FAITH: The substance of things hoped for. The evidence of things NOT seen. Without faith, it is impossible to please God.
Jeremy Lesley
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Perspective & Purpose On a Plane
The Jeremy Lesley Band's manager and his family dropped me off at the airport in Seattle with minutes on the clock before my plane left for Las Vegas...and then to Nashville...where my wife would be waiting to drive me back home to Alabama. Fortunately, I had done my pre-boarding online, so I could literally run through security and to the gate with very little delay.
There was much on my mind. Problems mostly. The income level of an up-and-coming band is far below glamorous. Most of us had lost our jobs and the others are in jeopardy now if we keep having to go cross country to play (which we will!). We have families (and not small ones either) with lots and lots of needs. Chris (The Manager) and I had worked all week on a business plan/model that would help us build relationships with sponsors and investors to help push this ship on through the channel. Our fanbase is growing in regions of the nation, and our songs are becoming more well-known. However, we still have to overcome SO MANY hurdles to actually "make it" in this business.
I was pleasantly shocked to find that the plane was only half-full which left the back section completely open for me to choose any seat I wanted (a cool perk for Southwest passengers). I was sure that it was close to time to depart, so I would have lots of options! For some reason, I chose the very last row on my left...by the back wall. I HATE this section. Always have! Smaller rows. Right by the bathroom. Right by the area where the flight-attendants prepare the beverages. Guaranteed last off the plane. And close to the engine noise. I repeat...I have flown for many years...on many trips...this is NEVER a seat I would willingly choose.
So, I sat on the aisle (another thing I would never d0), plopping my laptop bag in the middle seat next to me. I was getting all stretched out, when the voice comes over the income: "Attention passengers, we advise you to not get too comfortable because this will be a full flight". And, as if that voice was the starter pistol, here came the huddled masses onto the aircraft. The seats filled faster than a Taylor Swift concert.
Up walks an Army recruiter who asked if he could get in by the window. I obliged, but I left my bag comfortably placed in the middle seat. I shook his hand and we made introductions and started the small talk. He was stationed in Vegas and was headed home after a few days of being up in Seattle. I, of course, immediately sold him on the music and purpose of the Jeremy Lesley Band and had a CD in his bag with all the appropriate weblinks to keep him browsing us for days!
That's when I saw her. She stood in the aisle looking at the last available seat on the aircraft. Between me (not the smallest of guys) and the big Army recruiter. Dang. What about my stretch-out space? I noticed the look of sheer terror on her face as she looked at him and back at me. I haven't seen this look in a while, so I began to make sure that I had not grown vampire fangs while I was that close to Forks, WA (a little Twilight Series humor).
I stood in the aisle and gestured for her to get in the middle. She didn't say a word as she complied. Being who I am (by default and bloodline), I quickly introduced myself and got nothing in return. She was of reddish-dark complexion. Hispanic? Maybe a language barrier. So, when she was all strapped in and still facing solemnly forward, I offered her my name and introduced my Army friend by the window. She barely whispered a "hello".
Odd. Normally people immediately respond to my geniune warmth and smiles (or at least I try to make myself believe they do). Still nothing. A look of terror on her face, she kept staring straight toward the cockpit. Suddenly, I heard a voice in my head (yes, I hear lots of them) and I turned to her and said: "Your claustrophobic!" She nodded and quietly said, "Yes". Quickly, I offered to switch seats so you could be on the aisle. At this point, she was not willilng to move. Then, as the plane began to taxi, I leaned over and said spontaneously (responding to the voice in my head): "What tribe?".
At this point, she turns completely around to me with eyes wide and said: "Cree! How did you know that I was Indian (she said most people guessed Mexican or something else) and how did you know I was claustrophobic?" I didn't know how to answer that question. Well, I knew the answer. But, I still didn't know how to put it into words people wouldn't run from! I think I said something along the lines of "it's hard to explain, but it's just something I can do sometimes". I should have taken into account that I was talking to a full-blood Native American from one of the Cree Reserves in Manitoba, Canada.
Then, it all made sense: Why I had chosen this seat on this flight. I quickly announced that I was Kituhwa from Alabama, although I looked much lighter in skin-tone than her. I told her of my passion for First Nations Peoples and desire to see the quality-of-life improved for all tribal peoples. I've spent alot of time researching income levels, suicide rates, drug addictions, STDs, gang violence, Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, and more of the plagues that afflict tribal people on Government sanctioned land in North America. So, I began to ask her about her life, family, and reservation.
She was from a large family, recently married to an African American member of the United States Memory. Actually, she was enroute to meet his family for the first time. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a couple of gifts she had brought to give to his parents. They were a handmade bear figurine and turquoise earrings. Both of the gifts had been blessed by a local Medicine Man before the trip. She was very nervous that her new in-laws wouldn't like the gift...or more importantly...her. They were Christians, and she had heard the horror stories of how Christians felt about the Native People and their way of life. In fact, she had experienced a little of it herself.
Her father had attended an Indian Boarding School, which was a requirement for living on the reservation. He and his brother were often beaten for speaking their native language or using/responding to their native names. Their hair had been cut upon admission into the school, and a Christian name was given to which they were expected to embrace without question.
It was clear to any native child entering one of these infamous boarding schools across North America that God did NOT like Indian people. Their culture was evil, their language corrupt, their hair pagan, and their very names sinful. And, immediately upon arrival at the boarding schools, the children were isolated/cut-off from their families. The same had happened to their father at this same school. Her father and his brother cried for days for their mom and dad, as any child would that had experienced this type of separation. Finally, the Christian leaders of this school lied to them and said their parents were dead so they would cease the constant attempts to run away.
Speaking of running away. Her uncle attempted to run away and was caught by the prinicpal/priest of the school. This man-of-the-cloth carried the young boy into the top floor of his house where he beat him mercilessly. Then, he threw the little one down two flights of stairs...breaking his hip. To this day, he still walks with a limp. I'm sure Jesus was extremely pleased. Please understand that I have, in my possession, quite a collection of stories almost identical to this one I'm telling. This, however, is one of the first I've had the grim opportunity to hear face-to-face.
By the time my new Cree friend entered school, the Canadian Government (like the Americans) had decided that the Indian Boarding Schools were counter-productive and a HUGE P.R. problem, so the idea was completely abandoned. Unfortunately this was at least 100 years too late for so many precious souls. She grew up in a large family, as most of the families were on her reservation in North-Western Canada (population of about 1,200 on the Reserve).
Her mom and dad, who were her heroes, fell into alcohol addiction while she was very young. She and her sister were removed by Child Services and placed in foster care for about 8 months. There, a white Christian family were put in charge of the care of these little girls. Almost everyday they were beaten for little-to-no-reason. One of her most painful memories was the foster mom's obsession with the color of their skin. She was constantly telling them that they were dirty. At bath time, the little girls were forced to scrub their skin as hard as they could while sitting in near boiling bath water. To this day, she told me that she still takes the hottest bath possible.
Then, the foster mom would come in to discover that the "dirt" was still all over the little girls' skin. Therefore, whe would take the cloths and scrub them both down as aggressively as possible. Most of the time, they walked around with sores and blisters on their skin from the boiling water and skin-scrubbing as this mother tried to scrub the Indian from their bodies.
The foster dad was a real champion, as well. He would gladly participate in the beatings on a nightly basis. One night, he carried my friend into the bathroom for one of her regular beatings. She had made up her mind that she would not cry, and she didn't initially. After about 20 minutes of the flogging without tears, he walked out of the bathroom and began to pace back-and-forth down the hall outside the door.
Then, she smelled it. His freshly lit cigar. Before she realized what had even happened, the foster dad was through the bathroom door. He grabbed her arm and poked the lit end into her skin and held it until she began to cry uncontrollably.
As she's showing me the cigar scar, I gasped and grabbed her wrist...and then the other. There were the scars of not only a cigar burn but tell-tale scars of the repeated attempted suicide of a small girl whose life at the time seemed absolutley hopeless. She smiled sheepishly as she explained that not many of the folks on the Rez felt they had a reason to live. The suicide rate was off the charts, along with drug addiction, teen pregnancy, gang violence, and alcoholism.
The good news came really late for these little girls. Their mom and dad had sobered up and were allowed to bring their babies back home. To this day, the dad still holds himself responsible for every vile thing that happened to his children during his addiction. Shortly thereafter, he sent her off to the Seattle area to live with extended family and get a good education. He felt she would have no future without escaping that little government funded hell-hole that had held him and his relatives hostage for so long.
She was blessed with a new marriage and was filled with hope and love as she made this trip to meet her new Inlaws. By the way, they just happened to be Pastors of a Christian Church. Her big concern (even after all that she and her people had lived through in the name of Christ and Christianity) was that she would dishonor or disrespect them and their God by attending their Christian worship without being a Christian. Wow. Christians have never thought of anything like this while approaching or encountering non-Christians.
Meanwhile, back on the rez...the one she grew up on, you know? In 1996, the Canadian governement finally ran the pipes for water supply. They would no longer have to carry it from far-off creeks and rivers made from snow. However, the water is stored in a tank that is shared by the entire community. So, each family is really limited on how much they can use. And, there is a little corner store where they all can buy over-priced needs. Once a month, when the checks come in, they all make the trip to the nearest town (an hour away) to stock up on the family needs and supplies. And there are no jobs relatively close by, so the cycle continues of poverty and affliction.
Across North America (known by Natives as Turtle Island), thousands of once proud and strong Native American people are living in absurd levels of poverty, addiction, and hopelessness. Type 2 diabetes is taking a toll on the health and mortality rates. However, it is not the largest killer. Suicide and drug addiction sit at the top. Thousands of missionaries fly over these amazing people to Africa and beyond to carry goods, supplies, and The Gospel. They are often referred to as the "forgotten people".
For over 500 years, missionaries have bombarded them with the message of Christianity. But, as so many chiefs and tribal leaders pointed out down through the years, the same white Christian faces that came preaching the Gospel of Love and Acceptance also convinced Indians that God hated their skin, languages, dances, music, and culture. White presidents, soliders, and government leaders broke treaties, intentionally infected them with fatal diseases, ordered the destruction of millions of buffalo (the number 1 source of food, clothing, shelter, and so much more) raped, murdered, pillaged, and removed them from the lands they called home. All in the name of God, Country, Gold, Silver, Land, and Manifest Destiny. To date, after 500 years of missionaries preaching, less than 6% of Native American People are Christians. And why should they be?
Even now, sacred burial grounds and other areas of Native Hallowed ground are desecrated in the name of Wal-Mart, Sam's Club, shopping malls, entertainment facilities, schools, and neighborhoods! The only thought most people give to Indian people is when they cheer for their favorite football or baseball team where their likeness is used as mascots (I'm still waiting on some team to call themselve "The Whiteys", or "The Honkeys"! Bible-wielding, faith talking Christians throw scriptures out at the scenarios as if to suggest that God STILL only honors the White, European Version, Wicked Dictator Translation (King James) of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, Christian cemeteries and ceremonies, etc. For most who don't say cruel, mean spirited things about Native American people, they are just out-of-sight-out-of-mind.
So. My hope today is that you will be aware of the plight of the very first North Americans. That'll you'll pray for them to return to the honor-filled way of life that they were on when our White Ancestors came and changed everything for them. That they'll reconnect with their languages (the core of any people group), traditions, music, dance, regalia, and living respectable lives filled with hope, joy, peace, forgiveness, and overall health! Thanks, so much, for listening.
There was much on my mind. Problems mostly. The income level of an up-and-coming band is far below glamorous. Most of us had lost our jobs and the others are in jeopardy now if we keep having to go cross country to play (which we will!). We have families (and not small ones either) with lots and lots of needs. Chris (The Manager) and I had worked all week on a business plan/model that would help us build relationships with sponsors and investors to help push this ship on through the channel. Our fanbase is growing in regions of the nation, and our songs are becoming more well-known. However, we still have to overcome SO MANY hurdles to actually "make it" in this business.
I was pleasantly shocked to find that the plane was only half-full which left the back section completely open for me to choose any seat I wanted (a cool perk for Southwest passengers). I was sure that it was close to time to depart, so I would have lots of options! For some reason, I chose the very last row on my left...by the back wall. I HATE this section. Always have! Smaller rows. Right by the bathroom. Right by the area where the flight-attendants prepare the beverages. Guaranteed last off the plane. And close to the engine noise. I repeat...I have flown for many years...on many trips...this is NEVER a seat I would willingly choose.
So, I sat on the aisle (another thing I would never d0), plopping my laptop bag in the middle seat next to me. I was getting all stretched out, when the voice comes over the income: "Attention passengers, we advise you to not get too comfortable because this will be a full flight". And, as if that voice was the starter pistol, here came the huddled masses onto the aircraft. The seats filled faster than a Taylor Swift concert.
Up walks an Army recruiter who asked if he could get in by the window. I obliged, but I left my bag comfortably placed in the middle seat. I shook his hand and we made introductions and started the small talk. He was stationed in Vegas and was headed home after a few days of being up in Seattle. I, of course, immediately sold him on the music and purpose of the Jeremy Lesley Band and had a CD in his bag with all the appropriate weblinks to keep him browsing us for days!
That's when I saw her. She stood in the aisle looking at the last available seat on the aircraft. Between me (not the smallest of guys) and the big Army recruiter. Dang. What about my stretch-out space? I noticed the look of sheer terror on her face as she looked at him and back at me. I haven't seen this look in a while, so I began to make sure that I had not grown vampire fangs while I was that close to Forks, WA (a little Twilight Series humor).
I stood in the aisle and gestured for her to get in the middle. She didn't say a word as she complied. Being who I am (by default and bloodline), I quickly introduced myself and got nothing in return. She was of reddish-dark complexion. Hispanic? Maybe a language barrier. So, when she was all strapped in and still facing solemnly forward, I offered her my name and introduced my Army friend by the window. She barely whispered a "hello".
Odd. Normally people immediately respond to my geniune warmth and smiles (or at least I try to make myself believe they do). Still nothing. A look of terror on her face, she kept staring straight toward the cockpit. Suddenly, I heard a voice in my head (yes, I hear lots of them) and I turned to her and said: "Your claustrophobic!" She nodded and quietly said, "Yes". Quickly, I offered to switch seats so you could be on the aisle. At this point, she was not willilng to move. Then, as the plane began to taxi, I leaned over and said spontaneously (responding to the voice in my head): "What tribe?".
At this point, she turns completely around to me with eyes wide and said: "Cree! How did you know that I was Indian (she said most people guessed Mexican or something else) and how did you know I was claustrophobic?" I didn't know how to answer that question. Well, I knew the answer. But, I still didn't know how to put it into words people wouldn't run from! I think I said something along the lines of "it's hard to explain, but it's just something I can do sometimes". I should have taken into account that I was talking to a full-blood Native American from one of the Cree Reserves in Manitoba, Canada.
Then, it all made sense: Why I had chosen this seat on this flight. I quickly announced that I was Kituhwa from Alabama, although I looked much lighter in skin-tone than her. I told her of my passion for First Nations Peoples and desire to see the quality-of-life improved for all tribal peoples. I've spent alot of time researching income levels, suicide rates, drug addictions, STDs, gang violence, Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, and more of the plagues that afflict tribal people on Government sanctioned land in North America. So, I began to ask her about her life, family, and reservation.
She was from a large family, recently married to an African American member of the United States Memory. Actually, she was enroute to meet his family for the first time. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a couple of gifts she had brought to give to his parents. They were a handmade bear figurine and turquoise earrings. Both of the gifts had been blessed by a local Medicine Man before the trip. She was very nervous that her new in-laws wouldn't like the gift...or more importantly...her. They were Christians, and she had heard the horror stories of how Christians felt about the Native People and their way of life. In fact, she had experienced a little of it herself.
Her father had attended an Indian Boarding School, which was a requirement for living on the reservation. He and his brother were often beaten for speaking their native language or using/responding to their native names. Their hair had been cut upon admission into the school, and a Christian name was given to which they were expected to embrace without question.
It was clear to any native child entering one of these infamous boarding schools across North America that God did NOT like Indian people. Their culture was evil, their language corrupt, their hair pagan, and their very names sinful. And, immediately upon arrival at the boarding schools, the children were isolated/cut-off from their families. The same had happened to their father at this same school. Her father and his brother cried for days for their mom and dad, as any child would that had experienced this type of separation. Finally, the Christian leaders of this school lied to them and said their parents were dead so they would cease the constant attempts to run away.
Speaking of running away. Her uncle attempted to run away and was caught by the prinicpal/priest of the school. This man-of-the-cloth carried the young boy into the top floor of his house where he beat him mercilessly. Then, he threw the little one down two flights of stairs...breaking his hip. To this day, he still walks with a limp. I'm sure Jesus was extremely pleased. Please understand that I have, in my possession, quite a collection of stories almost identical to this one I'm telling. This, however, is one of the first I've had the grim opportunity to hear face-to-face.
By the time my new Cree friend entered school, the Canadian Government (like the Americans) had decided that the Indian Boarding Schools were counter-productive and a HUGE P.R. problem, so the idea was completely abandoned. Unfortunately this was at least 100 years too late for so many precious souls. She grew up in a large family, as most of the families were on her reservation in North-Western Canada (population of about 1,200 on the Reserve).
Her mom and dad, who were her heroes, fell into alcohol addiction while she was very young. She and her sister were removed by Child Services and placed in foster care for about 8 months. There, a white Christian family were put in charge of the care of these little girls. Almost everyday they were beaten for little-to-no-reason. One of her most painful memories was the foster mom's obsession with the color of their skin. She was constantly telling them that they were dirty. At bath time, the little girls were forced to scrub their skin as hard as they could while sitting in near boiling bath water. To this day, she told me that she still takes the hottest bath possible.
Then, the foster mom would come in to discover that the "dirt" was still all over the little girls' skin. Therefore, whe would take the cloths and scrub them both down as aggressively as possible. Most of the time, they walked around with sores and blisters on their skin from the boiling water and skin-scrubbing as this mother tried to scrub the Indian from their bodies.
The foster dad was a real champion, as well. He would gladly participate in the beatings on a nightly basis. One night, he carried my friend into the bathroom for one of her regular beatings. She had made up her mind that she would not cry, and she didn't initially. After about 20 minutes of the flogging without tears, he walked out of the bathroom and began to pace back-and-forth down the hall outside the door.
Then, she smelled it. His freshly lit cigar. Before she realized what had even happened, the foster dad was through the bathroom door. He grabbed her arm and poked the lit end into her skin and held it until she began to cry uncontrollably.
As she's showing me the cigar scar, I gasped and grabbed her wrist...and then the other. There were the scars of not only a cigar burn but tell-tale scars of the repeated attempted suicide of a small girl whose life at the time seemed absolutley hopeless. She smiled sheepishly as she explained that not many of the folks on the Rez felt they had a reason to live. The suicide rate was off the charts, along with drug addiction, teen pregnancy, gang violence, and alcoholism.
The good news came really late for these little girls. Their mom and dad had sobered up and were allowed to bring their babies back home. To this day, the dad still holds himself responsible for every vile thing that happened to his children during his addiction. Shortly thereafter, he sent her off to the Seattle area to live with extended family and get a good education. He felt she would have no future without escaping that little government funded hell-hole that had held him and his relatives hostage for so long.
She was blessed with a new marriage and was filled with hope and love as she made this trip to meet her new Inlaws. By the way, they just happened to be Pastors of a Christian Church. Her big concern (even after all that she and her people had lived through in the name of Christ and Christianity) was that she would dishonor or disrespect them and their God by attending their Christian worship without being a Christian. Wow. Christians have never thought of anything like this while approaching or encountering non-Christians.
Meanwhile, back on the rez...the one she grew up on, you know? In 1996, the Canadian governement finally ran the pipes for water supply. They would no longer have to carry it from far-off creeks and rivers made from snow. However, the water is stored in a tank that is shared by the entire community. So, each family is really limited on how much they can use. And, there is a little corner store where they all can buy over-priced needs. Once a month, when the checks come in, they all make the trip to the nearest town (an hour away) to stock up on the family needs and supplies. And there are no jobs relatively close by, so the cycle continues of poverty and affliction.
Across North America (known by Natives as Turtle Island), thousands of once proud and strong Native American people are living in absurd levels of poverty, addiction, and hopelessness. Type 2 diabetes is taking a toll on the health and mortality rates. However, it is not the largest killer. Suicide and drug addiction sit at the top. Thousands of missionaries fly over these amazing people to Africa and beyond to carry goods, supplies, and The Gospel. They are often referred to as the "forgotten people".
For over 500 years, missionaries have bombarded them with the message of Christianity. But, as so many chiefs and tribal leaders pointed out down through the years, the same white Christian faces that came preaching the Gospel of Love and Acceptance also convinced Indians that God hated their skin, languages, dances, music, and culture. White presidents, soliders, and government leaders broke treaties, intentionally infected them with fatal diseases, ordered the destruction of millions of buffalo (the number 1 source of food, clothing, shelter, and so much more) raped, murdered, pillaged, and removed them from the lands they called home. All in the name of God, Country, Gold, Silver, Land, and Manifest Destiny. To date, after 500 years of missionaries preaching, less than 6% of Native American People are Christians. And why should they be?
Even now, sacred burial grounds and other areas of Native Hallowed ground are desecrated in the name of Wal-Mart, Sam's Club, shopping malls, entertainment facilities, schools, and neighborhoods! The only thought most people give to Indian people is when they cheer for their favorite football or baseball team where their likeness is used as mascots (I'm still waiting on some team to call themselve "The Whiteys", or "The Honkeys"! Bible-wielding, faith talking Christians throw scriptures out at the scenarios as if to suggest that God STILL only honors the White, European Version, Wicked Dictator Translation (King James) of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, Christian cemeteries and ceremonies, etc. For most who don't say cruel, mean spirited things about Native American people, they are just out-of-sight-out-of-mind.
So. My hope today is that you will be aware of the plight of the very first North Americans. That'll you'll pray for them to return to the honor-filled way of life that they were on when our White Ancestors came and changed everything for them. That they'll reconnect with their languages (the core of any people group), traditions, music, dance, regalia, and living respectable lives filled with hope, joy, peace, forgiveness, and overall health! Thanks, so much, for listening.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Monday, August 3, 2009
Jeremy Lesley Band music playing along with all of your favorite Country Music at KHOOF FM! http://ping.fm/Vqlrr
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Saturday, August 1, 2009
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