‘You are safe now’: Matthew Shepard, gay man slain in ’98, interred in D.C.
Bells chimed WASHINGTON — softly, a flute slowly played “Morning Has Broken” and thousands filled the soaring nave of the Washington National Cathedral for the interment of Matthew Shepard, the young man whose murder 20 years ago came to symbolize the hatred many Americans have harbored toward gay people.
The poignant service was at once a funeral and a celebration of life, a moment of closure for Shepard’s loved ones and of remembrance for all those moved by the murder of Shepard, who was pistol-whipped and left for dead in a remote Wyoming prairie.
Presiding over the worship service at the second-largest cathedral in the country, in front of a crowd of about 2,025 people, was Bishop Gene Robinson, whose elevation in the early 2000s as the first openly gay bishop in the Episcopal Church marked another huge — and controversial — milestone in the push for LGBT equality.
In his homily, Robinson shared an anecdote from the first police officer who arrived at the site of Shepard’s attack, a remote fence to which his battered body was lashed and had spent the cold night. When the officer arrived, he said, a deer was laying beside Shepard’s body. Upon her arrival, the animal looked straight into the officer’s eyes and ran away.
“What she said was: ‘That was the good Lord, no doubt in my mind.’ And there’s no doubt in my mind either. God has always loved Matt,” Robinson said.
Robinson choked back tears as he spoke of his own consecration as an openly gay Episcopal bishop, about five years after Shepard’s death.
“Just before I strapped on my bulletproof vest for my consecration, someone hand delivered a note from Judy Shepard. It said: ‘I know Matthew will be smiling down upon you tomorrow,’” Robinson said.
Rippling through the cathedral at times was the crackling energy of a political rally, with Robinson urging the crowd not to simply commemorate Shepard but to train their eyes on continued discrimination against sexual minorities, especially transgender people, whom he called a “target” right now.
Just this week, reports surfaced that the Trump administration is “seriously” considering changing the way it treats transgender people under the law — a fresh and direct aim at transgender rights.
“There are forces who would erase them from America,” Robinson said. Twice he urged the crowd to “go vote.”
The crowd gave Robinson a long-standing ovation as he closed, choking down these final words:
“There are three things I’d say to Matt: ‘Gently rest in this place. You are safe now. And Matt, welcome home.’ Amen.”
Earlier in the service, Matthew Shepard’s father, Dennis Shepard, thanked those in cathedral, and the scores of others watching the livestreamed service online, for “helping us take Matt home.”
“It is so important we now have a home for Matt,” Shepard, 69, said. “A home that others can visit. A home that is safe from haters.”
The father recalled his son’s love for the Episcopal church, growing up in Sunday school and as an acolyte in their church at home in Wyoming.
“Matt was blind, just like this beautiful house of worship,” Dennis Shepard said. “He did not see skin color. He did not see religion. He did not see sex orientation. All he saw was a chance to have another friend.”
For Shepard’s family and friends, the interment served as a celebration of his life that wasn’t possible at the tumultuous time of his 1998 murder, when anti-gay protesters screamed at funeral-goers. Tensions were so fierce at his funeral that his father wore a bulletproof vest under his blue suit.
Before the start of the service at 10 a.m., the line of people bundled in heavy coats snaked across the grounds of the massive church, at the U.S. capital’s highest spot. Those in the crowd were mostly older adults, members of a generation that can still recall Shepard’s killing.
But even for those in attendance too young to remember the Shepard’s death, his story has resonated years later. Abigail Mocettini, a 24-year-old who grew up in Boise, Idaho, said Shepard’s death loomed “in the background” for young people coming out — ”especially in the West.”
“As we were coming out, this affected our parents and informed their fears,” Mocettini, now a District of Columbia resident, said as she prepared to enter the cathedral. “Acknowledging queer history is a thing that needs to be respected,” she said.
Some close to Shepard say even with his fame — his killing is the subject of many books, shows and one of the most-produced plays in the country, “The Laramie Project” — the idea of his interment in the prominent cathedral feels momentous. Also this week, the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History received a donation from the family of some of his belongings.
“We’re all awed. It’s just very humbling to see the Smithsonian and the cathedral recognize the power of Matthew’s story all these years later,” said Jason Marsden, executive director of the Matthew Shepard Foundation, which advocates in particular for gay youths.
Marsden was a friend of Shepard’s at the time of the killing. “It affirms what we’ve always thought, that his story is powerful and inspires people.”