do to help other people dealing with similar situations."

Unfollow is published by Hachette at $32.99. Megan Phelps-Roper will join Louis Theroux as a guest on his Australian tour next year.

https://www.smh.com.au/culture/books/i-was-a-monster-why-megan-phelps-roper-left-the-extreme-westboro-20191004-p52xpo.html

They're still here: The curious evolution of Westboro Baptist Church

Hillel Gray
Religion News Service
July 17, 2018

(RNS) — No single congregation in America has had the kind of recognition, or notoriety, that the Westboro Baptist Church achieved in the 1990s under its controversial founder, Fred Phelps Sr. Protesting chiefly what they perceived as America’s acceptance of homosexuality, the members of the small Topeka, Kan., church haunted gay pride parades, federal courthouses, even military funerals, wielding picket signs blazoned with slogans such as “Thank God for 9/11” and, most famously, “God hates fags.”

I first met the Westboro Baptists in 2010, visiting Topeka and interviewing dozens of church members. As a professor of comparative religion, I wanted to understand the ethics in this community so dedicated to a cause that offended so many. Personally, I wanted to know whether I could connect with them. Since so many outsiders hate, mock or ostracize the church, I committed to suspend my moral judgment and approach them as a scholar, with respect and curiosity. In a world so polarized and divisive, I found it meaningful, and still do, to reach out empathetically to even the most intense and oppositional of religious groups.

Since Phelps’ death in March 2014, some speculated that the church would dissolve. Nearly all of the congregants at the time belonged to the extended Phelps family, including nine of his 13 children, their spouses and their children. Ostracized by other Christians, they rarely dated or married outsiders; young adults were more likely to leave than find spouses and settle down in the church.

But the Westboro Baptists are an incredibly tightknit community that has bounced back more than once from adversity, like the $10 million judgment against them for defamation that was overturned by the U.S. Supreme Court in 2011. They’ve weathered the departure of numerous members, including many who grew up in the church, and the death of their founder.

Meanwhile, the church’s visibility in the public eye has declined sharply of late. News coverage of the church in 2018 has been just one-fourth what it was during the same period in 2015.

But the Westboro Baptists have not gone away. Their daily picketing campaign continues, in Kansas and across the country. Westboro Baptists remain active on social media, with dozens of accounts on Twitter and Instagram taking note of trending phenomena like National Ice Cream Day, only to denounce sinful behavior in their accustomed terms.

In the last few years, membership has even broadened beyond the Phelps clan. The newcomers include a family from the Southwestern United States, a man from England who married a Phelps granddaughter, and a college student from Ohio, who was later followed by his mother. Perhaps the most unexpected “new” member is Katherine Phelps, a daughter of Fred Phelps Sr. who had been estranged for decades.

The face of the church has changed as well. For the past four years Westboro has been led by a council of elders, a handful of married men who preach in rotation, and media relations have shifted to Steve Drain, who joined the church in 2001.

This new blood has had an impact. There is a gentler tone, at least internally, members say. The church has even started proselytizing, producing a video titled “The Gentile Church Age Is Coming to an End: Get to the Church!”

There has also been a subtle shift in Westboro Baptist’s messaging. Many new signs inject ideas about Jesus and love, clarify doctrine, diversify the sins to be protested and invoke more positive language. Likely in response to past criticism that their protests were not biblical, the new signs always include a biblical citation. Church members have also reduced the visibility of their famously succinct insults.

Make no mistake, Westboro Baptists’ anti-gay message is as blunt and offensive as ever, and the new signs seem designed not to move toward the mainstream, but to more fully reflect the church’s Calvinist theology, which appears unchanged.

Asked if the WBC has intentionally changed its signs, Drain said, “The overall number of messages has probably widened over the years, but some have been retired, either because we were responding to some phenomenon that was temporally limited, or because we became aware of some better, more clear way to express a Bible concept.”

Given the pithily outrageous slogans of the past (“God hates you”), the new posters are almost ironically detailed. Many counteract Arminianism — the suggestion that everyone, not only an elect, can be saved and that all of us have some responsibility for our salvation. “Christ died for some sinners saved by grace, Tim 1:14,15,” reads one. “Most people go to hell, Mt. 7:13,” and “Few people go to heaven, Mt. 7:14.”

Others look strangely like self-help: “Thanksgiving should be a continual frame of mind, friends!” On examination, however, the gratitude message comes from the Westboro Baptists’ increased attention to different facets of God: “Thank God for everything, Col. 3:15, 1 Thes. 5:18” and “God’s word endureth forever, Ps. 119:160 1 Pe. 1:25” are not uncommon sentiments. Jesus is recognized in their pickets now — “Christ our salvation,” “Christ our righteousness,” they read — where only a punitive God used to reign. A recent social media montage, titled “How firm a foundation,” showcases a series of Christ-oriented posters.

With Christ has come “love,” a word virtually absent from signs in Pastor Phelps’ day. The word appears on roughly 5 percent of all recent posters.

Westboro Baptists have always understood their anti-gay exhortations as a kind of “tough love.” In a 2017 interview, Shirley Phelps-Roper, a daughter of the deceased pastor, said of the protest campaigns, “Hon, it is only a great kindness.”

Scripture, she said, “says get in their face and show them.”

In the past, “showing them” came in the form of abrupt rebuke. But signs such as “Gospel preaching is love” and “Truth = Love, Gal. 4:16, Eph. 4:15” repackage the rebuke as love, often in juxtaposition with harsher signs in a way that may be designed to prod the reader to curiosity.

Nor is homosexuality the sole obsession it once was. Divorce, remarriage and same-sex marriage are all branded as sins, as is adultery: “Adulterer in chief, Mt. 19:19 Mk. 6:18,” reads one pasted with an image of President Trump. “Racism is a sin, Ac. 17:26 Jas. 2:9,” preaches another.

A major factor in these changes is Phelps’ death, of course, though some came earlier, after his granddaughter Megan Phelps-Roper challenged a sign indicating that gays could not repent or be saved. Megan was seen as rebellious and subsequently left the church, but it was agreed that the sign did not adequately reflect church doctrines. These discussions have seemingly snowballed into a re-evaluation of the church’s outreach.

Drain said nothing had changed in the approach to what Westboro Baptists call their “publishing ministry” — except in what has come from above.

“To the extent that we are given, from time to time and by the grace of God, better light on any piece of Scripture and how it speaks to the situations we see on the ground in the world, we are always only interested in preaching the truth of the Scripture,” he said.

Whatever the cause, the evolution of Westboro Baptist’s signs suggests the group has become responsive to outside reactions: if not to lessen public condemnation, then at least to address misconceptions about the church. We can only wonder if the gradual reworking of the messaging might point to a day when outsiders think of the church’s members not as irredeemable sociopaths, but as sectarian Christians already in conversation with the broader society.

(Hillel Gray is a lecturer in comparative religion and coordinator of Jewish studies at Miami University of Ohio. The views expressed in this commentary do not necessarily represent those of Religion News Service.)

https://religionnews.com/2018/07/17/theyre-still-here-the-curious-evolution-of-westboro-baptist-church/

I grew up in the Westboro Baptist Church. Here's why I left

Megan Phelps-Roper
TEDTalks

March 6, 2017

What's it like to grow up within a group of people who exult in demonizing ... everyone else? Megan Phelps-Roper shares details of life inside America's most controversial church and describes how conversations on Twitter were key to her decision to leave it. In this extraordinary talk, she shares her personal experience of extreme polarization, along with some sharp ways we can learn to successfully engage across ideological lines.

TEDTalks is a daily video podcast of the best talks and performances from the TED Conference, where the world's leading thinkers and doers give the talk of their lives in 18 minutes (or less). Look for talks on Technology, Entertainment and Design -- plus science, business, global issues, the arts and much more.

Find closed captions and translated subtitles in many languages at http://www.ted.com/translate
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bVV2Zk88beY

Hundreds counter-protest Westboro Baptist demonstration in Orlando

By Arelis R. Hernández  June 18

Washington Post

ORLANDO — About 200 people blocked the main street in downtown Orlando to form a human chain to counteract the demonstrators from Westboro Baptist Church.

A handful of the church’s members raised their now iconic anti-gay signs across the street from St. James Catholic Cathedral, while more two dozen police officers stood between them and the rainbow-adorned assembly.

The human chain group formed organically through Facebook, after rumors surfaced that the group would demonstrate at several funerals of the victims of Sunday’s mass shooting at the Pulse nightclub. The funerals began Thursday, however, the church did not apply for permits until Friday with plans to picket on Saturday.

The amalgam of humanity who came out against Westboro included bikers, priests, young people, members of the LGBT community and locals carrying signs saying “God is love” and the motto the City Beautiful adopted in response to the massacre, “Orlando strong.”

Angel Gabriel Vasquez and his husband, Adam Vasquez, came to the counter-protest in downtown Orlando wearing a rainbow-colored Puerto Rican flag draped around their necks like a cape.

They live in Pennsylvania but flew into Orlando, their former home, Saturday night after watching the news coverage of the shooting massacre.

“This is where we grew up. This is where we matured as young gay men. And to be Puerto Rican, Latin night was one of our favorite nights,” Angel Vasquez said. “This is where our hearts is.

After hearing about the church’s plans on Facebook, the couple decided to join the counter-protest.

Westboro has “just a sick, twisted view. They push people away from Christian religion,” Adam Vasquez said.

For Angel Vasquez, the church’s actions are particularly maddening for him as a gay Christian, he said.

“God loves everyone,” he said. “He made me this way. I can’t help it. I tried to be normal, straight, but it’s who I am. It’s who I was made to be.”

Throughout the demonstration, “Amazing Grace” reverberated softly among the demonstrators who quietly sang in unison.

Soon, a line of “angels” mounted with wings constructed from PVC pipes and white sheets walked in front of the throng, saying nothing as the crowd cheered. The wings were the idea of the Orlando Shakespeare theater, which outfitted their volunteers with sheets wide enough to block view of the church members.

Just past 11 a.m., the Westboro church members left and retreated toward their vehicles, and the crowd roared. A large contingent of the counter-demonstrators drew in close into a huddle and chanted, “Orlando strong! Orlando strong!”

https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/post-nation/wp/2016/06/18/hundreds-counter-protest-westboro-baptist-demonstration-in-orlando/?utm_term=.b9e615cdc34d

 

 

Losing my religion: life after extreme belief

‘I weep thinking about how callous and unmerciful I was’:
 Megan Phelps-Roper.

Shahesta Shaitly
The Guardian
April 10, 2016

Megan Phelps-Roper, 30, a former member of the Westboro Baptist Church

My first memories are of picketing ex-servicemen’s funerals and telling their families they were going to burn in hell. For us, it was a celebration. My gramps was the founder of the Westboro Baptist Church, so it wasn’t just our religion – it was our whole life. I don’t remember much before the picketing. I was allowed to mix with other kids early on, but over time my world shrank.

We believed it was a Good vs Evil situation: that the WBC was right and everybody else was wrong, so there was no questioning. It was a very public war we were waging against the “sinners”. I asked a lot of questions as I got older, but there’s a big difference in asking for clarification and actually questioning the beliefs you’re taught. I spent so much time reading the Bible, trying to see the world through this very particular framework, that to have truly considered [it was wrong] was inconceivable. I’d seen members leave in the past, including my brother, and the thought of ever leaving the church was my worst nightmare.

 ‘I knew straightaway I was not a part of the church  any more. I was out. I miss my family every single day’: Megan Phelps-Roper with her mother Shirley at the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kansas. Megan used social media to spread the church’s message.

The WBC loves and thrives on publicity, so I joined Twitter in 2009 to run the church’s account. I was very zealous and adamant that my beliefs were the truth, but I began to realise that the 140-word limit meant I had to drop the throwaway insults or conversations would die. Over time, I found I was actually beginning to like people: to see them as human beings rather than people to condemn. For the first time, I started to care about what people outside the WBC thought of me. As my feelings towards my faith wavered I’d boomerang between thinking “none of this makes sense” to “God is testing me and I am failing”, but it was only in the four months before I left in 2012 that I actually started to make a plan. I cornered my sister in our room one evening and told her I was going to leave and asked her to come with me. She initially said no and told me I was being silly, but over time we’d have stolen conversations about it and she came round to the idea.

My mom was so broken by the news – I’d never seen her face like that before
Leaving was unbearably sad. Having dinner with my grandparents or bouncing on a trampoline with my brother for the last time; asking my parents about their history in detail because I knew I’d never be able to ask them about it again: I was consciously saying goodbye to my family while they had no idea. I was trying to keep as much of it as I could. On the day, my younger sister and I sat down with my parents after they’d heard that we had planned to leave. They were really upset and my mom was so broken by the news – I’d never seen her face like that before. We told them we didn’t believe anymore, then went to pack. The adrenaline pumping through me made my hands shake as I stuffed my things into bags. Word spread among the family and several of my aunts and uncles turned up to talk us out of it. It started with: “You know better than this” and spiralled into shouting as we left. I went back the next day to pick up the rest of my stuff and knocked on the front door of the house I grew up in for the first time. The cold was immediate. I knew straight-away that I was not a part of the church any more. I was out. I miss my family every single day.

I still momentarily flinch when I come across someone or something the WBC would disapprove of. Two men kissing on the street, a drag queen – anything that takes me back to what I believed for so long. I still encounter those old feelings and then I have to process it: “That’s what the old me would have felt” – it’s an ongoing process of deep deprogramming.

I see the world in split screen now. I remember feeling like we at WBC were a persecuted minority, triumphant in the face of evil people “worshipping the dead” as we picketed funerals or rejoiced at the destruction of the Twin Towers. But beside that memory is the one where I weep thinking about how callous and unmerciful I was to so many people who’d just lost a son or a daughter. I’m ashamed of that now, and it’s still really difficult to think about the harm I caused. It’s overwhelming sometimes.

 ‘By denying who I really was, I was slowly killing myself’: Deborah Feldman. Photograph: Steffen Roth for the Observer
The Satmar sect of Hasidic Judaism I was born into was founded by Holocaust survivors who wanted to reinvent the Eastern European shtetl in America. Before I learned anything else, I learned the Holocaust had happened because Jews were bad and that the way we lived was different from the rest of the world because if we didn’t, the Holocaust would happen to us again.

Growing up in such a strict community meant we had no contact with the outside world. It still amazes me to think that was and is possible in the Bronx. The only time I’d get a glimpse was if I were ill. Tonsillitis meant a car journey to the doctor, where I’d watch, from the window, people living their lives freely.

I hit my teens and figured out what I needed to do to survive in the community. I’d drawn the wrong sort of attention to myself as a young girl. I’d been rebellious. Asking “why?” was forbidden and I’d be yelled at, ostracised; kids stopped talking to me at school. Women and girls belonged in the kitchen, my grandfather often reminded me. Soon I figured out how to live a double life: I had the version of me that fitted in with the community, and then I had my interior life that no one knew about. As soon as I pretended I was going along with it all, things got easier for me. I got married to someone from the sect when I was 17 and had my son. The most difficult thing was the constant lying. By denying who I really was, I was slowly killing myself.

I lived a double life: I had the version of me that fitted in with the community, and then I had my interior life
Leaving wasn’t about courage or strength for me. It was all much more practical than I thought it would be. Some of it was perhaps biological: as soon as my son was born I had this driving instinct to get him out. It took three years of planning and at the very end, when I had everything lined up – money in the bank, a small network of friends on the outside, a divorce lawyer working on the custody of my son – I still couldn’t quite cross the boundary. I was too scared.

What happened next was fate. I was in a car accident I shouldn’t have survived and I walked away without a scratch. As I got out of the car, the Jewish girl in me thought: “God is punishing me and telling me I shouldn’t go”, but as I walked away from the wreck, I thought: “Hang on, if I can survive this, I can survive leaving.”

I have no contact with my family now. The backlash was immense. My family wrote me threatening letters, and later on when I wrote a book about my experiences, the community said I was a hysteric, a liar. I don’t know that I’ll ever be fully deprogrammed. I didn’t just leave a religion, I left a sect that was based on inherited trauma and incorporated antisemitism. Many of the [antisemitic] ideas my grandparents heard in Europe got integrated into their beliefs about themselves and then passed on to their children. I grew up believing we were genetically inferior. They didn’t see that as a bad thing – they’d sit me down and explain: “We’re special to God. Our souls are special, but our genes are inferior, just like they said about us.” How do you even begin to unstitch that?

 ‘There are vivid moments where I miss my mother. I can’t afford to get emotional about it’: Imad Iddine Habib. Photograph: Katherine Anne Rose for the Observer
I was born on a Friday at prayer time, which was seen as an auspicious sign in my community. Growing up in Morocco I was constantly told I was to become a religious scholar. My name is translated as “pillar of religion”. I was enrolled into a Salafi Koranic school at four, but I had trouble reading and reciting verses of the Koran, as I was so dyslexic. This was seen as a big disappointment in my family, so I learned most of the Koran by heart to save myself any grief. By the time I left the Koranic school at 13, I knew I didn’t believe.

Our lives were based around a single version of a much bigger religion. Disagreements were frowned upon. We weren’t to voice questions. I couldn’t understand why no one debated or discussed the opinion of the scholars and imams – we were expected to blindly follow. Many of the students from my school went to Afghanistan and Syria – that had been their life’s purpose, and though I was interested in Islam as a religion from an academic viewpoint, I knew I wasn’t a Muslim.

I was scared, but I also felt it was my duty
My faith finally ruptured at 14. I told my parents I didn’t believe, and I also came out as pansexual. I felt, and still feel, that I was looking at the bigger picture, but they weren’t open to it. I couldn’t be a part of a faith that kept changing the rules depending on the situation. My family’s reaction was typical: a lot of violence and threats initially, and when that didn’t work, my mum got “sick” for 40 days, saying I was being banished from heaven and making her suffer. I was resolute, so they kicked me out. I became homeless and I’ve not seen or heard from them since. In a way I feel I may have shut the emotion of losing my family away somewhere. I try not to feel. There are vivid moments where I miss my mother: her face, her cooking, knowing what she is thinking about, but I can’t afford to get emotional about it.

I moved from place to place and stayed with friends. I got an education: I have a baccalaureate in Islamic sciences and I then founded the Council of Ex-Muslims of Morocco. The resistance is small, but we have a voice. I have had to live in hiding and have received countless death threats. In Morocco, Islam is the state religion, and the state considers you a Muslim by default. You can be jailed for eating in public during Ramadan, so you can imagine what my future there looked like. There is a wide belief that all apostates should be killed.

I attended a public conference in 2013 and spoke out about my beliefs. I was scared, but I also felt it was my duty. I called Islam a virus, which I knew would be inflammatory. Secret services began investigating me and I heard that they contacted my family and questioned my father. I was asked to attend court. My father would later testify against me on the count of an apostasy charge. When it all got too heavy, I knew I had to come to England as a refugee and start over. Not long after I arrived here, I was sentenced to seven years in prison in absentia. I gave up everything and everyone I know, but I’m free.

http://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/apr/10/losing-my-religion-life-after-extreme-belief-faith