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The
Dilemma Over Sharing What's Sacred
BY JODI RAVE LEE
Lincoln Journal Star
Lincoln, Nebraska - Lynn Case sought a path to spiritual
enlightenment that led her, unpredictably, into the bed of a
self-proclaimed Lakota medicine man. The man's wife pleaded with the New
York woman to sleep with him to "transfer energy" to the
medicine man for the sake of the couple's children. "I believed
everything she told me, that one of her kids was going to get hurt,"
Case said. "She was crying and holding my hand. I was `all right, all
right, all right.' I met her kids. I know her kids."
It was supposed to be a one-time, behind-closed-doors encounter. But two
months later, the man's wife asked Case to repeat the act. She said no.
Last April, Case --who asked to be identified by her maiden name -- left
the Wisconsin couple's group of non-Native followers. Unsure of what to do
with the pipe she had carved for prayer, she gave it to Arvol Looking
Horse, a Lakota spiritual leader from South Dakota's Cheyenne River Sioux
Reservation.
"As I learned of this woman's story last summer, it made me realize
that something needed to be done," Looking Horse said. "It makes
my heart heavy to know just how bad these sacred boundaries were
crossed." That crossing of boundaries has kindled a new sense of
urgency among Native people seeking to regain control of their ceremonies.
Spiritual leaders are meeting today at the sacred site of Bear Butte in
South Dakota in an attempt to stem what they see as the exploitation of
Native ceremonies. Reports abound of abuses that include molestation,
money for prayers, drug use and even death during such ceremonies. Many
feel Native spiritual leaders and non-Native practitioners have corrupted
a spiritual way of life once central to tribal communities. Past attempts
at seclusion -- a proposal to ban non-Natives from sacred ceremonies was
brought before South Dakota's Pine Ridge Tribal Council in 1997 -- have
been futile.
But in March, Looking Horse, who represents his family as the
19th-generation Keeper of the Sacred White Buffalo Calf Pipe, issued a
directive attempting to keep non-Natives from Lakota prayer altars.
"If the non-Natives truly understand this purpose, they will ... know
that by their departure from this Ho-c'o-ka -- our sacred altar -- is
their sincere contribution to the survival of our future
generations." Lakota altars are found in such ceremonies as the sweat
lodge, Sun Dance and Vision Quest. Thus, non-Natives could not participate
in a Sun Dance because dancers must "go to the tree," the altar
and center of Sun Dance activity. Looking Horse's statement evoked
spirited rounds of approval from those who believe the Creator gave Native
people a way of life -- and it belongs to them only. But it also brought
harsh criticism from non-Natives, and from spiritual leaders who minister
to them. A Lakota family from South Dakota's Rosebud Reservation equated
the directive to "ceremonial warfare." `We need to protect it'
It wasn't always like this. But it was predicted. Frank Good Lance, a
Lakota elder, predicted the day when medicine men and women would be as
plentiful as the grass, plants and trees. "He said they are going to
pray with these ways, and that they are going to sell these ways,"
Lakota Medicine Man Roger Byrd told the Native Voice newspaper. That day
is here, Byrd said. And so are many problems.
Spiritual practices once meant to strengthen people can also kill them. In
July, a 57-year-old Native from Kansas died in a pasture during a Vision
Quest -- a solitary, two- to four-day fast -- on Nebraska's Santee
Reservation. But it's the Sun Dance, the most sacred ceremony of Great
Plains tribes, that has garnered the most attention. The life-renewal
ceremony includes four days of prayer, fasting and dancing Sun Dance
participation has reached a "ridiculous proportion," said
Bernard Red Cherries, a Northern Cheyenne Sun Dance chief. "They're
having Sun Dances in Nevada, California, places it doesn't belong."
He estimates 300 Sun Dances occur each summer in the United States; Europe
also has a growing number. About 240 Sun Dances are of Lakota origin, and
nearly one-third of U.S. Sun Dances take place in South Dakota. At last
count, 56 occurred on the Pine Ridge Reservation, 40 on the adjacent
Rosebud. "It's at the point now where we need to protect it,"
Red Cherries said. Last October, he called for a meeting of Lakota,
Dakota, Nakota, Cheyenne and Arapaho Sun Dance chiefs and medicine
bundlekeepers. Another meeting led the group in March to Eagle Butte,
S.D., in what was described as a contentious yet historic gathering. That
meeting led to this weekend's meeting in Bear Butte.
Non-Natives no longer welcome Looking Horse's position as keeper of the
Lakota, Dakota and Nakota nations' most sacred medicine bundle prompted
others to let him take a lead role after the Eagle Butte meeting. That's
when he released the statement proclaiming non-Natives no longer welcome
at the altar of traditional ceremonies. "Our purpose for the Sun
Dance is for the survival of the future generations ... first and
foremost," Looking Horse said. He asked non-Natives "to
understand and respect our decision. If there have been any unfinished
commitments to the Sun Dance and non-Natives have concern for this
decision, they must understand that we have been guided through prayer to
reach this resolution."
Martin Marty, a University of Chicago Divinity School emeritus religion
professor, said it's a matter of respecting another's beliefs. "I'm
all with the Native American who rises up and says, `You're seizing what's
sacred for us and you're profaning it,'" he said. "When it's
clearly offensive to the majority of people, it comes across more as a
parody, a desacrilization, a profaning." But Marty also suggests
people not close the door of prayer and ritual to others. "I think
absolutism from both sides misses the opportunity for us to empathize, to
educate, to imagine the life of the other. If we want to do better to each
other, we have to know more about each other, we have to care more.
"Keep secret what's sacred," he said. "The outsider can't
always define exactly what that should be. But the more the keeper of the
sacred -- of any tribe, denomination or whatever -- realizes the value of
sharing hospitality, the better off we are."
But many Native people say the commercialization and parodies are here,
set deep, and out of control. And as summer Sun Dance season gets
underway, Looking Horse's words calling for the ban of non-Natives in
significant ceremonial roles has created a stir of spiritual unrest far
beyond the borders of Lakota territory. Paying for prayers Each year,
hundreds of non-Natives from across the country and Europe arrive at Sun
Dance camps. Many reportedly pay hundreds to thousands of dollars
--much-needed money on reservations where unemployment rates can reach 80
percent. "It's really sad to see how much influence these New Agers
have on our culture," said Frank King III, Native Voice editor and a
Sicangu Lakota who grew up on the Rosebud Reservation. "It's the
money these white people provide to these medicine men." Even the
Internet has become a point of sale. Gilbert Walking Eagle, a Lakota who
lives in Hot Springs, S.D., and his non-Native wife, Diane Marie, sell CDs
of ceremonial songs on their Web site, targeting what appears to be a
non-Native audience. "We have a place where people can come to camp
and relax and they can choose to participate in the (sweat lodge),"
Marie said. "What we do here is invite people who have been working
with Gilbert to expand their teachings."
Native spiritual teachings are what drew Case, the New York woman, to
follow a Lakota belief system. She described the ways as
"beautiful." But some of her medicine man's nearly two dozen
followers began to feel something wasn't right, Case said. He visited New
York about every three months during the two years she knew him. He and
his wife would stay for a week or two, performing several ceremonies a
day. "Hundreds of dollars would cross hands," Case said.
"They left there one time with a car. They had enough money to buy a
car and bring it home." Case spent $400 to $500 on a typical
ceremony, she said. "Basically we supported the guy and his family.
We gave them everything we had." In more traditional days, medicine
men didn't have jobs. They worked for the community, and the community
took care of them. But many say the tradition has been corrupted, that
medicine men seem a dime a dozen. "After `Dances with Wolves,'
everybody was a medicine man," said King, who attended the medicine
bundlekeepers meeting in Eagle Butte. "All the Indians, every Indian
out here, was some type of spiritual leader.'' And while some take their
show on the road, many have followers who flock to Rosebud and Pine Ridge.
King said he has watched hundreds of non-Natives arrive in South Dakota
each summer to participate in Lakota ceremonies. Some, he said, run like
assembly lines, with families starting a new Sun Dance as soon as they
finish with a group of non-Natives. It's a mighty shift from the 1882
Bureau of Indian Affairs directive banning Native people from
participating in "heathenish dances." Back then, tribes took
their ceremonies underground. Non-Native participation was unheard of. But
now many non-Natives run ceremonies themselves and even carry a sacred
pipe, or chanupa -- a gift given to the Lakota, Dakota and Nakota nations
by the holy White Buffalo Calf Woman. They're welcomed by some spiritual
leaders, who say the colors of the four directions represent the four
races of man -- red, yellow, black and white.
Others dismiss that notion. "When this pipe was brought to us, they
never said the colors represented the four races of people," said
Byrd, the Lakota medicine man. "They didn't tell us anything about
white people. In fact, later on, the spirits did tell us (non-Natives)
couldn't touch the pipe because they have blood on their hands. "One,
they killed their own god. And two, it was their ancestors that wiped out
hundreds of Native people," Byrd said. A return to `segregation'
Looking Horse speaks of the storm swirling above spiritual teachers and
believers. "The ones who are abusing our ways are pretty upset about
it," he said. "That doesn't surprise me. But the traditional
people who are using the protocols are very happy that we finally took a
stand because it's gone way too far." After his statement, Pine Ridge
residents displayed support for his stance. Those who called KILI Radio
felt the proclamation was overdue.
But it's not over. "Now, it looks like this is going to be a
ceremonial warfare among the world of the believers of the sacred divine
fire," Leonard Alden Crow Dog, who hails from a family of powerful
medicine men, told the Native Voice. "Relatives, think. We are going
to go back to that segregation of our people in the '50s and '60s,"
he said. And while Lakota struggle with self-policing their ceremonies,
Red Cherries of the Northern Cheyenne is trying to catch the attention of
lawmakers. "I'm not going to quit," he said. "This way
belonged to my grandfathers. And I'm going to protect it with my
life." He has traveled to Washington several times in search of
legislative backing. Now he is asking federal agencies to help enforce the
American Indian Religious Freedom Act of 1978. The act mandates that
local, state and federal officials consult with tribes "and review
policies to protect properties of our religious way of life," Red
Cherries said. "That has not happened. That's why all these white
guys can ask for a sweat lodge permit and get it." Suzan Harjo,
executive director of the Morning Star Institute, a Native advocacy
organization in Washington, has helped Red Cherries, but said legislation
can only do so much. "Now we have to raise the awareness of the
public that there's a problem out there," she said.
As for Looking Horse, he asks for others to join in prayer, and to respect
the Lakota ways. "There's so much sickness going on in the
world," he said. "We need all nations' prayer to bring healing
back to Mother Earth. But we still have to maintain our ceremonies strong,
to help bring healing back. If we don't do this, the spirits will leave
our ceremonies. "We surely don't want that." Case, the New York
woman who ended up in bed with her medicine man, went through withdrawal
after returning her prayer pipe to Looking Horse. "It was horrible. I
missed ceremony so bad,"she said. "But if Iwant to pray, I just
come in my room and pray. Or Ijust pray anywhere. Ifeel stronger in that
way."
Reach Jodi Rave Lee at 402-473-7240 or jrave@journalstar.com.
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