In Memory of Matthew Shepard - Toriphile
John Russell posts the following request to all
Toriphiles seeing future concerts, as do I:
"Yesterday i learned of the brutal beating of
Matthew Sheperd in Wyoming. today i learned that
after about a week of fighting, he died. i was just
overpowered by rage and sadness and disbelief that
something like this could happen. so i did the only
thing i knew to do. i went to Tori and i went to my
writing. and then i thought, this should not be just a
one man show. i know the plight of gays and
lesbians is one close to Tori's heart and i'm sure she
is just as outraged as the rest of us. so i thought
that if at least one person at every show for the
next month or so would request a song to be
dedicated to Matthew at the meet and greet, it
would be a really powerful move in solidarity and a
way of easing the pain in a way that Tori can
accomplish like none other. if you could place an
item on your site asking all Ears with Feet who are
able to attend the meet and greets to make this
request, i think we may actually be able to
accomplish something very meaningful. my personal
suggestion for a memorial would be Not The Red
Baron, but anything would be just as effective."

Rev. Charleston to the whole Trinity College community:

		Chaplain's Reflection


        I saw on the news today that Matthew Shepard died. He was the 22 year old man from Wyoming who was
 beaten and tortured and left to die for no reason other than he was a homosexual. This tragic murder has 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 suddenly shake us out of complacency and remind us that fear, 
prejudice 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. And predictibly, there are also defensive voices:  the governor of Wyoming trying to explain 
why his state has no laws to protect  people from hate crimes and the leadership 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 days to come, these many voices will fill our media and the cultural consciousness it imprints 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 alarm of despair.


As the chaplain for our own community, I would like to invite us all to consider Matthew's death in another 
way. Not through the clamour 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 to never 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. Here at Trinity, I hope we will all listen to 
that silence.  Before we jump to decry Matthew's senseless death or before we seek to rationalize it with loud 
disclaimers: I hope we will just 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 descends on us like a shroud.


At Trinity, as in Wyoming, we are men and women surrounded by the silence of our own 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 can not stand alone. Our fear of social and religious change. Our fear comes in many 
forms but it always comes silently. 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 on this campus 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 observe the suffering of any group of people who have been 
declared expendable by our society.


As a person of faith, I will listen, as we all will, to the many voices which will eulogize Matthew Shepard. I will 
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 gay men or lesbian women. Not for 
any person in our society of any color or condition who has been singled out for persecution. Not in my 
church. Not in my nation.  Not in Wyoming. And not at Trinity College