Protection of Ceremony: Cheyenne Seek to Change Freedom of Religion Act

 

The dilemma over sharing what's sacred
BY JODI RAVE LEE / Lincoln Journal Star

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 I want to pray, I just come in my room and pray. Or I just pray anywhere. I feel stronger in that way."

Reach Jodi Rave Lee at 402-473-7240 or jrave@journalstar.com.

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