Savior of Silent Stone

Dowa Yalanne is the kind of place that really deserves the word monumental. There it stands like a momentary eruption stopped in time, a bundle of fisted hands reaching skyward, not necessarily aspiring, but signalling power and strength that some who live in its presence quite understandably call eternal.

At least three times--maybe more--the Zuni people took refuge on top the mountain. I've never been up there, but some I know who have been say it's full of holy places. The Zunis hid from the Spanish, the Mexicans, and the Apaches up there, where the world at the top is so wide you can't see to the other side. There's room to live up top, and lots of reasons for an enemy to turn his horse around and simply go home once he looks up its dusky cliffs. For 7000 years, Dowa Yalanne was a citadel of strength, a savior to those who lived in its presence.

It looms almost parentally over the Zuni pueblo just as it has since men and women first began to think of the world beneath the mountain as the birthplace of life itself. You want to know where the Zuni came from?--there's a place just down the road.  For thousands of years for thousands of Zunis all of life was right here in the shadow of the mountain.

Think of it this way: Dawa Yalanne has astonishing stage presence, so much of it that volumes of Zuni lore originate in its caves and promintories. Once upon a time, when the whole world was flooded, a gargantuan sea monster bit off a chunk of the mountain. Two promintories are the pinnacles from which two children jumped to their deaths to save the people (versions of that story may well have moderated over the years). The mountain is not simply a citizen of the pueblo, it is, in a way, its magistrate. There it stands, always, perfectly indomitable.  

But there's nothing there to tell the epic story of a people who've been in residence right in this very spot longer than any people have been anywhere on the continent. Some say 7000 years. You won't learn that at the foot of the mountain.

There are no historical markers, no signs or displays anywhere to tell the stories, because the Zunis really don't want people around their mountain; they are of the belief that there's just too much divinity, too much precious, too much of the people's heart and soul and mind right here. They're not looking for crowds.


So unless you know the stories from your grandma, the only joy you'll take away from a visit to Dowa Yalanne is the grace it bestows simply by its magnificent presence. The Zunis don't really care if you don't know what happened on their mountain. It's their story, and if you're not one of them, it's not yours.

Even though I've read a little history, I stood there at the place where the sea monster bit off a chunk of the mountain, and I couldn't help but wish that someone would tell me the story.

If you're not Zuni, you can always read what you can of the mountain elsewhere; you can page through its myths and legends. And you can go there and listen. Sometimes there is far more to meet the soul in a space where there seems to be nothing at all. If you do go, don't make a fuss. Be still.

But you're on your own. No one will tell you the story. No one will preach the Zuni word, precious as it may be to them. No one will ask you to believe.

Some call the Zuni, even today, a mysterious people. If you stand there, alone, in the silence, maybe you'll understand. 


Red Rock Miracles

Henry Whipple was one of the first students. Don't be fooled--not the Henry Whipple, the famous Minnesota missionary who, in 1862, pleaded with President Lincoln for the lives of hundreds of Dakota braves and won.

This Henry Whipple was a cute little Navajo six-year-old, who no one on earth had called "Henry Whipple" until he came to the new school at the mission, Rehoboth Mission. In 1903, that Henry Whipple was one of Rehoboth's very first students. He's the little guy down on the left.

First crack out of the box, his teachers named the kid Henry Whipple because the Henry Whipple was a missionary hero.

But there was another reason too, that one not so noble. Those very first teachers, all of whom spoke with thick Dutch brogues, didn't stand a chance of pronouncing Henry Whipple's Navajo name--whatever it was--so they simply dropped it and gave him a name rich with honor and a whole lot easier to pronounce.

They likely didn't ask him. After all, changing the boy's name didn't matter because they were there in New Mexico on a mission to teach the Navajo the gospel of Jesus Christ; and they were sure--just as all Anglos were back then, even those with thick Dutch brogues--that accomplishing that mission meant stripping a six-year-old Navajo kid of just about everything he'd ever known: cut his hair, dress him in white man's clothes, teach him the Bible, the English language, and Heidelburg Catechism. That's how Indian education was done, after all, in this country.

The truth is, there was a school at Rehoboth mission only because the mission wasn't on the Navajo Reservation. It wasn't placed where there was already an Indian school, where the government gave missionaries lots of good time with kids anyway because the government believed that bringing Native people Christianity was a super good way to make them forget they were Indians and make them real Americans.

It's no wonder that many Native people across the continent, even today, think of Christianity as the white man's religion. Even the government thought so: teach 'em to look decent, to speak English, drive a tractor, build a shed, and go to church. You know, get with the program: be an American like everyone else.

Today, no one knows what happened to Henry Whipple, the cute little boy you see on that first Rehoboth school picture because no one really knows his name. On that picture, he's just Henry Whipple, not the missionary Henry Whipple.

Not long ago, Rehoboth Christian High School was named one of the premiere 50 Christian high schools in the nation. It's a great honor really, even though no educator fully understands how someone decides who's number 27 and who is 127. Rating institutions must be something of a crap shoot.

That being said, I'm sure Rehoboth Christian High is greatly thankful they are among the chosen, the elite, recognized to be what they are, one of the finest Christian high schools across the length and breadth of this country. Being one of the fifty best, no matter what kind of wizardry got them there, is far better than not showing up on the list.

That they are there is not a miracle. A school that began as a mission enterprise in the racist footsteps of every other educational institution on American reservations has slowly and stubbornly become something compellingly unique, a reservation school that not only works but excels, and one that does it all in the name of the Lord. There are teachers and administrators at Rehoboth--and I am blessed to know some of them--who work their hearts out to create a school dedicated to the glory of the risen Christ.

Hard work, dedication and endless prayer have played significant roles in creating an institution that's become nearly as stunning as a sunset on the red rocks in the school's front yard. There are many to thank, including some of the earliest folks, who recruited Navajo and Zuni kids the hard way, by building friendships, one family at a time, through long hours sitting in front a fire on the dirt floor of a hogan.

An old Rehoboth grad, someone whose kids and grandkids have all attended Rehoboth, told me his father claimed that the only reason he sent his boy down the road to the mission school was because that missionary, that Rev. Van--when that white man talked about living a good life he was really talking about what his father called "the beauty way." 

His father wasn't a Christian, but his father sent his little boy to school at Rehoboth because he'd learned to trust the man who said the boy should be there.

There are other schools with Dutch Calvinist roots among the fifty best Christian high schools in the nation--Eastern, in New Jersey, Pella, in Iowa, Lynden, in Washington, Sioux Falls, in South Dakota, and Holland, in Michigan. Each of them has ties to each other and to Rehoboth, schools where the mission is teaching kids something akin to what one might find in John Calvin:  "There is not one blade of grass, no color in the world, that is not intended to make us rejoice." All of life belongs to Him.

But only one of those elite Christian high schools was not built for Dutch Calvinist kids. Only one was built for others, and only one was built for this country's first nation people. That one is Rehoboth. We did a lot of it wrong through the years, but God almighty quite regularly weaves gorgeous blankets out of our filthy rags. 

Really, Rehoboth Christian School is a miracle.  Soli deo gloria.



Count me among the millions of those who watched the agony of Kunte Kinte a half-century ago and were deeply, deeply moved.  Roots, a story--a novel, really--by Alex Haley, affected me so powerfully that it sent me scurrying to uncover my own. Sometimes people wonder why I care about my own Dutch Reformed background. Alex Haley made me wonder who I was when I really didn't know, and ethnicity--even the lack it--is one ingredient in the identity cocktail. 

[I spent too many years reading term papers not to say anything about Haley's shameful plagiarism in that book; but that's a story for another time.] 

Kunte Kinte's story was very bitter but incredibly wholesome. White folks don't fare well in Alex Haley's portrayal of the lives of his ancestors. Roots was a main stage production that wouldn't let America look past the rising action of its own story. Me either. And even though I'd spent a number of years outside the church back then, it still hurt me to see that sometimes--oftentimes--the madmen spouting scripture did the most savage bloodletting.

That phenomenon is front-and-center in 12 Years a Slave, too, a great film that likewise creates downright beasts out of bible-toting Christians from south of the Mason-Dixon, men as deft with a whip as they are quick with proof texts. When it comes to slavery, the sullied past of evangelical America is haunting.

And it's there again in Sue Monk Kidd's bestseller, Oprah-blessed, The Invention of Wings, a powerfully plot-driven novel of two women, one of whom Ms. Kidd pulls from the pages of real American abolitionist history, Sarah Grimke. Sarah and her sister Angelina turned their back on their family, went north from their home in Charleston, and became marquee lecturers on the abolitionist circuit by forswearing their own slave-holding past. 

Fascinatingly, Ms. Kidd's novel creates something of a twin character, a slave girl named Hetty or "Handful," who is all of that. Hetty's mother teaches her that the only way to live with slavery is to keep a live portion of yourself in all-out revolt, a spitfire revolt that doesn't kill you--because it can--but maintains the fire of her own authentic human spirit.

The villians of The Invention of Wings are evangelical Christians like the Grimke's mother, who requires her slaves attend a Sunday School she serves up using a slaves-and-masters curriculum designed to perpetuate servitude. It's awful--not the book, but once more having to realize that men and women used the Bible to justify a way of life that would not have existed if it hadn't been fueled on blood.

Just once, I'd like to read a book about good Christian slave-holders. Did they exist? I'd like to see a movie that told stories about Bible-believers who bought into both Jesus and slavery, who didn't lock people in leg irons cast from their own damned fire and brimstone. There had to be some like that, don't you think? I have to think so.

A book some might call "the greatest American novel" doesn't have any either. When Huck Finn finally decides that staying with the slave Jim as Jim makes a break for freedom, he knows, inside and out, that his decision to keep going down the river, to not turn Jim in, is not only a crime in the South he's leaving behind, but, much worse--a sin. 

And that's why little Huck utters the most famous line in all of American literature:  "All right then, I'll go to hell." 

The book my parents read from when I was a boy, the Bible specifically designated for kids, an early version of Catharine F. Vos's The Children's Story Bible, made it perfectly and memorably clear that that son of Noah named Ham got himself cursed for laughing at his soused father and then went south in the family's diaspora, to Africa, where his people would live and prosper as servants of the other brothers. Slavery was that clear, that biblical.

I put out a note to faculty years ago, just to see if anyone had that fat old blue book around somewhere, and I found one. I photocopied the passage and, as long as I taught Huck Finn I brought that passage up in class to college students who seemed nowhere near as shocked as I had been at the way I'd been reared. It was a passage I remembered hearing as a boy, a biblical interpretation just as dangerous as anything those Southern Christian bigots could spout. 

It was in me too somewhere, this despicable theology of race and faith. 

Dutch immigrants to this country, I'm told, deliberately steered away from the American south in the immigration wave that populated west Michigan, southeast Wisconsin, and south central Iowa before the Civil War. Despite their own slave-trading past, those wooden shoes wanted no part of an institution that America held onto longer than most in the Western world because it clearly empowered the American South. 

A century later in a small town in Wisconsin, when the Schaap family finished supper, my father would grab our well-worn copy The Children's Story Bible and read a story or two to us kids, our own family altar.

I never had a slave, never owned a whip; but, as a boy, I knew something about slaves because I knew the story of Noah and his sons, and where specifically one the boys, that one named Ham, had gone, where he went and what he did and why it was he served us.

That's what I was told.


Ghost Town

It may well have been the very first time I used a camera for something other than family pics, an old Argus C-3 I had bought second-hand way back when I was in high school. My wife and I, still sort of newlyweds, were walking the desolate streets of an old copper-mining town in the Arizona mountains, a place called Jerome. It was 1973. 

Jerome was, back then, a ghost town. Once upon a time, the population peaked at 15,000, but, by the early 1970s, very few people still lived there. Mining fortunes had been made, I'm guessing--the open mine still gaped dangerously on the north end of town but it was not running. Almost all of those who'd pocketed the loot or run the bank or worked the drills had long ago departed. Jerome was a Twilight Zone, streets broken and abandoned lined with a hundred grotesque houses caught in their own anguished disrepair, as if being forced to undress right there on the street. 

If I go a half hour in any direction from my home, I'll run into an abandoned farm because they’re everywhere in the rural Midwest. I see them weekly, I'm sure, and they're still haunting because somewhere in the shape of things falling apart there still lives a remnant of a family's fallow dream of what could be--and wasn't.


But Jerome, Arizona, forty years ago, was no single family dwelling; it was an entire abandoned city, a mile-high mess of a metropolis almost completely abandoned. Once upon a time kids played on streets that had since grown yellow with weeds. I don't remember a single house being lived in, but there were a few businesses open in what was still discernable as downtown, a dozen old hippies maybe, selling tie-dyed t-shirts and bangles.

Jerome had visions of becoming an artist's colony back then, Main Street holding little but goofy antique knick-knacks. For the most part, nothing was afoot on its streets, nothing really but desolation; the whole place had become a kind of open-air museum, post-apocalypse. Absolutely haunting.

I loved it--look at the pics. There are tons more. Their sheer numbers say as much about me as they do about Jerome. I'd love to go back.

But I can't.


Along some Jerome street back then, we met a man who pointed up at a rundown place and told us it was his. He owned one of houses falling apart.

"What's going to happen here?" I asked him. He was a friendly guy, I remember--and he too loved Jerome.

"I honestly don't know," he told us.

"I hope it doesn't change," I said. Jerome was a ghost town, pure and simple. "I hope it stays just like this," I told him. I was just a kid.

"That's not an option," he said. "Nothing stays the same."

I think the man’s name was Sage Hericlitus. You may have heard of him.

There were only two choices, he told us--fix 'em up or let 'em rot. After all, nothing stays the same.

And that, of course, makes these old pictures--a first attempt at art on my part—quite rare. I found them a while ago when we had to make a hurried escape from a flood in the basement.

Were I to go up the mountain to Jerome sometime soon, and were I to lug some 18-megapixel camera with me down those dingy streets, what I'd shoot wouldn't be what's here. All that ruin is probably long gone, just like the kids who used to bike down the streets and the miners who climbed down into that open pit every morning.

These pics of mine were 8 x 10s, matted too. I suffered delusions of grandeur, probably still do.

Still I thought these shots were cool, so I went to Jerome’s website, found the address of the historical society, sent them a note with some jpgs, and told them that if they were interested, I’d ship the whole lot to them. We were moving, downsizing.

They were. They called in fact, told me they had all kinds of pictures of Jerome in ye olden days, but very few when it was exactly what it was in 1973. “We’d love to have them.”

So I sent them, all of them, which means that today, in some desk or on some shelf in Jerome, Arizona, a bunch of black-and-white 8 x 10s are filed nicely. Who knows, maybe there’s a shot or two up on a wall? If you ask, some docent or intern could well tell you that a dozen or more pictures were sent in by some old guy from Iowa who happened to take some random shots a half a century ago. “Aren’t they cool?” some docent might be saying, an old man maybe or an intern.  “I’d love to have been here then.”

I think that makes me an artifact.


 And that’s okay, but it doesn’t change old Heraclitus—“Ever-newer waters flow  on those who step into the same rivers.” That’s what the man said, at least one translation has it so. Of course, that old bald man was an honest-to-goodness philosopher.

Me? I’m thinking there has to be a sermon here in this ghost-town story somewhere, if I were a preacher.

But I’m not. I’m a photographer.






He came along in my life when I needed him, even though I didn't know I did. I wanted to write, but I knew little about it really. Some of my new friends, other grad students, told me that Ray Carver was coming to teach. They could barely contain themselves. "You don't know his work?" they said, as if I'd been off somewhere in foreign service.

I hightailed it to the bookstore and bought a couple of volumes of his short stories. He never wrote a novel.

On first reading, I didn't know what to make of him, truth be told. His stories had this angular sharpness that made me cringe, almost in fear, as if life could be cut us up into bloody pieces that refused burial. Reading a bunch of his stories together was like coming on a yard full of glass shards, unforgettable and alarming beauty. They were like nothing else I'd ever read.

That was 1980. Ray Carver was dry at the time, not the dead-and-gone drunk he was for so terribly long in his life. He was working on what most consider today his strongest stories, Cathedral, a collection that included the story "Cathedral," the story, he says somewhere, that changed his life, a story of hope that's in just about every anthology undergrads can buy these days.

He climbed Parnassus in the literary world, became a cult figure. Soon, there were thousands of Carvers doing what he did, or trying, writing something people began to call "dirty realism." Me too. Count me among the disciples. I could show you lean-and-mean stories I wrote back then, Hong Kong-grade ripoffs. Ray Carver, and his editor Gordon Lish, taught a generation of fiction writers how to be newly-minted Hemingways, sparse and tight and frightfully close to the bone.  

He liked me. And, if you're wondering, yes, there's considerable idolatry behind that statement. Consider it a confession. Raymond Carver liked me, liked my writing. The only way I can explain how much that meant to me back then is to say that it means as much to me today.

Yesterday's Writer's Almanac featured a Carver poem from a moment in his life that every Carver-ite recognizes, the moment Ray Carver discovered he was going to die from cancer that wasn't going away.  Here's the poem.

What the Doctor Said

He said it doesn't look good

he said it looks bad in fact real bad

he said I counted thirty-two of them on one lung before

I quit counting them

I said I'm glad I wouldn't want to know

about any more being there than that

Don't ask me what a poem is--I don't know. To me, this feels more like prose than poetry, but frankly I don't care because whatever it is communicates with a place in my soul few things do. There's more.

he said are you a religious man do you kneel down

in forest groves and let yourself ask for help

when you come to a waterfall

mist blowing against your face and arms

do you stop and ask for understanding at those moments

To say Raymond Carver wasn't a religious man would be shamefully judgmental and idiotic.  If "by your fruits you shall know them" is a rule of biblical thumb beyond nuance, some might judge he wasn't. He left a trail of brutal ugliness, after all. But most of us are religious in one way or another; some are, perhaps, just better at it than others. And then, of course, it's worth remembering this scripture too: not all who cry, "Lord, Lord. . ." are.

"Are you a religious man?" the doctor says. Carver replies with characteristic honesty.

I said not yet but I intend to start today

The doctor is a kind man. 

he said I'm real sorry he said

I wish I had some other kind of news to give you

I said Amen and he said something else

I didn't catch and not knowing what else to do

and not wanting him to have to repeat it

and me to have to fully digest it

I just looked at himfor a minute and he looked back

Ray Carver was not a big talker.  Trust me, he was not a stirring lecturer or a classroom stand-up comic. His ways were halting and what he said often seemed muffled. It was easy to miss some remarks. I never saw him drunk--who knows what he might have become with a quart of something running in him?  And, of course, this silent moment in the doctor's office holds the clear recognition of destiny.

He knows it. Listen.

it was then

I jumped up and shook hands with this man who'd just given me

Something no one else on earth had ever given me

I may have even thanked him habit being so strong.

The book that best documents what happened in Ray Carver's soul after this moment in the doctor's office is a book of poems he titled A New Path to the Waterfall

There's just too much in that title and yesterday's poem for me not to take heart. No one I know is God, although some presume themselves approximates. I don't know the state of Ray Carver's soul. I have no idea of what may have happened on his death bed.

But to me, at least, that Carver poem is a blessed offering I'm greatly thankful to have opened when it came in my inbox. It's gorgeously arrayed with hope.

And hope, in this world, is something I need. 

My guess is, I'm probably not alone.