Your Literalism or Mine?
an essay on religion
Years ago, spiritual folks used to invite me to their literary gatherings. But I stopped getting those invites once it was more widely known that I’m a secular humanist Native American with moderately atheist beliefs. I’m not the Indian who’ll lead non-Indians into a real or metaphorical sweat lodge. I’m not the vision quest novelist that some Indians and non-Indians want me to be. As a result, a Native friend once gave me the nickname of Shaman Perplexy.
But, maybe 15 years ago, I was a featured guest at a spiritual conference in Boise, Idaho. I was the second speaker in a three-person lineup.
The first speaker was a Christian literalist who spent an hour asserting that the Garden of Eden was a real place and pinpointing its possible locations in our real world. I don’t remember the details but I do recall that it was a fascinating presentation. I didn’t agree with her beliefs but she was a compelling speaker. Very charismatic. I don’t remember if she was a church leader or academic scholar, or both. But, regardless of her job title, it was easy to see why she had fans and followers.
I was sitting backstage with another Native American writer who was the star of the night, being far more of an indigenous spiritual poet than I’ve ever been. As we sat backstage and listened to that Christian literalist, I could see and hear that other Native writer growing more and more agitated.
Finally, after fifteen or twenty minutes, that Native writer leaned close to me and whispered, “Christians.” But it was a whisper that felt like roar of contempt.
“I can smell them, you know,” the other Native writer whispered. “Christians have a certain body odor.”
I barely knew that other Indian but they obviously thought that I belonged to the Society of Elite Indians Who Hate Christians. That other Native writer obviously didn’t know that my Spokane Indian mother and Coeur d’Alene father were reservation Christians. And that I’m married to a Hidatsa Indian Christian who has a Master’s in Christian Theology.
I quickly understood that the other writer was one of them Indians who don’t have much connection to daily Indian life, especially reservation life, especially reservation spiritual life. I’ve learned over the years that most Native writers don’t have a connection to reservations and reservation Indians.
But I didn’t want to get into a backstage debate with that other Indian. So I did what I often do. I made a joke.
“Yeah,” I said. “Them Christians always smell like Sunday’s last urn of burned coffee.”
But the other Indian writer didn’t realize I was kidding.
“There’s no such thing as the Garden of Eden,” that other Indian said. “Everybody knows that we were created when lightning struck a log and formed us from the fire and wood.”
That other Indian’s creation story does have a tinge of science. But it was a story that was just as drenched with literalism as was the creation story of the white Christian onstage.
Then it was my turn to speak. Over the years, I’ve rarely delivered a scripted performance. I’m always improvising. And I’m constantly challenging and mocking the beliefs of as many people as possible. So, as I took the stage, I thought about directly mocking Christian and Indigenous literalism.
But I didn’t do that. Instead, I stepped up to the microphone and said, “I’m not going to read you anything that is directly spiritual. Maybe some of you will keep looking for the spirituality in my work. And maybe there is an indirect spirituality. There must be. But that’s not my intention tonight. And, yet, I also have to confess that I have a Jesuit friend who once told me that I have ‘a deep, inbiding, and strange theology.’”
And then I read a long series of poems about my late father’s alcoholism. He was a devoutly Catholic child who grew into a man who never once spoke about God in my presence. I wonder how much he and I are alike.
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thanks for this. it reminded me of this old joke:
https://www.theguardian.com/stage/2005/sep/29/comedy.religion
"Once I saw this guy on a bridge about to jump. I said, "Don't do it!" He said, "Nobody loves me." I said, "God loves you. Do you believe in God?"
He said, "Yes." I said, "Are you a Christian or a Jew?" He said, "A Christian." I said, "Me, too! Protestant or Catholic?" He said, "Protestant." I said, "Me, too! What franchise?" He said, "Baptist." I said, "Me, too! Northern Baptist or Southern Baptist?" He said, "Northern Baptist." I said, "Me, too! Northern Conservative Baptist or Northern Liberal Baptist?"
He said, "Northern Conservative Baptist." I said, "Me, too! Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region, or Northern Conservative Baptist Eastern Region?" He said, "Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region." I said, "Me, too!"
Northern Conservative†Baptist Great Lakes Region Council of 1879, or Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region Council of 1912?" He said, "Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region Council of 1912." I said, "Die, heretic!" And I pushed him over."
Shaman Perplexy is a perfect name. I appreciate your thoughtfulness and candor. The older I grow and the more people and belief systems I encounter, the less certain I am. There is so much certainty and exclusivity which fences others out. I'd like to remove those walls. I guess I would say I'm a humanist.