At Camp: Friendship, Innocence and a Moment's Peace

[The boys in this post were renamed and yes I know this is long]

Affray and dissension were inevitable. Trying to keep jr. high boys who are tremendously different in background, temperament and sense of humor, to name a few, from killing each other is a genuine task. When squabbling cropped up amongst my clan of boys I always second-guessed myself in how I was handling it and thought, "Gosh, how in the heck would someone else handle this? Should I let him say that? Am I being too lenient?" At the end of the week, though, all my boys went home with fully-attached limbs (at least to my knowledge) and intact egos, for better or worse.

As a cabin leader, you become pretty good, say, during mealtimes, at deterring astringent speech, being ever watchful of the easily-heated emotions of some of the boys. Some had short fuses. James' epistle talks of tongues being like fire. How is it that the short wick of some lad seemingly-attracts the blazing words of another? A spitfire. I, too, had to be careful not to add any flame of my own, since by day three laziness and scant patience can overwhelm.

Coteries, and other anti-shaloming, characterized my group dynamics from day one, up until late Friday night, the night before camp ended, the night God broke in. I want to tell the tale of a phenomena that took place on that Friday, something that I'll probably, hopefully, never forget, evidence, for me, that God had truly moved and worked among my jr. high boys.

If you've been keeping up with my other camp stories, you know of the absurd trouble I had with some campers. Some cabin leaders went for team spirit, decking their cabins, faces and anything else they could find with appropriate colors and team symbols. Or maybe they went for funny or cool so campers would like them. Ya... I didn't really do any of those things, at least with true cabin-leader zeal. All I was trying to do was keep my campers hidden, that I might "sneak" them under the radar of the directors and other overseers, so I didn't get in trouble for their cruel behavior, as if I had somehow turned them into little beasts. Ok, I did more than this, but I'm trying to paint a picture here. You get the idea.

So, Friday. I wish it hadn't taken all the way till Friday for my kids to get stirred up by God. But, alas, it did. Friday is better than not at all though.

My friend and fellow intern Ellen could tell you, I was baffled. Friday night session was specifically carved out to be a time to "commission" the kids to go out into their world, since it would be happening whether they wanted it to or not the next morning. It was going to be a night of praying that they would be bold and true and diligent, all those "commissioning" characteristics. But my kids, my crazy boys, made it something else indeed.

All the other sessions, Monday night, Tuesday night, Wednesday night, Thursday night (including all the day break-outs), with their hip songs and funny sermons, did absolutely nothing, as far as transformation, spiritual-seriousness and overall God-awareness was concerned. But their heart's soil mustn't have been rock-hard because something finally broke, allowing the Holy Spirit to fall just as the tears would from their eyes. I think God was slowing spinning seeds.

During that final ministry time I watched as some of my kids, the spiritually-acute ones, responded to the commissioning calls. They went forward. Awesome. I wasn't surprised. But then I watched as the "immovables," the rebels, got up and shuffled across the floor as they made their way up front. I concentrated on them, wanting to make sure they weren't goofing off or distracting. To the contrary, they got prayer. I watched, like an animal researcher taking in some profound and rare mystery, something beautiful, something abnormal. Tears fell. Hugs, no! Grasps exchanged. Grace received. Reconciliation offered. (these short sentences are the sub total of a colossal moment and, obviously, reveal my literary inability to capture the magnitude of that hour properly) Wow... I was blown away.

I would of had to answer "No.." No, I didn't see it (Isa 43:19). It seemed God had used the commissioning hour for unprecedented things. He does what he wants doesn't he? "I will be who I will be," he proclaimed to Moses all the years ago. He hasn't changed much.

My previous expectations floundered with reality.

More could be said, so much more, but I want to end with the most memorable part of that camp for me, after the commissioning night finished, in that in-between time after cabin time but before bed. For the camp as a whole, the night ended in a tangled fray, something not relevant here nor appropriate. What's important here is that three boys from my cabin who, up until that moment and for all I knew, hated each other, became friends. I couldn't tell you how it happened. It was truly batty.

A hundred yards from the cabin there was a massive--and I mean massive--tire swing. The three of them and I, after the others went inside the cabin, walked there. And what did we do? you ask.

We played...

We simply played.

Jordan climbed on top of the tire, sat down, straddled it and hugged the pole. He was terrified. It was funny. Marcus wiggled his way into the hallowed inside. His body bowed as he snuggly laid flat. And Bo hung about the thing, dangling then whipping his limbs wildly to scare Jordan. I started to push them, in that tire, attached to that huge pole connected to the moon, it seemed, that swung back and forth and back and forth. They started counting each time I pushed. Bo said, "Push us seventy times!" "Psh, your dreamin'," I thought.

For the first time all week, there was Friendship. Innocence. Peace. (now read those words again, slower) Those good things seemed tangible, like the Kingdom had actually come. I paused, listening for the trumpet, yet nothing, which reassured me that God answers Jesus' prayer still today in small and beautifully penetrating doses: "your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven" (Mat 6). God's Kingdom can be here now. And it was, then.

But, it pissed me off that I hadn't seen these kids like this before, as they should be, as kids, playing and goofing off, with no external worries, without the cussing and showing off, bullying and crude jokes, over-bearing adult supervising and other sabotagers. Kids grow up so damn fast in our world, where parents are stuck in adolescence and children act like adults. I want kids to be kids, stripped of peer and parental pressure and the broken circumstance. I want them to play. I want them to laugh that innocent laugh and I want them to grow up doing the same.

I ended up pushing those boys seventy times, and if it would of made that moment last forever, I would of never stopped. No way.

A Pentecostal Worldview

Relocating my books from the garage to my new room in my parent's house, and freeing them from their dank cardboard prison, enabled me to “visit” some old reads, a truly delightful experience. I unloaded them, ninety-three in all (plus two that don't belong to me), onto the shelves made for clothes in my closet. Books, obviously, are of higher significance than clothes. If I could wear them, I suppose I would.

One of the books I immediately set aside to peruse was Thinking in Tongues. My last post was a result of that perusing. Though, the more I scanned and read and reminisced, the more I wanted to share. There are many scrumptious layers to it so I concluded I would expand. Plus, when was the last time someone, and an academic at that, spruced up some neat thoughts on being pentecostal (could you not tell by the title?)? Exactly my point. So let us take advantage.

Last time (click here to read or simply read the preceding post) I put up the aspects to a pentecostal worldview as articulated by James Smith, professor, philosopher and author. Worldview, though, is a word thrown around a lot, is it not? What is it exactly?

“By referring to this as a worldview," Smith points out, "I don't mean to suggest that this is a system of doctrine (as the terms has sometimes been used); rather a worldview is a passional orientation that governs how one sees, inhabits, and engages the world.”

Hm, please continue.

With the help of James Olthuis' definition, “A worldview (or vision of life) is a framework or set of fundamental beliefs through which we view the world and our calling and future in it,” James expounds the “several elements of this account of worldview:

1. It is a framework of fundamental beliefs: a worldview provides the grid or framework through which we 'make sense' of our world-—the 'set of hinges' on which our thinking and doing turn.

2. It is a framework of fundamental beliefs: as fundamental, we could say that these beliefs are pretheoretical. They are often not beliefs that we consciously, rationally reflect upon. They are the 'control beliefs' that operate subterraneously. Thus, I would suggest that we think about a worldview operating at the level of imagination, not thinking.

3. It is a framework of fundamental beliefs: as 'ultimate beliefs,' worldviews are fundamentally religious in character, shaping the root commitments of individuals and ocmmunities. It is in this sense that Abraham Kuyper can describe all of life as religious in some fundamental sense, even for the naturalist atheist.

4. It provides a view of the world: as such, worldviews are comprehensive, giving us an account of how the big picture hangs together. In this way, they help us make sense of the totality of our experience, not just our 'religious' experience.

5. A worldview tells us something about our calling: how we understand our world then determines how we understand our roles in it. By determining our calling, worldviews shape our identity by constituting the telos of our being-in-the-world. It defines what matters.”

Professor Smith is a sport, painting for us a clear picture, drawing needed distinctions and pulling us in to gaze upon his lucid, scholarly flare. So there you have it folks, a pentecostal worldview.

What's a Pentecostal Anyway?

I would imagine, as it does for me, the word 'pentecostal' triggers a host of imagery, probably weird and, possibly, embarrassing. Recently I heard someone ask, "Can we just be pentecostal for a minute...?," using this question as motivation for praying voluminously, subtly reducing 'pentecostal' to charismatic dazzle.

Those of us born and brought into the Pentecostal tradition should know (or venture to know) what makes and doesn't make one pentecostal.

In the brilliantly titled Thinking in Tongues, Christian philosopher and author James Smith (visit his blog, Fors Clavigera, here) articulates what he understands as the five core aspects to a pentecostal worldview. Taken from the first chapter, and as for venturing goes, this may be a solid place to start.

The five bits to Smith's pentecostal worldview:

"1. A position of radical openness to God, and in particular, God doing something differently or new. In terms adopted from continental discourse, we might describe this as a fundamental openness to alterity or otherness. More traditionally, we might simply describe it as an openness to the continuing (and sometimes surprising) operations of the Spirit in church and world, particularly the continued ministry of the Spirit, including continuing revelation, prophecy, and the centrality of charismatic giftings in the ecclesial community.

2. An 'enchanted' theology of creation and culture that perceives the material creation as 'charged' with the presence of the Spirit, but also with other spirits (including demons and 'principalities and powers'), with entailed expectations regarding both miracles and spiritual warfare.

3. A nondualistic affirmation of embodiment and materiality expressed in an emphasis on physical healing (and perhaps also in gospels of 'prosperity').

4. Because of an emphasis on the role of experience, and in contrast to rationalistic evangelical theology, Pentecostal theology is rooted in an affective, narrative epistemology.

5. An eschatological orientation to mission and justice, both expressed in terms of empowerment, with a certain 'preferential option for the marginalized.'"

If this sparked something in you, pick up the book, as he expands each in detail. Or get ahold of me since I like sharing.

A History of Camp: Anyone?

I'm putting this up in faith. Just in case you've been longing for a brief historical overview of religious camps, here ya go.

Groups, churches and organizations have been running and conducting camps for decades now and during my two straight weeks of camp (high school then junior high), I became interested in the history. Why do we do these? Who started this stuff? I stumbled upon this article and thought maybe some nerd out there is interested too.

At Camp: What About His Chains?

"Their cry for rescue from slavery came up to God. And God heard their groaning" - Exodus 2:23-24

"to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound" - Isaiah 61:1

Right from the get-go I knew he was trouble. I walked into my cabin from being outside, where I was instructed to wait to properly greet my arriving campers and their concerned mothers and fathers. A whole week without them. What on earth would they do? Party? Regain sanity? Worry?

They, two boys who I thought were brothers (they were friends) and a mom and dad, had made their way to their cabin, my cabin, to drop off bags and apparently get ready to swim, though the lakefront hadn’t even opened. He--let’s just call him Bo--was climbing and trotting around the cabin as if he owned the joint, barely listening to stern instructions his mom was throwing at him. Something about behaving and remembering what happened last year. “Oh boy,” I thought. He shrugged off his mother’s speech with a simple nod. His dad stood there.

I managed to squeeze in an introduction between their conversation. My charisma quickly faded when Bo’s parents just looked at me as if to say, “Good luck, buddy. You’re goin’ need it! He’s in your hands now!” Their eyes smiled.

“Fudge,” I thought, “What have I got myself into?”

I wasn't sure what to make of what just happened. Was this kid high energy? Did he have trouble listening? Like ADD? Whatever the issue, to seem like I had it all together, I sucked in any worry or concern I wore on my face.

I noticed that Bo and his friend didn’t look at me, to my recollection, not even once. Why was that? They were busy searching their bags for swimming shorts. They changed and left.

A sweet first-camper impression...

It didn’t take long until I encountered their thick skin, willful rebelliousness, and dearth of sensitivity for anyone. Their conversations were negative, full of mean jokes and put-downs of other campers and mocking language about Christianity and spirituality. Heck, I was pleased when they limited their speech to gangs and drugs (as long as they weren't bullying anyone). Yet, eventually though, like all other teenage boys, they incorporated talk about girls too.

Additionally, it was as if they practiced being cold and unaffected by anything spiritual or Christian before they got to camp. "Ok, play the next track. It's a really inspiring sermon. Now, just sit there, unamused, with a blank stare on your face... Ya! Just like that, perfect!"

Things weren’t all bad though. The sound guy for jr. high camp was the youth pastor of these kids. And thankfully, he gave me insights into their lives, their contexts, which are not pretty. Their situations are thick. They swim in violence, drug addiction and a host of gross dysfunction most kids never dream of. I was appalled. No wonder their behavior.

My mind got to thinking about these kids one day and how they’ve been heavily influenced to be who they are. They are products, outcomes, offshoots of their culture, of their soil so to speak. I’m hesitant to use these words, but the point is they are who they are due to their highly-dysfunctional environment. And it's unfair. These kids were born into that garbage. They had no choice.

Now I’m obviously no professional on the idiosyncrasies of the sociological matters at stake here and I’m not saying that these kids are not responsible for their actions. But, they have been formed, fashioned and forged by situations, structures, politics, economics outside their control. Bottom line!

The same thing happened to me, and is still happening. I am here, as me, today, due to the "nurturing" that took place in my life. My past's dysfunction is a whisper compared to their screams. And why? How? Did I just get lucky?!...

(Taking a deep breath) I have strong feelings about this. And it all was sparked by a song.

During the musical worship, we sang a tune originally written by United Pursuit Band called "Break Every Chain." The chorus is simple enough:

There is power in the name of Jesus (x3)

To break every chain (x3)

We sang this over and over again. It became an anthem, because of its simplicity and repetition. But what does this mean? To break every chain? What chains? It is typical to hear talk about chains and slavery and bondage in Christian circles. These are metaphors employed to understand addiction and our overall relation to sin, right? This is biblical language is it not? We are addicted to bullying our peers, we are hooked on images of naked bodies, we are trapped in endless cycles of poor stewardship, cutting or drinking too much alcohol. Most are slaves. All have been. Some, by grace, toil and sweat, have been freed.

But, are there not other chains that keep us bound and imprisoned? Is it only the vicious habits of sin, due to our foolish choices, that we need liberation from? What about, say, a fallen economics? A sick empire? What about a shattered hierarchy? A corrupt government? What about a wounded relationship? A maddening society? What about the things that lay outside our control? What about the immorality we've been brought into without our consent, the sin we were born into? Is there any hope for redemption *there*? What about salvation? Liberation, is it too much to ask for in these places?

When the other kids are standing, passionately singing at the top of their lungs, “To break every chain, to break every chain, to break every chain,” what do I tell Bo and others like him, a kid whose dream would to be free from the humanly-unfit conditions of his everyday existence? What words are left for a kid like this, who’s world he crashed into by no counsel of his own? What about his chains? What about his chains?

At Camp: Expiation and the Sinned-Against

It was that room--hot and humid, dim and filled with restless teenagers laying hands on the bodies of friends, that they might be prayed for, healed and ministered to. They were ready for anything to happen, everything, whatever; open and expectant like good young pentecostals, waiting for God to move, to swirl around that humid air in some beautiful flame.

Every night we filled that space to sing songs of praise and worship, listen to the preacher’s message and minister to one another. This particular night was special. It was, according to the preacher, the night he was preparing for months. It was the night his heart beat for, the healing night.

I don’t think I was as excited for this night as he was. My eye didn’t have that glint. See, my kids, being a cabin leader, were not so spiritual acute, with eyes seeing and ears hearing and hearts understanding. Or perhaps they expressed it in ways I didn't recognize. Regardless, no amount of fervency on my part would have made much difference. All this to say, when it came to spiritual matters, my kids were more halcyon and reserved, and thus the climatic, and frenzied, night of healing seemed somewhat irrelevant.

As I had imagined, when the night climaxed, my cabin sat perfectly content in their crooked row of orange chairs amongst the surrounding movement, prayer, tears and, well, healing. Sensing the whole atmosphere was over their heads, I moved around wanting to join in on the action.

I floated to the back, like always, where I watched. Some kids laid their hands heavy on another, asking God for some specific thing, while others moved to gather and comfort a sister. Others swayed in the isles, eyes tightly shut, making their prayers known before God.

I wasn’t sure what to do, where to go, how to pray or anything else. I just stood and made myself available. A small group was praying near me. I overheard a kid ask a leader for prayer. He said to wait until that group was done so more could pray with him. I interjected. I could help pray. No need to wait.

Little did I know I was in the right place, just standing there not knowing what I was doing. I moved in close to the kid to find out his name and that which he wanted prayer for. I hadn't spoke with him before or after this night. He explained his situation.

There was something wrong with his spine. It was bad enough that kids at school knew about it and even made fun of him, though “making fun” would be an understatement because, as he opened up, he told me he tried taking his life. Clearly he was giving me the cold facts rid of the awful emotion he felt inside. His feelings, though, displayed unmistakably as his body folded inward. Shame. Embarrassment. Insecurity. I knew this was going to be no small prayer.

**A Note about the Painting--Read After**

[Painted by Emile Fraint, an 18th century frenchman, this piece is actually called L'Expiation (The Expiation). I know not if it was inspired by true events, but I see this as a pictorial parable with the man being led to his execution symbolizing the sin of one to another. This is a beautiful portrayal of expiation and the shalom God intends for the sinned-against.]

I pulled his cowering frame closer, consoling him.

In sermons and at church services, we often get an earful about us being sinners and needing forgiveness and God’s salvation through his Son’s perfect sacrifice. I’m not downplaying this at all--heaven’s no! But preachers and teachers alike often neglect another important aspect of Jesus’ cross and salvific work. Some have called it expiation. People sin. Yes, agree. But, people are also sinned against. No one sins in a vacuum. And Jesus’ cross not only offers us forgiveness for all the evil we have done, but it wipes away the sins of others, and dresses the wounds others have inflicted that bleed down and cry out.

This is what this kid needed, the boy now sobbing and trembling, wetting the front of my shirt with his tears from all the bullshit other kids had put him through. He needed Jesus’ expiation. He needed God to pull out the knives of words others spoke to him and wipe away his tears.

I told him what was true and what he needed to hear.

“What those kids did to you was wrong. What they said was not because of you, it was not your fault. They sinned against you and God. That was not ok and God is not pleased by their evil. He loves you and wants to heal you now.” He sobbed more.

In the course of consoling him, my heart snapped and I, too, broke down. I wept. It was as if every comforting sentence I spoke was an arrow in a bow, pulled back and released in an attempt to fight off intruding thoughts and memories.

My passion flared and voice grew as I cried to God to do what only he could do: heal, redeem, restore. We stood there awhile, his head leaning on my chest while his crying eyes continued to spill tears like a waterfall down my shirt. His tears were Christ's. His sufferings were never alone.

Eventually my eyes opened and I awoke to the others around us praying. They took over and my job was now done.

I loved the boys in my cabin, but I felt caged, wanting to do something great or profound. I wanted to be used! I wanted to feel like I was being used. Kind of stupid, I know. But God saw my heart and maybe it was him who pulled me to the back, to stand and watch, not knowing what to do, to perfectly set me up to pray for some kid.

I thought it was me, but maybe it was him.

At Camp: Having Your Girlfriend Stolen

Foursquare camps, and other big youth gatherings, usually make room in their schedules for at least one night where the boys and girls get split up, opening up space to talk about each gender's respective issues, whatever they may be; a time when boys can talk about boy stuff and girls can talk about girl stuff.

The first night of high school camp was such a night. The boys piled in Okerson, an old wooden dorm-style lodge where most of the dudes slept, and were encouraged to ask questions, questions about anything. Now we all know the anything doesn't actually mean anything. This is after all a religious camp, a Christian camp, where students come to learn about God and practice Christian life in a safe place. So, anything actually means anything pertaining to that, right? Anything within the bounds of religion.

But that's just it. These students started asking questions of every stripe, questions that, at first listen, didn't sound religious or Christian at all. I was blown away by the heap of questions dealing with ethical matters; the ole' what should I do? questions. I was impressed. Their questions showed me that they didn't view Christianity or their faith as a side dish, something that only complimented the main bulk of their life. They understood that faith informs even the trivial matters of one's existence. Perhaps they asked these questions because they were encouraged to. Ask anything. Though this may be true, I want to be optimistic and think that these students see their faith as central, as an important conversation partner in the public square.

During the course of the night there was one question--yes, one--that nestled itself neatly in my mind.

After each kid shouted out his question over and through the crowd, one of three staff members, or a combination of them, would promptly dish out a concise and hopefully biblically-informed answer. Most of the boys, afterwards, seem satisfied.

Halfway during the night, I made my way upstairs where you could look down on the students and stage area where the three staff guys were sitting. A voice from the left started asking a question about his girlfriend. He explained that her ex was trying to get back with her and that he had no regard for him and, well, that she was with him now. Immediately, I thought, "Why do you have a girlfriend? You're, what, fourteen?"

A bunch of the boys bursted out in a frenzied choir in response to the situation. The kid seems pretty mild-mannered and meek. So what kind of advice will they give?

Honestly, it was basic and typical. There was nothing substantially Christian about the answer, apart from it coming from a Christian person. I was malcontent. My brain fired up. What would Jesus have said? This was, for me at that time, a valid question. I immediately thought of Matthew chapter five.

Matthew recorded Jesus' words: "But I say to you, Do not resist the one who is evil. But if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if anyone would sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well. And if anyone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles. Give to the one who begs from you, and do not refuse the one who would borrow from you. 'You have heard that it was said, "You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy." But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you...'"

Hmm... do you smell where I'm going with this?

I wanted to speak up and interrupt the answer being given. "Nah, nah, nah, that's no good. Does anyone remember what Jesus taught? If someone punches your eye, offer the other, if someone steals your shirt, give him your coat and if a solider orders you to carry his crap for a mile, walk two. Make sure your enemy knows you love him. And if some chump wants your girl, why resist?"

I may or may not be exaggerating. The point is this kid is too young for a girlfriend. In other words, give her up, or she will. After all this is high school. Relationships don't last.

Having your girlfriend stolen? So what! Don't resist. In fact, go up to the guy and tell him he has your blessing!

Today A Quote: The Brothers Karamazov

[Anyone who knows me knows the difficulty I have reading--let alone enjoying--fiction. I've tried multiple times. One day, in my room at the Bartlows, wanting to take seriously the advice of multiple academic writers I respect to read fiction (the literary greats), I came across "The Brothers Karamazov" on the book shelf. Reluctently I picked it up, already frustrated because I knew I wasn't going to like it, and read the first page... and for some odd reason I continued to the next page, then the next, and the next. I may have found what I've been looking for.]

The elder Zosima, a beloved Russian monk, talking to Mr. Karamazov:

"A man who lies to himself, and believes his own lies, becomes unable to recognize truth, either in himself or in anyone else, and he ends up losing respect for himself as well as for others. When he has no respect for anyone, he can no longer love and, in order to divert himself, having no love in him, he yields to his impulses, indulges in the lowest forms of pleasure, and behaves in the end like an animal, in satisfying his vices. And it all comes from lying--lying to others and to yourself. A man who lies to himself, for instance, can take offense whenever he wishes, for there are times when it is rather pleasant to feel wronged--don't you agree? So a man may know very well that no one has offended him, and may invent an offense, lie just for the beauty of it, or exaggerate what someone said to create a situation, making a mountain out of a molehill. And although he is well aware of it himself, he nevertheless does feel offended because he enjoys doing so, derives great pleasure from it, and so he comes to feel real hostility toward the imaginary offender."