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Does anyone other than me think anti-gay activist Reverend Fred Phelps might be gay? Certainly, if this is the case, the term closet gay may be a bit of an understatement.

Of course, his closet would be the attic storage closet. The one with the triple steel door. Yet therein that Victorian sanctuary he slumbers in a leather corset while Freddie Mercury belts out Killer Queen on the turntable.

Maybe it's a stretch. But I really don't think it's that far of a reach.

You know, this is one guy who has likely done more than any one person or group in eliciting much needed discussion on a whole range of issues.

It's not just about gay marriage and the ousting of outed Boy Scout leaders. It's about the meaning of individual liberties, whether or not all men are created equal, and how, or if, a society defines discrimination based on cultural, biblical, or historical grounds.

Have you seen the photo of Reverend Phelps sporting an upturned collar and a white cowboy hat?
http://www.godunplugged.com/2005/08/01/is-fred-phelps-gay/

In all honesty, that could be my aunt spiffied up for the rodeo. If anything speaks to the feminine side of a man, it's that photo. Gotta love this guy. He looks so adorable. In fact, adding a mustache could actually spark a new rave.

Before going on, let me clear up any possible misunderstanding...

I love you, Auntie. I think you're adorable, also.

A few years ago I had a girlfriend who lived just a few blocks from Phelps' Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kansas. Just as his followers carry picket signs at funerals, so do they carry them on the street corners at home. It is quite a spectacle.

The signs often display silhouettes of men in, shall we say, compromising pre-conjugal acts. Nothing grossly explicit, anatomically speaking, but the meaning is quite clear. I imagine these signs are quite a curiosity to the prepubescent youth passing by.

The attitude of many Topekans is contrary to what you might think. You don't see much anger. There is an atmosphere of pity and sympathy for these folks who tote both their propaganda and their kids on the sidewalks with equal diligence.

I've wondered, is it really possible that God could hate gays as Phelps declares?

When I was a boy my parents would throw these deliciously raucous parties that reeked of cigarettes and Bob Dillon-esque conversations. You know, the type of party where Pink Floyd's Time awakens all the hippies who passed out on the floor at 2 a.m. and reminds them to rejoin the party.

Interspersed among the clinking glasses and uproarious laughter there was Bill and Mel. Bill loved to wear dresses, which delighted me to no end. Before the parties got underway I would always find the opportunity to tease him - and he would chase me through the house yelling in his deep baritone, "I'm a boy!"

Here was a man who reveled in the joy of expressing his inner self. A wonderful man full of laughter and mirth. Here was a man who knew how to be the child within. Here was a man filled with God. If God hates this man He has an odd way of showing it.

What it boils down to is this: Fred Phelps is in a prison of fear. For hate is an expression of fear. He is consumed by the fear of homosexuality. Our minds are the tablet upon which fears are impressed, molded from thoughts we entertain. The dear Reverend Phelps entertains thoughts of homosexuality day in and day out.

Why do you think he is consumed by such thoughts? Of all the passages in the Bible, why do these particular references bewitch him? If we were to crawl inside his head what would we see? Why this vile trail of persecution? Why have the Biblical references to love not tempered his mandate?

Author James Allen in his book As A Man Thinketh sums it up this way:

"The soul attracts that which it secretly harbors; that which it loves, and also that which it fears."

As in the movie American Beauty, Fred Phelps could easily be a paradigm of the character Col. Frank Fitts. He is peering out his windows into a world of masculine fruit. He feels in his soul the taste of such fruit.

Wow, that was corny.

Anyway, is it possible Freddy is playing out a love-hate scene?

You know, my turntable often spins Pink Floyd's Dirty Woman and I would rather see Sheryl Crow in my closet. But if Reverend Phelps ever comes poking around my closets I can be very accommodating. I'll swing my doors wide open, require collars be turned up, hand out white cowboy hats, and have all night showings of American Beauty. What a party that would be! Giddy Up!