This summer I was blessed to take a 3,000-mile healing journey. I traveled across plains and deserts to sit in prayer ceremonies with Indigenous spiritual leaders in four U.S. states. Friends encouraged me to praying for healing. I live with a chronic disease, multiple sclerosis, and struggle with fatigue and chronic pain.
I found the request to pray for healing challenging. I know my body was not designed to last forever. I accept that bodies break down. I pray for courage as I lead a national organization and raise my child while enduring symptoms of MS. I pray that I will grow in compassion and gain insight from the challenges a chronic disease presents.
But I had not prayed for healing in my body.
I thought, “Who am I to presume to know what is best?” In my Christian theology, I have been taught to be patient, to endure, to accept that God will shape what comes in my life.
But, at the invitation of an Episcopal priest who is a colleague and friend, Indigenous elders began to urge me to seek healing.
I found this irritating at first. For others to tell me how I should respond to my body felt like a personal critique. It is common to hear advice about which medical interventions I should pursue. Well-wishers send me emails about treatments and miracle cures. This felt similar. Why should I challenge my theology, my way of seeing the world, by engaging in ceremonial prayer for healing?
But I agreed to the journey because, as an Indigenous woman, I have been taught that instruction from elders should not be dismissed.
I was also pursuaded by two arguments.
The first is that healing is different from cure. Healing takes place at a spiritual level. Spiritual healing impacts the mind, the heart and the body. A cure assumes my body is a machine that needs to be fixed. Healing recognizes that I am a complex being and that healing for my spirit will be good for my whole person. It does not necessarily mean I will be cured.
The second argument is that prayer for healing is a call for reconciliation. Prayer for healing is multidirectional. The prayer is not just for my body but extends outward for all those around me and for all of creation. Conversely, healing in creation equates back to healing for me.
Colossians 1:15-20 says that in Jesus all things were created, all things hold together and all things are reconciled to God. Ceremonial prayer, from my point of view, is an opportunity to seek reconciliation with the Creator, not just for my personal forgiveness but for the setting-to-right of all of creation.
And so, I agreed to go on the journey. I traveled from South Dakota to Utah, Arizona and Colorado, sitting with communities and spiritual leaders at each stop, all praying corporately for healing. Christians from across the country prayed with us, as I informed them where I was and when we were praying.
I found myself with Indigenous communities across traditions and settings. People I had never met were sitting together, often for hours, praying with me and for me, using the languages and traditions spoken and practiced for many generations.
There were ceremonies I was sure would be too physically arduous but, to my surprise, I was able to manage. Gentle voices encouraged me. Hands extended to help.
Many times I was in tears as I heard prayers spoken in ancient languages, filled with love and solidarity.
While I work at times at great distances from my Indigenous kin, we are not separate. We are together in what the Apostle Paul calls “the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace” (Ephesians 4:3).
I returned from the two-week trip transformed. Without a doubt, I experienced healing. I feel less fatigue, less pain. I also feel more connected to communities across the country and to creation itself.
Like the leaders of Apache Stronghold moving across the country praying for Oak Flat accompanied by Indigenous and Christian communities from coast to coast (page 26), I engaged with blessed communities in praying for creation itself.
Best of all, I know I am not alone. It is a gift to be alive and a part of the web of life.
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