Native Americans in Sedona express outrage over media portrayal of Sweat Lodge ceremonies

by Nina Rehfeld

SEDONA, AZ (October 28, 2009) - Three fatalities in an incompetently conducted “sweat lodge” held at Angel Valley Retreat Center three weeks ago have cast a spotlight on the spiritual industry in Sedona and the commercialization of native tradition.

While Yavapai County Sheriff Steve Waugh is leading a homicide  investigation against self-help guru James Arthur Ray, whose five-day “spiritual warrior” seminar was meant to culminate in the ceremony borrowed from native traditions, Native Americans in and around Sedona are expressing outrage at the defilement of their culture.

Arvol Looking Horse, the 19^th generation pipe keeper of the Lakota, Dakota and Nakota tribes, posted a concerned letter on his website, Manataka.org, that read in part:

"As Keeper of our Sacred White Buffalo Calf Pipe Bundle, I am concerned for the 2 deaths and illnesses of the many people that participated in a sweat lodge in Sedona, Arizona that brought our sacred rite under fire in the news. I would like to clarify that this lodge and many others, are not our ceremonial way of life, because of the way they are being conducted. My prayers go out for their families and loved ones for their loss.

Our ceremonies are about life and healing, from the time this ancient ceremonial rite was given to our people, never has death been a part of our inikag’a (life within) when conducted properly. Today the rite is interpreted as a sweat lodge, it is much more then that. So the term does not fit our real meaning of purification...[more]

In the spiritual industry, the sweat lodge is a popular staple.  But RJ Joseph, a  documentary filmmaker and Cree Indian from the Canadian province of Alberta who helped establish the Native American program at Enchantment Resort in Sedona over the past four years, warns, “Ninety percent of the lodge-keepers in town are snake-oil salesmen who commercialize a sacred place and sell the illusion of spirituality.” He describes the traditional sweat lodge as “a spiritual gift handed down through generations. It is a very sacred ceremony, and people do get healed when it is conducted properly by an elder who knows his medicine. But some new-age shamans think they can go to a couple and then run them themselves.”  

RJ Joseph (above), a documentary filmmaker and Cree Indian from the Canadian province of Alberta who helped establish the Native American program at Enchantment Resort in Sedona over the past four years, warns, “Ninety percent of the lodge-keepers in town are snake-oil salesmen who commercialize a sacred place and sell the illusion of spirituality.” photo by Nina Rehfeld

Rod Bearcloud Berry of the Ni´U´Kon´ska tribe in Oklahoma, says it takes years to learn about the sweat lodge. “Go to a couple hundred,” he says, “then maybe you will begin to understand what they are about. And then you will no longer want to conduct one, because it carries great responsibility.” Bearcloud is an artist who has been living in Sedona for the past 20 years.  He went to Angel Valley the day after the tragedy happened. “I had the feeling it was going to be just left and disappear. When I came the willows were still burning, and I asked if I could complete the circle and conduct a ceremony for the people involved.” There were many tears, he says, and people were hurting. 

Traditionally, he says, the Inipi, which stands for “womb of mother earth,” is a place of humility. “It is about the way of the earth and the way of spirit. It is not about personal gain or about withstanding the heat. This was completely upside-down from what was intended.” Bearcloud says he is bothered by the fact that many people in Sedona try to do these ceremonies as a job, to support themselves financially. “Those are all the wrong reasons. “

Reportedly, the participants in Mr. Rays seminar, which included fasting, breathing exercises and a solitary “vision quest”  in the desert, paid more than $9,500. Many in Sedona, says Juniper Campbell, who has worked as a spiritual trainer in Sedona for the past ten years, support themselves with work in the spiritual realm, because it is such a sought-after line of work here.  Healers, energy workers and spiritual guides in town routinely charge between $200 and $400 for sessions that last between one and two hours. “But although there are many people in this profession, some are just entrepreneurs who have had no qualified training.” Campbell thinks the reason people are willing to pay thousands of dollars even for the most hokey spiritual experiences is “because many have achieved all of their financial goals, and they define themselves by the money they made. But when the economic downturn hit, some suddenly felt empty inside, and now they are looking for meaning.”  They want a taste of what it is like to be spiritual, Campbell says, and because many don't know how else to gauge the quality of things than by the price tag, they are willing to pay a lot of money – even if that means risking their lives.

Survivors of Mr. Rays lodge reported that the more than sixty people inside the cramped, extremely hot lodge were encouraged by Ray to “play full on” and endure in order to successfully graduate the seminar, even after some had fainted or started to vomit. When participants lifted the edge of the plastic tarp covering the lodge to let some air in, Ray reportedly scolded them for committing a sacrilege.

Mario Black Wolf, a Mechica Apache and a tour guide in town who keeps a lodge on his property in Rimrock himself, says it does break the sacredness of the lodge to charge for it, but it is perfectly okay for people to leave if they need to get some air. “If a person does not feel right, of course they are allowed to leave the lodge,” he says.  “But to put a price tag on something that symbolizes the womb is called prostitution.” Whoever designed that lodge, he says, did it all wrong.

It was not the first time that a Sedona sweat lodge went wrong. There have been reports of several emergency calls to sweat lodges over the past years. And Madak Kadam, an engineer and artist in Sedona, says that during a sweat lodge ceremony in 2003 held by the Institute for Cultural Awareness, he suffered a heart attack. “I suddenly had these chest pains that made me roll on the floor, screaming. But instead of calling an ambulance, they were drumming over my head, telling me to accept the pain and go through it.” Kadam says he did not get to a hospital until two hours later, when an old lady offered him a ride. He says that although he confronted the organizers of the lodge about the incident, he has yet to receive an apology. 

“Some people confuse the levels of existence,” says Karen von Merveldt-Guevara (above), a German-born MD who works as a healer in Sedona, “but we live in a physical reality, and we have to respect the physical body.  photo by Nina Rehfeld	Rod Bearcloud Berry (above) of the Ni´U´Kon´ska tribe in Oklahoma, says it takes years to learn about the sweat lodge.

“Some people confuse the levels of existence,” says Karen von Merveldt-Guevara, a German-born MD who works as a healer in Sedona, “but we live in a physical reality, and we have to respect the physical body. You cannot twist reality to befit your willings and wantings. There are natural laws, and you cannot escape them.” 

For some people in the industry, the events have been a “wake-up call,” says Katherine Lash. She runs Sedona Spirit Quest where she puts together individual packages for people seeking spiritual restoration.  “We all have to ask ourselves what we know about the ceremonies we offer, what we charge and what state of health our customers are in. These ceremonies are very sacred and cannot be capitalized upon. ” She says if she does direct clients to sweat lodges, she does not charge for it out of respect for the native culture.

Yavapai county Sheriff Steve Waugh is working in conjunction with Native Americans  in the area to assess what is being offered in the spirituality business. But some natives oppose plans to form a traditional healing council presided over by native people who endorse authentic traditional healers and thus help visitors to tell them apart from self-proclaimed shamans. “This is a non-native way of doing things,” says Rod Bearcloud Berry. “I understand the intentions are good, but I believe this is not the answer. In the native way, and in the American Constitution, all people are guaranteed the path to spirit, and no one can decide that path for you.”  The tragic incident at Angel Valley, he says, has gone a long way to sort things out. “People who are capitalizing on this know who they are, and I believe they will back off.”