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13 August 2008

“Do You Believe in Ghosts?” … or … “Take the Long Road Home”

Having re-established my connections in the Black Hills, I was able to rent the same cabin I used in the month of June for an additional week’s stay in August.  My original plan was to stay at Borderlands, in the heart of the Pe Sla (central prairie of the Black Hills…more like grassy hills at 5200 ft above sea level).  Mother Linda was full with family and guests for the only window I had to return.  Things worked out for the best, and I will have time at Borderlands.  I don’t have plans to mow the lawn again, though I did (tongue in cheek) make the suggestion.  This experience is more like a final retreat and opportunity to make closure on several elements of my summer project that had been left open-ended.

As my passion and personality would have it, I realized that, if one takes the more southern approach to the Black Hills … from the south via Highway 385 from Bridgeport, Nebraska…one can travel a good portion of the Oregon/California/Mormon/Pony Express Trails.  From near Kearny, NE, I-80 follows the Platte River – as did the early travelers of the Trails. Hwy 26 from Ogallala is even more invested in the Trails. My passion for history and historical research got the best of me, and I plotted my trip so that I would follow the trails as far as Bridgeport and then head straight north into the Black Hills through the Buffalo Gap.  This entry into the Hills is so named because it is a natural plains area that enters into the Paha Sapa where Fall River and a natural break occurs.  Hot Springs, Wind Cave National Park and Custer State Park are the places that mark this “gate.”  It is also where the Buffalo historically migrated annually for centuries before being killed off.  It is but one reason the Paha Sapa is sacred to several Nations of Native Americans.

Once again, I am alone on this trip.  Our elder daughter, Mary, wanted some “Mom-Daughter” time (remember, she is working in Alaska for the summer).  Denise had an opportunity to make a four-day visit to Ketchikan.  It turned out to be the same timeframe as my only window for returning to the Black Hills.  Thankfully, this will be our last separation for some time.  Even though this has been a wonderfully productive and transformative summer, when it ends, we will have been apart about eight weeks of it.  It’s worked out well, but we both agree that we don’t want to do that again anytime soon.

Ghosts

The trip north began on Tuesday morning, 12 August.  The anticipated arrival at my Black Hills cabin was to be late evening the same day.  Things went quite well.  When I got to Kearny, Nebraska, I stopped for gas.  As I put together a cup of coffee in the station convenience store, the attendant (a woman roughly my age) asked me straight out, “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Now, she had never seen me before.  I was one of probably 200 people who would walk into such a place on any given day.  I’m dressed in khakis and a knit shirt.  I’m not conspicuous in any way as being different from any patron traveling I-80 and making a stop.   She told me she had never asked anyone else that question, because she doesn’t want to be seen as being “weird.”  I had to ask:  “Why do you ask me that question?”  Her response was typical of what I have been hearing this summer:  “You just seem to have the bearing and sense of being someone who would be both sensitive and knowledgeable.”   Wish I had cash for the times that has been said over the past 2.5 months of moving about.

Karen (as she introduced herself) and her husband have lived south of I-80 and on the south side of the Platte River since 1999.  They bought a home that has been in that area for around 80 years, and they have been rehabbing it.  It seems that, shortly after moving in, both she and her husband began experiencing phenomena – doors opening and closing, appearances of  a man and a woman in dress that would have been appropriate for the 19th century…pioneer farm style; things would be moved.  Several of their friends, who would stay with them, would experience movement, sudden wind in a closed up room or other such unusual experiences.

I asked if she had consulted anyone prior to now.  She had indeed.  She is Roman Catholic and asked her priest if such was possible and what to do.  His response was to “ask them if it is okay for you and your family to live in that house and on that land.  Insure them that you plan to care for the place AND that you would treat the land as sacred.”  

The latter part is important, because they live on land that is part of what is known as the “Plum Creek Massacre” in the late 1840s.  Most of an entire wagon train of people was killed by renegade Pawnee.  Contrary to the history books and Hollywood, Indian attacks on wagon trains were extremely rare occurrences.  This was an anomaly based upon fear of cholera and a group of Pawnee led by a maverick warrior.  Nevertheless, it led to the building of Ft. Kearny, which I had just visited prior to stopping to fuel my car.

In answering Karen’s question to me, I told her that, yes, I have had numerous encounters over the years.  She nearly jumped back in surprise.  “So you don’t think we are weird?”  “Nope, obviously your priest didn’t either.  Did you take his advice?”  They had.  The result was that they have not been bothered, but they continue to feel presence…a very peaceful but powerful presence.  I suggested that she quit calling them ghosts.  That is an overused and inadequate (and inaccurate) term.  Any place of crisis or tragedy can become a “thin place.”  Every human action has consequences at more than one level of reality.  My sensitivity to these things seems to be a gift that I have had from early childhood.   I’ve had a number of experiences/encounters on Civil War battlefields as well as where battles were fought in foreign places.  I’ve had personal encounters during my own crises (when I thought I had a heart attack in 1995 as one such example).  These are really not special events, and I firmly believe they happen all the time.  It’s our sensitivity to and openness to such experiences that allow us to connect.  I do not consciously make such endeavors.  When they happen, they simply happen.  It is part of what I use in spiritual direction, prayer counseling and (on very rare occasions – twice in 30 years) exorcism (this has to be done with a Bishop’s permission.  Both of my issues with this happened in Central Florida, where I had been empowered by my bishop as an exorcist in the diocese).   Again, this is a spiritual gift and not something I make generally known…until this story.  It lends itself to the experiences of this summer, last August when I first came here, and when I made Vision Quest last October.

My further advice to Karen was to simply chat with whatever presence this continues to be as she feels it there.  It is obviously benevolent.  It is a thin area upon which her house (and others I was told in this conversation) is built.  There is hardly a mile on the Overland Trails that a grave was not dug.  It is estimated that between 20,000 and 30,000 people died in the years that these trails were used.  Only a handful of graves are identified.  I visited two of them on my trip.  It is a powerful ribbon across this part of the continent.

As a rather humorous aside, my conversation with Karen lasted probably 20 minutes.  I stood at the side of the counter drinking coffee.  At least 14 people came through during that period.  Some of the looks, as they overheard our conversation, were truly amusing. 

The Long Road

My nose for history is like that of a hound on a scent for game.  Once I get going (without my family with me), I can find myself well off my intended track and timetable.  This was the case on Tuesday, 12 August.  I got off I-80 and traveled side roads to get to areas both on and off the guide maps.  The ones not on the maps were given me by park rangers, attendants or knowledgeable local folks who happened to be where I was.  Before I knew it, I was in North Platte, and it was sunset.  I wasn’t going to get to Hill City, SD this night! 

One thing I was learning was that truly serious research has been done along the Overland Trails over the past 20 years.  A cultural anthropologist (and former highway patrol trooper…there’s a combination one doesn’t find often) told me that he’s been part of a team that has marked graves found along the trail through newer means of such identification (now being used on battlefields).   He told me the statistic of “a pioneer grave every mile along the Oregon Trail” is just about accurate.  It’s an amazing testimony of courage and fortitude in the face of obviously huge and daunting obstacles.  One thing amazed me regularly as I traveled:  I could travel in my car in about 12 minutes the distance that the average wagon train could travel in a long, hard day.  By 1pm Wednesday, I had traveled from Lee’s Summit (roughly the same as leaving Independence) to Scott’s Bluff…600 miles.  It took the Overland Trails travelers a month of arduous travel to make that transit. 

I also learned that, through historical research, it has been learned that Native American tribes helped wagon train travelers far more than doing any damage.   The things that finally provoked attacks on non-native folks was the senseless killing of buffalo, which removed a vital food source; encroachment on sacred spaces without permission; and, by far the worst, the breaking of established and signed treaties with government and military officials.  The last was a breaking point with the Lakota and Cheyenne and led to the plains wars in the 1850s and 1870s.  Eight major treaties were broken between 1851 and 1876.  It was unconscionable on the part of the government, and efforts are underway even now to repair some of that damage and loss of trust.

I traveled, talked, listened and learned until about noon today (Wednesday, 13 August).  I found myself at Scott’s Bluff, NE.  Something deep inside said, ‘Leave now and head north…just do it!”   I did and arrived at my cabin destination north of Hill City around 4:30pm.   In keeping with my summer experiences, I arrived about 25 minutes ahead of a major thunderstorm.  Storms in the Black Hills (as I have reported earlier) are decidedly different.  There is something about both the geography and geology that creates a lot of electricity and fast shifting winds.  This storm provided a fantastic lightning display and dropped nearly 2 inches of rain in the space of about an hour.  I did manage to get needed groceries after the storm.

I mentioned in the title “Long Road Home.”  One of my colleagues, whom I have kept up with this summer, in learning that I was coming back to the Black Hills for a week, commented that I was returning to my “home away from home.”  Upon reflection, I think this is the case.  It is an odd connection.  When I first came here in August 2007 – my first ever visit to the Black Hills – there was a feeling of familiarity and connection that I could not (and still cannot) explain.  My acceptance into the cultures that create this area has been nothing short of phenomenal.  There have been no “initiatory rites” that one might usually expect as a stranger entering into other lifestyles and folkways.  I have never been treated like a casual tourist (or a tourist of any kind).

One of the most refreshing elements of this summer has been that, wherever I have worked, I have been accepted just as I am.  I have not had to change, meet certain criteria or expectations or behave a particular way.  Though careful to observe cultural customs and be sensitive to the experiences of those around me (which is part of my general style anyway), I have not had to invent myself to meet unspoken expectations.  After thirty years as a parish priest (my own culture) where, even with obvious spiritual gifts, that has not regularly been the case, this has done more to re-create me than anything I could have imagined.   On Monday, before departing on this last trip, my regular doctor saw me for my mid-year check-up.  After poking and listening and asking questions, he said, “I approve of clergy sabbaticals…you are in great shape.”  (today, he called on my cell phone to tell me my cholesterol and triglycerides have taken a major leap upward, which caused him concern; but this is a battle I have been fighting for two years now…and not winning).

When I departed the Black Hills at the end of June, part of me felt like a plant being ripped up by the roots.  Another part of me was anxious to return to my wife and the familiarity of our home and routine.  I am learning to integrate those two parts.  While the same person that left at the end of May, I am also decidedly different in ways that others seem to notice, but I don’t quite yet understand.  God works in wondrous ways!   One thing for sure, like every one of us, I continue to be molded and shaped by a loving God as I make myself open and available for transformational experiences.

Mitakuye Oyasin!

Fr. Fred

1 August 2008

“For Every Thing (Turn, Turn, Turn)…There is a Season…and a Time for Every Purpose Under Heaven…” Ecclesiastes 3:1f; music by the Byrds, 1965.

Academic time ended in Vancouver, BC, and my flights back to Kansas City went without much of a hitch. There was a delay of about 45 minutes leaving Denver, but one can live easily with that – given that it is the last flight in the two-flight journey. There is always the low level angst about whether one’s checked baggage will arrive intact, and mine did.

The nearly two weeks since my return to the KC area have been divided four ways. I spend some time each day continuing the reading that supplements the work I have done both in the Black Hills and at Vancouver School of Theology. As mentioned, the bibliography has grown quite a bit from the time I started the actual work. There is a particular two-volume work on Northern Plains Nations spirituality that every person giving me guidance has insisted that I read. It has been out of print for some time and our local libraries don’t carry it. Last week, I hit the jackpot!  Amazon.com listed one volume of the set through an independent seller…”like new.” It was volume one, so I figured it would be better than nothing. The price was very reasonable, so I made the purchase. To my utter surprise, the package arrived, and it was an unopened shrink-wrap containing both volumes….never opened before!  I received it for the price of the one volume. It was from a private seller contracted with Amazon with a note inside that said, “Please enjoy.”  That doesn’t happen very often.

The work that I began doing in June seemed simple enough. As I have continued to study, interview, have off-handed conversations and follow leads from the research and the interactions, the field now has circles inside of circles of related information.  Spirituality is a very general and really unwieldy term for what it means to be fully human and alive to our reality. Reality is not confined to our physical or behavioral experiences. It encompasses dimensional aspects of reality not readily perceived in our momentary experiences. Nevertheless, those dimensional aspects are as real as what we do experience and often provide clarity to those “physical” experiences, if we are open and perceptive.

How does one be perceptive to that reality? First, simply accept the fact that it is there. To say something like, “I don’t believe in that…or it’s only fictional” is to close one’s mind and, thereby the experience. Example in physical reality: It happens regularly that we will make a judgment about a person or situation and conclude that it is the truth. From that point, we are unable to incorporate other aspects of that person or situation. If I hate being in a place, all I will be open to encounter is what is negative and off-putting about that place. It’s both a psychological defense and a method of sorting physical reality into categories.

To accept the fact (emphasize: fact) that physical reality is integrated with what we call Divine Reality, the Kingdom, spirit, or spiritual is to begin to see physical reality in a vibrant and transcendent way. It is what Anglicanism calls “Incarnational Being.” If one remains open to this integrated reality, one can begin to experience life like Abraham and the Patriarchs/Matriarchs of the “Old Testament” did….talking to elements of that extended reality. Or, one can have experiences like the Apostles and others of the “New Testament who interacted with the Risen/Ascended Christ or could experience the Holy Spirit at work. One can begin to do very much what Jesus taught about “moving mountains.” What that means is the ability to deal with reality in ways that makes us intimate with it rather than just “players.”

The Lakota and other First Nations folks with whom I have spent time this summer are distinctive in their capacity to live fully in the present moment and perceive the Holy at work in the small details of the world around them. It is the kind of incarnational sensitivity that I found alive and at work in my study of Celtic culture; and it is the cornerstone defining element of Anglicanism. I have always suspected that this is our major gift to the Christian Church, but I have come to understand it now as more than a gift.

Our Anglican heritage, while itself filled with inconsistencies (and all religious traditions are…because all religious traditions are dynamic human communities), is founded on God being among us…most fully in the Person of Jesus Christ. For the most part, Anglicanism has avoided the temptation to make the Christian experience a static set of rules and principles and has steadfastly sought the ongoing action of the Holy Spirit that continues to open our eyes to fresh revelation, as we have been mentally, emotionally and spiritually able to embrace and comprehend it. Physics, for example, doesn’t disprove God. It further points toward the intricacies of God’s power and intimacy. The fact of physics that nothing is solid but, instead, made up of particles that have huge spaces between them, allows us to take the step into a faith adventure of being a continuous tapestry. The proven discovery over the past 15 years of our genetic interconnectedness has borne out the testimony of ancient Hebrew writers that we all come from a single source (the genome and genographic work of Drs Spencer Wells and Francis Collins, et.al.). This reflects that God’s revelation to those ancient people of God is not only a true story but a statement of intimacy and ultimate community.

Try as we might, we can’t disprove God. The more we try, the more we find conclusive revelation to the contrary. Thus, my journey this summer has drawn me deeper into the center circle where worship, prayer and openness to revelation drive everything else that is of consequence and importance. It is here I must pause for a time and hope those of you who might read this will find something of inspiration for your journey.

I depart again on 12 August for the Black Hills. There are several people I need to see and some further on-site research to complete. I will return on 19 August and spend the remaining time completing the tasks of organizing and collating materials I have gathered over the summer. That, in itself, seems a bit daunting. There’s a lot of collected materials.

Mitakuye Oyasin!

Fr. Fred+

18 July 2008

Put the Lime in the Coconut

This has been a fast week in terms of what has taken place. It seems like only yesterday that it was Monday, and we were beginning a fresh week of academic pursuits. It is now Friday night, and I have completed the summer session at Vancouver School of Theology. This has been a remarkably enlightening and stimulating two weeks in a community that is one of the most nurturing I believe I have experienced in any academic setting.  

Tomorrow (Saturday) I will spend doing practical housekeeping to prepare for departure. It will include another week’s worth of laundry, organizing this past week’s notes and bibliographic material and physically packing things for the trip back to Kansas City. That will take most of my morning. I plan to take time in the afternoon for just looking about and taking in the sights and sounds along the water. I depart early Sunday morning with the anticipation of being in KC by 6:15pm that evening.

Yesterday found me feeling rather unwell. I believe, again, it is the effects of eating on the economy and long days. Whatever it was, I was “off my feed” (as my Dad used to say) and squirreled myself away in the morning to quietly read and take notes. I didn’t go to lunch, but did go to my afternoon class. By 6pm I knew I needed to eat something but had no idea what I needed.

I found myself at the University Village, just about 3 minutes from my residence by car and at the edge of campus. It’s a grouping of restaurants, shops and two banks that caters mostly to students. I wandered about rather aimlessly until I found myself in the downstairs food court (something like one would find in a mall). As I was reading a wall menu at a Malaysian walk-up restaurant, the manager (I learned later) asked if I needed help with the menu. Half attentive, I told him I wasn’t sure this was going to be right for me, since I wasn’t feeling well. “Oh, you wait right here. I’ll be right back.” Oh, oh. Now what? About 2 minutes later, he returned with a large coconut. “This is fresh coconut. It has been in the refrigerator. I fix special drink for you….not cost you anything…okay?” Free? Okay.

He cut the top off the coconut with awesome skill and speed. After stripping the outer hull of the rough material…revealing a smooth, damp exterior pulp… he set the coconut on a stand so that it would stay straight. With a spoon-shaped knife, he loosened the coconut meat inside the pint or so of liquid.  He produced a large, fresh lime, cut it and squeezed the entire contents into the coconut juice.  He then produced a ginger root, washed it and shaved several small strip into the juice. He then carefully mashed and stirred the mixture. All the time, he was totally intent on his project.

Finished, he placed the coconut (on its stand) on a tray and handed to me with a straw. “You drink this…all of it. You go sit over there and drink slow but steady. This is A number 1 coconut I give to you. No charge.”  This was a big coconut! And, it was heavy.  I did as I was told (oddly enough) and began to drink.  I like coconut, but coconut milk is not all that appetizing. However, with the lime and ginger mixed in, it was quite palatable. It was also nice and cool from the refrigeration.  I drank the whole thing…probably a little more than a pint of liquid. The manager brought over a spoon. “You eat pulp I cut in there as well.”  Again, I did as I was told.  He turned and added, “you just sit for 15 minutes…read your book.” (I had a book with me. I always have a book with me it seems).

Dang! That song is true about “Put the Lime in the Coconut and Drink It All Up.” In about 15 minutes I actually felt better. My internal self began feeling refreshed, cool and calm. It’s like I woke up. It’s the only way to describe it. The manager came back out and said, “You look much better. This is my mother’s recipe. She gave this to us when we were kids in Malaysia and sick. How you feel?”  Pretty good. Not great, but a lot better than when I walked in.

“Now, you have special dish I prepare personal for you. It will be chicken with light vegetable, mango and pineapple. No sauce. Small portion. Charge you only half price. Okay?”  This has worked so far, so I went for it. Ten minutes later, out comes a plate with some chicken, green beans, broccoli, carrot, pineapple and mango. I turned away the rice.  This 30-something year old manager simply smiled, bowed and said, “This work wonders.”  I took my time, watched folks move about the food court, read my book and finished the meal. I then received a large cup of hot green tea “on the house.”

No doubt about it. I felt satisfied and refreshed when I left. I paid a bill much less expensive than anything on the menu. The manager came out, shook my hand vigorously and said, “You nice man. You feel better now. Coconut drink A number 1 guaranteed.” I wasn’t arguing the point at all. You just never know where God is going to show up!

My cup of tea was in a large paper cup. Rather than go back to my room and to bed (as I had planned originally), I drove along NW Marine Drive that skirts the Georgia Strait to a public park that stretches along the water. It was about a half hour from sunset, and the place was full of all kinds of people…walking along the path, riding bikes, picnicking, playing several kinds of Frisbee games, soccer or tossing footballs and baseballs. Mostly college age students surrounded me, as I found a bench near the water. The tide was coming in. There were cargo ships in harbor anchorage awaiting a berth or the required inspections. There was abundant laughter and hoots & hollers as someone scored a point in one of the many games or did something outrageous. Older couples walked hand-in-hand along the paths or sat on benches or in the grass. There were lots of dogs…Vancouverites love their dogs as much as we do. It was such a mix, and everyone seemed to get along hugely well.  It was a great sunset over the mountains across the strait, and a very good ending to a day that had been somewhat dulled by feeling badly.  I owe thanks to a youngish Malaysian restaurant manager who, for whatever reason, was my Good Samaritan.

School Days

I finished my formal graduate studies thirty years ago this past May. I spent three years working on a doctorate later but did not do the dissertation phase due to my mother’s unforeseen death and the subsequent work necessary for her estate. It was also an important transition time at Holy Cross. It was a hard decision to drop the program.  I spent eight years working with Dr. Ed Friedman in Family Emotional Process. It was a Post-graduate level work but not a degree program at all. No matter, I learned a huge amount in that program, and it saved my life in parish ministry. Had it not been for that work, I might have left parish ministry altogether. Without further elaboration, someone at St. Andrew’s last year suggested I probably should have opted out of parish ministry and gone into full-time upper level education. I’m not sure how it was meant, but, oddly, I had considered that and had been a finalist for a seminary faculty position in Pastoral Theology ten years earlier. It wasn’t what God wanted for me, so here I am…where I am completely convinced God wants me to be.

Having said that, the work of this summer has been like being back in school. The month in the Black Hills was not a classroom experience in the classic sense of the word. The whole of the Paha Sapa was my classroom, and I had about 11 professors at various stages of that month. I cannot begin to yet know just how much I learned and the total effect of that learning on both my character and my mind.  It’s bound to be huge.

My two weeks at VST have been among the best classroom experiences I have ever had. We had top-rate professors sharing in a way that opens lots of new doors to both learning and experience. We didn’t get stuff poured into us as one would expect in a typical classroom. We sat in circles, listened, asked questions, gave opinions and insights. It was a conversation that the professor directed but expected us to be full and active participants. Even though I was taking the courses on an audit basis (as different for degree credit), I went to every class, did the reading and writing requested of the class. The process was invaluable.

The staff at VST is first-rate. Fr. Martin Brokenleg has become a friend, guide and mentor. We will be talking often, I think, in the months ahead about several ongoing aspects of this project. His gentle spirit and quick discernment is truly a gift of which I have been a blessed beneficiary.

My fellow students came from eight different First Nations groups in both Canada and the United States. They bring their experiences, traditions, heritage, pain and healing to this school.

Most all of them are preparing for ordained ministry either in the Anglican Tradition (Church of Canada or US Episcopal Church) or the United Churches of Canada. They are some of the friendliest, most open and transparent people I have ever been with as a group “thrown together” for academic work. They loved me and the four other non-indigenous students just like we were one of them. We laughed a whole lot, cried a little, sang songs, prayed, worshiped in various expressions of Christian life, shared deep thoughts from our reading and study and became a community of brothers and sisters.  I will leave with blessings uncountable on Sunday.

There is much to consider in the time ahead.  I still have a reading bibliography to finish. I’m bringing materials home that I need to complete (and some need to be returned to Fr. Martin). I need to do some real academic writing in order to capture what I have experienced before it fades. I plan to make a PowerPoint presentation that will cover at least three key elements of Lakota and indigenous theology and spirituality as they relate to our Christian pilgrimage. This will be adapted for Sunday presentations during our fall Adult Forum.

With the rapidly growing bibliography of books, articles, films and geography resources I will be creating a master list, which I will make available in this series of journal entries. I’ll specially note the things that others might find helpful, if they desire to explore this incredibly rich resource right in our backyard. Most of all, I hope to foster a deeper appreciation for our sisters and brothers who are First Nations people….the original owners and inhabitants of this vast land we call North America. There is so much their traditions and heritage can teach us in terms of spirituality, environment, character and experience.  The current generation carries the stories of their ancestors and the brightness of future possibilities.  They have graciously taken me into their lives, hearts, homes, sacred spaces and (the greatest blessing) their trust.

I will be doing a lot of the above work in August. I have to go back to the Black Hills to complete one more phase of work during the month of August. That week is not yet set but will be determined in the coming few days. Other than that, I will spend a portion of each day in the study at home. Another part of the day will need to be devoted to household projects…some painting, some light carpentry and some work on the yard.

As new insights emerge, I will continue to add to this journal. It may not be with the same frequency as the past six weeks, but keep checking. I may have something on a nearly weekly basis as my reading and research continues.

Mitakuye Oyasin!

Fr. Fred+

13 July 2008

Encounters

Life is full of wonderful and unexpected moments. One of the important lessons of this summer has been to work to remain as open to possibility as one can be. It is frighteningly easy to become so wrapped up in ourselves, and in the things we believe to be important, that truly transformational events pass right by us. God speaks in voices that are not only human but in the created order around us.

Saturday, for the first time in quite a long time, I had a roaring headache. I’ve been plagued with tension headaches since my teenage years and migraines for the past five years. The latter can quickly reshape my entire day and create an internal environment that is hard to manage. Not being sure which this headache was becoming, I slowed my pace a bit. My diet is askew due to having to “eat on the economy” daily. This headache could be due to a change in internal chemistry precipitated by several factors that I have worked to avoid, change or eliminate during this sabbatical period. It would have been better had being quiet in my room been an option. Then, however, three encounters would have been missed altogether.

The first important engagement was lunch with my advisor, Fr. Martin Brokenleg. You will find a photo of him in the Sabbatical Photo Gallery. Martin is a Sicangu Lakota, who was raised on the Rosebud Reservation (next to Pine Ridge, where the Oglala Lakota live). His father was an Episcopal Priest, and he comes from a family of Medicine Men with a long history of spiritual leadership in the Lakota Nation. He holds a doctorate in theological education and now directs the Native Ministries program at Vancouver School of Theology.

My first full meeting with him was over breakfast on Thursday morning. We began to establish a basic bibliography of reading and research that formally begins this weekend. Since I have no morning class during the coming week, this reading/research will take that daily four-hour segment. My afternoon course, by the way, will be an anthropology course entitled “Culture and the Sacred” taught by a Jesuit who at one time lived and worked in Pine Ridge. It will be a good week.

On Saturday (yesterday) I was scheduled to have a long lunch with Martin…meeting downtown for Dim Sum. Headache and all, I was there at the pre-determined time. It turned out to be one of the most enlightening and directive meetings I could imagine. We reflected on the several mystical encounters that have shaped me and which started at Borderlands last August. He not only affirmed those, but challenged me to remain open to more that will undoubtedly happen. He also challenged me to “stay on the edge” of where daily life meets the Holy in order to both nurture and validate ordained life. He is convinced I have been drawn to this time and place for specific reasons that are not yet fully known…but that are being affirmed in a variety of ways. Martin is deeply discerning and directive in his evaluation. I left our lunch meeting with better focus…but still with a headache.

One of my assignments has been to spend time at the Museum of Anthropology on the UBC campus. It is about a fifteen minute walk from Carey Centre. This area of UBC (where the theological colleges are located) was the primary village for the Musqueam tribe for nearly 1000 years until the early 19th century. Unlike the United States, these tribes were not “deported” to other parts of the country but have hereditary lands in the area to this day. The Museum of Anthropology sits near the shores of the Georgia Strait and the mouth of the Fraser River…where the Musqueam maintained their long houses.

I decided to walk to the museum. The exercise would do me good, and the day was a beautiful mix of mild air and gentle breeze. The sky was a brilliant blue. As I walked through the museum door, I was surprised to be greeted by one of my fellow students…Caroline. She is on the museum staff and a candidate for Holy Orders. She is a member of the Tsimshian tribe, which is still located north of here on Charlotte Island. With a warm greeting, she took me in tow, let her coworkers know that she was in the business of doing a directed research tour and proceeded to give me a detailed presentation of important Western Canadian First Nations artifacts. She really knows her stuff! I learned things that would never have been possible had I plowed through this alone. What a wonder gift of hospitality and wisdom!

This area of North America is the home of the totem pole and artwork that has a wonderful and colorful flair of abstraction. The creatures that symbolize sacred manifestation (beaver, otter, bear, eagle, frog, wolf, etc) are carved and painted in ways that tell stories about families, tribal events and levels of authority given to families. Leadership in most nations of Western Canada and Northwestern United States is hereditary. Each of those totem poles tells a complete story. Each of the drawings on carved boxes and embroidered cloth tells a story using these and other symbols. Caroline could tell most of these stories…even of tribal groups outside her own heritage. Before I knew it, they were announcing the closing of the museum. I had been on a three-hour trip to another time and place via both precious artifacts and well-told stories.

I parted company with Caroline and began the walk back to my room. I took a path that kept me on the cliffs above the waters of the Georgia Strait so I could smell salt air, feel the cool breeze and hear the sounds that shape that kind of bioscape. Yep. Still had the headache.

In addition to these exercises, Saturday was a day of domestic reorganization. Laundry had to be done, notes had to be organized, some reading had to be accomplished, and I needed some groceries for my room. I eat breakfast each morning while preparing for the day. Fruit, oatmeal bar, whey protein drink with soy milk and some nuts. It is a compact power breakfast.

After finding dinner near the campus and restocking my small room pantry, I decided to create a landscape all my own. I walked the 100 or so yards from my residence building to the “back yard” of the VST main building. It is a grassy area that has a labyrinth for prayer, tall ponderosa pines, flowering bushes and plants and, on one end, a view of the mountains across the Georgia Strait to the north (between residence buildings across the street). So, I brewed a French press pot of decaf, hiked the distance and settled a chair under a large tree…facing the northern mountains. It was 8:30pm, and the sun was not yet setting. I relaxed into the chair and began a kind of contemplative time that sinks me deep into my interior self.

I heard a voice nearby. My head was back, so I could look directly up through the trees. I had to totally rearrange myself to find the origin of the voice. It was a young lady speaking heavily accented English. She looked like a scholar (don’t ask how that looks, but I simply knew it). She had asked a question which she repeated, “Do you live under this tree?” Hmmm. Where is this going? “No, but this tree is providing me with a great deal of comfort at the moment…why?” She responded, “You and that tree seem to have some kind of symbiotic relationship…like it knows you and is taking care of you.” Okay. Now I’m intrigued…this is incarnational language.

I explained that I live over there (pointing to Carey Centre) and study here (pointing to VST Iona Hall). This is about what I can call my temporary backyard, I explained. This led to a question about my studies. After a few moments of explanation, I turned the conversation around in order to get balance. “Where are you from originally?” She smiled and said, “Guess.” Having listened to her questions and comments, I took an educated guess, “Yugoslavia or Czechoslovakia, or perhaps Bosnia/Herzegovina?” I nailed it! Yugoslavia.

The reason she stopped to chat with me, it turns out, is that she has been studying and working here for eight years. She is in the dissertation phase of her Ph.D. specializing in environmental technologies. Her burning question was, “Why do peoples in North America exercise forms of racism and judgmental profiling?” Whoa! Big question for 9:00pm as the sun is beginning to set. It seems she has a First Nations friend who insists that it’s Europeans who have created the pain for his people. Also, because she is from a former Eastern Bloc country that has been through a nasty internal war, she has been bombarded with judgmental comments about being a communist or involved in ethnic cleansing, etc. Why me? (I had to ask this in a nice way so as not to be off-putting). Turns out, she said, “As I was walking home, I saw you, and you seemed to have something like a sacred and gentle look…I felt compelled to risk interrupting you to ask. This has been bothering me very much.”

I won’t labor through the conversation, but it lasted for probably close to a half hour and was both insightful and reflective. While it had marks of pastoral care, it was more like one human character reaching out and providing reassurance and perspective to another human character. Almost as quickly as it began, our conversation ended (the sun had fully set and twilight was dimming). She ambled off (happily it seemed) down the walkway and disappeared. I ambled back to Carey Centre with my now empty French press pot. Uh, still had the headache…but not as bad.

God touches us in very small ways. It happens through many kinds of chance encounters, or through the kind shade of a tree, a cool breeze, a beautiful sky or the sounds of the surrounding environment (like the laughter of young children playing in a nearby apartment complex). God walks through a headache, clearing away the rubbish, so that these gifts can be appropriately appreciated and received. God sets our hearts in ways for transformative thoughtfulness and earnest inquiry, and, yes, challenges to learn. I am not the person that awoke this morning. I am something more…different. Still me in personhood but something transformed in character. I simply “showed up” and paid attention. God opened new vistas.

Worship….It’s the Heart of the Matter

I awoke on Sunday morning with no headache. What a relief! Whatever had distressed my neuro-vascular complex had departed. Waking up slowly is not something I often do, but today proved to be one such time of having to drag myself to vertical. It was 7:30am and, while my body debated getting organized and ready to go to church, something else inside was working hard to move me in that direction. I have not yet missed a Sunday of worship on sabbatical. This is not to make a point, but simply to share that it is not about being a priest that takes me to church. It is the internal compass that points toward the community that baptism drew me into. Something inside me cannot ignore that need to be present with others and gathered around the Altar for Eucharist.

So, I engaged my morning routine – working breakfast (in my room) into the process. Finally, I looked at my watch and realized it was past the time I wanted to leave. Time flies when one thinks it isn’t. After a week of moving about, getting to the cathedral from Carey Centre took less than 20 minutes. I even knew where to park to avoid vehicular entanglements. It’s important to settle in and have some prayer time before the procession begins. This day, there was a good period to “go deep.”

Christ Church Cathedral has redesigned its interior to bring the Altar nearer the congregation. The pews have been removed and replaced with wooden chairs designed for worship spaces. They are arranged in something like a semi-circle, and the space can seat about 500 people. It feels good. The chancel (now behind the Altar) has been redesigned for children to be on a special carpet to draw and work quietly on projects during the liturgy. This is very innovative and seems to work very well. Several adults are back there during worship.

Announcements happen just before the procession begins. A member of the Trustees introduces him/her-self and moves quickly and easily through a welcome with orienting announcements (a Canadian Cathedral Trustee is the same as an American Cathedral Chapter Member, which, in turn, is the same as a parish Vestry Member). Nothing in the bulletin is repeated. On the way in, I was greeted three separate times: at the main door, in the narthex and at the door into the nave of the church. The ushers were attentive and told me that, should I have any needs, I should feel free to ask them. They stood inside the church during the liturgy to be ready to help if needed.

The liturgy was well crafted. At the risk of sounding haughty, it is just the way I would have done it. It flowed well and had the feel that those preparing for this day took readings, events (like Lambeth Conference) and internal needs fully into account. It’s the kind of guy I know Dean Elliott to be (we talked about cathedral liturgy several times while we were both in that work). Oh, I only did this for research: the sermon was 18 minutes long and the entire liturgy was 1 hr. 22 minutes in length. I say this to point up the fact that good liturgy, well crafted and meaningful, takes time to actually do. Timing is important, but not for the sake of length. It is for the sake of integrity and encounter with the Living God. Today was another such encounter for me.

Vancouver is an amazing city in terms of cultural make-up. I do not think even New York City has as large a cultural mix. There are many nationalities here. I suspect a number of them are visitors, but I have been told that permanent residents are a wide mix of different cultures. This was true at the cathedral. An oriental family sat beside me, and I got a smattering of German, French (expected…most Canadians are bilingual with French as the second language), Eastern European and Middle Eastern languages.

I got a deeper sense of this after I left the cathedral. I spent about 2.5 hours on Granville Island before coming back to my residence. Granville Island is literally under the Granville St. Bridge that connects the north and south downtown districts of Vancouver. It has become a place of unique shops, a variety of restaurants and coffee shops, and several entertainment centers (live theatre and small production dinner theatres). There is a giant Market Place…bigger than the one in Philadelphia…that has all kinds of foods and goods that are rather unique. One could eat three meals a day here and not get to everything in a month.

I was told not to leave without experiencing Granville Island. Three sides are right on False Creek (so named because it isn’t a creek at all but a large inlet waterway from the Georgia Strait…fully saltwater, about 100 yards wide and cuts downtown into the two parts). Lots of boat traffic and touring boats. There are kayakers, canoeists and longboat crews (not sculling but paddling…like the Pacific Islands). It is a great place to grab a beer and sit outside to take in the scenery, and that is exactly what I did. This is the first real free time I have had, and it felt good simply to relax and enjoy the mix of people, unique sights and the salt air.

Another unique feature of Granville Island is the street actors and players. These are semi-professional folks who have a one-person or larger crew doing a 30 min. to one hour “gig.” Most of the non-musical groups are all about comedy, and the two I watched created uproarious laughter. The music groups I saw had a lot of variety. People stopped, listened, tapped their feet and clapped with appreciation. It’s a very congenial and laid back place. Most Canadians, it seems from my experience, don’t take themselves too seriously. Folks here laugh easily and are very gracious. Appreciating people…both their spirit and creative enterprise…being awake to one’s surroundings, and living in the “now” is another act of worship. It was a good day in Vancouver!

I’m now prepared for the next five days of classes, research and digging deeper into what I have come to learn and discover. So far, this summer is exceeding my expectations by a very large measure.

Mitakuye Oyasin!

Fr. Fred+

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10 July 2008

An Evening in Vancouver

Except for the required errands, I have not ventured out much beyond the campus of UBC since my arrival. I got a grand tour of greater Vancouver on Saturday afternoon by finding myself in wrong lanes and on roads whose names had changed without informing me ahead of time (a passive-aggressive way of saying I wasn’t watching the signs closely enough). I did move around a bit on Sunday to worship at the Cathedral in the downtown business district. That’s about it.

Tuesday evening, after a long day of classes, I decided to venture out and expand my taste buds by finding something for dinner that was decidedly different. A relatively inexpensive form of entertainment for me is to drive around Vancouver and just see what’s around the next corner or a little further up the street. Since my rented, nearly brand new Chrysler Sebring is a “Flex-fuel” system, it will be a true “corn-fed beauty” while I have responsibility. Biofuel (ethanol) is half the price of regular unleaded at the moment. I’m getting great mileage it seems.

At any rate, I expanded my exploration to the northwest end of upper downtown (yep, it sounds weird, but it is exactly where I was). One does not ever, ever have to go hungry in Vancouver. There are more restaurants per block in this city than I have seen anywhere in my travels! There are also more varieties…representing almost every culture and ethnic possibility on the planet. I seemed to be gravitating toward something Hispanic.

Near the corner of Robson and Denman (write that down, if you are thinking of being here sometime) is one of the best Mexican restaurants I’ve ever visited. Pancho’s is almost easy to miss, since it is in between a cigar shop that boasts the best selection of Cuban stogies in the city and a Serbian restaurant that makes a lot of noise (outside anyway). I read the menu and entered to take a chance.

Mexican food can either be good or bland. Most of them create sauces that are either fiery hot and overrun the main dish or so bland as to simply be a warm, tasteless blanket covering what you hope you ordered. Often, what is advertised as “refried beans” ends up being something of bean character that is crusty and gloppy (no other word to describe what comes close to overcooked oatmeal passing for beans). Not here!

I went with the Pollo Mole and crossed my fingers. The waitstaff (all young women) were, in fact, from Mexico. The young couple that own the restaurant started out as students at UBC and stayed after earning degrees in business and restaurant management. It took longer than usual for my entrée to arrive…but for good reason. Each order is prepared after ordered (never re-heated). What I got was something approaching gustatory ecstasy!
I cannot totally identify the spices, but the mole sauce was superb…with a sublime seasoning that set off the cooked-just-right butterfly chicken breast perfectly. The beans were tasty, tender and set off with just a touch of cilantro. The rice was cooked just right and was spiced nicely. It contained just a few petite peas that added a dimension of flavor one doesn’t expect in Mexican rice.

None of my qualifications suggest I function as a food critic, but I so much enjoyed this meal that I took a long time eating it…savoring every morsel. To add to the experience, the portion was such that I was not at all stuffed when I finished. I avoided the chips and salsa (chips are made on the premises, but I’m not supposed to eat them). Finding a family owned Mexican restaurant of this caliber north of the 49th parallel was a truly unexpected delight. It’s on my list of “ten best dining experiences.”

The city of Vancouver comes alive after 9:00pm. It’s pretty alive all day, but, as I maneuvered my way back to my end of town, the different districts were alive with young and not so young folks out for an evening of dining, shopping or just strolling. Residence neighborhoods are tucked around stretches of streets lined with an incredible variety of restaurants and shops. And, I know where about 200 of the 600 Starbuck’s that will close should come from. There is one almost literally on every major corner.

Except for Seattle, Vancouver has more cafes, coffee shops and coffee bars than anyplace I have ever been. Coming to Vancouver? Avoid Starbuck’s and try two local coffees: J.J. Bean and Blenz. They are roasted in Vancouver. Beer? Definitely Granville. Like sushi? There are a number of sushi restaurants and Japanese cuisine establishments throughout the city.

This city has an incredible ethnic mix. In my short time here, I have heard Russian, Japanese, Chinese, Spanish, French, Italian and several eastern European dialects. There are a number of indigenous peoples in the area. Six different First Nations groups have called this area home. Five of those groups are represented in the student population at VST right now.

One humorous side note: I passed a barber shop this evening that had a large ad in front that stated, “We Specialize in Flat Tops.” One would think that style is on the way back. I decided to do some observational research. There is a lot of longer hair here…as well as a fair amount of crew-cuts and styles in between. In 2.5 hours of moving about, I did not see a single “flat-top” hairstyle. I encountered easily 2000 people. Thank goodness! I suffered with one of those for a few years as a pre-teen. Never again!

After two days of classes, I am getting to know the student and faculty community pretty well at VST. The courses I am taking are lively, interesting and timely. We are in class six hours each day (Mon-Fri) with morning class from 8am – 11am; worship at 11:30am followed by lunch; and afternoon class from 2:00pm to 5:00pm. One of my classmates and new friends is Bishop George Connor, the retired bishop of Southern New Zealand. He is native to that country but not a member of the Maori people. He is going directly from this series of classes to Lambeth Conference. He opined: “I’d rather stay here…” I am learning a lot from his reflections on 35 years of ministry among the Maori.

As I mentioned, I am one of only five non-indigenous students enrolled. This is just what I had hoped for. There is an awesome amount of cultural and historical experience in this group of students…a wealth of knowledge! One of my classes is exploring the effects of the “residential school” on First Nations children. The Canadian government has just recently issued a formal apology for the “genocide, abuse and neglect inflicted on those who were forcefully removed from their families and villages and placed in residential schools throughout Canada.” While Canada never engaged in wholesale massacre of indigenous cultures, they tried to “solve” the “Indian problem” by forcing children into different ways of life. Today, our guest presenter in this particular class shared her experience of having a father and three older brothers in residential schools. I sat horrified through her descriptions. She is now a Ph.D. anthropologist who is working with a national society for residential school survivors. This is an important transitional time in Canadian policy and legislation regarding First Nations peoples. My sincere hope is that it will motivate our government to take some very important and necessary actions in the time ahead.

My reading list is expanding somewhat. Fr. Martin Brokenleg, my advisor in this program and for this aspect of my sabbatical, is meeting with me early Thursday to establish some research directions. That will occupy at least half of each day of the coming week, since I am taking only one academic course that week (to provide room for the research…we talked well ahead of time). Since the sun doesn’t set until after 9:30pm and rises around 5:30am, I’m filling those times with reading and writing.

Well, you have a dining critique, a sociological research report and an academic studies reflection. My last report was a theological/philosophical journal paper. You can get it all at “Notes from the Field.”

Mitakuye Oyasin!

Fr. Fred+

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9 July 2008

“God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it.”

--Friedrich Nietzsche (ca. 1883)

You may be asking yourself, “why would our priest be quoting Nietzsche while on sabbatical?” It would be an excellent question. I shall endeavor to explain by first saying that I did not like Nietzsche the first time I read him in college. I did not like him any better the second or third times I plowed through some of his works. I ran into him again on Monday morning…very early…while preparing for a class. Even if one is studying Native American spirituality and theology, one runs into these things. Today’s question for my first class was, “consider any similarities between the teachings ascribed to Zartosht (Zoroaster) in the 7th Century before the Christian Era (BC) and those of indigenous North American cultures known or experienced by you.”

Now there is an assignment! Zoroastrianism began sometime before 600 BCE and is recorded by Herodotus and Darius of Persia (around 500 BCE for the latter). While probably not older than Judaism, it has many parallels. One distinction of Zoroaster’s teaching (as reframed in the Avesta collection) is that of functional “dualism”…the struggle between good and evil. I always blamed this on Plato’s philosophy, but the dualism of Zoroaster predates Plato by at least 200 years! It doesn’t let Plato off the hook, but it does bring us back to Nietzsche (darn it!)

I do blame Nietzsche for some of the state of human condition that plagues us in the early 21st century. He became very popular reading in basic college courses in the 1960s…along with Schopenhauer, Kant and Schelling. Combine that with a lethal dose of ethicist Joseph Fletcher, and we enter a new level of potential hubris. While many Baby Boomers may not know it, our way of thinking about the meaning of life and our spirituality were shaped…almost unconsciously…by the popularity of these folks during a time of growing angst within American culture in that decade. In 1966, Time Magazine used a portion of the introductory quote above on the cover of its magazine. Thus began a subconscious and then overly conscious dismantling of our sense of spirituality. One reason this may be true is that our culture (and Western culture in general) bound religion and spirituality together under a single definition. Once we decide we don’t need religion, we inadvertently deny our spirituality.

Truth: Religion and Spirituality are NOT the same!
Truth: Religion and Philosophy are NOT the same!

While I plan to do this after I return from sabbatical, this journal reflection is not the time to explore either of those truths. While not asking anyone to accept them as printed, simply do take them into serious consideration and believe that I have a very good reason (both scientific and practical) for making the statements.

I mentioned above that Plato is not off the hook. Part of today’s assignment for me also took me down the path of Manichaeism. Mani was another prophet who followed Jesus and, in the 2nd century CE (formerly AD), framed dualism in a way that captured the imagination of a young Augustine of Hippo. Later, Augustine would convert to Christianity in its orthodox practice and become one of the great basic theologians laying the platform for what has become modern doctrinal theology. The dualism of his Manichee days stayed with him, thus launching what would be a major shift in Medieval theology.

May I add here, I didn’t much like Augustine when I read him in seminary. Well, who did I like? Aristotle and Aristotelian thought. Later, I would adopt much of the work of Hegel as a model for teaching theological progression. I would adopt the works of Thomas Aquinas and Wolfhart Pannenberg as fundamental to my theological platform. It goes on from there.

It took me about 20 years to figure out the movie “2001: A Space Odyssey.” It’s that darn Nietzsche again…playing with the overly whacked out minds of Baby Boomers and (thereby) future generations. You see, Nietzsche believed that all of creation is simply moving in a circle, and that we would simply start all over again at some point. The computer, Hal, becomes a god in that scenario, since there is no real God in Nietzsche’s schema. Out of the monolith that represents the portal of time and evolution, we are reborn and remade. That’s about enough of that.

What I have shared above is somewhat simplistic. My theologian and philosopher friends will take me to task for breaking down such complex and far-reaching implications into journalistic sound bytes. However, I have a point to make, and this is a journal rather than a formal paper. Here’s the nub of it as it pertains to the question for class and my work of sabbatical.

I learned from my study of Lakota cosmology and theology that they have no term in their language for “evil.” Neither do they have a word for any personification of evil. Further, while Lakota cosmology has a cyclical foundation, it is for the purpose of both teaching and containing much broader elements of their theological structure. Native American philosophy in general is not linear, and thinking in general is not linear for them. I would liken it to Hegelian dialectic turned sideways (never mind, I won’t be able to explain that without a diagram…but I do have one).

Today in my first class, I learned that, functionally, all Native American theology lacks a term for evil and that Native American philosophical tradition (such as it is…it is not formal) lacks a dualism on most all levels. Everything is part of a whole and serves a purpose that completes a relationship or fulfills a purpose for which it is created. If humankind is “fallen,” it is only by virtue of temporary failure and not a general condition. Balance and homeostasis are the hallmarks of health and wellbeing….physically, emotionally and spiritually. Also, one cannot separate those aspects of humanity. Humans aren’t human without spirituality. Spirituality isn’t definable outside our human relationship to God….or the Great Mystery…or the Holy Other (Wakan Tanka in Lakota language).

What Western culture began to lose in the 1960s has never been lost in the Native American cultural milieu. You guessed it, when we tried to take the cultural values out of Native Americans and force them to adapt to Western European concepts, we almost destroyed what could be the greatest gift to a “spin-down” culture.

While the Iroquois gave us the gift of the basic principles of a democratic form of government (this is absolutely true!), the European philosophers of the 19th Century set loose a way of thinking that would create what we would later call the “Great American Dream.” And, as our young democracy was getting up on its feet, the philosophical concept of “Manifest Destiny” would become very nearly a fanatically religious phenomenon….leading to the near annihilation of entire indigenous North American cultures.

You might ask if I have been brainwashed in what I am doing this summer. No. I have been developing this line of thinking for about nine years. It began when I studied how Christian missionaries…anxious to bring the Gospel to the Celtic peoples of Ireland, Wales and Scotland…actually accomplished this task with relative ease (relative to other missionary efforts before and, especially, since). My thesis in 1999 was that missionaries saw the depth, insight and complexity of Celtic thought. They also saw the expression of incarnational worship through seeing God alive and at work in creation around them. The missionaries (like Patrick) drew out of them all that was best about their way of life and fashioned it with teaching the Good News of Jesus. The Celts were not annihilated but celebrated in a new way. Later, Western Latin Christianity would try to stifle and trivialize the vigor of this expression of Christianity, but it didn’t really work. It gave rise to Anglicanism.

This is a good place to pause. This begins another corridor of exploration, because we Anglicans have made some errors and can’t claim superiority based upon what I have said above (at least in my opinion). Read How the Irish Saved Civilization for a very good picture of Celtic Christian activity. We Baby Boomers have already read enough Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, etc. and have given this gift (plague) to our succeeding generations now becoming adults. Civilization, as we know it, is in some trouble. Maybe a hundred years from now, that generation will be writing about “How Indigenous North Americans Saved Civilization.” Don’t scoff! I’m not even joking about this.

Mitakuye Oyasin!

Fr. Fred+

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Sunday, 6 July 2008

Seven whole days, not one in seven, I will praise thee!  In my heart, though not in heaven, I can raise thee.  Small it is in this poor sort to enroll thee; even eternity’s too short to extol thee.

                                                     -- George Herbert (1593-1633)

The above words of George Herbert make up the last verse of a hymn that is in our hymnal.  It was also the hymn used as the Sequence this morning at Christ Church Cathedral, Vancouver, BC.  It was there I worshiped with style, grace and a sense of community not often experienced in a cathedral.  The Dean is a friend of mine…The Very Rev. Peter Elliott.  I haven’t seen him since I left cathedral ministry at the end of 2003.  I became Dean of St. James Cathedral, South Bend, IN in 1993, and Peter became Dean of Christ Church Cathedral, Vancouver, BC in 1994.  The Canadian and USA cathedral deans have an organization known as “The North American Conference of Cathedral Deans.  Deans and spouses meet annually, and it was one of the joyful things Denise and I did annually together during those eleven years of cathedral ministry.  It was a joyful union for both Peter and myself on this first Sunday in July.

The words of George Herbert are particularly poignant for me right now.  After spending a month in the Black Hills, my body, mind and spirit slowed down.  At that pace, I reconnected with God in ways I had nearly forgotten.  Something inside has begun a slow but steady transformation.  As I told Denise during my four days at home between trips, “I suddenly feel like it is okay to be myself the way God made me.”  That is a huge statement from me and will require some explaining…but at a more personal, interactive time.

My last weekend in the Paha Sapa was bittersweet.  I looked forward to going home and being with my wife again.  A month is just a long time under any circumstances to be away from one’s spouse.  On the other hand, as somewhat described above, I felt like a plant that was about to be uprooted from rich, vital soil that had nurtured and given growth.  Something very powerful, very deep and very holy vibrates in the Black Hills.  I was gifted with the benefits of that power and holiness.  I did not yet want to leave it.  It’s like being on the Mount of Transfiguration.  One doesn’t want to leave, but knows that it is necessary.

The trip back to the KC area was uneventful, and I arrived late Monday evening, 30 June.  Our Schnoodle dog, The Duchess, must have given me up for dead.  She first stared at me in disbelief and then could not stop being as close to me as possible for the first hour I was home.  Warm homecomings are great!! 

Among the many errands and responsibilities that took place during my four days at home, the time Denise and I had to reconnect and share our experiences over the month of June was truly precious.  Of equal weight was the Wednesday afternoon visit with daughter Madeline and her beau, Matt, in Columbia.  Matt’s a really nice guy and, being the sentimental Dad that I am, any time with either daughter is precious and cherished.  However, Matt and Madie both proceeded to completely stomp me in various games of Wii that afternoon.  I really will have to practice with this new technology.

Vancouver, BC

Getting here is half the fun and getting around is the other half.   I say that jokingly.   My flights to Vancouver happened with nearly no problems.  Travel days are long under the best circumstances.  Because I will be getting around to various locations over the next couple of weeks (in addition to the classes I am taking), I rented a car at the airport.  Map at the ready, I began my search for the University of British Columbia campus…whereupon is located the Vancouver School of Theology.  About two hours later, I found it.  Not one for getting lost, it was never an issue of not knowing where I wanted to go.  It was a matter of being on the right street and in the right lane.  Vancouver does not lend itself easily to correcting errors in navigation.  I saw a lot of Vancouver before I saw the inside of my accommodations.  Besides that, it was raining most of the time.  I love exploring, but I had not eaten much of anything before landing in this lovely city (and it really is).  One thing I have learned is to stay balanced…which includes nutrition.  I was suffering from my miscalculations regarding both travel and nutrition.

Suffice it to say, I am now well settled in my small but very adequate room at Carey Centre.  Four theological entities comprise this part of the UBC campus:  Carey Baptist Theological College, St. Mark’s Roman Catholic Theological College, and Vancouver School of Theology which is a partnership of the United Church of Christ and the Church of Canada (Anglican).  All these institutions are along Iona Drive on the northern end of the campus.  My residence building is about 200 feet from the main building of VST, which is where I am registered and will be taking classes.

My room is on the fourth floor and looks out over St. Mark’s graceful residential apartments.  I have a small view of the sound and can see the occasional cruise or transport ship plying the waters toward the Pacific.  The setting sun creases the edge of my view, as I sit at my desk and write this.  It is Sunday evening at 9:00pm and the sun is just now  about to disappear behind the mountains on the other side of the sound.  My first full day here is about to end.

There is no meal preparation area in any of the summer residences (designed for graduate students during the academic year, each room is a single with a private bath).  I’ve established my “platform” for eating breakfast in my room…very simple, basic and requiring no real preparation.  I signed up for the daily lunch at the school.  Dinner will be on our own.  Being a university and tourist city, there are hundreds of choices…literally.

VST

Vancouver School of Theology offers two Master’s Degree programs in theology…for ordination or as a route toward teaching.  They offer a host of special programs, and the Native Ministries Consortium is just one of those…and the one in which I am enrolled.  There are 49 of us enrolled to begin courses tomorrow (Monday) morning.  Registration and orientation was from 2pm to 7pm today and included a wonderful dinner that had been catered in.  One of my new friends is Randy, who is a native Hawaiian…a true, indigenous Hawaiian.  We met as registration began and quickly began sharing the kinds of things that lead to gales of laughter and lots of teasing kinds of interactions.  The lead administrator, Dorothy, remarked quickly, “I can see we will be advancing to a whole new level of chicanery over these next two weeks.”  It is a delightful group of people representing Cree, Cherokee, Lakota, Native Hawaiian, Iroquois, Nez Perce and others I have yet to meet.  I do somewhat “stick out” with blue eyes and relatively lighter features (I have gained a rather dark tan from what I was doing in June).  Here, there seems to be nothing but joy, acceptance and a deep desire to learn…which quickly fosters community.

I have finally met my mentor for this time of study.  Fr. Martin Brokenleg and I connected and had a long chat during the social time before dinner.  He is a man who has a very broad and almost constant smile.  He is a genuinely happy and jovial man.  He is Lakota, an Episcopal Priest of 36 years and holds a doctorate in theological education.  He is a writer, teacher and a regularly sought after leader of workshops and conferences.  His specialty is bringing together the disciplines of the Rule of St. Benedict and the spirituality of the Lakota.  We have made plans to get together for individual tutorial on several occasions during the coming two weeks.

The times I have been able to be a graduate student again have always been fun (with Dr. Ed Friedman, at Notre Dame during my last sabbatical and now here at VST).  I look forward to the challenges and delights of learning new things in the days ahead.

Oh, one last note.  At Christ Church Cathedral this morning I heard one of the most wonderfully challenging and thought provoking sermons I have heard in a long time.  Uh, it was more than 20 minutes long, but it was worth every bit of it!  Deacon Allistair Smith.  I close with a quote from him:  “We are meaningful because we exist…created for the pleasure of God and for experiencing God’s pleasure in us.  We are meaningful because we are alive and filled with possibilities within that yet wait to be expressed.”

Mitakuye Oyasin!

Fr. Fred+

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It was hard work, but I managed to get this shot of University of

British Columbia.  :)  

Click the image to open a larger version.

It's a Google Earth Image.  I arrived in

Vancouver, BC safely and without incident on Saturday, 5 July at around 2pm (PDT).  I'm now fully invested in my small but more than adequate (for my needs) room at Carey Centre.  On the map, it's the next really visible road above the one marked "Military Road."  That is Iona Drive.  Carey Center is the first building off of Westbrook Crescent (left off of Westbrook and first drive to left on Iona).  I have a room on the 4th floor that has a small view of the sound.  The loop in the road (further left on Iona) is where Vancouver School of Theology is located.  I'm a scant block from where I will spend most of my days the next two weeks.

The city is somewhat confusing to get around in, but I managed to work my way through the shifts and changes of streets.  It's a very interesting place.  I have several places I will be going over the next two weeks, as Fr. Martin Brokenleg has already suggested for research.  The latest issue of "Anglican Theological Review" has an article by Fr. Martin re indigenous theological education.  Quite good!  I thank Mtr Anne for discovering it and copying the article for me to read.  Thanks Anne!

This chapter of research and study begins formally with registration and orienation tomorrow (Sunday, 6 July) at 2pm.

BTW, the main part of Vancouver, the city, is south of this image.

Blessings,

Fred+

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24 – 30 June 2008

Tuesday,  24 June

What’s in Those Hills?  The casual tourist is like any one of us.  We are busy people with, what we believe is, limited time.  There is much to see and do.  Our culture has developed something of a “let’s have fun” and “keep us entertained” way of life.  Jumping in the SUV or Motor Home, we literally head for the hills.  In this case, it is the Black Hills.  Dropping out of hyper-drive off of I-90, after hours on the road across South Dakota, we look for a good hotel, perfect campground or that pristine cabin by a lake.  We check with the tourism offices to find the kind of activities that will keep the kids’ attention, entertain the entire family and distract us – i.e. let us “get away from it all.”  After 3-5 days in a five star accommodation and having been to Bear Country, Reptiles USA, Black Hills Water Park and the obligatory visit to Mt. Rushmore to “do the patriotic duty” (as one billboard advertises), we head out for home.  Once back home, when asked what we did on vacation, we will proudly say, “We visited the Black Hills of South Dakota.”  Yep.  Sure enough.

I was sitting in the Slate Creek Grille this Tuesday afternoon in Hill City.  I met the folks that own it last August, when they owned the Dry Creek Coffee Company.  They still do, but since then they have purchased the former Continental Restaurant and created a combination restaurant, pub and coffee house.  It’s a rustic and open place with lots of windows, no smoking allowed and family friendly.  From my first day here, the owners invited me to come in anytime to plug in my laptop and deal with the internet.  I have a device that allows me to hop online anywhere I can get Verizon cellular service, so I don’t need WiFi…just a place to park myself.  These folks have become good friends and today expressed sadness that I will be leaving next Monday.  “You’re one of our best advertisements for laid back, rustic enjoyment.  You just look like a guy who is on his game.”  Not sure exactly what that means, but it’s a compliment I am sure. 

This day, three middle aged couples came into the Slate Creek Grille, while I was drinking coffee, eating a sandwich (without bread…good trick) and working through email.  At some point, the young woman who served me asked if I could answer a question posed to her by the three couples sitting nearby.  Sure.  I sauntered over to their table, introduced myself and asked how I could help.  Their question had to do with making a choice between four attractions they wanted to see but had only time to see two of them.  Which would I pick?  (The waitstaff person told them I’d been around a few weeks).  I looked at their list and grunted (at least it sounded like that to me upon reflection).  “I wouldn’t choose any of those for myself folks.  In fact, I haven’t been to any of those places.”  They looked stunned.  “But the young lady told us you’ve been here for several weeks, and you haven’t done any of these?”   Amused, I responded, “I’ve been here a tad over three weeks and been busy enough that I’ve had to take these last two days to get caught up with some domestic chores and some reading, and, no, I haven’t been to any of those…nor the other things on your brochure listing.” (I was looking over one guy’s shoulder).

Then, I had to spring for the truth.  I told them the Black Hills are really all about the power of presence, cultural history, spirituality and nature at its best.  I mentioned to them the Lakota and Cheyenne folks living and working in the area that would be pleased to show them sights that most tourists never even know about.  They’d go home talking about the Black Hills for a very long time to come.  Two of the folks actually seemed interested.  The others looked either confused or uncomfortable.  Perhaps their coffee was kicking in, who knows.  At length, I gave them Mike Peterson’s card.  He’s the owner of Dakota Emporium.  It is the “go to” shop I use for things required for my work and for information about Wacipi (PowWow) events and for tracking down folks recommended to me.  Mike is a font of much wisdom locally.  I ambled back to my table after bidding the folks a good holiday.

The Black Hills are about power.  One reason folks tend to go for entertainment is that it doesn’t require thinking; doesn’t demand us to account for our interiority; doesn’t challenge our souls.  Here, if one goes into the Hills….really into the Hills…all of those things are engaged.  One can’t go to the Crazy Horse Monument and not ask important questions about his kind of patriotism and drive to hold onto these Hills.  One can’t climb Bear Butte without experiencing the hugeness of God deep in one’s soul.  Even if some folks do, they are constantly on their cell phones or chatting away.  Turn off the phones, quiet down and listen….really listen!  This is not just another hill to conquer.

Last week, one of the two adults that was with the J2A group from Boone, NC was chatting with me (the same one that couldn’t believe how I happen to be so many places at once).  He had been to Bear Butte and to Wounded Knee.  Mostly, he had taken time, when the teenagers were resting, to go out among the Pe Sla hills for quiet time.  We were walking back to the Sundance area.  Ben had sent me to ask Bill (the adult) if he would like to join us in preparing and “planting” the tree.

Bill looked at me and said, “Fr. Fred, you will think I’m crazy, but since I’ve been here…when it is really quiet…I can hear what seems like drums and chanting.  I hear it sometimes at night or think I hear voices when I hike into the hills up there (pointing).”  I stopped, looked at him, smiled and said, “Bill, you are crazy…”  Then I began to laugh heartily.  Seeing that he was getting uncomfortable, I immediately sat him down in the grass and told him of my experiences last August…my heart healing on Bear Butte…my experiences during hanbleceya and the two experiences on this trip.  He started to well up with tears.

This is a powerful place, I explained to him.  When people use a place for prayer and worship…and they are really serious about encountering God…the place becomes “thin.”  There is spirituality here in its best form.  I told him of similar experiences I had on Iona, in Wales and in the Burren of Ireland during my sabbatical trip in 2000.  I told him how those experiences led me to be here now.  And then, Bill and I prayed together.  We asked the Grace of the Holy Spirit to enlighten us in these experiences and to make the Great Circle complete in our understanding and acceptance of these gifts of spiritual insight.  Bill is a businessman in Boone, and this is the first such experience for him.  He was scared and felt like possibly running away.  Now he wants to come back with his wife and spend a couple of weeks…really in the Hills.

The Paha Sapa (Black Hills) has been like a cathedral for indigenous peoples for nearly 3,000 years and possibly longer.  It remains the heart of spirituality in ways difficult to explain.  Tourist destination?  Yep, making a dollar is important…or spending them.  Pilgrimage destination?  YES, even more important!  If one is doing research like me, it may cost some money.  But, the experiences and encounters are free!  One leaves far, far richer than one was upon arrival. 

I plan to bring Denise here as soon as practicable.  One of the many things we share in common is a love for nature and the live things of creation.  We both love the expansive beauty and surprises of hikes off the beaten paths.  We both love encounters with God in truly surprising places.  

Mitakuye Oyasin.  We are all related…a vast community of people created in the image of God and, if we but allow the truth in us to be known, we are thirsty for that encounter.  It is all around us, and it is certainly here in the Paha Sapa!

Moccasin Telegraph.  Hill City is a community of about 800 folks, when tourist season is over.  It burgeons to easily 2000 on a typical summer day.  With many quaint shops and as a jump off to other destinations up and down the “385/16” highway lines, it’s a beautiful place to use as a base of operations. 

For me, Hill City has been ideal.  My trips to Rapid City, Pine Ridge Reservation, the internal prairie (Pe Sla), and other needed locations are balanced in distance by being here.  My cabin is off the beaten path, quiet and fits my fairly simple needs perfectly.  I’m going to miss The Hermitage (as Linda Kramer and Ben Rhodd call it).  The folks in this cabin reserve area are friendly, hospitable and jovial.  If one is here for more than a week, one becomes “one of the group.”  I’m now an old timer here.

Hill City locals are unique.  They remind me of folks in Burlington, VT, where our daughter, Mary, did her first two years of college.  Laid back, casual (jeans or shorts with a sport shirt is dressing up) and wonderfully friendly, these folks really like visitors who are gentle of spirit and friendly with them.  I stopped in at the Chamber of Commerce my first full day here.  I also met the mayor by chance that same day.  While getting information I let them know where I was and how long I’d be in the area and kind of what I was up to.  I didn’t think much of it.  

I’ve lost track of the number of times local folks, in hearing my name, start by saying, “Oh, you’re the guy doing a project with the real locals (the Lakota).”  Or, “I’ve heard about you heading up toward the prairie (there is only one road from Hill City into the Pe Sla…hard to be missed). 

Ben Rhodd, Linda Kramer, Lyle Noisy Hawk and Paul Driving Hawk Sneve all knew I was heading in this direction and would be with them the month of June.  I notified the diocesan office for South Dakota of my presence in the diocese three weeks before my arrival.  It’s common courtesy if one might be involved in parish life somehow (like my chance supply at St. Matthew’s).

Again, I’ve lost track of the number of times I have introduced myself to a Lakota person only to have the response, “Ah, yes, Fred…I’ve heard about you.”   I was finally getting nervous about this notoriety and asked Linda Kramer if she had taken an ad out in the local newspapers about my being here.  Nope.  Linda called it Moccasin Telegraph.  Lyle Noisy Hawk corroborated that assessment.  There is a way information gets around in the Hills and on the Reservation that defies anyone’s ability to explain.  It most assuredly baffles me. 

When I was with Fr. Lyle Noisy Hawk last Friday (20 June) and brought this up, he paid me a supreme compliment.  He explained that Lakota folks don’t like people who come around wanting to “do Lakota.”  They are suspicious of folks who seem to be either critical or insensitive to who they are, their history and their cultural traditions.  Lyle told me that folks  round about “the Res” saw me as gentle spirited, kind and truly interested in who and what they are as people.  “They look at you as one of them and will probably tell you anything you want to know, because your questions are sincere and thoughtful.”  I am honored and humbled.  I hadn’t seriously given any of this much thought.  I ask a lot of questions and sometimes feel it may get tedious for folks, but I have yet to be refused or to have folks act impatient.  It’s been a great gift.

I’m going to be sad to leave.  It has turned out to be a great month with lots of surprises, new information, great insights, humbling spiritual encounters and new challenges for the future.  It has changed me in ways I am not yet able to articulate.  At first, I thought it was just getting out of the mainstream of the hyper-activity of parish life.  Now, I think it is something that has shifted deep inside.  God has set a new beat in my heart, and I must now learn to walk to that beat.

Wednesday, 25 June

Lame Deer MT; Little Big Horn & Sheridan, WY.  Originally, I had not planned to widen this trip beyond the areas immediately attached to the Lakota and the Black Hills.  Research is surprising, however.  Two weeks ago, I was told about an event that is built around the anniversary of the Battle of the Little Big Horn (formerly known as Custer’s Last Stand…officially changed by Congress in 1983).   25 June this year is the 132nd anniversary of this battle.  Each year, members of the Lakota, Northern Cheyenne and Arapaho Nations gather for a horseback ride from Lame Deer, MT to the site of the battle…about 30 miles distance.  The riders are usually older teenagers representing their nation on horses that are very much like the war horses used by plains tribes.  I met one of the riders from Pine Ridge (a 16 yr old named Daniel and his mustang, Shorty) while I was at Wounded Knee.  I offered some support ($20 to help pay for his trip) and learned a lot about growing up on the reservation.

Ben suggested I follow this event by being present.  So, Wednesday morning, 25 June at 8am I headed out.  I went the suggested routes with a stop in Rapid City to make some phone calls to set up the balance of my week upon return from Montana.  My plan:  drive to Lame Deer and the Little Big Horn, look around and chat with some folks and drive back.  It would be a pretty long day, but I’ve been used to having those on this trip.

I arrived in Lame Deer and located the launching point for the ride.  It wasn’t just Native Americans doing this, the U.S. Senator from Montana was there, as was the Lt. Governor and two state legislators.  I learned that this is an activity that is designed to do two things:  unite the historic tribes of the Plains Indians…fostering renewed opportunities for cultural growth; and to underscore the fact that the Indian Wars were, in fact two American peoples struggling within the biases and cultural conditions of their time to hold on to, or expand, their sense of belonging.  There may have been “enemies” but there were no “outsiders.”  It was two kinds of Americans.  These events are encouraging and fostering new, modern relationships.

The riders took out at an incredibly fast pace.  I wondered if the horses would make it the 30 miles to the site on the battlefield where they would finish.  I ate some lunch and explored some areas around Lame Deer recommended to me.  Lame Deer is a town in the Northern Cheyenne Reservation.  There are sites sacred to them that represent their cultural spirituality.

When I arrived at the Little Big Horn Battlefield…to my utter astonishment…the first four of the sixteen horses/riders were approaching!  Those horses had been trained and prepared well by their riders, who themselves were light, lithe and superb riders.  All of them were riding bear-back in traditional Plains Indian style.  My new young friend, Daniel was fourth in that group. 

Within 30 minutes, all sixteen horses and riders had completed the ride and were rubbing down their horses.  Like all Native Americans, Lakota and Cheyenne love horses and lavish them with careful attention.  These are well loved and well cared for animals.  Once set to graze, the group gathered themselves and headed for the National Park Visitor Center (a visitor center is a great place to start any of these things…just ask Denise how I am about those places).  The National Cemetery was prepared with an area for presentations, speeches and a special recognition for the work of the federal, state and local groups that make this event possible.  I hung out for part of that, but the lure to explore the battlefield took hold, and I began what I thought would be a simple overview.

When I left the Little Big Horn Battlefield…on my self-directed tour (complete with map and a guide book)…it was three hours later.  This will not surprise my family, because I am intensely interested in history.  This battlefield site is being maintained in ways that allow the events of 25 June 1876 truly unfold.  Since 1983, much archeological and historical research has been done.  The way the dead soldiers were hastily buried allowed the researchers to know almost exactly where each soldier fell that day.  Lakota, Cheyenne and Arapaho leaders have both oral and written materials about those of their tribes that died that day and where they fell.  Markers denote those positions and places.  One cannot walk the trails of this battlefield and not be profoundly moved by both the events of that day and the struggle to hold on to what was sacred, central and promised to each of those involved.  I lost track of time.

The threat of a large storm ended my visit, and I decided to take I-90 back to the Black Hills.  It is longer in distance but faster by both speed and safety.  The rain started, things slowed, and I was only in Sheridan, Wyoming by 7:45pm.  With the promise of another three hours, even in good weather.  I made the decision to stop and spend the night in Sheridan…at a Holiday Inn.  Not my plan, but, as Denise told me on a phone call, while I was on the road, “Safety first!”

Side Note:  Denise’s brother, James Frank Dama, suffered serious injuries only this past Saturday night (21 June) while driving home to Panama City, FL from Orlando…in a rainstorm.  His car hydro-planed, and he left the road and slammed into a tree.  Even with seatbelts and airbags, he has major fractures and contusions.  Doctors say it will be many months of recovery.

So, not to create even more anxiety, I play it safe.  It was a good decision.  After a meal, I was asleep within an hour of settling into my room.

One more note:  I have not watched television or read a newspaper since 30 May.  I have occasionally tuned into Headline News (CNN) on the XM radio in my car…or the weather channel via the same radio system (I have not listened to music on the radio either).  That’s it.   I turned on the television this morning (26 June) to see the beginnings of the Today Show.  People were talking so fast!   After some moments, I realized I have been engaged in a process of slowing down over this month.  Lakota people speak slower and with more intention.   In the more rural life of the Black Hills, people talk and move a little more slowly.  I have really begun to relax and set my own pace.  Television works with sound bites…a lot has to be said between commercials.  We have become impatient with measured conversation and presentation.  I had to turn off the Today Show after about ten minutes.  It gave me a headache!

Thursday, 26 June

Harney Peak, Paha Sapa (Black Hills).  Except for walking around the Little Big Horn Battlefield on Wednesday late afternoon, I had not had any significant exercise since my long hike on Sunday afternoon in the Pe Sla. It took three hours to drive from Sheridan, WY back to Custer…12 miles south of Hill City.  I needed exercise, and there was one daunting pilgrimage that I had not yet made.  Every time one of my mentor/advisor folks talk to me, they ask, “Been up on Harney yet?”  Nope.   Now there was no help for it.  At 1:30pm this bright Thursday afternoon, 26 June, I parked my car at the Sylvan Lake trailhead and headed up Trail 4 toward the top of Harney Peak.  I wanted exercise…..I was about to get it!

At the altitude of 7242 feet, Harney Peak is the tallest mountain between the Rockies and the Alps.  At its base, beautiful Sylvan Lake is at roughly 5200 feet.  The area is part of Custer State Park and Black Elk Woodland Reserve.  Harney Peak is one of four major sacred places that First Nations peoples have used for seasonal gathering, vision quest, and prayer.  During the progression of seasons (from spring through fall), major events would take place first at Harney Peak (east side of the Black Hills), then at Inyan Kaga (west side of the Black Hills, just over the Wyoming boarder), Mateo Tipi (Devil’s Tower, northwest end of the Black Hills in Wyoming) and Mato Butte (Bear Butte on the north east end of the Black Hills above Sturgis, SD).  The Lakota still practice this journey.  Inyan Kaga is on private ranch land.  Lakota have permission to be there at certain times.  It is otherwise difficult to gain access.  It was not placed on my list of pilgrimage sites.

Donning hat, hiking vest with various tools (including 2 bottles of water) and strapping on my camera, I make my move to ascend Harney Peak.  By this time in June, I have been living and working at an average altitude of 4500 feet.  I done a lot of fairly strenuous hiking to get to places requested of me to visit, pray and experience.  Harney Peak will be a 2000 foot ascent on what the charts call “moderately difficult trails.”  Okay.  It says that at Bear Butte, and I’ve climbed 1800 feet to its peak twice on this trip.  However, the final altitude is at about 6000 ft.

I climb…and climb…and climb along the steep, rocky trail with sudden switchbacks…jumping small streams that have cut across the trail due to the many rains this season.  I meet a family of four coming down the steep trail.  We chat while taking a rest.  They came up another trail to the summit and are going down this one.  They have been descending for 1.5 hours.  It took them nearly twice that long to ascend.  I am 45 minutes from the start.  This will be a long hike!  (btw, the young teenage boy in the family…the dad says to me quietly…is freaking out due to the sense of remoteness and the arduous venture…any words of wisdom?  I’m not much on advice at the moment, so I tell the dad, “tell him to buck-up, suck it up and keep moving.”  Dad only laughs and shakes his head…it’s been a long day for him, I can tell).

After nearly three hours of trail climbing, I reach an area called “The Spires.”  It is gorgeous and provides an outstanding view of the north side of the Black Hills.  Rushmore is just visible…peaking behind a stand of rock.  It is a 1000 feet below me and about 4 linear miles away.  Eagles are flying about and occasionally screaming their unmistakable language.  Redtail hawks are also visible.  My knees ache and thighs & hips grown with the exertion of this climb.  I climb a series of rocks and perch for rest, water and a time to contemplate the beauty, the wind, the scents and sounds.   Occasional ascending or descending hikers pass by on the trail 50 yards away, but their conversation is quiet and quite respectful.  This place does that.

After about 20 minutes, I continue the journey.  Nearly 20 minutes into this renewed effort, I come to a clearing in the pines.  The summit is right there…or so it seems.  I’m still about 200 feet below the summit and probably a linear mile away.  Another 45 minutes of climbing.  But, what is this rolling up behind the peak and ridges of Harney?   Thunderheads!   Big ones.  I sit down on a rock and calculate my chances.  I’ve been caught on the peak of a mountain in a fairly violent thunderstorm just two days after arriving in the Black Hills (see my first journal entry).  I’m a lot higher in altitude, and there is no telling what kind of shelter I can find.  It will take me about 1 ¾ hours to get down the trail and back to the Sylvan Lake trailhead (and my car).  So close but so far away.  I’m pretty tired.  The altitude takes a lot out of the usual stamina a person may have.  I make the tough decision and begin descending the way I came.

It takes just about the time I figured to travel down.  By the time I get to the trailhead, my legs are screaming at me.  As the storm has been approaching, it has become cooler.  I’m still wet with the perspiration of this day’s efforts.  4 ¾ hours of toil, and I still didn’t make it to the peak of Harney!  I’m not sure I’ll have time for another shot at this.  The next three (and final) days have commitments already scheduled.

It takes about 25 minutes to get back to my cabin.  Looking behind me, to the south, the rolling thunderheads have become nearly pitch black storm clouds with lots of lightning.  I barely make it back to my cabin when the heavens open with some fairly intense fury.  I made the right decision on this afternoon.

Side Note:  A bit more than 50% of my work during this month of June has been outside and invested in physical activity…mostly demanding moderate exertion.  Depending upon where one is in the Black Hills, the altitude averages between 3900 feet and 5300 feet (in the central prairie…the Pe Sla).  Everything is hills or mountains.  Peaks range from 5500 feet to 7250 feet (Harney).  The weather has been different this year, according to the locals.  This area has been in a drought condition for nine years.  So far this season, they have had nearly twice the rainfall the Black Hills would get on a normal season.  It’s good for rivers, streams and grasslands, but it is unpredictable in terms of how storm systems move through the geological anomaly that is the Black Hills.  I have watched storms literally split, swirl and come back together…leaving a swatch of land virtually untouched while, just over a ridge, it is pouring over an inch of rain an hour.  It’s taken a bit, but I’ve learned a little bit about predicting the direction of a storm.  Locals, especially Lakota, have an uncanny capacity to say just what an approaching storm will do.

Friday, 27 June

My Health.   I have received several very gracious emails with best wishes and prayers for this sabbatical.  Each one has asked after my health.  I’ll give you a brief summary.  It is well known that I have a genetic heart condition (called “coronary ectasia”).  It isn’t dangerous but can be really problematic under certain conditions…like very strenuous activity.  With age and coronary arteries that are much too large, a certain amount of reduced pumping capacity and ischemia is attendant with this condition. [Note:  While on retreat last August, I climbed Bear Butte and experienced a healing…the ischemia disappeared and the pumping capacity returned to nearly normal.  My cardiologist still cannot explain it in medical terms.]  I have a vascular imbalance that has created cholesterol and triglyceride levels and other factors over which my cardiology folks very frustratingly can’t gain full control.  Plus, I have muscular reactions to statin drugs. My running days in high school did permanent damage to my feet, which prompted the surgery two years ago.  Two adult running accidents crushed portions of the meniscus cartilage in both knees…both have undergone arthroscopic surgery to repair the damage (mostly to remove crushed cartilage).  I also suffer from two compressed lower lumbar disks from another running and an early climbing accident….along with arthritis in my neck, shoulders, knees and feet.  Growing older is not for wimps! 

My Spiritual Director, Fr. Ed Whalen, suggested to me before leaving on this sabbatical that, shortly after it would begin, my health concerns would shift.  Now, I quietly walk around with all this stuff going on (as do any number of parishioners) and maintain a very active daily schedule.  What would shift?  I find that a lot has shifted!

First, I’m sleeping better.  Being away from the relative unpredictability of diet, I’m eating differently.  I’m experiencing very little pain outside that caused by exertion…like Harney Peak.  BUT, waking up the next morning finds me with no pain…even from the overuse of muscles.  My breathing has improved (I have exercise induced asthma at home).  I’m thinking and praying more clearly.  Clothes are fitting more loosely (no scale to verify weight loss).  The folks at the coffee shop (where I do email) tell me I look younger over the month they have seen me.  In short, I’m doing really well!

Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do.  On 29 June, I will celebrate the 30th anniversary of my ordination to the Transitional Diaconate.  That will mark thirty years of parish ministry  (my 30th anniversary of ordination to the priesthood will be 29 December this year).  An older, wiser priest told me, before I was ordained in 1978, that parish ministry is hard on clergy.  After thirty years, I agree.  It has several dimensions of demand that the average parishioner doesn’t really grasp.  The real trick is balance.  The real trap is to confuse religion and spirituality.  Religion is the organizational aspect of church/parish life.  It can be remarkable bereft of  God’s Presence.  It can, in fact, become very secular in its way of being.  Many priests fall into that trap and become cynical, hardened and disillusioned.  I have almost done so on several occasions.  I almost did last year at St. Andrew’s. 

I have been wonderfully blessed with wise, discerning spiritual directors.  I had the foresight to engage solid psycho-therapeutic guidance.  Nevertheless, in the 1990s, the strain of operating in a system that knows little of the nature of this vocation, I traveled down the path of anger, deep episodic depression and disillusionment.  I’m not unique by any means (Alban and other agencies have been monitoring this in the Episcopal Church especially for 20 years.  Our clergy are very high on the actuary tables for stress and depression related illnesses and death).  However, it is the clergy family that suffers the most.  Who else will get the brunt of frustration and anger at the end of a seemingly impossible day? 

For a few years now, I have been on a healing journey.  We have wise and discerning folks at St. Andrew’s who have been able to make me aware of the need for balance, appropriate personal and family space, time for prayer and renewal of both physical and spiritual energy.  I am hugely indebted to the kindness and friendship of our folks, who see ministry and parish life as a mutual journey. 

Through the agencies of Church Pension Fund, Episcopal Church Foundation, Episcopal Church Medical Trust and the Alban Institute, the sabbatical program is now instituted in every diocese of the Episcopal Church as a way to reconnect with one’s vocational roots and to regain mental, physical and emotional stamina.  Hopefully, Episcopal clergy can find themselves lower on that darned actuary table of chronic illness and early death.

Balance!  The Lakota have been teaching me that.  I am amazed how this culture has survived the ravages of a nation that literally rolled over the land, killed off nearly whole nations of indigenous peoples, killed off sources of food and whole ways of life….working to convince them that who they are is nothing but heathen trash (not my words…One Capt. Pratt, who ran the Carlisle Indian School in Pennsylvania said, “We have to kill the Indian to save the man.”).  Yet, their resilience is remarkable!  It is because many of them retain the balance between life in the Spirit and life in the world around them.  They know God by encounter…everywhere.  People like Ben Rhodd, Lyle Noisy Hawk, Paul Driving Hawk Sneve, William White-Eagle, Edward Eagle-Man McGraa, Lula Red Cloud, Mike Peterson, Mel Prairie Chicken, Linda Two Bulls, Charlotte Black Elk and a number of local non-Lakota folks have shown me gracious hospitality, an openness of spirit and a liveliness of both sensitivity to the world around them and the rich, deep spirituality within them.  They have both told me physically to “slow down” and shown me the dignity of life by the measure of their own.

At 57 years of age and 30 years of vocational life, I am not too old nor too “professional” to learn new and valuable lessons…or to deepen my journey into God’s boundless depth of love.  If I am healthier in this sabbatical, it is because I am learning something new about who I am and who God really is…not in the religious sense of daily institutional life…but in the sense of reality that called me to this vocation.  While Scarlett O’Hara (Gone with the Wind) said, “I will never go hungry again” following the ravages of a Civil War; I am beginning to say, “I will never go hungry again” for God’s Love or for seeing the Holy Spirit at work in a beautiful day, and the created world around me and, most especially, in the workings of my own life.

That’s how I’m doing, dear friends.  It’s good…Lila Waste yelo!

Mitakuye Oyasin!

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15 - 23 June 2008

This week will be a “running journal” insomuch as it is the busiest week of my four weeks in the Paha Sapa.  New arrangements are underway that will make this week’s schedule full and challenging…in a very good way.

Sunday, 15 June 

I went to St. Matthew’s in Rapid City this morning .  It was a good group.  The church only seats about 100 people, and I suspect there were 75 in attendance.  Fr. Paul Driving Hawk Sneve (pronounced Snay-vee) is quiet laid back, which is in keeping with the general Lakota style.  His sermon took in the “fathering” style of Moses and the Lakota style of being a father.  He tied culture, traditions and possibilities together very well.  I think St. Andrew’s would not find Fr. Paul’s style easy to follow, but I have now spent enough time talking, listening and reading that it was easy to follow and absorb.

The Niobrara Convocation begins Thursday evening and ends after lunch Sunday.  This is a major, annual gathering hosted by the Niobrara Deanery…located on the Cheyenne River Reservation (northwest of Pierre).  This is the one that the Presiding Bishop attends and will be the first for Bishop Jefferts Schori (retired Bishop Frank Griswold was present last year, since Bishop Jefferts Schori was so new to the position).   My schedule is such that I will only be able to be present on Saturday, but I am told that this is the pivotal day of the convocation.

Fr. Paul announced that he could not find a supply for next Sunday, since all the active clergy are required to attend Niobrara and the retired clergy had been spoken for (or are attending as well).  There was an immediate air of disappointment.  These are sacramental people, and not having Eucharist doesn’t feel right.  Before I knew it, I was on my feet with hand up.  I announced that I could be available to preside at the one Sunday liturgy they have during the summer.  To my utter surprise, this was received with applause!  I’m working on Sunday, 22 June at St. Matthew’s….presiding at their 10:30am liturgy (and preaching).  I did bring one clergy shirt for no particular reason.  I guess I’ll need it.

Fr. Paul and I have been scheduled for lunch on Tuesday for about a week.  He is