Revenge of Camp Stories: Friday, July 30.

Again with the doom-and-gloom in Rabbi's Meeting this morning about this post-modern generation and their lack of objectivity.  I finally speak up: I hear what you're saying, but I have a lot of faith in this generation as the future of the church.  They're going to get a lot of things wrong, but they're going to get a lot of things right, and I'm excited about that.

The naysayers are polite, but unrelenting in their disapproval of Christian kids these days: sure, they're very spiritual, but they're lacking in self-discipline and conviction and focus and... I forget what-all, but I've heard all this before from baby-boomer Christians, and I have very little patience with it.  There is always reason to despair.  There is always reason to hope.  And I am certain that these teachers' parents had similar rants about their children's generation.

Then Roger the Cowboy says, Well, I came to an objective decision about my faith when I was young, and then the spirituality came later.  But maybe these young people have to do things in a different order.  Maybe they have to get to where they're going on a different horse.  I don't know that horse, so it's hard for me to trust it, but it may get them there all the same.

I appreciate this, but as I move on to the Bible class I'm teaching, that unanswered question from last week writhes in my gut: Do I even belong here anymore?  Am I working at cross purposes with these people?  Or are we just presenting two sides of the same coin?

I do not hesitate to identify myself as a post-modern woman with a post-modern faith.  I believe it's possible for an action to be sinful for one person or situation, and yet to be completely innocuous for another.  I'm convinced it's a waste of effort to try and convince people that alcohol, cigarettes, and coarse language are to be avoided by everyone at all costs.  I believe it's far more important to be earnestly seeking God than it is to follow all the rules.  I believe that, as a means of encountering your environment and experiences, feelings are just as valid as objectivity and logic, and to omit one of those is as dangerous as the other.  I believe the Bible is a document that comes to us from a specific culture and period in history, and that fact has to be taken into account when applying it to our lives (and, more significantly, the lives of other people).  It seems to me that, if all your friends believe the same things you do, it's time to make some new friends.  I believe God is love, and that in Christ, we are free indeed.  And I believe in admitting I could be wrong about even the beliefs I hold most dear.  That doesn't mean I believe in them any less.

It feels good to write this out, but the question remains.  In the balance, it's clear to me that what is being done here is so much more beneficial than harmful.  But am I wasting my own energy working alongside people whose teachings so often make me grit my teeth?  And if I am more active in speaking up when I disagree, am I going to mess things up for everyone else?

It's raining now, so we have to scramble for indoor class locations.  For Bible we cram into the front room of the Nurse's Cabin, squished together on the cool concrete floor, and the physical closeness of the group feels cozy and appropriate for our last day together.  Another class bumps my World Travel class from the Lodge to a smaller venue.  While we're waiting outside to redirect everyone, there's a crunch and a chorus of shrieks from the Lodge's back porch, which hangs out over the hillside on some seriously sketchy-looking concrete pillars.  Cries of "The porch collapsed!" go out, though later we learn that only a single weak board gave, under the weight of a large group of people standing close together in prayer.

In World Travel I ask the students to talk briefly about a trip, real or imagined, that they might take, including some of the logistical details we've discussed through the week.  Most of them say the kinds of things I'm expecting to hear, speaking of planned mission trips, upcoming family vacations, the dream of a bicycle tour of Scotland.  The student from Mexico is last.  He says, Well, I've been a lot of places, and he lists them; he has in fact seen more of the US than I have.  But, he goes on, I can't leave the United States, because they won't let me back in.  I don't have those papers yet.  I make sympathetic noises; I'm sorry to have put him into a corner where he has to share this.  Well, I hope your papers come through for you soon, I say thoughtlessly, and then bite my tongue.  His expression says he's not holding his breath.  Even knowing all that I know about immigration, it's hard for me to wrap my mind around the idea that my country doesn't jump at the chance to have such a talented, intelligent, compassionate and responsible young man as a member of its citizenry.

The camp song (or "The Singin' News") is an annual favorite which I suspect was originally penned by Roger, with a chorus that's easy to join in and verses that sum up the highlights of the year's session.  The afternoon is mostly taken up by rehearsal with Roger on guitar and counselors Bethany and Lorraine on vocals (the really time-consuming part of this is getting them all in one place at the same time).  I offer them what I consider to be the finished product, and invite them to adjust it as they see fit.  We work on it a bit more after rehearsing, adding a line here and a twist there, and then we're ready to go.  We perform it that evening to a highly appreciative audience.  A sample verse for your entertainment:

We played Braveheart and Death Star
   and hid Snipes in the trees,
And kept Nurse Carol busy
   with all our injuries.
The skeeters were so bad this year
   they joined in all our games;
They carried off two campers,
   but we forget their names.

I don't reckon that'll happen again in months and months and months;
I don't reckon that'll happen again in months and months and months!

Devo happens immediately afterward, in the Great Hall, because there are so very, very many mosquitoes.  There's no campfire in here, sadly, but the cross is on the table again, this time with a cluster of candles at its... uh... crux?  (Geometrically speaking, it's not the center.)

Tonight, head teacher Shane actually asks us to speed up the songs: "You can fit in a few more that way," he suggests gently.  I fear I may have verbalized my response ("Finally!") a little too audibly, because nurse Carol, sitting behind me, strokes my ponytail and whispers "Sweetheart!" in a tone that I interpret as equal parts amused and reproachful.  But though I fear the request will have little effect, there's a huge difference in the tempo of the songs.  They are full of life and energy, and joining in is an unmitigated pleasure.

While I'm singing, I reflect again on the question that's been dogging me all day, and has popped up repeatedly through the session.  Do I belong here?  Should I come back?  Would I just be waiting until some conflict so dire that I walk away so angry I no longer even want to return?   I consider ruefully that if I'd made the time to discuss this with someone, maybe I'd have an answer by now.  Maybe.  But I was never clear enough in my dilemma to feel I could adequately explain it.

One more time, Shane gets up to give us the nightly injunction: "Consecrate yourselves, dedicate yourselves, prepare yourselves, for tomorrow the Lord is going to do some amazing things among us."  By this time the campers know it so well they can say it with him, but tonight it has a special meaning.  It's easy to expect (and be looking for) God to do amazing things at camp, because it's clear to us that he has; but tomorrow, we're all leaving.  We are consecrating and dedicating and preparing ourselves to return to our mundane, everyday lives, and we are expecting him to do amazing things there, in the places that it seems least likely.

Director Jeff speaks again, too, reminding us of the two greatest commandments, and saying that if we are faithful in following those, God will let us know about any other behaviors we need to be correcting (a message I deeply appreciate right now).  Then he calls forward all the graduating seniors, and announces from their ranks the winners of the camp's Mr. and Miss WCYC contest (a tradition abhorred by so many of the staff that every year I expect to hear it's been canceled).  The overheads dim to black, and Jeff lights two pillar candles, one for each of them, from the lights on the cross.  With those two candles they ignite camping candles in the hands of the other seniors, who pass the fire on to everyone else present.  As flame flickers from wick to wick, the darkened room fills with warm light, and with song.

All praises be 
to the King of Kings
And the Lord our God,
He is wonderful!

It is the prettiest of camp songs, a four-part chorus in intricate, jubilant polyphony.

Allelujah!
Salvation and glory,
honor and power:
He is wonderful!

And it is there, amid hands and voices and faces and flames lifted in worship, in a moment of intense emotion, that I find the answer I'm seeking:  I have given my Word into the hands of imperfect people, with the full knowledge that they, and you, are going to mess it up, yes, sometimes very badly.  But these are the flawed stones from which I have chosen to build my own house, the imperfect tools I'm using to construct my Kingdom, the Kingdom of Heaven. 

I must confess this sounds like a terrible idea to me.  It sounds messy and endlessly frustrating, and I don't see how it can possibly work.  But my approval is not required, and neither is my comprehension of the plan in its entirety.  What is required is my willingness to put myself into places where I can be useful.

Hallelujah, 
He is wonderful!

I'm pretty sure this is one of those places.