20 years after slaying, Shepard’s ashes interred
WASHINGTON — Bells chimed softly, a flute slowly played “Morning Has Broken” and thousands filled the soaring nave of Washington National Cathedral on Friday for the interment of Matthew Shepard, the man whose killing 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 slaying of the 21-year-old, who was pistol-whipped and left for dead in a remote Wyoming prairie.
Presiding over the service 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 LGBTQ 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 lying 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 energy of a political rally, with Robinson urging the crowd not to simply commemorate Shepard but to focus on continued discrimination against sexual minorities, especially transgender people, whom he called a “target” right now.
Reports surfaced this week 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, Shepard’s father, Dennis Shepard, thanked those in the cathedral and others watching 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 others. “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 of his ashes served as a celebration of his life that wasn’t possible at the tumultuous time of his 1998 slaying, when anti-gay protesters screamed at funeral-goers. Tensions were so high 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.
Abigail Mocettini, a 24year-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.”