As I experienced it, the modern world had always been deeply inhospitable to our beliefs, and it was easy to feel as if Westboro were an island existing outside of time, the one true connection to a righteous past—the lone bastion of truth in this “insane orgy of fag lies,” as Gramps was wont to say. He never needed to come right out and declare that our church was the only way to Heaven, not explicitly; that kind of sweeping assertion isn’t so easy to substantiate, and certainly would have invited much more suspicion and scrutiny from my highly analytical family.
