In my grand plan for how my blog posts were going to go, this was going to be the one on feasting and sharing of food and table. It still will focus on that, but I see this as a shorter blog for November leading into a contemplation on return and midwinter for December/January (1). Kind of think of this as the first piece of a two-parter.
This split is somewhat due to the ever-changing plans and mishappenings of life on my end. Complementary to this post’s theme, Emma, Savannah, and I had a strategic Thanksgiving week game-plan for evenings full of community and meals. Friday, November 18th, we were going to host a Friendsgiving at our house with many of the community connections we had made through the YAV program. The next day, Saturday, Nov. 19th, we were going to go on a hike with some members of a local Mennonite volunteer group (different from the one in Tucson, Service Adventure is geared towards high school graduates instead of college graduates). Then Sunday, Nov. 20th, I was going to attend Albuquerque's Interfaith Thanksgiving Service at one of the Jewish temples, Congregation Albert. Tuesday, Nov. 22nd, would find us at another volunteer group’s house, this time the Jesuit Volunteers, for their Friendsgiving. Wednesday, Nov. 23rd, I had a potluck at work that I was prepping two cranberry apple pies for, and Thursday, Nov. 24th, Emma and I were going to do a 5K for an indigenous health rights group and then have Thanksgiving dinner at a YAV board member’s house.
Yet, as life goes, God laughs at us not with us. I got sick the Thursday before our plan was supposed to roll out and everything got scrapped to hell. But I’m getting ahead of myself here. If we really want to learn about feasting, I need to first return to September and my two visits to the Laguna Pueblo:
September 4
Luke, Emma, and I pile into the car about an hour and a half before worship starts at 10:30. The drive to Laguna United Presbyterian Church, the only of three Presbyterian churches still open in Laguna, is going to take at least an hour. As we leave the city and head west on I-40, the landscape starts to change, becoming more barren and less populated the further we travel. We pass the volcanoes that mark Albuquerque’s western ridge and the Amazon warehouse that locals grumble about ruining the horizon. Then it’s fields, shrubs, mesas and a lone gas station, and any semblance of a large bustling city is left behind us. A green road sign tells us we’re entering Laguna Pueblo territory (2).
The further we drive west, the more the land opens up, unfurling like a palm bared before the sun. This is one of my first experiences of the true desertedness of New Mexico. When in Albuquerque, it is easy to forget that what surrounds us is the high desert - not sand dunes but red rocks and sharp bluffs, tough grass and cactuses fighting to survive the sun and the elevation. Nature out here is breathtaking and hard, and I imagine that the people who have lived in it for longer than my ancestors have been on this continent would need to be much the same to survive.
As we finally near the furthest reaches of Old Laguna village, I see that I must be right (3). It feels as if we are stepping into a different world, a foreign country. For some intents and purposes, we might be. There is no semblance of a stereotypical, uniform, American neighborhood here. This is a place that resists commercialization, a place where the handprints of those who labored over it are not forgotten. Where the walls in the town plaza, built of wire frames filled with stones and cracked adobe, are very much the result of an individual’s craft rather than the plastic perfection of our mass-produced concrete. Most of the roads winding up hills and between misshapen buildings are dirt. A couple of main ones are paved until they’re not, and every house or storefront looks patched together, as if whole or pieces of buildings were plopped down haphazardly into a town. To the part of me socialized by American culture and contempt, our confidence that we always know best, this village is ugly and barren. To the part of me that searches for the divine thumbprint in wonder, I see a community beloved and invested in by its people, right down to the beams that support it.
I often feel that neighborhoods are a scar upon the earth, having watched over the years much of my beloved forests in western PA be bulldozed in order to set up matching dollhouses for the affluent and careless to live. Growing up on a farm, I could never understand why anyone would choose conformity over the wild freedom of isolation. Older now, I can see that as a gross demonstration of privilege on my end. Not everyone has the generational wealth to accumulate and hold onto acres of land. Or grandparents willing to hand down parcels for cheaper or nonexistent prices. The grass is always greener, as we say. Well, I promise everyone has their yellowed patches, we are just taught to hide them.
That is what is strange about the people of Laguna to me - as we drive to the edge of Casa Blanca village and the old adobe church with the bell and unadorned facade - the yellowed patches of their pastures are not hidden. There is no feign towards prettiness, no gaudy attempt at grandeur, only resourcefulness. If Luke had not taken us right up to it, I doubt Emma and I would have been able to point out which building was the church. There is no cross or sign or statue or banner like many of the churches I have seen and grown used to around Charlotte. Nothing draws attention to the building, and in fact, my eyes are drawn away from it, behind it even. Because surrounding these unassuming collections of communities, the mesas tower and the fields flow and the sky bares and the cows become ornaments and the clouds are buttresses, and everything all around is woven together in a tapestry in which the village, the mark of humanity, is the least important piece. It makes me wonder if we build grand churches for our own worship instead of God’s. As if we are trying, in our adornment, to mark ourselves as beautiful and perfect and worthy of being loved, instead of trusting in our own imperfect belovedness. My heart swells at beauty, but I find more holiness in the plain.
My experience worshiping at Laguna United Presbyterian Church only confirms that. I thought I knew small churches, but those from my childhood had a pastor every Sunday. The church in Casa Blanca does not. Instead, there is a rotation of pastors who make the drive out to preach, and sometimes, they don’t. Sometimes, it’s left to the elders, those whose consistent labor is the blood of Christ in this community. Most of the time, there is no musician and no bulletin and no hymn list. When we reach a point in the service for music, members call out hymn numbers and everyone sings acapella together from one of the books floating around the pews. It is a far different experience from vaulted ceilings echoing the voice of an organ or a choir. Music at Laguna United is not quite in tune, not quite in rhythm, but it is felt even more powerfully for that.
And much, much more than the service, the people are filled with godliness. We walk through the door, and immediately are recognized and welcomed. LouAnn walks up and embraces Luke, asking how he has been doing and admonishing that it has been far too long since he has visited (4). Then, other staples in the community introduce themselves, reuniting with Luke as an old friend and welcoming Emma and I into their church. There is June who has spoken about the church’s relationship with indigenous communities nationally. She is also a lawyer and is a global voice in native peoples’ advocacy (5). Gwen, who teaches at Laguna School District, sits in the front pew with her daughter. Her husband Nelson is a longtime friend of the YAV program and used to sit on the board. He is also quite the fun conversation partner, as I found out while at the Synod of the Southwest meeting. Then finally, there is LouAnn, a Presbytery of Santa Fe staple and firm supporter of Laguna United Church.
Around these wonderful people stand the old thick adobe walls that while cracked and peeling, keep out most of the desert heat. Handmade Laguna pottery makes up the cup and dish for communion, and what songs are sung can be found in worn red hymnals. It is astonishing to think that for all the resources and money poured into the Presbyterian Church (USA) as a whole, very little of it is seen here, in one of the very very few indigenous churches nationally.
Before the service starts, LouAnn makes sure to shake our hands and invite us to the Pueblo’s Feast Day later that month to see the dancers and then to her house to sit down to a meal with her and her family. Then, without any pomp or procession, people settle into their seats and worship begins. The small sanctuary is warm even with two box fans going. The pastor, who is there this week, speaks without a microphone and wonders about the scriptures of Luke 14.25-33 and Jeremiah 18.1-11. He speaks of God as an artisan and a potter and connects this image of the Divine with the native tradition of pottery, which here in New Mexico, is known for its intricate and delicately painted lines.
What does it mean for us to imagine God in this way? As a puebloan potter, with brown skin and steady hands and clay upon their clothes whose tongue gravitates not towards English but towards the language of their forefathers? We have long assumed that God looks like us, but how arrogant that is - to think God speaks only to white people and only in the language we know.
The words of the sermon slip away on the wind of a passing train and the congregation pauses for breath. An elder stands up and says for us the Lord’s prayer in Keres, one of the several Puebloan languages native to New Mexico - one of the tongues that our ancestors, my ancestors, tried to banish, as if we could ever lash down the word of god (6). Then, we are called up for communion, invited to the table of all equals, as people the world over do. And I wonder how many self-proclaimed God fearing Christians have allowed themselves to truly sit at this table in equality with our brothers and sisters of color. If we are all Children of Christ then segregating the Table of Welcome is the world’s greatest sin (7).
September 19
Tiffany, one of our YAV board members, and Luke meet us at our house the morning of the Laguna Pueblo Feast Day. As we drive out of the city and west towards Laguna, Luke gives a rundown of the day and etiquette for outsiders entering an indigenous space. We’ll arrive around 10:30 and have about an hour and a half before we head over to our friend LuAnne’s place around 12. Before we enter the plaza where the dancing is, we must silence, turn off, and put away our phones. We cannot look at them while near the dancers, as all photos and videos of the dances are forbidden, and we will be asked to leave if we ignore these rules.
Luke’s insistence upon this point serves as a reminder that we are guests in a space that is culturally and historically not ours. As a group of mostly white presenting people, the presence of simply our bodies can also mean the presence of the violence, oppression, and subjugation that is tied to our skin color. My blood is that of colonizers, imprisoners, and genociders, and that is something I must be aware of in any space I enter, especially those that celebrate and are for people of color, Black people, and indigenous peoples. Sometimes, this means that I am not invited into certain spaces. There are several Feast Days at Laguna and the surrounding Puebloan communities throughout the year. Only some of these special holidays are open to outsiders. That is okay. I am not entitled to anyone’s time, home, or invitation. To think I should be would be to disregard another person’s dignity and autonomy. It would be to treat them with disrespect and without love. As a Christian, I believe I am called to the opposite. If I am not invited or if I am asked to leave - that is not a reflection on me or my character, but someone creating space for themselves to exist wholly. I will never find fault in that.
With these guidelines in mind, I jump out of the car and start to lather on some sunscreen. Fully out in the desert now, the sun bears down on us with no chance for shade or reprieve. All around us people are streaming towards the village center and there is an air of festivity. Our group, carrying camping chairs, makes our way up towards the plaza. Down the road pop-up tents are lined with local folks selling homemade jewelry, pottery, baskets, frybread, juices, and various other assortments. We set our chairs up in the plaza, aiming for a good view of where the dancers will be and then leave to wander down the lane of stalls. Emma and I look at beaded earrings and woven bread baskets, paintings and prints and pots of all sizes, and I purchase a Native tea made from a flower known to grow on the hills. The event reminds me a lot of the Community Days of my childhood, a three-day celebration in August that kicks off the school year and brings together many of the small businesses, churches, and organizations in the area to sell things for profit or fundraising.
Then, we hear the drums beating up the hill, and we hurry back towards the plaza and our seats. The steady booming of many mallets echoing off the stretched hide feels like a large heart beating somewhere deep inside the earth. We stretch to see around the bend as the drumming and the singing gets louder, voices twinning together in a language wholly unknown to me yet still beautiful in their rhythm.
Then the drummers and dancers and singers round the corner - each stepping in time with the heartbeat of the song. The light tinkle of bells accompanies their movements as they path. They pour out into the plaza into lines and spirals and circles known to them, their movement steady and constant. The girls and women wear long dresses and feathers and beadwork. The boys and men have a chalky white paint on their faces and hands and wear their own elaborate clothing.
“Every piece of our outfits,” as our friend LouAnn would tell us later at lunch, “has a specific meaning.” Right down to the paint and the placement of feathers and the depiction of animals.
Both sitting in her living room and standing up by the plaza filled me with a sense of awe and honor. I watched as grandmothers and granddaughters danced and spun under the raw heat of the sun in their ceremonial clothing, bells glittering at their ankles amidst the dust, and I felt the beat of the drum in my chest. It was as if the landing of their feet and the breathing of the earth and the beating of my heart were all in time. It felt like being inside the Divine, or as many indigenous peoples call it, the Great Spirit. For my readers, I think you can call it God or Allah or Yaweh or Pathos or Order or Waheguru or Sophia or Connection. There is no right or wrong way to find your place within the cosmos, only the way that brings spiritual fullness to you. Sometimes I find it hard to say God, for that title feels too limited by what white Christianity tells us it should be. In these instances I lean on the term Divine, because divinity is infinite and indescribable. Respecting the mystery in my relationship with God is important to me, and so I try also to respect the mystery of others.
I attended Saint Joseph’s Annual Feast Day at Laguna Pueblo and I watched the Buffalo, Eagle, and Social dances (8). I witnessed something that native communities around the country have struggled to hold onto throughout the centuries my people waged battles against their peoples and cultures. I experienced a beautiful blend of both the Christian and traditional sides of this one small community. And also, I have no idea what pain they may still hold within their bodies, and also, I can never know what growing up in a Pueblo or on a reservation is like, and also their language is not mine to speak, and also their stories are not mine to know, and also I am the foreigner and the stranger in their home. By accepting these truths and many many more that are unspoken, I am honoring my neighbors’ mysteries. To respect someone is to listen to them. We white, Christian, Americans tend to be shit at that.
So when an invitation like LouAnn’s comes, I am always surprised, because she is taking a chance on me; she is trusting that I will treat her as a person in a country that normalizes its dehumanization of her. And as we sit in her house, I can only be awed for she is unashamedly herself. Painted pottery covers the walls along with drawings of Laguna dancers created by her brother. Ceremonial bows and arrows hover above sofas next to which drums sit covered. On top of a cabinet are deer's horns with a string of feathers tied between the two points, and like any mother or grandmother, pictures of her family are sandwiched everywhere. We are there with two other folks LouAnn has invited from the Presbytery, a couple that Luke and Tiffany know, and several of LouAnn’s daughters and friends. We wait and chat as the seats around the dining table fill up and empty - LouAnn feeding her family and dancers first before inviting us to join. We talk with her about the dancing and the celebration and she tells us stories of years past watching children and some of the significance behind the different dances.
She points to two small painted bowls on either end of the table and tells us, “Those are for the ancestors. You give a small piece of food from your plate as an offering for those in the afterlife.” On Feast Days, everyone eats. We ask LouAnn if there’s anything we can do to help her, and she waves us off to sit down. Then, she brings out what is truly a feast. Rolls, frybread, turkey, dressing, red chili stew and green chili stew, puddings, cookies, roasted squash, and several salads. She offers so much food, and there is nothing we can do to help or thank her. So we sit and we listen as she tells us about her brother and her son, both whom have passed. We witness her pain and hope that is enough.
LouAnn says, “Well thank you very much for coming out and spending the day with us. It is important to keep our traditions alive and for others to appreciate them. I do Feast Day like my mother did Feast Day and her mother before her. You cook all night and feed all day and welcome whoever comes through your door.” It helps that she spreads her invitation far and wide, beckoning many friends and neighbors, both inside and outside of the Pueblo, to join her. LouAnn is a great cook, but I would call her an even better Christian. Rarely have I experienced a welcome or an invitation as sincere and broad and heartfelt as hers.
What would it mean to truly invite the people around us to a meal? To labor for those we know and those we don’t? To feed anyone who shows up, just as they are, with no prerequisite of faith? This feels like Jesus to me.
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There is a narrative in our country that has persisted since we first stole land that was not ours to own. This one-sided story, that we repeat to each other and in our classrooms and in our sanctuaries, tells us that we were saving the indigenous people of Turtle Island (9) by bringing them Jesus and teaching them the Christian way. Our ancestors told themselves they were rescuing savage souls as they tortured and murdered and raped and destroyed people. Our role as heroes in America’s foundation has always been a lie. If your faith is one of force and coercion and violence, then we do not believe in the same Creator. For I believe in a God, a Divinity, who is already everywhere and within everyone. It is arrogant to suggest that our Creator would ever need us to act as Saviors, to act as His Son, if you will. Humans do not have power over life and death, over the eternal existence of a soul. That is our Divine’s alone. And in my eyes, anyone who claims Christianity and curses or persecutes others for their non-belief is more damned than any of us.
I call myself Christian by choice, because every day I choose to try to follow Jesus’ example of love. Love does not force its beliefs on others; it does not chain individuals to conformity; it refuses to destroy difference, opposition, and diversity. And still, it yearns and fights for justice. Love is messy and complicated and painful, because it asks us to sit with each other in all our ugly truths. These are the truths I will leave you with today:
- I am not ministering to Native Americans, because they do not need ministered to. They never have. Whether they believe in the Christian god or not is irrelevant, because they are people who deserve dignity and respect and love just as anyone else does.
- Forcing Christianity upon someone inherently goes against the entire purpose of Jesus’ ministry, because there is no love in force. If you do this to others - you are not a hero, just a supremacist.
- Those of us with European ancestry are and have always been the villains in the story of our nation. This does not have to be our future. But if we believe the only godly, acceptable people are the ones that look like us or behave in the way we think they should, then we are doomed. Because that is not love. It’s denial. And we have denied God many, many times.
As I draw close to the end of this post, I want to highlight a quote from Valarie Kaur’s See No Stranger:
Our traditions are like treasure chests filled with scriptures, songs, and stories--some empower us to cast judgment and others shimmer with the call to love above all. There are no true or false interpretations. There are only those that destroy the world we want and those that create it. We get to decide which ones to hold in our hearts. (10)
The question I would ask you to sit with is this: Do you choose to destroy or create a world in which all people are invited to the table?
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This blog post, which started as an idea for a reflection on feasting, most of which didn’t happen because I was sick, has, like all of my other blog posts, developed a mind of its own. Still, I wanted to take a few moments to thank and acknowledge those who have fed and invited me into their homes over the past couple of months:
Savannah and Pastor Rob, thank you for welcoming us to Second Pres. on World Communion Day and for honoring the mysteries of your own congregation by embracing their cultures and heritages in the service (as well as for the food after and any time I have been lucky enough to have eaten within your halls).
Laura, thank you for morning burritos and coffee and walks outside. Thank you also for hosting not just one but two different YAV events at your house and providing as much warmth and friendship as you do support.
Tiffany, thank you for the dumplings both as we helped sort books in September and also as we made them this past weekend for the Chinese New Year. Thank you also for opening your home to Emma and I over Thanksgiving. That truly made my holiday special.
Luke, thank you always for the many many meals you provide us in our time together on Community Days and during our 1:1s and also whenever you feel like it.
Savannah and Emma, thank you for your labors in the kitchen for our dinners and your laughter over our meals.
Ada, who cooked our breakfasts when in Mexico, muchas gracias por tu trabajo.
LouAnn, thank you, thank you, thank you, for your invitation and your meals and your friendship. I have truly appreciated getting to know and experience part of your traditions.
Luke spoke once during our Border Retreat about, “The incredible hospitality that I know I will receive and not be able to reciprocate.” I feel this is accurate to both my experience in Agua Prieta and in Albuquerque. There are many hands and many hours that several people all across the country, but especially here, have put into me. I promise all of the meals and coffees and letters and friendship do not go unnoticed, and the love you have put into me is incredible. Thank you.
Footnotes:
1. Okay, yes, this is January now when I am hopefully (fingers crossed) posting this. It has been a very busy last few months and while the timelines don’t entirely line up, the themes do and are still relevant. So stick with me, I have explicitly said time maintenance/due dates aren’t my thing.
2. There are signs all along the major interstates naming Pueblo lands as you pass through them. On the way north to Santa Fe, there are around 4-5 Pueblos whose lands you have to cross. This is just one of the many reminders to those who travel through here of the existence and persistence of our indigenous peoples. I think more places around the country could benefit from similar such markers. There was no such thing as ‘empty land.’ Figure out what indigenous communities call your area home here: https://native-land.ca/.
3. There are six villages in Laguna Pueblo, and the people who grew up in specific villages have ties to different feast days. The one I attended was for the whole Pueblo, so there were many people there. I also went to one in January that was just for the village of Old Laguna. There are many layers and much complexity to tribal identities and relations.
4. For a while there, non-tribal members couldn’t visit the Pueblos, as our indigenous communities struggled greatly throughout the Covid pandemic without adequate information, resources, and response from the federal government. Many villages and tribes were left to flounder in the unknown alone and unsupported. As such, masking, vaccination requirements, and visitation restrictions were common in their communities well into 2022.
5. If you’re interested in learning more about June and her work for indigenous communities nationally and globally, follow this link: https://sarweb.org/event/presidents-circle-virtual-happy-hour-with-june-lorenzo/.
6. In the late 1800s and early 1900s, the federal government instituted a policy of removing Native children from their homes and placing them in residential schools to “Kill the Indian, save the man.” By removing them from their homes, the government and religious leaders could deny these children the right to learn their own language, grow their hair long, participate in any cultural celebrations, or keep any piece of their heritage. This is known as cultural genocide and it happened in schools all across the country, often funded and supported by the church. This has devastating effects still today, in which racist and genocidal laws such as these can still support state removal of indigenous children from their communities through the adoption process.
Supreme Court Case:
Presbyterian involvement: https://www.pcusa.org/news/2021/12/1/presbyterian-affiliated-residential-schools-native/.
Residential schools general info:
7. The act of Communion is a central part of Christian practice as a recreation of the last dinner Jesus had with his disciples before he died. It is a reminder of his sacrifice, that he died for humanity, and his love, that he welcomed and fed all. One of the most radical parts of Jesus’ ministry was that he preached acceptance of everyone to a society that heavily demonized certain populations like the sick, old, disabled, widowed, women, and ethnic others. He not only spoke of loving these vulnerable people but actively sat and interacted with them. In this way, denying those who our society deems as ‘unworthy’ a spot at the table or even our kindness and respect, is to deny the message and mission of Christ.
8. Link to Feast Days around Albuquerque: https://www.visitalbuquerque.org/about-abq/culture-heritage/native-american/feast-days/#:~:text=For%20exact%20dates%20and%20event,Buffalo%2C%20Eagle%20and%20Social%20dances.
9. I first encountered the name Turtle Island for North America in the book Native: Identity, Belonging, and Rediscovering God by Kaitlin B. Curtice. It comes from a widespread indigenous story of the world being created or held upon the back of a turtle. Many native activists hence use Turtle Island instead.
10. This excerpt came from See No Stranger: A Memoir and Manifesto of Revolutionary Love by Sikh activist Valarie Kaur. It is one of my all time favorite books, and I first read it in 2020. I used an excerpt for one of my devotions during our YAV reconnecting retreat at Ghost Ranch, and the house voted to read it as a book study. You are more than welcome to come along and join us! Please think about purchasing a copy from your local book store and commenting your thoughts on my posts. I think it is one of those stories that everyone can take something from.
Link to Valarie Kaur’s website: https://valariekaur.com/.