Reconciling the Faith ~ My Healing Journey with Ancestors & Christianity
My ancestors, like many others, have for centuries, practiced the religion of the Empire that oppressed them. Catholicism.
To get the proper picture, I am not Latina. I am not indigenous. I am German. More specifically German-American. Historically a group that has been on the side of hyper-religious, oppressive empires.
But if you stay with me, allow me to paint you a picture that might seem more familiar than you think:
The year in the Roman Empire, is 14 AD. You are an indigenous Germanic person, from the Marsi tribe. 5 years earlier, your people were part of a coalition to fight back against the Romans, who are hell-bent on your submission. But you are a proud Marsian, and while your people frequently squabble with nearby tribes, you can all collectively agree that the Empire will never make you bend the knee.
Around the bonfire, the warriors of your tribe who survived the battles against Germanicus recalled tales of Roman brutality. The stories highlighted by the heroism of the fallen, and the unwavering spirit of the tribe. The veterans tell tales of how they felt the power of your gods beside them; gods who could strike down entire armies with a swing of their blessed weapon. Considering your tribe's victory, it seemed true that the gods were with them. You could feel it in your bones, as the festival to your goddess, Tamfana, raged on.
The celebration of Tamfana was full of joy, laughter, dance, stories, music, food, and most of all, drink. As the embers of the bonfire burned low, folks began to head back to their homes. Children needed to be tucked in, and adults needed to sleep off the feeling of drunken merriment. You decide, along with a few others, to sleep outside. The sky was clear, the air was still, and the feeling of comfort was too nice to end by getting up from your spot on the ground. You looked up at the diamond-dotted sky, and recalled your favorite tale about them before falling asleep.
You wake up to the sound of screams: the high pitched screams of terror, and the low rumble screams of an invading army. You scramble to your feet, hopelessly searching for any type of weapon, but the chaos about you is too late to resist. By the time you even consider rushing to the weapons stash, the glinting gold of a thousand legionnaires is already upon you. There is no time to muster the courage of a proud Marsian, and there is no hope to glean with the ghastly shine of tufted helmets and Roman steel. All that's left is a marsh of blood and bodies, where the faces belong to those of every sex and every age.
A Roman bastard named Tacitus will go on to record this event, in the unnerving lack of detail that one would record a fiscal day at a one-person business.
26 cohorts of auxiliaries.
50 Roman miles laid to waste in fire.
They'll mention how they ambushed you after your sacred festival. But they do not know your goddess; only how she was useful to slaughter you. They will record nothing of your gods, your festivals, your stories, your language, your traditions, your clothes. Nothing will remain, but a few notes on an official record, and in the memory of nearby cities named after you; long after the people there have forgotten who you even were.
But centuries later, the Empire will find a new God in a man not much unlike yourself and sell it back to the memory of your people. The tongue of that church is the one you heard before you died, along with countless others. The dogma will erase everything your people knew and more, till the point that 2,000 years shall pass, and what's left of your descendants will mourn at this loss.
That is the story of the people who once lived in the areas my ancestors came from. And it is the consequence that millions of people are dealing with. Where do we go when centuries of tradition, culture, knowledge, and wisdom, come from the same source that erased what we had before?
But my ancestors see it differently than I do. Many were not clear cut Catholics, and many were not secret strict pagans either. My people were folk healers, loom masters, weavers of threads of wool and fate. They told stories of the Wild Hunt, and invoked the name of Jesus to protect themselves from it. The gods didn't die, but returned to the land to steward and enliven it, just as spirits had existed before. What difference does it make if one is a Saint or a God? They hear your prayers all the same and they can answer it just as well. As for the harm that has been caused, that is where the spirits of our lineages can remind us of our medicine.
What they're asking for is not easy on us, but if I ever want that void to close, it must be done anyway. I swore to learn, to grow, to change, to adapt, to be patient, to work hard; and when you make promises in the spirit world...you're expected to keep them!
So while it is sometimes hard to reconcile with the history, pain, and anguish, part of my journey is learning to transmute it to power, abundance, and healing; not just for me, but for this whole world. Especially for others in the European diaspora who are navigating this loss.
