A couple weeks ago, I had the privilege of spending half a day on a Native American reservation in North Dakota - the land of the Lakota people. It was an experience that made me critically examine my own biases and recognize my own ignorance of the breadth and depth of our country’s painful history with race and relocation. It challenged how I perceived my relationship with the land I live on and how I connect with the culture and history of my people. The land was so sacred to its people - not in the form of spiritual worship, but one rooted in a deep sense of respect for the land and a recognition that their homeland was not one to be taken for granted. It was a result of centuries of oppression through relocation and disenfranchisement, but also one borne out of an unwavering commitment to their children; a steadfast belief that elders have a responsibility to cultivate a home for their children, and to protect its resources, both physical and cultural, for generations to come.
On the plane ride back home, I kept trying to make sense of the awe and sacredness by which I saw the land of the Lakota people. I wondered, for our generation that is so often so transient, what defines home? How do we honor and treasure our homeland, while recognizing that for many, the definition of home is ever-evolving? What kept coming back to me was Jeremiah 29 (before verse 11, which we can all quote, but the first ten verses are some of my favorites):
4 “Thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel, to all the exiles whom I have sent into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon: 5 Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat their produce. 6 Take wives and have sons and daughters; take wives for your sons, and give your daughters in marriage, that they may bear sons and daughters; multiply there, and do not decrease. 7 But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare. 8 For thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel: Do not let your prophets and your diviners who are among you deceive you, and do not listen to the dreams that they dream, 9 for it is a lie that they are prophesying to you in my name; I did not send them, declares the Lord. 10 “For thus says the Lord: When seventy years are completed for Babylon, I will visit you, and I will fulfill to you my promise and bring you back to this place. 11 For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.
This passage is particularly relevant, because for so many of us, where we now call home is not where we grew up, and is almost certainly not the land our ancestors called home. I’ve often struggled with how to best care for a city that is not my home, and indeed, a city where most of my neighbors don’t look like me or share the same culture or heritage as I do. It’s a tension that has often shaped how I interact with my neighbors, or my lack thereof. However, the history and story of the Lakota people, and indeed of many Native American nations around the country, is a reminder of how we might live out the teachings in Jeremiah 29.
I learned during my visit that while much of the reservation includes the land on which the Lakota people had historically inhabited, it is significantly smaller, and many communities were forcibly removed over time to accommodate incoming white farmers or government infrastructure projects. Many families now live on land that is not that of their ancestors, and often, this land is much less fertile and lack the access to natural resources they previously enjoyed.
However, the narrative I heard from our hosts was not one of complaints. They did not want pity from centuries of oppression and subjugation. They wanted us to know that regardless of whether this land was the same land their ancestors tilled, they saw it as sacred. They saw it as land entrusted to them by the creator of the universe, and because of that, they believed in their responsibility to care for it and for those that inhabit it. And that includes many white families that still live on this land, a couple hundred years after their own ancestors displaced the Lakota people from it. The question often asked is not whether this has always been home, but whether it’s home now, and if it is, how they must then honor it. They’ve invested in infrastructure, in conservation efforts, in health and education and many others, not only because the federal government has failed to do so, but also out of a sense of sacred responsibility and deep, selfless love.
How then, can we translate some of these lessons to how we might live out Jeremiah 29? The lessons I learned from the Lakota people are humbling. They did not get to choose where they lived, yet they chose to love and care for that land. I, on the other hand, had a choice to live where I do. What excuse, then, do I have to not honor and care for the place I now call home and the communities that share this land with me? Jeremiah 29 tells the story of Israelites who were exiled. If they, and communities like the one I visited, can be exiled from their land but yet still seek the welfare of that land, then I have no excuse.
When we look deeper into Jeremiah’s words, he’s not asking us to get comfortable and get by. The letter isn’t a pity party; it’s a directive, with specific examples, to make this place your home for the foreseeable future. Building a house and entering into marriage are perhaps the two most concrete symbols of a long-term commitment. Yet these are two that are explicitly mentioned Jeremiah’s letter. His words encourage the Israelites to see Babylon as their new home, and to serve and honor it as such. Indeed, it’s a humbling reminder that “in its (Babylon) welfare you will find your welfare.” It’s a reminder of our sacred responsibility to honor our new homeland as if it were our own, and to love its community as our own, because it is. It’s not easy, but in both the Israelists and the Lakota people, we can find inspiration from a people that do so selflessly, without question, and with unflinching grace.
As I keep reading in Jeremiah 29, however, God promises the Israelites that He will bring them back home after seventy years. It’s a reminder that while we must care for our adopted homes as our own communities, we mustn’t lose sight of where we came from. For me, the promise in Jeremiah 29 suggests that we must hold in tension how we care for our adopted homes and how we honor the land that our ancestors and forefathers cultivated. For many of us who are immigrants to the United States, or whose parents or grandparents were, this is also an encouragement to continue to hold that tension top of mind. It’s that tension of how we care for and honor Detroit, or San Francisco, or New York, just as we recognize and honor Hong Kong, or Osaka, or Mexico City. It’s seemingly both a responsibility to honor the past and to bring the history and culture of our people to future generations whose idea of home will continue to evolve.
This is a tension that I’m still trying to figure out, and I’m sure I’m not the only one. I’m still trying to figure out how to define home, and what that means. I’m trying to find ways to better care for my new community, but to not lose touch with that of my people. I don’t know what the day-to-day is going to look like, but I know many have taken this journey and have shouldered this sacred responsibility. I won’t be the only one.
On the plane ride back home, I kept trying to make sense of the awe and sacredness by which I saw the land of the Lakota people. I wondered, for our generation that is so often so transient, what defines home? How do we honor and treasure our homeland, while recognizing that for many, the definition of home is ever-evolving? What kept coming back to me was Jeremiah 29 (before verse 11, which we can all quote, but the first ten verses are some of my favorites):
4 “Thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel, to all the exiles whom I have sent into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon: 5 Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat their produce. 6 Take wives and have sons and daughters; take wives for your sons, and give your daughters in marriage, that they may bear sons and daughters; multiply there, and do not decrease. 7 But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare. 8 For thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel: Do not let your prophets and your diviners who are among you deceive you, and do not listen to the dreams that they dream, 9 for it is a lie that they are prophesying to you in my name; I did not send them, declares the Lord. 10 “For thus says the Lord: When seventy years are completed for Babylon, I will visit you, and I will fulfill to you my promise and bring you back to this place. 11 For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.
This passage is particularly relevant, because for so many of us, where we now call home is not where we grew up, and is almost certainly not the land our ancestors called home. I’ve often struggled with how to best care for a city that is not my home, and indeed, a city where most of my neighbors don’t look like me or share the same culture or heritage as I do. It’s a tension that has often shaped how I interact with my neighbors, or my lack thereof. However, the history and story of the Lakota people, and indeed of many Native American nations around the country, is a reminder of how we might live out the teachings in Jeremiah 29.
I learned during my visit that while much of the reservation includes the land on which the Lakota people had historically inhabited, it is significantly smaller, and many communities were forcibly removed over time to accommodate incoming white farmers or government infrastructure projects. Many families now live on land that is not that of their ancestors, and often, this land is much less fertile and lack the access to natural resources they previously enjoyed.
However, the narrative I heard from our hosts was not one of complaints. They did not want pity from centuries of oppression and subjugation. They wanted us to know that regardless of whether this land was the same land their ancestors tilled, they saw it as sacred. They saw it as land entrusted to them by the creator of the universe, and because of that, they believed in their responsibility to care for it and for those that inhabit it. And that includes many white families that still live on this land, a couple hundred years after their own ancestors displaced the Lakota people from it. The question often asked is not whether this has always been home, but whether it’s home now, and if it is, how they must then honor it. They’ve invested in infrastructure, in conservation efforts, in health and education and many others, not only because the federal government has failed to do so, but also out of a sense of sacred responsibility and deep, selfless love.
How then, can we translate some of these lessons to how we might live out Jeremiah 29? The lessons I learned from the Lakota people are humbling. They did not get to choose where they lived, yet they chose to love and care for that land. I, on the other hand, had a choice to live where I do. What excuse, then, do I have to not honor and care for the place I now call home and the communities that share this land with me? Jeremiah 29 tells the story of Israelites who were exiled. If they, and communities like the one I visited, can be exiled from their land but yet still seek the welfare of that land, then I have no excuse.
When we look deeper into Jeremiah’s words, he’s not asking us to get comfortable and get by. The letter isn’t a pity party; it’s a directive, with specific examples, to make this place your home for the foreseeable future. Building a house and entering into marriage are perhaps the two most concrete symbols of a long-term commitment. Yet these are two that are explicitly mentioned Jeremiah’s letter. His words encourage the Israelites to see Babylon as their new home, and to serve and honor it as such. Indeed, it’s a humbling reminder that “in its (Babylon) welfare you will find your welfare.” It’s a reminder of our sacred responsibility to honor our new homeland as if it were our own, and to love its community as our own, because it is. It’s not easy, but in both the Israelists and the Lakota people, we can find inspiration from a people that do so selflessly, without question, and with unflinching grace.
As I keep reading in Jeremiah 29, however, God promises the Israelites that He will bring them back home after seventy years. It’s a reminder that while we must care for our adopted homes as our own communities, we mustn’t lose sight of where we came from. For me, the promise in Jeremiah 29 suggests that we must hold in tension how we care for our adopted homes and how we honor the land that our ancestors and forefathers cultivated. For many of us who are immigrants to the United States, or whose parents or grandparents were, this is also an encouragement to continue to hold that tension top of mind. It’s that tension of how we care for and honor Detroit, or San Francisco, or New York, just as we recognize and honor Hong Kong, or Osaka, or Mexico City. It’s seemingly both a responsibility to honor the past and to bring the history and culture of our people to future generations whose idea of home will continue to evolve.
This is a tension that I’m still trying to figure out, and I’m sure I’m not the only one. I’m still trying to figure out how to define home, and what that means. I’m trying to find ways to better care for my new community, but to not lose touch with that of my people. I don’t know what the day-to-day is going to look like, but I know many have taken this journey and have shouldered this sacred responsibility. I won’t be the only one.
I resonate with this. It is so human to desire home — I’m trying to figure out how to make home out of a place that doesn’t feel like home — and how to live authentically in a space that doesn’t feel like mine to live in...
ReplyDelete