Ancient stories

Good morning, Friends! It’s good to see you all again!

I hope you all had a good time last Sunday. I enjoyed visiting Deep River Friends, and I know that Lia Scholl, the pastor from First Friends in Greensboro, enjoyed visiting here. I hope we can do that again some time.

This weekend is Columbus Day. In many states, including North Carolina, the name has been changed to Indigenous Peoples Day.

We used to say that Columbus discovered America, but of course the truth is that there were people already living here, for tens of thousands of years, before his ships ever reached here.

It’s easy for us to forget that the Native Americans are an important part of our country. Here in the U.S., there are more than 570 tribes which are recognized by the federal government. They have their own languages, their own customs and their own traditions. According to the census, there are roughly 5 million Native Americans in the United States.

One of the largest groups are the Navajo nation, which has more than 400,000 members. Another large group are the roughly 480,000 people of the Cherokee nation in Oklahoma. There are also16,000 members in the Eastern Band of the Cherokee right here in North Carolina.

Quakers have always been very serious about protecting Native American rights. The treaties made by William Penn with the Native Americans were among the few treaties which were never broken.

In Washington, the Quaker lobbying group, Friends Committee on National Legislation, lobbies Congress on behalf of Native Americans.

This is all very personal for me, because when my father’s family first came to America, they all would have starved to death, if it weren’t for the help they received from the Wampanoag people. Our national holiday of Thanksgiving is a memorial to that welcome.

Every year, I hang up ears of Native American corn on the doors, at home and here at the meetinghouse, as a reminder of the welcome we received and the debt we will always owe them for their generosity.

I don’t know if any of your have ever taken one of those DNA tests from Ancestry.com. I did that a few years ago, and it confirmed a story that my mother told us. Somewhere, generations back, there’s a small amount of Native American ancestry in our family. It’s too small for us to claim, but it’s there. But it’s a reminder, on both sides of my family, that these aren’t some other people. This is in my blood, the DNA and the gratitude, that I remember.

There’s also something important on my wife’s side of the family. Her father was an attorney who represented Native Americans in court.

By law and in the Constitution, Native Americans are full citizens of the United States, as well as members of their own nations. They have the same rights as all the rest of us, even though those rights have often been stolen or denied.

Her father was the attorney in a landmark case, when Mohawk people were all fired from their jobs in defense plants, because somebody said they were foreign citizens. They won that case, with my father-in-law’s help.

He also won a case, which established the right of the Mohawk people to cross freely into Canada and back to visit their relatives and their traditional lands on both sides of the border. They were here, before any of the borders were drawn on a map. To draw attention to their rights, he advised them to block traffic on the bridge to Canada. It worked, and all these years later, the Native Americans still march onto that bridge and stop traffic for a few moments, as a reminder.

One case he lost, after a long and bitter legal battle, was the struggle on behalf of the Seneca people, who didn’t want their land to be taken away for a dam project. The Kinzua Dam took away 10,000 acres of land and flooded nine Native American communities.

George Washington had signed the treaty in 1794, which was ratified by Congress, saying that “the United States will never claim the same, nor disturb the Seneka Nation … in the free use and enjoyment thereof: but it shall remain theirs. . .”

The Seneca people lost the land, in a fight that went all the way up to the Supreme Court. But they honored my father-in-law with a Seneca name, which is written on his grave stone.

So, all this is important to our family. And it needs to be important to everyone in this country. Native Americans are our neighbors. They’re an important part of everyone’s heritage, and they deserve respect from all of us.

Today I want to start by reading one of the Psalms of the Old Testament. We’ve been reading the Psalms together in our midweek Bible study, and this one is a favorite.

Many Native Americans are deeply religious people – in some ways, even more religious than the rest of us. Native American culture is always aware of the world around us – the sky, the trees, the rivers and streams. Native Americans are reverent people – they understand, deeply, how much we all depend on God, and they understand the relationship between all living things.

Everything in the world has something to teach us. Everything has a voice and something to say. There’s a natural balance to the world, and when that balance is destroyed, bad things happen. This is something we need to re-learn.

Anyway, Psalm 19 is one of the most truly Native American psalms, even though it was written in a different country and a different language.

The heavens keep telling the wonders of God,
and the skies declare what God has done.
Each day informs the following day; each night announces to the next.

They don’t speak a word, and there is never the sound of a voice.
Yet their message reaches all the earth, and it travels around the world.

In the heavens a tent is set up for the sun.
It rises like a bridegroom, and gets ready like a hero eager to run a race.
It travels all the way across the sky – nothing hides from its heat.

The Law of the Lord is perfect; it gives us new life.
His teachings last forever, and they give wisdom to ordinary people.

The Lord’s instruction is right; it makes our hearts glad.
His commands shine brightly, and give us light.
Worshiping the Lord is sacred; he will always be worshiped.

All his decisions are correct and fair.
They are worth more than the finest gold and are sweeter than honey from a honeycomb.

By your teachings, Lord, I am warned;
by obeying them, I am greatly rewarded.

None of us know our faults. Forgive me when I sin without knowing it.
Don’t let me do wrong on purpose, Lord, or let sin have control
over my life.
Then I will be innocent, and not guilty of some terrible fault.

Let my words and my thoughts be pleasing to you, Lord,
because you are my mighty rock and my protector.

Psalm 19 (Contemporary English Version)

This summer and fall, I’ve been reading some stories online. They’re written by a Native American writer from Rhode Island. He’s trying to share some of the traditional stories and culture, both for young Native American children and also for the rest of us.

Like many people, he has both an “anglo” name and a Native American name. His anglo name is John Gonzalez, and his Native American name is Kanipawit Maskwa, which means Standing Bear.

These stories are all short, but they’re interesting and they carry a lot of meaning. The first story is about what Native Americans call the Three Sisters – corn, beans and squash.

✠ ✠ ✠

Come sit close now. The fire is warm, and the night is listening. I want to tell you an old story. Not just any story — this one carries the memory of the land, the way our ancestors once lived in balance. A story that still grows every spring when we return to our gardens with prayers in our hearts and dirt under our fingernails. This is the story of the Three Sisters: Corn, Beans, and Squash.

A long time ago, when the world was still quiet and the rivers sang their songs without interruption, the Creator gave us three sisters to walk with us — not as people, but as plants. They came not with words, but with teachings. And if you listen close, you’ll still hear them.

Corn, the oldest, was tall and proud. She stood straight like a lodgepole, always watching, always steady. She reached for the sun and made space for the others. Corn reminds us of our responsibilities — to stand firm, to hold space, to offer stability when the winds of change come.

Beans, the second sister, she was the one who needed someone to lean on — and so she wrapped her arms around Corn. Not because she was weak, but because she understood connection.

She grew with Corn, climbing, twining, offering back the gift of nourishment to the soil. You see, Beans taught us about interdependence — that it’s okay to lean on others, and it’s sacred to give back more than you take.

And then there was Squash, the youngest. She was quiet and humble, growing low to the ground, spreading wide. Her broad leaves protected the earth, kept the moisture in, kept the weeds out.

Squash is the guardian — like our grandmothers who watch over the lodge, who heal with soft hands and fierce love. She reminds us that protection can look gentle, but it runs deep.

These sisters — they never grow alone. You plant one, you plant them all. Because they’re family. Because they need each other. Just like we do.

We plant them in a mound — not just as farmers, but as keepers of a covenant. We pray, we speak our gratitude, and we remember that our strength is not in how tall we stand, but how well we care for one another.

And so, my grandchildren, when you see the Three Sisters in the garden, know that you are looking at a sacred story. One of balance. One of kinship. One of survival through love, connection, and humility.

Even today, those sisters are still whispering to us — in every meal we share, in every planting we do, in every time we choose to walk together instead of alone.
We are not just growing food.
We are growing memory.
We are growing the old ways.
And those sisters — they’re still growing us.

✠ ✠ ✠

Here is another story. He calls it, “The River That Remembers.”

Long ago, in a valley of stone and sunlight, two nations were born beside the same river. They were kin, though time would make them forget. Their tongues carried the same rhythm, their prayers rose to the same sky, and the land between them was a garden of peace.

They were taught to remember the Creator in all things — the morning wind, the grain bending in the field, the stars whispering above their fires. When they broke bread, it was a holy thing. When they sang, the mountains listened.

But the winds of time grew strong. Travelers came from far away, and with them came new rulers, new laws, new names. The two nations were scattered and gathered again, broken and reborn, each carrying stories of loss and promise.

When the first people returned to their old home after many generations, they found others still there — people who had never left, who had kept the land alive through countless seasons. Both looked upon the same hills and said, “This is where our ancestors walked.”

They lit their fires side by side, but the smoke rose in opposite directions. Fear grew like thorns between them. Fences rose where songs once carried, and their children learned to name one another as strangers.

Still, when night fell, both knelt before the same sky. Their prayers — though spoken in different words — climbed the same wind, asking for the same thing: peace, belonging, remembrance.

One day, the elders say, the grandchildren of those two nations will meet beside the river again. They will not see borders, only reflection. They will speak softly, realizing that their words — though shaped differently — mean the same things: love, home, Creator, peace.

And when they remember, the river will sing again, and the land will exhale, for the earth never forgot that they were one family — branches of the same ancient tree.

We say: in the sky, the Creator still sees them as one. The land does not choose between its children. It only waits for them to remember that they belong to one another.

✠ ✠ ✠

Here is another story. It’s called, “The Little Drum That Would Not Stop.”

Long ago, in a village where the river curved like a sleeping snake, there was a small drum. It was not large, only the size of a child’s hands, but its heart was strong. The drum was made from a tree that had stood through many storms, and from an deer that had given itself with love.

One season, the world grew restless. Far away, tall towers fell. In another place, children fled from their school in fear. In the forest, the woods burned, sending smoke across the sky. Families wept for loved ones who did not return home.

The children of the village gathered around the little drum and wondered aloud, “What can we do when so many hard things happen?”
The elder invited them to listen.

The drum spoke in its own way: boom … boom … boom. Each sound was like the heartbeat of the people.

The elder said, “Every stone dropped in the water makes ripples. Some ripples carry love, some carry strength, and some carry gratitude. No one can stop every stone from falling. But each one of us can choose what ripples to send back.”

The children thought carefully. Then they decided: when they heard sadness, they would send kindness. When they saw fear, they would share courage. When they felt anger, they would offer patience.

With each act, the drum’s voice grew louder. Before long, people far away could feel its heartbeat in their own chests.

And so the children learned that even when the world feels heavy, the drum inside every being — the spirit — can keep beating. And when many drums beat together, they can change the sound of the whole world.

✠ ✠ ✠

One last story. This one is called, “The Moment That Lasts Forever.”

Long ago, there was a small boy named Wâpikwani, whose name meant little flower. He liked to run fast through the meadow, chase the clouds, and ask many questions.

One day, he came to sit beside his grandmother, who was watching the sun sink low in the sky. She sat so still, her eyes soft and warm like the evening light.

“Grandmother,” Wâpikwani asked, “what is forever?”

His grandmother smiled and patted the ground next to her. “Sit here, my little flower, and I will show you.”

They listened together. They heard the river talking to the stones. They felt the wind brush their cheeks. They smelled the sweet scent of the grass as it swayed.

“Do you feel that?” she whispered. “This is forever. It is not far away in the future or hidden in the past. It is here, right now. In your breath. In the songs of the birds. In the way the sun touches the water.”

Wâpikwani thought for a moment. “So forever is not just a long, long time?”

Grandmother shook her head gently. “Forever is a circle, and we are inside it. Every laugh you laugh, every hug you give, every step you take on this earth—it is part of that circle. If you are paying attention, you can feel forever in every heartbeat.”

The boy looked around. The world seemed brighter, and he felt something big and gentle holding him—like the whole sky had wrapped him in a blanket.

And from that day on, Wâpikwani tried to notice forever every time he played, every time he listened, every time he loved.

Because now he knew—forever wasn’t somewhere else. It was already here.