Last Thursday marked the passing of America's universal bad guy. No matter who you are and no matter what you believed, no matter your sexuality, religion, politics or class, you probably hated Fred Phelps.

Everyone hated Phelps, pastor of the Westboro Baptist Church. One man, the leader of one church of a few dozen parishioners, the majority of whom are his own family, inspired the irresolute disgust of an entire fiercely divided country. 

I can't find a sufficiently negative adjective to express how I feel about Phelps' beliefs; he held an ironclad commitment to the idea that homosexuality was not only a sin, but was directly responsible for the damnation of the entire United States, if not the whole planet Earth. The only way to survive said damnation, in Phelps' mind, was to throw unpublishable hate-filled words at anyone who would listen. 

His church became famous for their tactic of protesting at the funerals of military service members, beloved celebrities and public icons, and basically anywhere that would earn them a news camera. Scanning the Westboro Baptist website inspires a strange anti-nostalgia; it's a trip back in time through all of the disasters of recent history, and the Church's joy at the death and destruction. They celebrate the Haitian earthquake as a sign of God's power and are downright giddy about the 2011 Japanese tsunami. Not to mention the site has weekly updates on the number of service members killed abroad: "Thank God for 10 more dead troops. We are praying for 10,000 more." 

To call Phelps and the Westboro Baptist Church hateful is, of course, an understatement. Hate defined the man-it was what he felt toward all who were not himself, and was what they all felt toward him. His estranged son Nate Phelps, now an advocate for both gay rights and atheism, describes frequent beatings at home, as well as strange fad-diets and torturous exercise regimens. Before Nate Phelps hit puberty, he had run a marathon. Other Phelps children who have distanced themselves from the church confirm Nate's accusations, and all say that adjustment to life outside of Westboro Baptist is a lifelong struggle.

And yet, despite years of trauma and a lifetime of therapy and social readjustment that have come as a result of his father, Nate Phelps did not feel joy when he learned Fred was dead.
"I ask this of everyone," he said of his father in a statement on Thursday, "Let his death mean something. Let every mention of his name and of his church be a constant reminder of the tremendous good we are all capable of doing in our communities." Tremendous good? What good is there to see in Fred Phelps?

Consider this: Phelps was not the average wacko-of-the-week media character who says or does something terrible and makes us all shake our heads until we forget them. Do you even remember the name of that pastor who was going to burn the Koran? What made Phelps unique was his perseverance to earn attention, and how uniquely, almost laughably horrible he was. 

He represented someone and something that absolutely no one could sympathize with. He was every liberal's stereotype of a hateful Southern minister made real, and he was every conservative's vision of exactly what they don't want their beliefs to be associated with. In an odd way, he may have been one of the most important figures in the gay rights movement: who could possibly hear the horrible things Phelps said about homosexuals, homosexuals who were people, and still find themselves against helping the gay community?
How could one not want to stand united with the often hundreds who showed up to counter-protest the WBC at every turn, a group ranging from soccer moms to biker gangs, from the hacker group Anonymous to even the Ku Klux Klan?

Shortly after the news broke that he was dead, I watched a comment box live update on CNN.com as people offered their perspectives on Phelps' death. It was mostly similar stuff: "Thank God he's dead, burn in hell." "I hated this guy, so happy he's gone." And yet, as the days have passed, the world reacted not with the hatred Phelps would wish us to project, but with sympathy and love. At a recent Westboro Baptist protest in Kansas City Mo. against the singer Lorde, counter-protestors stood across the street holding a banner of their own. It read "Sorry for your loss."

Fred Phelps was a man who desperately needed sympathy, love and attention. He only ever figured out how to get the last one. But the best way to ensure that his message of prejudice and cruelty fades away is not to hate it, or even to ignore it, but to feel sympathy for, help and cherish the people who espouse it. Cliche it may be, but there is truly no higher cause than to love thy neighbor as thyself.
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