Red Lake V: Diversity in the Body

There is a worship song that sings, "Take me to that place, Lord, to that secret place where I can be with you; you can make me like you! Wrap me in your arms! Wrap me in your arms! Wrap me in your arms!" I think on these words and wonder: What does it mean for me to be like you Father? How can you wrap me in your arms when I am too soaked in my own putrid filth and mire? What does it mean for me to pursue a life devoid of earthly dealings and yet full of your life giving bounty? How can I journey with my brothers and sisters on a road that is too narrow for any of us? How do we unite and proclaim a gospel of love in which I remember John's words when he says, "[...] love must not be a matter of theory or talk; it must be true love which shows itself in action. This is how we shall know that we belong in the realm of truth, and reassure ourselves in his sight where conscience condemns us; for God is greater than our conscience and knows all (REB 1 john 3.18)?

This I think is a glimpse:

As the stage vibrates with the bouncing of the chosen children who have come to serve the Red Lake community this week, I sing and drum and dance in jubilance knowing that they could not possibly know or accept the truth which God has been growing in me as of late; they too would have to journey a similar path to the one that I have walked in order to be convinced of the beauty of Christ's bride. This particular group knows what it means to worship. They have tasted the meaning of giving ones heart in ardent and joyful praise to their God, they have served in a manner fitting of the kingdom of God, and they have begun to open their minds to the love that Christ speaks of and John reminds us of. I see them here in trueness as they pour out their thanksgiving to God, not for earthly spoils and treasures, but because he has been faithful to them in their search to be humble servants of Him. These people, these kids, they are vibrant and free; they are the body of Christ.

In contrast to these who are charismatic, I find myself dwelling on the thoughts of the week previous to this one. It was then too that Jesus began to open my eyes to the vast, eclectic, and diverse nature of His body. See, it is not that the charismatic are any more sincere or ardent in their love and expression of faith, but it was that they are allowed, through the culture of their faith, to be free, open, and expressive with an exclamation of praise; they could dance; they could spin; they could scream; they could bow. But what other groups lack in expression, many times, they redact by means of genuinity, for it was the week prior to this one that I saw a group of Catholic kids, on the opposite end of the spectrum, pour themselves into the work of the kingdom in a way that I had little seen surpassed by any groups in the two summers of work in that community. And in the midst of a chaotic and expressive session of worship, I knew that these two groups, had they been coincidentally joined together on a trip, would not have been compatible in their faith expression and may even have been hostile to one another. Even still, in the vibrancy of the worship scene, I could not help but dwell on the sincerity and beauty of a hymn sung A Capella the week before by a more structured crew. It is in the depravity of cultural walls and the hostility of organized denominations that I might find disenchantment, but ever so subtly does the Father remind me of His sovereignty and His undying devotion to all who would proclaim his truth. He reminds me that I have glimpsed the notion of the earth full of His glory; though separated by qualms and brokenness, that it is by His name His children are unified; that the earth, including the sovereign nation of Red Lake, will know and does know Him by our love, not our take on Calvinism/Eucharist/ baptism/insert-secondary-issue-here.

 
I look on the faces of the kids that we are touching in this place, and I think on the families that we are doing work for and it is here that love as a petty appearance of words begins to lose its meaning and endows itself in the trueness of action. I fear for the decrepit aura that surrounds the future of the children that have touched my life and I know what it means to love in truth. What if the kids fall at the hands of the darkness that has engulfed their community? What if Eugene finds himself in a life of violence because of the gang culture that seems to confront him in every aspect of life? What if Jeff loses his vivacity and joy as he is swallowed up by the biting cynicism, brutality, and anger that he is attacked with daily? What if Zack, one of the most intelligent eight year olds I know, never realizes the potential of his mind because of distraction and lack of opportunity? What if the beautiful Angela finds herself tied to a man who can barely take care of himself because she bought in to the lie that her only worth is in her sexuality? What if Andrea never realizes the beauty of her smile and laugh, because she is too worried about finding her next fix of alcohol or meth? What if Flower loses herself in an addiction of eating as she deals with the abandonment of her mother and family? What if some of these families have to live the winter out in houses that lack windows and doors? How will some of them live with the shame of a house that is in shambles? What joy would be lost if the love of Christ was never known here?

--What if ...we lose? What if there is no hope? It is here, in this fear, that God reveals His faithfulness and sovereignty in His love of man as one remembers His promise to Israel, in Jeremiah, to never leave nor forsake them if they would only seek Him; as one remembers His promise to never leave or forsake us. Here, through the diversity of His body, He opens the door of realization to know what loving in truth really is. It is here that the body and bride of Christ can be unified in commonality as they raise a banner in their own lives and denominations that proclaims the end of apathy and shouts out conviction which would end the plague of darkness that sabotages the hearts of men. It is the bold and coercive doctrine of truth that would proclaim the love of Christ. It is the secret place where Catholic and charismatic, broken and healed, bold and meek, poet and priest can be with Him; can be made like Him; can be wrapped in His arms, wrapped in His arms, wrapped in His arms.

Red Lake III: A Strange Moment

There are a few moments in life when the ridiculous seems only too familiar. The following was one such strange moment as I was working in the great and sovereign nation of Red Lake:

As it turns out, there is a fairly large Mennonite population in Minnesota. Here, there are types of Mennonite traditions that are essentially just a Christian denomination, and then there are those who live a bit more of a cloistered and rural lifestyle that seems similar to (though not to be confused with) the Amish, at least to those on the outside looking in. In the more northerly region, where I work, the latter are pretty common.

Who knew? 

Most people, probably. At least, most Minnesotans, I guess?

Anyway, on one recent day, a co-worker and I are driving the rural back roads of the reservation. We are a bit harried from a lack of sleep and the near 24/7 work it takes to engage the different groups who come to the Reservation with our non-profit service organization. Rounding a bend, we pass a traditional Mennonite couple selling various fruits and things out of the back of their truck. Intrigued, we decide to get out and support them. We have a couple minutes to spare - why not stop and see their wares? 

As I approach, there is a woman who is neatly arranging baskets of raspberries. She is dressed in the unembellished clothing that marks their community - a somewhat boxy but clean-lined, monotone, and simple dress with a white prayer cap. And, I am immediately struck by how large she is, both in girth and height! She may be the largest woman I have ever seen in my life. Her hands are callous and gruff with dirt and soil embedded in their dried skin; It is the kind of dirty that doesn't just scrub off.  

She embodies an aura of "farm tough." 

As my coworker prods around the stand, I realize that I am not particularly interested in the raspberries she had laid out, but I feel awkward at the thought of walking away without purchasing anything. Also, I feel a bit encumbered by our size difference. So, I am a bit nervy. Nevertheless, I pluck up the courage to ask her the price at which she is selling the little baskets of fruit. 

Upon hearing my voice, she freezes, and Her work-worn hands begin to tremble a little. She mumbles something in...German? I guess, some of the communities still only speak the mother tongue of the original countries from which they came - Dutch and German. I have heard of this, but I thought it was a custom that had come out of practice.  Apparently not! I have no idea what she is saying. It is mutual.

Our combined nervousness  somehow makes the whole interaction that much more awkward. As my mind quickly races through the different reasons for this intensity, her husband (as large a man as she is a woman) lumbers out from around their mid-sized truck with a barrel of squash in hand. He is dressed equally as humbly in a flannel shirt, overalls, and a straw hat. He pauses for a moment to spy the scene. Then, it finally dawns on me that the wife is extremely uncomfortable because she doesn't want to interact with a man who is not her husband.

The Husband drops his basket and hulks his way to the merchant's table. He points a seemingly distended  and overly worked hand at the different sized baskets of raspberries, and in broken English with a German accent, he loudly says, “These... two and half! These... three and half!” My eyes widen a bit at his volume, but I gladly, though maybe sheepishly, hand him a five dollar bill and take two of the smaller containers.

I slowly say, "THANK YOU!"  - they must know what that means, right? They both turn and carry on futzing about their stand. I return to the car where my coworker is already waiting - he has fewer scruples when it comes to leaving a small business empty handed.  

I pause and reflect about the scene that had just occurred:

I just bought raspberries from a gargantuan and German speaking Mennonite man whose wife, being probably three times my size in (mostly likely) sheer muscle, was completely intimidated by me on a closed Indian Reservation in the middle of an intense Summer of service work. Sometimes, life is strange.

Red Lake II: On Sovereign Land

“...WHEN YOU ARE ON OUR LAND, YOU HAVE TO OBEY OUR RULES!”   

It is dusk on the Red Lake reservation, and the stern face of the police officer peers down at me through the open driver’s side window. His glare only reinforces the guilt I feel at having been pulled over. I nod compliantly, and apologize again.

_____

Everyone knows that jolt of dread - it is the worst feeling in the world! It’s that moment, peering into a rear-view mirror, when one sees  a squad car flip around and those lights go on! And though there is an old myth on the reservation that no one ever gets pulled over on the rez (the police there are too busy handling bigger problems - meth dens, gang activity, unruly alcohol induced violence, etc.), when you cut a cop off so you can pass the person in front of you who is already maxing the speed limit… it is pretty blatantly obvious that you are going to be pulled over. 

As I watch the two-toned patrol vehicle speeding up to my back bumper, I am giving myself a mental lashing! As part of our non-profit’s evening schedule, I am responsible for the programmatic elements - the entertainment and educational portions of the service engagement. I am rushing to beat the group back to our site in order to make sure everything is moving forward on time. But, our organization has stressed SO MANY TIMES that they nary tolerate traffic infractions! We are meant to be on or under the speed limit, and we had to take and pass a defensive driving course, which we are meant to follow to the minutiae of detail.

How could I let this happen?! 

Am I about to get a ticket? 

How does that work on the reservation? 

Wait…am I about to lose my job?! Since this gig offers room and board, much of my earnings are meant to be savings toward my expenses the rest of the year!

My anxiety begins to spiral. I immediately begin to sweat.

The officer flings open his driver side door, exits, slams it forcefully, and marches up to my vehicle. My window is already down, and he positions himself in the frame of the aperture. With a small notebook in his hand, he leaves his sunglasses on. Still, I can feel his pupils (unblinking, I assume) burning into me. His face is close to mine, and I can feel his breath.

He is not amused.

Beyond the possible immediate personal consequences, when the policeman takes my information, I become dreadfully aware of a strange paradigm that heightens the situation. Red Lakers truly believe themselves to be a foreign country, an independent nation.  This is because the seven Ojibwe tribes that comprise the commonwealth are unique from many other American Indian nations in that they rejected the Dawes Act in 1887. This would have allowed the federal government to divide up communal tribal land into private ownership, and it would have relocated many of the residents onto other allotted reservations. The act was a tool used for decades afterward to cede much Native land to the government by forcing the residents, who culturally understood land to be collectively held, into the capitalist structure of proprietorship. Often, these holdings were lost to deals the people did not totally understand or entered into out of desperation.

But, because the tribes of Red Lake rejected the initial treaty, they maintained their traditional and communal governance of their territory. To this day, as a closed reservation, they hold their tribal lands in a traditional and communal way; no one “owns” property on the reservation. Ultimately, this means their land is both their ancestral territory and, by their view, completely and sovereignly their own. 

And while I am aware of this reality, the weight of it becomes painfully clear, as I sit nervously on a secluded two lane road. This “routine” traffic stop  may in fact be a much greater ordeal than would normally be expected; I am treading less-than-lightly on this free and autonomous land!  I am sickly stricken with the realization that I am now suddenly seen as an unruly guest in foreign territory. 

The officer sternly grills me about the rental car that I drive. It is a company car, of sorts. The non-profit I work for often fills out their fleet with rentals, especially in the Summer - that is their busy time. He seems skeptical as I stammer a bit trying to explain why the car is not rented in my name. I am sure he has heard every type of excuse for why someone would be “legitimately” driving a car that does not belong to them. I flounder as I try to remember our training and the protocols my organization has for explaining why I am authorized to drive this vehicle. I hand him the proper paperwork and I even press a finger to a scratched and faded company ID with the organization’s logo.

As I continue on, the officer softens a bit. In truth,  there seems to be surprise and maybe even awe in his tone as the interaction continues. It dawns on me that this sort of encounter may not be normal for him.  Besides having to deal with some squirrely kid, he may not be used to  someone so compliant; to have someone ready and prepared with paperwork; to have someone openly admit that they are in the wrong and so willing to accept the punishment due to them.

Maybe for him, traffic stops tend to be anything but routine. Maybe, he came into the situation geared up for any sort of altercation. Maybe, rez life has taught him to have his cackles up, even in seemingly commonplace interactions

Finally, he pauses, and his still shaded eyes seem to look me up and down. He sighs, clicks his tongue, and says,“Sir, I’m not going to write you up today. I see you are here working to help my people, and we appreciate what you are doing here. That said, the speed limit through here is _5, so please watch your speed. And, WHEN YOU ARE ON OUR LAND, YOU HAVE TO OBEY OUR RULES!”  

“Yes Sir. Sorry, officer.” I muster meekly.  

With that, he slams his notebook and saunters back to his patrol vehicle.

I slowly pull back onto the road and turn on my cruise control. I set it to five under the limit. I am still mentally eviscerating myself for my error in judgment, though my thumping heart begins to finally slow.

My little sedan slowly makes its way down this rural highway, which is forested on either side with tall pine trees in unending stretches. Internally, I bow my head in greater reverence for this ancient and wooded land; for this strong and storied people.