The murder of Matthew Shepard, a 21-year-old gay college student at the University of Wyoming, tore a hole in my heart. I remember feeling that I could bleed to death from the wound. My body and soul felt assaulted. Like Jesus before him, Matthew was nailed to his own lonely cold cross and left to die.
The thought of his violent death was a shock. When I began to feel again, I became aware of a cold rage and anger that threatened to consume me. I was confused about why I was so distraught over the murder of this one young man. Why him and not one of the many other gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered persons assaulted and murdered daily?
The only answer that seemed to make any sense to me was that this murder pierces the wall of safety that I presumed surrounded me in my safe haven in Berkeley, CA, just across the bay from San Francisco, the Gay Mecca. I now felt vulnerable and threatened in a way I had never been before. Matthew, so slightly built and inoffensive in appearance, seemed unworthy of the deadly attention he received. If he could be murdered, then so could I, or any of us. But even that sad reality did not get at the heart of why I felt this murder so deeply. Other marginalized peoples have been victimized before. In fact, some might wonder, as did one of my black classmates, what all the fuss was about. As he said, "This happens to us nightly. Why is the murder of this one white person so different, or worthy of attention? We have been enduring such grief for two hundred years."
While I think his comments have some merit, they do not in any way negate the reality that the murder of one human being diminishes us all, gay or straight, black or white. The dragging murder of James Byrd in Texas is no less heinous. This is the kind of conversation that goes straight to the heart of racism, and is connected and enmeshed with all the other "isms," such as classism, and sexism. Our denomination has pledged itself to resist and end racism and all forms of discrimination.
After much reflection, I realize that my personal reaction is largely centered on his age and potential. He had ambitions to become a diplomat and to work for social justice. He could have been one of my sons, just emerging into full adulthood, with bright prospects and a soul committed to social justice and equality. Both Matthew and my sons embody our Unitarian Universalist commitment to social witness and justice. His death sets back the cause of understanding and dialogue.
As a parent, his death hurt. Physically slight, he seemed vulnerable and in need of our protection. Instead, what he endured was condemnation and death. He was murdered for being just who he was, a homosexual, and I was, and am, indignant. Those of us who exist in marginalized communities are likely to experience a heightened awareness of danger.
This murder unleashed a rage in me that I did not know I was capable of, and at least initially could not control. Frankly, I didn't want to control it because it felt righteous. On a deeper level, my own anger scared me. I was forced to confront my own capacity for anger and violence. If I was to be an effective minister and advocate for peace and justice, didn't I have to be non-violent? Could I let others see and feel my fierce anger and bitter grief? On reflection, I have concluded: Yes, I can. I am indeed called to share my anger over injustice with others in a responsible way. We all need to be angry and act up when injustice rears its ugly head. If not we, then who will fight the battle against injustice?
That is the question that Job of the Old Testament is called on to resolve. If God is not all powerful, or there is no God, then who works for justice? The answer is: you and I. We have been granted a free will to do good or evil. It is ours to decide.
This murder did not happen in isolation. It is part of the moral malaise that afflicts our culture. It allows the poor to go hungry, the sick to go untreated and uninsured, the poor to live in substandard housing, or on the street, and our minority population to go unprotected and violated with impunity. The current debate taking place in the Congress over health care is a case in point.
Faced with such monumental challenges to our ethics, what can any of us do? The sad truth is that many of us sitting here today live isolated lives estranged from friends and social institutions that might offer us some comfort. We live in a society that seems to be vastly indifferent to human suffering. This is why our individual and collective action within this beloved community is so vital. We can, and do, matter. It is vital to our survival that we all work for justice, equity and compassion.
While this problem is endemic in our culture, it is also personal. Many of us, or our friends and acquaintances, have been victims of this kind of individual and societal violence. This problem of victimization is an even more pressing problem in communities populated by those marginalized by our culture: those who are victims of domestic abuse and rape, Native Americans, people of color and the G/L/B/T and questioning population. These are some of the peoples who are less able to take action to protect themselves. Some of my personal friends fit into this grouping and they have been bashed and beaten because they were gay. Unlike Matthew, they all survived. The question we are called on today to confront is: what do we do to stop the carnage and move towards peace and understanding.
There is no quick or easy fix to this problem, but there are steps we can take that can make a difference. First we must find our voice which is often buried, silenced, or heard only in whispers in the dark. We need to find that loud, clear, and unequivocal voice that says "enough;" there is a better way to be and to treat each other.
This is the hardest work you will ever be called on to do. The challenge is to go deep, deep into your heart and psyche. To go to the core of your being and explore your inner self. This journey of self discovery is always lonely, sometimes frightening and painful, but is the one sure path to finding your real and authentic self. This is a journey of discovery that requires hard work and courage.
I am reminded of the childhood pain of getting out a loose tooth by rocking it back and forth in its socket until the roots let go and the tooth came out. Do you remember how good that pain felt? In some way that is like the pain of the soul work I am asking you to do.
The reward of that effort is the reclaiming of your lost voice and power to effect change. By reclaiming your power, you gain the ability to put your faith into concrete action. It is the doing and not the results that finally matter. It is the doing that allows you to put your head down on the pillow at night and sleep the sleep of the righteous. If our principles matter at all, they matter most when put into action. The effort is the measure of our faith. The end result is out of our control.
As a minister, a Unitarian Universalist, a human being who happens to be gay, I was impelled to go to Laramie to respond to this murder. My decision to go meant I had to confront my fears, take a public stance against this injustice and violence and face a mostly indifferent community. It was also important for me to demonstrate with my presence that this was wrong. The guilty had to be brought to justice. I needed to find some meaning in this madness through my positive action for change. This is one way in which we can honor our principles and ethics that give life its meaning and substance.
For posterity, I also wanted to give my sons a message that regardless of our fears for our physical safety, we can all live a life of commitment and courage. With that thought in mind, I went on my own Hegira to Laramie. I went to bear witness and work for change. I went to bring comfort to those who grieved. I was there to stand in solidarity with the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Laramie and their new minister and my friend, Stephen Johnson. Further, I wanted to support, in any way I might, the G/L/B/T and questioning communities. Staying home would have felt like I was betraying my faith and ethics.
Laramie is a town spiritually and morally challenged. Many in the community were more upset that the world thought of Laramie as a place set apart by evil than by Matthew's murder. Recent experience in Littleton, and now Indiana, reinforce the reality that Laramie is not unique in the moral challenges that confront it. It is our entire culture of hate that must change. How Laramie responds to the evil in its midst will say much about the character of its citizens.
The religious right was mostly silent in response. Shame on them! Jesus in all his humanity would have grieved deeply at such brutality. Others - Episcopalians and Catholics, - and Unitarian Universalists - were outraged by this act of savagery.
The mostly closeted gay community was shocked and grieving over the murder of one of their own. They craved healing and a return to normalcy. This was one way the efforts of our fellowship in Laramie helped. We can be proud that the Unitarian Universalist congregation made a difference. They mattered and were counted righteous in the eyes of the world.
I am so very proud of my friend, Stephen Johnson. He and the fellowship are living proof of what can be done when we act out of our principles. These Unitarian Universalists mattered to both the gay and straight communities. For their efforts, a Faith in Action service award was presented to them at the General Assembly in Salt Lake City.
I want now to share the pilgrimage I made to the fence, the scene of Matthew's last moments. While Time magazine and others gave the impression that Matthew was left to die in a kind of no-man's-land off in the wilderness, the scene was not quite accurately depicted. Indeed, he was left to die, tied to a fence on a lonely frigid night. He was left in his final moments to his God as he suffered and died. Like Jesus, Matthew died for trying to live his life authentically. He died attempting to live in harmony with his inner vision of himself as part of the vast universe. Matthew devoted himself to the work of living in right relationship with himself, others and God. Both Matthew and Jesus were crucified for being authentic. The gay community and their straight supporters honored Matthew with candlelight vigils, memorial services, and were making plans to do the hard work of organizing future social action for justice. All of this took place at the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship that had become safe space for the grieving gay community.
The nation, indeed the world, responded to this human tragedy by donating over $35,000 to the Matthew Shepard Memorial Fund. These funds are to be used to further the cause of civil rights for all marginalized peoples. The money will help local organizations working for equal, not special, rights protection under the law and the work to pass hate crime legislation. Unfortunately, as of this date, the state legislature has defeated any hate crime legislation. The effort will continue regardless of the outcome. The funds donated are also being used to support grass roots projects to change attitudes, minds and, most importantly, hearts.
We here in Rochester are called as well to raise our voices in support of non-discrimination against any oppressed group of people. There is hope if we all strive together.
The Queer community is particularly challenged to define their role in this great crusade. Many of us think that we have 'arrived' and are now fully accepted by the dominant heterosexual culture, and don't want to rock the boat to accomplish more change. I caution against becoming complacent, for I think the crown of acceptance sits too insecurely upon our heads.
We need to be cautious, not timid, about protecting our hard gained rights. We need to be proactive about gaining equal, not special, rights that the religious right uses as a means of defeating what they call the "Gay agenda." This whole argument about special rights is nonsense. What any of us wants is to be left alone in equality. But I am afraid that will not happen unless we are willing to risk ourselves to demand our inalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
There are differences in the gay community about how best to accomplish change. We, like any other group, are not a monolith and never will be when it comes to issues of civil rights. What I am proposing is not revolution or wholesale assimilation into the dominant culture. What I am suggesting is that we can find hope for the future in being ourselves, by honoring who and what we are, by being authentic in response to the challenges we face, and being faithful to our nature. For all of us, gay and straight, our sacred mission is to honor our unique identities.
This quest also comes with a warning label that reads: Never doubt for a moment that there is someone out in this vast land of ours who wants to deny you your rights. The landscape is littered with our dead to prove that. We are, each of us, gay and straight, called to be vigilant. If the Matthew Shepards of this world are killed, it can happen to a minister, to James Byrds, to a lesbian mother, to a transgendered person or to six million other innocents. Unless we all stand tall and resolute, history can and will repeat itself. Humanity needs to live in hope. I went to Laramie filled with despair and anger. I came home thoughtful, grieved, yet empowered and filled with hope that things can be different and better. Each one of us can light a candle rather than curse the darkness.
One final story that ends in hope. On my pilgrimage to Matthew's Golgotha, I met a husband and wife on horseback who related this touching story. At their six-year-old son's birthday party, three days after Matthew's murder, the children were talking about the murder of Matthew Shepard. One little boy turned to another and said that he was not going to call anyone "queer" again because he knew that most people calling someone "queer" or "a fag" hurt them and others. The children said they were going to tell all their friends not to call people names that hurt. If a six-year-old can "get it," so can the rest of us.
If children can change the way they behave, why can't adults? The question is, how? How do you change attitudes? How do you change hate into love and, finally, how do you change hearts? The answer is simple, even if the work is not. The answer is, one step at a time. The answer is, one mind at a time. The answer is, one heart at a time. Eventually, just maybe, our entire culture of hate will change, one step at a time.
Let it be.
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