Ours Is a Boundless God

I first met Jasper in March of 2001. He was a Lakota elder of the Oglala Sioux Tribe living on the Pine Ridge Reservation in southwest South Dakota. The Great Sioux Nation is divided by dialect into three subgroups: Dakota, Lakota and Nakota. The term Oglala refers to one of seven bands that comprise all Lakota people.

My wife and I were arranging construction projects for a Fourth Annual Excelsior Covenant mission trip to the reservation, and learned that Jasper and his family were in need of a wheel chair ramp. Our intent was to meet him to gather information about the project and schedule a return trip that summer. Because our lodging was in Pine Ridge Village, the seat of tribal government and on the opposite end of the reservation, we were faced with a ninety-mile drive to Jasper's home. The trip took us over magnificent rolling landscapes, past the Wounded Knee Memorial site, through the rural communities of Sharps Corner, Kyle and Potato Creek. Finally, we arrived at a small gathering of homes named Wanblee, which translates "Eagle Nest". A concrete block post office stood quietly along side the highway. Nearby was a health clinic building and community hall. South of the highway was a K-12 school. On the furthest edge of town was the only place of business: a gas station-convenience store-laundromat. Streets there were nameless and homes were unnumbered; so we found ourselves wandering for some time in pursuit of the correct house.

Jasper was already outdoors as we arrived and greeted us very skeptically, initiating an uncomfortable introductory conversation. He was determined to challenge our understanding of Native history, and for ninety minutes expounded on the myriad injustices suffered by Indians at the hands of Whites. He detailed deception and broken treaties, theft of ancestral lands and near extermination of the bison, harassment and armed attacks by the U.S. Cavalry, forced relocation to bleak reservations, rejection of traditional Native religion, language and culture and mandatory boarding schools to assimilate Indian children. Reservation life, he continued, was defined by a dependence on government food subsidies, scarce and substandard housing, deplorable health care and living conditions, generations of unemployment and chronic poverty. The wholesale subjugation of Indians had left an entire people group, a minority in America, stripped of their self-esteem and afflicted with every conceivable social ill. Reservation life, he continued, is now defined by an utter dependence on meager government assistance, scarce and substandard housing, deplorable health care and living conditions, generations of unemployment and chronic poverty. Herein is the sobering and inescapable truth about Native people on reservations: their history and contemporary condition are one in the same. Since the establishment of the reservation in the late 1800's very little has changed for Native people living there: they are still grieving their historical mistreatment, still dependent on and subject to the Bureau of Indian Affairs, still marginalized as to be nearly forgotten as Americans and still victims of blatant racism. Native people are in search of wholeness; trying to reconcile themselves to a White world that knows little or nothing about them and doesn't seem to care. We welcomed Jasper's efforts to reeducate us, and then it was time for him to inquire about our motives for being there. We moved indoors to tell our story, explaining that we were followers of Christ and committed to the kind of healing that can only occur through him. After sharing quite a bit of detail about our encounters with people there, Jasper abruptly announced that he'd heard enough. "Now I know your hearts," he said. "You're good people." He then acknowledged some background in the Episcopal church. His understanding of theology was, not surprisingly, influenced by both Christian and Native experience, referring to God the Father as `Wakan Tanka' - the Great Spirit.

Later that summer we returned with a team to build a ramp for Jasper. This time we met others in his family, his wife Bernice, their adult daughter Hildreth, and two great grandchildren. Throughout the week we repeated that long commute between Pine Ridge Village and Wanblee. Along the way I observed a number of small churches often in the middle of nowhere. They bore little resemblance to any sprawling suburban campus I was familiar with, and I wondered about the people who worshiped there. Were they among the other sheep that Jesus referred to? (Jn.10:16)

Jasper and the children were constantly outdoors with us. Several times each day he gathered us around him for story time. There were hilarious Indian jokes and serious history lessons. Each helped to explain the many differences between our cultures, our life stories. We listened respectfully, appreciating his experience, wisdom and grace as is customary in Native culture. Throughout that long hot week Jasper lavished on us his grace and hospitality. It was hard to imagine just how far we had progressed in our budding "Indian-white" relationship. Slowly but surely a bridge was being built between his world and ours. With our mission trip over it was time to head home again. We had prearranged a brief visit with Jasper on our way off the reservation. He was already outdoors as we arrived. The same man who had first met us with such skepticism now stood with outstretched arms calling in a loud voice, "Ah, my people."

In the years following we made numerous visits to Jasper's home, often times unannounced. We were always welcome there. Among his many family photos was one of an Excelsior Covenant mission team posing in front of our church building. That photo he assured us reminded him to pray daily for us. During one visit the telephone interrupted our conversation. Jasper tried to ignore it, but then answered hastily with, "Can't talk now. Got family here." His understanding of family was obviously much larger and more inclusive than ours.

In late July 2006 we received news that Jasper had been admitted to the Veteran's Hospital in Minneapolis. There we found him both unresponsive and in grave condition. I called Hildreth to report the seriousness of his condition. "He's a tough old bird," she said, "he'll survive this too." I then connected her with the attending physician who explained the prognosis. Late the next night His wife and a dozen family members managed to reach the bedside shortly before Jasper died. One week later Excelsior Covenant Church was invited to attend the funeral. It would be a traditional day and night ceremony, with the wake starting at noon on Wednesday followed by a memorial service Friday morning. Beginning in Wanblee, the service would conclude with a veteran's burial in the Black Hills National Cemetery at Sturgis. We were eager to attend, but the ceremony would take place during the annual motorcycle rally. The thought of traveling west during the rally was unappealing, but after a day of hesitation we determined that it was necessary for us to be there.

One terribly hot August afternoon, four of us drove nonstop to the reservation arriving at Crazy Horse School in Wanblee at 10:30 p.m. The school gymnasium with adjacent cafeteria was obviously designed to accommodate diverse community functions. On permanent display near the cafeteria were large paintings depicting significant events in Lakota history: hunting wild bison, receiving the Sacred Pipe, the Seven Council Fires and Custer's defeat. On the other side of the room were photographs of a recent senior class trip. Students had traveled to the Custer National Monument for the Little Bighorn Battle to commemorate its 130th anniversary. Once again, I could hear Jasper explaining that in Lakota culture past and present are absolutely inseparable.

The real focal point of this gathering was Jasper's open casket flanked by tables covered with photographs, flowers, candy, tobacco and memorabilia including a feathered, ceremonial headdress. Behind the casket and draped on the walls were more than a dozen large, colorful `star quilts' made expressly for this occasion. The star quilt is a token of respect used at weddings, graduations, births, and funerals, replacing the buffalo robe from pre-reservation days. Quilts are made by friends or relatives and then donated to the family celebrating one of these events. The family in turn gives the quilts away to honor certain individuals participating in the ceremony.

Numerous photographs revealed a youthful Jasper, both in uniform and civilian clothing. One of these in particular captured my attention. It showed him as a child, dressed in traditional Native regalia and holding his father's hand. Together they had toured Europe with a traveling Indian show sometime during the 1930's. Jasper's body was dressed in a WWII uniform, his hands clasped a Bible lying on his chest. Off to one side sat a man with his electric guitar pouring out old, plaintive, country gospel hymns. Friends offered public condolence and occasionally a drum group performed. The combination of elements framed an appropriate celebration for Jasper, his family, his community and his creator.

The funeral bulletin contained the customary information as well as a long list of Honorary Pallbearers including individuals and entire civic groups. I found my name there, but even more surprising; the Oglala Sioux Tribe appeared alongside Excelsior Covenant Church. Seeing these two names together spoke volumes about our presence on the reservation. There were also names of eight designated pallbearers, six of them grandsons. But for some unexplained reason one of them could not attend, so Jasper's son Orville selected me as his replacement. Before I could react in any way he rushed me away to meet the others. All of them were distinguished looking Indian men with traditional names that I could scarcely pronounce. Suddenly I became aware of my skin color as never before, feeling both humbled and honored at the same time.

Later I found the others from my group sitting in inconspicuous seats near the rear of the auditorium. From there we could observe people enter, view the casket and finally greet the family. The pace was slow and deliberate. From time to time people gave public testimony of their friendship with Jasper, some with remembrances, others with prayer. A husband and wife offered a hymn together in the Lakota language, but with an unforgettable refrain in English, "Jerusalem I come, I come". The man who had been playing guitar as we entered also presided over the wake, respectfully directing family and friends. He spoke first in Lakota and followed with an English translation reciting scripture, praying and addressing the family. Before long, he noticed four white people in the rear and called on us to provide some kind words to the family. We spoke briefly commenting on the hospitality Jasper and his family had consistently extended to us, and then were promised a welcome at any other home in the Wanblee community.

After returning to our chairs, Chief Oliver Red Cloud described in great detail the traditional ways of mourning in Lakota culture. All for the benefit of "our friends from Excelsior." The chief spoke both in Lakota and English, at times shifting languages in mid-sentence. He affirmed the value of time-honored traditions and reminded everyone that it was the Lakota way to proceed as the Spirit moved and never by the clock. More hymns, drums, prayers and tributes followed, continuing until 2:30 a.m. when it was time to eat. Everyone moved to cafeteria tables where there was buffalo stew, fry bread accompanied by a wild berry sauce called "wojap" and countless homemade pies. We departed the ongoing wake sometime after 3:00 a.m.

Returning to Crazy Horse School Friday morning we found a hearse parked near the door, and the gymnasium filled to capacity. Soon the star quilts that had covered the walls during the wake, were taken down and distributed to individuals. Before I could fully grasp the significance of this Lakota tradition called `give away', Hildreth placed one of the quilts in my arms.

Pallbearers were assembled and given black-and-white looped ribbons to pin onto their shirt sleeves. Next we assumed our places facing the assembly and alongside the casket, four on each side. Every person in attendance then passed by the casket addressing Jasper and greeting each pallbearer individually. There appeared to be only one appropriate handshake; a solitary, downward thrust absent of any words or eye contact. The only exception to this was an unknown woman who abruptly threw her arms around me. Mourners then repeated the same gesture with each and every family member. The mood then became noticeably more urgent. The guitar grew louder. Both hymn and scripture celebrated victory over death. Jasper was going home to his Savior. The Lord's prayer was boldly recited by all, while other spontaneous prayers were filled with similar emotion and finality. What I witnessed there was the unrestrained power and scope of the Gospel; not even white affluent evangelicals own Jesus!

Then without obvious direction the family arose to view the casket for the last time. It was obvious that they had done this many times before and were accustomed to the routine of grieving. Death for these people is both frequent and indiscriminate; the death of teens and children is as common as the passing of elders. Too many are lost to illness, lost to alcohol, lost to car accidents and lost to suicide. There is an almost implausible amount of unnecessary death on the reservation. Tears and wailing were continual as the grieving persisted for some time. At last, we carried Jasper's casket out into the daylight and placed it in the hearse.

The actual interment occurred at the Black Hills National Cemetery at Sturgis, some one hundred miles further west. Once at the cemetery the flag covered casket was carried into a small chapel. Two uniformed veterans carefully folded the American flag and presented it to Jasper's widow. Then symbolizing the dual citizenship of Lakota people, the casket was draped a second time with a large star quilt that had been displayed throughout the wake. Pallbearers were instructed to remove the ribbons from their sleeves and attach them to the quilt covering the casket. A prayer in Lakota was offered, then the quilt together with the ribbons was slowly folded and placed inside the casket before it was closed for the last time. Family members began crying again.

Jasper's youngest son initiated a Lakota song. Others joined in and their combined voices filled the chapel with what I apprehended to be a traditional honoring song. It was both eerie and ancient. After yet more prayer in Lakota, mourners and pallbearers lined up once more to slowly and respectfully greet the family. When I reached Orville I clasped his hand to thank him for the honor extended to me. He wrapped his free arm tightly around me insisting, "The honor is mine." It was truly remarkable to stand beside Jasper's family in that sacred ceremony. In celebrating the Living God with them there, I realized that the honor was actually ours and that together we worship a God of boundless grace.