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from a couple of dozen members who met in an elementary school to more than 100 who attended an actual church. "I think what Joe did was open it up so that someone like me could be pastor," says Mary Wilson, the current head of Church of the Savior. "I'm an openly gay woman who's been in an 18-year relationship. Because Joe was willing to open the doors, open the con- versation, there was no issue as to my sexual identity when they hired me. It was whether I could do the job." In 1997, Phelps received a call from High- land Baptist Church in Louisville, a city he had not visited since graduating from the seminary almost two decades earlier. High- land was looking for a new pastor. Was Phelps interested? Maybe, Phelps said, but there are some things about me you need to know. He then recounted his Austin days, including that fateful letter to the American-Statesman and the furor it caused. "I told Highland I wasn't going to push the issue, but that here was my position," Phelps says. "Over the years, Highland had been a Don't Ask-Don't Tell church." P Tat would change. cry. At first, he didn't talk about it in the pulpit. He'll mention it now." "My wife and I never questioned God," says Phelps, who has three other adult chil- dren. "It never occurred to ask, 'Why us?' But I don't think you can walk through that kind of valley and not be more compassion- ate toward people who have walked through it themselves." Phelps may have been better prepared for the death of his son by having grown up with a mentally disabled brother. As a child, having exhausted the questions of Why, Lord? and Why him and not me?, Phelps understood that to ask them as an adult would be counterproductive. Besides, he had a church to run. Highland, no longer Don't Ask-Don't helps was at a conference in Nashville when the phone call came. His oldest son Bobby's apartment complex in Crescent Hill had burned down during the night. Of the five tenants, four survived. Bobby Phelps did not. He was 25 years old. It will be five years in May since his death. His father still can't piece together the drive back from Nashville to his home in the upper Highlands, the days that followed, the how- they-got-through-it. Tey just did. "He's an emotionally present person," says Nina Ma- ples, the associate pastor at Highland. "He'd Tell, was growing. And the spotlight was shining on its controversial pastor. In the corner of the bathroom in Phelps' office is a handmade sign, black letters on white poster board. It reads, "Te Pilgrims Would Be Pissed." Tere's a story behind that sign. At the start of George W. Bush's second term, the conservative Family Research Council organized a nationwide televised event called "Justice Sunday: Stop the Fili- buster Against People of Faith." Te goal was to rally support to eliminate a rule in the U.S. Senate that allowed Democrats to block some of Bush's nominees to the federal bench. Highview Baptist Church, a mega- church in Louisville, would host a telecast. Phelps organized a protest, calling a press conference with other ministers to say, "We see 'Justice Sunday' as part of a larger effort to link church and state in ways not seen in America since the Puritans were hanging Quakers on Boston Commons and exiling Baptists on Rhode Island." Now you can see how the sign came about. "Justice Sunday" went on as sched- uled, and picketers showed up at High- view. A member of Highland was among them, saw the sign and secured it as a gift for Phelps. But the protest against the event was the least of it. For in his press confer- ence, Phelps referred to Highview as a "sis- ter church." Uh-oh. Te pastor at Highview wasn't having that. Te Rev. Kevin Ezell, who now presides over the Southern Bap- tist Convention's North American Mission Board in Maryland, responded pointedly, saying of Phelps: "Nobody who goes to his church would ever go to mine." "I don't know Joe Phelps," Ezell said in an interview then with the Courier-Journal. "He's never called me. Te biggest story here is that he wants to be on TV, he wants to be in the paper. He needs to spend more time reaching people than criticizing other churches." For all his bluster, Ezell, who couldn't be reached for comment for this story, brings up a legitimate question: Is Phelps a grand- stander? It seems odd to ask after spend- ing time with the mild-mannered Phelps. His voice never rises. His demeanor never changes. He's the laid-back uncle with whom you can talk about anything. No question rattles him. Even during his ap- pearance on Neil Cavuto's show on FOX in the midst of the Walmart foofaraw — a link to which appears on Phelps' blog — the pas- tor remained infuriatingly calm. Infuriating for Cavuto, no doubt, who must have been itching for a buzz-worthy fight. Phelps considers the question, admits that, sure, he has an ego and he likes to write. He likes to express himself. Finally, he settles on this: "One of my heroes, Henlee Barnette, once referred to himself as a pagan with a thin veneer of Christianity," Phelps says. "And I feel that way. I do have to work on my anger and my acting and reacting. Tat's why I've had to be a real disciple of prayer. But for that, I can be a hothead." "Joe may be outspoken, but how can you be authentic and not be?" says Dinwiddie, the retired social worker who's part of the Friday church ministry group. "He is as authentic and real as anybody I know. He tends to call it as he sees it. He's been open to learning from a lot of people. He's not knee-jerk, nor flip. Tere's depth." "Y [62] LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 2.12 ou're an idiot." "Dear Satan Incarnate." "Heretic." Tat's just a sample of some of the com- pliments Phelps has received over the years The pastor spends up to 13 hours a week working on his sermons, which often reference biblical scholars such as Walter Brueggemann.