This Land is NOT "our" Land

Offered at St. Paul's Episcopal Church St Louis on the 25^th Sunday after Pentecost November 14, 2021                                                                                                          

In 1990 President George H. W. Bush declared November as Native American Heritage Month. Just like Women’s History, Black History, Pride, and many more, these designations are meant to bring attention to those groups of people who have suffered from indignities and prejudices. It is to offer us a new perspective. So it is today an opportunity to see from a different view.

The way Indigenous people have been and are treated is the first of many United States of America horror stories that show how race determines who is considered less human and therefore expendable. The transgressions against the native people who first lived with the lands and the settlers who took the land is just beginning to be truthfully explored.

Richard Rohr's Meditation “Living with the Land” speaks to the differences in how the Settlers and the Indigenous people saw the land. I am paraphrasing some of his words today.

Most Christians in the Western World have been shaped by a culture and faith that tells us that land acquisition is a normal thing regardless of the cost to others, ourselves, or to the land itself. God made humans stewards of creation therefore it is ours to use. Rohr writes “… our lack of attention to the Christ Mystery can be seen in the way we continue to pollute and ravage Planet Earth, the very thing we all stand on and live from.” Our relationship with the land is in direct correlation to our lack of respect for one other.

Theologian, scholar, and Cherokee descendant Randy Woodley points out that the land itself meant something quite different to those who settled it than it did to those who first lived here. The failure of the settlers to tread lightly, with humility and respect, for the land was the problem. The settlers lived on the land, taking what they wanted when they wanted it regardless of what might be needed in the future. The native people lived with the land, always respecting the natural balance, never taking more than was necessary. It was a sacred understanding.

This is important because this land we are on – actually, not only the land that Saint Louis is on but the broad expanse of land from the Ohio River Valley west to the Red River – is the ancestral lands of the Osage Nation. The Osage history is important to the history of Missouri.

In a 2014 PBS special, Osage Elder Eddy Red Eagle Jr., Drum Keeper and Osage history, cultural, and spirituality expert talked about when the French and French-Canadians arrived in this area of Saint Louis. They “had very little money but they had intelligence, and a strong family life, communal life.” This meant a good deal to the Osage because they had common intentions. Not only did they trade together, but old Cathedral records show that there was intermarriage and that leaders of both groups supported their mutual grandchildren. They were community.

The Louisiana Purchase in 1803 changed everything.

As we all know, the US government regarded Native Americans as “savages”, fully expendable, and moved them from their ancestral homelands whenever more land was wanted. In addition to the forced migration, epidemics of European illnesses ravaged Native American populations. In 1808, to maintain peace and care for their people, Osage leaders handed over their Missouri lands and hunting grounds to the U.S. government at the Fort Osage Treaty.

A little bit of history: We all know of Cahokia Mounds in Illinois. Yet, did you know that the area of St Louis was home to at least 25 mounds, 14 of which were in the area we know as the Great Basin?

The purpose of these mounds is varied yet all were considered sacred. Many tribes consider the mounds as symbols of Mother Earth, the giver of life, the womb from which humanity emerged and was formed.

A November 8 article in the St Louis Post Dispatch gives a history of the mounds. There were 25 mounds from Biddle Street to Mound Street east of Broadway and north of today’s Laclede Landing. Big Mound was the largest. It was north of downtown on the rise overlooking the Mississippi River. It was 319 feet long, 158 feet wide, and 34 feet high.

Although archaeologists determined that these mounds were built between 1000 and 1450 AD, between 1830 and 1869, all those north of downtown were removed. Any evidence of previous lives inside of the mounds were unceremoniously discarded. A quote as Big Mound was being destroyed: “Men are digging on every side. And what should have been purchased by the city and preserved inviolate will soon be known only in location tradition.” While there were some objectors, they were overwhelmed by what the St Louis Dispatch called “the grasping money-making spirit of our age.”

Sugar Loaf Mound, which stands at 4420 Ohio Avenue less than two miles from St. Paul’s, is the last sacred mound. The Osage Nation was able to purchase the top half of the mound a few years ago. The bottom portion of the mound is owned by someone who is still living in the home that sits at the base of the mound.

Due to misinformation, false histories, and glorified tales meant to embellish the idea of Americana, we are woefully ignorant of what has been. Were it not for the recent discovery of unmarked graves of native children in Catholic and Anglican Indian Boarding Schools in Canada, the traumas endured by indigenous people of North America might remain unknown. Presiding Bishop Curry and House of Deputies President Jennings have called for a full understanding of what happened in the Episcopal Indian Boarding Schools. There remains much to be learned both in Canada and those US schools.

The discovery and opening of the graves in Canada are ongoing tragedies, a catastrophic loss of a generation of children who were removed from their families, mistreated by the Church, traumatized and abused by those who were in charge, and then, too many, dying and hidden in unmarked graves. Those families who lost these children or those who survived the trauma of the schools and deculturation of indigenous traits continue to feel the pain today.

Carlisle Indian Industrial School in Carlisle, Pennsylvania opened in 1879 as the first government run boarding school for Native American children. They had a motto – Kill the Indian Save the Man; meaning, strip the native children from their culture and language, replace it with “Christian” values and they stood a possible chance of become good American citizens.

The values that the Catholic, Anglican, and Episcopal schools were attempting to erase from the Indigenous children are those same values that will save this creation – living with the land in respect, humility and using only what is necessary, understanding that all of these speak to the sacred nature of God’s Creation.

How do we begin to talk about reparations for these sins?

Stolen lands and children, genocide, desecrated graves, ancestral bones placed in museums, sacred lands turned into golf courses and pathways for oil and gas pipelines, water poisoned, mounds destroyed — these are just some of the sins committed, not only by the settlers of North America but continuing today.

These sins belong to each one of us, just as the sins against those African peoples who were stolen from their countries and enslaved for labor and used as a resource for future labor. It does not matter that none of us here today were there. We would love to tell ourselves that we would be different, do differently. Yet, today, in this world where we decry such sins, how do we contribute to the existing empire and that dominate culture that makes poverty a crime and rewards the richest?

At all Diocesan events, it is now proclaimed:

“We respectfully recognize and acknowledge that we are on traditional, ancestral lands of the Osage Nation. The process of acknowledging the land we stand on is a way of accepting our complicity in a process of colonization that removed the Osage people from their ancestral lands. We also make this acknowledgment to affirm our commitment to stand with indigenous communities today as they seek justice and resist continued threats to their sovereignty and humanity.”

This is an important statement because first and foremost, statements such as this were requested by Native American tribes as an acknowledgment of stolen lands. Secondly, this diocesan statement goes beyond acknowledgement and calls for more action.

I recently read John Philip Newell’s book Sacred Earth Sacred Soul and it lays out so clearly so many instances when the Church has contributed to the empire.

Nadia Bolz-Weber said, “People don’t leave Christianity because they stop believing in the teachings of Jesus … [they] leave … because they believe in the teachings of Jesus so much, they can’t stomach being part of an institution that claims to be about that and clearly isn’t.”

The idea that one race of people could envision themselves as being chosen by God to expand across North America, converting or killing anyone who stood in the way is an extreme example of egoism – their self-interest was the foundation of their morality. That is a flawed ideology that continues today.

We cannot talk about the sins against humanity without understanding the scope of the damage to not just those who were first on this land 400 plus years ago but those who exist in our nation and throughout the world today whose lives are being destroyed by human caused climate disaster

And

not just those who were kidnapped and sold into slavery but those who continue to suffer from environmental racism here in this city, state, and nation.

These sins continue. And we cannot talk about the sins of humanity without trying to understand what this means to this creation – Creation meaning the WHOLE of us – ALL things that God created.

This is a much bigger conversation than can be had in this short space. Yet it must happen.

Jesus said, “This is but the beginnings of the birth pangs”. — What new thing will come from truth?

Truths:

1.) Our differences do not make us less than; rather, it enhances the indescribability of God’s diverse creation. Can we imagine only one type of bird? Only one type of tree?

2.) It doesn’t matter how much the stories of the wounded hurt us; we must hear these stories.

We are at a time in our lives where it feels that we are awaiting the Great Apocalypse. Some interpretations of the Revelation and by Hollywood tell us that an apocalypse means the end of time is near and it is the final destruction, a catastrophic event. Yet, theologically, in Greek, apocalypse means to uncover, disclose, reveal. What does our past reveal to us? What is being uncovered? What truth is there to learn?

That is what Jesus is doing today in Mark’s Gospel.

Jesus is unveiling a truth — once again he is telling us to pay attention. Do not be led astray by false prophets or fake news. None of it is important. Remember what we already know. Don’t worry about when all the great buildings will be thrown down or of earthquakes. God is making everything new, offering us new chances to be part of the renewal of all things. God did not make this mess we are now in but there is hope because we know God is always with us.

And what do we know about these sins of humanity against humanity? We know that loving God and loving our neighbor is not a rote saying. It is a life-line, a way of living. This is what First Nations people understand so clearly. It means respecting one another and all aspects of creation. It means that we take care of one another, not in spite of our differences but because of these. Diversity is a rule of creation. We need diversity. Living for one another is a rule of nature.

There must be acknowledgement and confession that a sin against one part of humanity happened because of another part. There must be conversation about reparation – WITH the people whose truths we need to hear. And it is only then that there can be reconciliation. And yes. There will be birthpangs yet what do we anticipate when a mother and child are feeling the pains of birth? We anticipate new life! God is still making all things new, just as in the beginning, is now and always will be. We are a part of that new thing – all of us.

Stay alert. Remember what we already know. Let go of false prophets and flawed ideologies. This is not about self – one very small part. It is about the whole of us – all that God created.

Live in the hope that God offers us in the making of all things new.

Amen.

https://www.senate.gov/artandhistory/history/common/generic/American_Indian_Heritage_Month.htm#:~:text=In%201990%20Congress%20passed%20and,as%20Native%20American%20Indian%20Month).

https://cac.org/living-with-the-land-2021-10-20/

https://news.stlpublicradio.org/arts/2014-03-31/osage-nation-leaders-help-explain-st-louis-earliest-days

https://carlisleindianschoolproject.com/#:~:text=Carlisle%20Indian%20Industrial%20School%20in,Indian%2C%20Save%20the%20Man.%E2%80%9D

https://theblackwallsttimes.com/2020/09/15/the-black-church-a-day-late-and-a-dollar-short/

The Web of Our Existence

or…the truth will set us free.

I didn’t go to Ash Wednesday services…I had the opportunity…two, in fact. I just didn’t go. It was a choice. It felt like a rebellious act, as though I was intentionally, pettily, childishly, pulling away from an overbearing parent. And that is the way a religious institution can sometimes feel.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the Episcopal Church. I could have changed directions numerous times but did not simply because I love the ritual, the bells, the smells, the Tradition and the tradition. There is a freedom that is firmly anchored.

But it is time to detoxify a spirit long held captive by dis-ease. It is time to stop holding on so tightly to some of the sorrows in my past. Can a life be measured by deaths?

To me, my life as a child was as idyllic as an introverted, shy child’s could be. Surrounded by love, great amounts of family, just north of the heart of Texas, in the midst of one huge ranch that we lived on and the two separate farms of my grandparents, nature was our playground; our dogs and cats our playmates. Trees were our jungle gyms; dry creek beds our slides. We rode horses, jumped from the hayloft, swam in “tanks”, read books under big oak trees, felt the green grass and mud between our toes, turned brown under the summer sun and basically lived a life that was unknown to millions of people. We were always fed, always clean (for the most part), always loved. I lived with the words of my daddy in my heart, “You can be whatever you want to be.” It took me a very long time to realize that there were many obstacles within that truth.

It has taken me even longer to acknowledge the sorrows in my life.  My view of my childhood as a time free of anxiety or despair is not a reality. There was anxiety. There was despair. We have to look inward before we can see beyond.

My beloved grandfather, my “Poppy” died when I was ten. He was my mom’s step-dad but to me, the epitome of steadfast love. I could do no wrong and I worked very hard to do no wrong. To disappoint him would have been a true sorrow. His death was a tragedy for sure, one that paled the assassination of the President of the United States in comparison.  

Medger Evers and Malcolm X were not even on my radar.

We moved when I was in 6^th grade from our idyllic setting to a rental house in the town of Comanche, Texas while we awaited the construction of the ranch manager’s house on Prather Ranch outside of town. We always called it the “rat house” because it was a pier and beam where rats had infested the under regions of the place. It was a horror. When we took baths, we could hear the rats running under the tub. We could hear them skittering at night. I shiver to think of it now. Thank God we only lived in the house for a couple of months.  It was the cause of a great many nightmares for me.

Not too long after moving to Comanche, while still living in the “rat house”, my mom was in a horrible car wreck. I was eleven. She lived but it took a very long time for her to heal. The old man who hit her died at the scene. I have breaks in my memory from that time. The next few years were indeed a time of high anxiety with multiple surgeries to reconstruct her face, arm and leg.

Not long after that, my daddy’s right hand man, Jesse, and Jesse’s mom died in a car accident. Jesse was driving her home from a doctor’s appointment. She was pregnant with her 14^th child. Their family had lived on the Ulmer Ranch with us and followed my daddy when he became foreman of the Prather Ranch in Comanche. The tragedy was close to home. My sister and I were friends with three of Jesse’s younger siblings. They had to move from the ranch after the accident.  

Near the end of the “Civil Rights Era”, in 1967, my Granddaddy Sam died of suspicious circumstances. The suspicion was that his current wife withheld his heart medicine which resulted in a fatal heart attack. Of course, that could have been a distraught daughter thinking that…Colleen was not a nice person. It would have been easy to think she did something like that. My mom filed a lawsuit against Collie because she disposed of a lot of Granddaddy Sam’s estate prior without discussing it with Mom. He died without a will. The suit was dismissed. My mom got his guitar.

I have the guitar now. It means a great deal to me. When I was young and in the midst of a terror, I would hide. One of the places I would hide was behind a great big wingback chair in our living room. It was in a corner and a perfect fit for my scrawny body. My granddaddy came looking for me, knowing that I was in one of my fits. He found me in my corner and crawled back there with me. He lifted me up and sat me in his lap and then laid his guitar across my lap and started playing. Before I knew it, whatever fear that had seized me was gone and our laughter and singing galloped through the house.

By the time that Martin Luther King, Jr and Bobby Kennedy were assassinated, we had moved to the big city of Hurst, one of the Mid-Cities of Dallas-Fort Worth. Talk about anxiety…move that shy and anxious 12 year old girl out of the country and into the city...talk about terror. When we lived on Ulmer’s Ranch in Erath County, my fifth grade classroom was also inhabited by the third and fourth grades. All total, there were maybe twenty students in the room. Maybe. When I moved into the Comanche school district, the 6^th grade had three times that many. Moving to a suburban junior high school was a leap outside my imagination. I was beyond terrified.

But I survived the onslaught of nasty boys and mean girls. I even made a couple of lifelong friends. There are even a few that I wish were still friends. The other 700 plus Class of 1971 that attended L. D. Bell High School … meh… If I attended high school reunions, it would be only to taunt the ultra-conservative factors that are so vocal today. To say our opinions are diametrically opposed is an understatement.

However, by 1970, I was entering into a state of awareness of those things around me. I had not yet come into the understanding of the correlation between poverty and war/race and war but I knew that many things were wrong. I knew that the basic alienation of human rights was wrong. I knew that the Baptist preacher was focused on the wrong message and that horse racing in Texas was not the real problem.

It was at this age that I began to recognize a deep dark anger. I do not know the origins of the anger. I would like to think it born from a profound sense of justice, a righteousness beyond my understanding. But I do not know that. At this age, that is how it manifests itself most often. But it has been something that I have had to learn how to hold in check. God has worked closely with me on it, I must say. I have overpowered God on numerous occasions. I continue to be a work in progress.

Looking back on my life and comparing it to the stories of others, pssht…it is nothing. It is calm, middle of the road. But there has always been the dis-ease, the certain uncertainty that made all life questionable. The gap that separated me from the lives of some of my childhood friends was wide, Grand-Canyon-esque in some cases. I knew no parental rages, no poverty, no strange bedrooms that were actually utility rooms or closets. I knew that my both my grandmothers had suffered mightily at the hands of one man or another. It seemed to touch me only superficially, but the rumbles were felt deep below the surface.

I have looked outward. I have stared inward.  Understanding lives somewhere in the midst of our life’s happenings. These seem random and unconnected but what hurts one, hurts us all. We are made up of the sorrows surrounding us. The unrest and worry of my mom as she wrestled with an altered life due to physical and emotional scars – both from the car wreck and her own childhood; the memories of both my grandmothers as they held in check their fears of abuse and violence so that they could go on to love and be loved by others; the alien goings-on in the lives of friends; all these things and many others are enmeshed within my own life, known and unknown. It is the web of our existence.

I am in a rebellious state and have been for quite some time. I feel as though I have complied with rules all my life. Over the past ten years, I have learned that playing by the rules makes one complicit with a good deal of the harm being done.

Some may believe that I have not played by the rules for a long while now but I tell you this – I have tried. I do not want to try any more.

I am not speaking of those little tax rules that are constantly broken or loopholes greedy ones jump through or those who toe the line to the point that they push the line into the space they want it. I am not speaking about breaking laws and getting away with it.

I am talking about truth. Truth as I see it. Truth as it is revealed to me. Truth as I believe it is revealed to me. Injustice. Disharmony. Dis-ease. Silence.

We are all a part of another, many others. We are connected. What hurts one, hurts all. There are always obstacles within the truth. But it is that connectedness that helps us get around the barriers and over the hurdles. It is the connectedness that holds us together…and sets us free.

I am ready for a new place where the webs I weave are for the good. I am ready to be free.