Reflections on Silence... and the Life of Matthew Shepard
tthew Shepard died three months ago. He was the 22 year
old man from Wyoming who was beaten and tortured and left to die for no
reason other than that he was a homosexual. This tragic murder raised
a national debate again, the kind of periodic soul-searching our
society goes through whenever a crime of hate startles us into
awareness. The burning of black churches, the bombing of innocent
people, the death of a shy young man from Wyoming; these events and
rage are always the shadows just beyond the light of our reason. And
so people suddenly start to speak out.
There are voices of outrage
and grief, voices of sorrow and demands to know why such a thing could
happen. Predictably, there are also defensive voices: the Governor of
Wyoming trying to explain why his state has no laws to protect people
from hate crimes; the leadeership of what is called the "Christian
right wing" trying to explain why their national ads against
homosexuality don't influence people to commit such violence against
gays and lesbians. In the aftermath of such deeds, these many voices
fill our media and its "cultural consciousness" until we are once again
lulled into the more familiar patterns of our lives, dozing off as a
nation until the next tragedy rings the alarms of despair.
I think our community should
consider Matthew's death in another way -- not through the clamor or
denials, not through the shouts or cries of anger -- but rather,
through the silence of his death, the silence of that young man hanging
on his cross of pain alone in the emptiness of a Wyoming night, the
silence that ultimately killed him as surely as the beatings he
endured.
Silence killed Matthew
Shepard. The silence of Christians who know that our scriptures on
homosexuality are few and murky in interpretation and far outweighed by
the words of a savior whose only comment on human relationships was to
call us never to judge but only to love. The silence of well-meaning
educated people who pretend to have an enlightened view of
homosexuality while quietly tolerating the abuse of gays and lesbians
in their own communities. The silence of our elected officials who
have the authority to make changes but prefer to count votes. The
silence of the majority of "straight" Americans who shift uncomfortably
when confronted by the thought that gays and lesbians may be no
different from themselves, save for the fact that they are walking
targets for bigotry, disrespect, cheap humor and, apparently, of
murder.
Crimes of hate may live in
shouts of rage, but they are born in silence. We must all listen to
that silence. Before we jump to decry Matthew's senseless death or
before we seek to rationalize it with loud disclaimers, we must must
hear the silence. A young man's heart has ceased to beat. Hear the
silence of that awful truth. It is the silence of death. It is the
silence that descendes on us like a shroud. Here, as in Wyoming, we
are men and women surrounded by the silence of our fear. Our fear of
those who are different. Our fear of being identified with the
scapegoat. Our fear of taking an unpopular position for the sake of
those who cannot stand alone. Our fear of social and religious
change.
Our fear comes in many forms,
but it always comes siilently. A whispered joke. A glance to look
away from the truth. A quick shake of the head to deny any complicity
in the pain of others. These silent acts of our own fear of
homosexuality are acted out in our community every day just as they are
acted out every day in Wyoming.
Through silence, we give
ourselves permission to practice what we pretend to abhor. With
silence, we condemn scores of our neighbors to live in the shadows of
hate. In silence, we observbe the suffering of any group of people who
have been declared expendable by our society.
As a person of faith I
listened, as we all did, to the many voices which eulogized Mattew
Shepard. I will continue to carry that part of our national shame on
my shoulders. But I will also listen to the silence which speaks much
more eloquently still to the truth behind his death.
I will listen and I will
remember. And I will renew my resolve never to allow this silence to
have the last word. Not for Matthew. Not for any person in our
society of any color or condition who has been singled out for
persecution. Not here.
Not for gay men or lesbian women.
Not here.
Not in my school.
Not here.
Not in my town.
Not in my church.
Not here.
Adapted from a letter distributed by email, attributed to Barbra Chaplain.
A tribute to Matthew Shepard, with other links, can be found
here.