June 24, 2001

Douglas S. Long

North Raleigh United Church

They say that all theology is autobiography. Whether that always is true or not, it certainly is for me this morning. I just returned yesterday from a week of summer camp. I haven't seen a newspaper for seven days, yet I know more about this world we're in than I could have imagined a week ago. I tell you honestly, I had no idea what I was getting into.

Let me back up. In the Southern Conference of the UCC, a summer camping program is offered for youth. (The program actually begins with children as young as the third grade and therefore there are a variety of themes and age appropriate offerings from mid-June through early August. The majority of them are offered at Johns River Valley Camps, literally down the mountain from Blowing Rock, …about 12 miles straight down a road that some of you would hesitate to drive your cars on (though in recent years it has been improved remarkably.)

One of the challenges revolves around leadership of these camps. Having no budget to hire professionals, the Conference depends upon the volunteer efforts of its clergy to staff the programs. Curly Stumb, who some of you have met, is a tireless, even legendary coordinator of the camp and its programming, and Curly hires a team of college students to assist the ministers (They are called the Summer Camp Assistance Team… SCAT for short.). Without these SCAT members, few ministers would step forth.

As it is, the number of clergy willing to offer themselves is dwindling and those who have accepted a slot year after year for a specific camp are becoming increasingly difficult to replace. As a Board member of Johns River, I have offered myself to Curly as a 'filler.' If Curly gets stuck and has no leadership for a week, he can give me a call… but only one per summer. Last year a minister needed a break from his slot and so Curly asked me to offer leadership for the Jr. High Recreation camp.

A different hole appeared this year. One of Curly's most popular leaders, who had been single-handedly running a week of camp for the past 16 years, was not going to return. This particular camp did not use the facilities of the main site at Johns River, but ate, slept, and did all their programming out of what is called the 'outpost' site… A-frames built halfway up the valley's walls, deep in the woods, far away from electricity and water.
Curly asked me to fill in.

Now, in truth, I didn't want to do this. ..not because I don't like the out of doors… I do… but primarily because I didn't want to follow the hugely popular minister who had led this camp for years. You see, the same youth enjoy it so much, they return year after year until they age out… and then the most rabid of them become SCAT members. The leaders of the camps have the opportunity to develop relationships that are almost irreplaceable in the lives of the youth. The week of summer camp becomes a focus all year long. …and this particular week, the Sr. High Outpost, was one of the two most talked about, most popular weeks in the entire programming. This week had disciples that came with it…. But the Master was missing.

I would have easily said 'no'… except for one thing: Jessica (my own daughter) was among its adherents. Yes, last summer four of our NRUC youth had attended this camp and a few would be returning this year and I knew that they, and others, would be sorely disappointed if the week had to be cancelled. Besides, I reasoned, it includes rock climbing and whitewater rafting and hiking to waterfalls… I can do this! I can let the SCAT organize the cooking over the wood fire. I can let the youth's energy feed the fun. All I have to do provide some spiritual content and a little leadership. I can do this! I said 'yes' to Curly.

It's a little like jumping off a high ledge into a pool of water… and wondering in mid-air what you've done. This past Sunday afternoon, about 2 p.m. I was somewhere between the ledge and the pool of water, doing some serious wondering.

I had arrived at Johns River an hour earlier, to find that Curly was still trying to decide which SCAT would stay at the main site with a Jr. High camp, and which would go with me to the outpost. Being that this was the opening week of the programming, and that the majority of the SCAT were new, I decided this was not a good omen. I received four SCAT… three new to the entire experience, and one who was legendary in her own right… a fundamentalist who, in the past, had often tried to 'save' the ministers of the camps she assisted.

I am not joking.

I had worked with Johelen last year, and we got along well, because I decided that her aggressive leadership among Jr. High youth was much more valuable than squabbling about her theological rigidity (Johelen could put the fear of God in the youth as fast as anyone I had ever worked with and as long as she reveled in that role, I used it to my advantage. I could play the soft, fun, and easy to get along with leader in comparison. It's not often I get to play that part with a bunch of youth. Still, I had little desire to juggle Johelen and her theology again. I had, in fact, had a conversation with Curly early on about this…. "I'll do outpost under one condition… I don't have Johelen for the week.") As the week drew closer and the availability of female adults dwindled, there was little choice left. I focused on Johelen's organizational skills, which were numerous.

The youth were due to arrive in about an hour and so I asked one of the SCAT, an eager-to-please fellow, to lead me up the hill and show me which A-frames would "house" the boys and which the girls. I figured I needed to know the basics. Before we left, Curly explained to me that there was a problem with the latrines. Two of the three had been hit and damaged by a falling tree. He suggested that we might be able to duct tape one of them back together. I told him I had a roll of duct tape and would be happy to check it out.

30 minutes later, when David, my SCAT helper, seemed to be momentarily confused in finding the way to the boys' A-frames, I realized that I might have not be able to depend on the SCAT for every nuance of the week. It was after all, their first week too.

I looked at the upper two latrines. There was a hemlock trunk with a circumference of at least eight feet smashed down on top of them. These were the latrines specifically positioned for the male campers at the outpost. There was another latrine closer to the girls A-frame that they used exclusively. I looked at the plastic and fiberglass structures smashed to pieces beneath the enormous tree, shook my head and never said another word the entire week about them. Nor did I ever hear a single word mentioned from the 14 males in attendance. I have no idea where they went to the bathroom… but some things are better left to themselves.

I continued my Sunday afternoon orientation. The A-frames themselves were… well… rustic. They had not been used for a year. …not much ventilation within them because their primary function of keeping water out would be compromised with added windows and so they were therefore very dark, even in the middle of the day. I could make out the slightly raised plywood boards (i.e., beds), which were covered with a moldy piece of inch thick foam rubber. Again, as we were the first camp of the summer season, spiders and their sticky webs were in every corner, crack and crevice.

I hurried down the hill now (it is a significant hill which, when rain falls, is dangerously steep.) …hurried down, despite the intense heat that already had produced enough sweat to soak my T-shirt and shorts, …hurried down the hill to greet the campers. The shortest path had seen no feet for months, and I was knee deep in stinging nettle before I realized it. I don't know if you've ever been knee deep in stinging nettle, but it is not an experience I recommend. I did not take that path again. The advantage however was that once I reached the clearing at the bottom and bent down to attend to my fire filled knees, I could more easily spot the seven ticks clambering their way quickly up to my torso.
…Did I mention that it was blazing hot?

I threw off my newfound attachments and hustled to the drop off shelter to begin greeting the youth and their parents. Though first impressions are inevitable, I tried not to pay too much attention to those I was forming. With the exception of the three youth I had brought with me, these campers were a mystery to me. I knew some vaguely from past contact, previous churches, previous camps even, but hadn't seen even these in years. I knew a few were coming from a UCC Children's Home, Nazareth Children's Home, outside Salisbury, NC (The UCC has two such institutions in NC by the way: Nazareth, and its better known counterpart, Elon Homes for Children.) Anyway… I knew that a handful of the kids were coming from Nazareth, and it was these that I was most curious about. I had been around teenagers in foster care before and knew from experience that the needs are, understandably, great.

First though, came Jet and his sister Lauren. Lauren had more makeup on, it seemed, than her 14-year-old frame could conceivably hold. Jet, on the other hand, looked at first appearance to be a 15-year-old poster boy of rebellion. …hair that reached half way to his waist. …a surly sort of expression devoid of any smile. His energetic, well dressed parents bounced back into their car almost as quickly as they had bounced out. "OK, you guys have a good week!" Lauren and Jet grunted a good bye, and the parents were off. "If ever there was a child forced to go to a camp," my first impression whispered loudly inside me, "here was Jet."

Then came Nazareth… a little village from the other world.

Three of the four Nazerites, to Curly's delight, were African Americans. For years he had been attempting to increase the minority enrollment at Johns River, but, for the most part, the rustic nature of the camp was not at all appealing to this population. Therefore, any face of color was a victory. I wondered though, as Tasha approached. From the very outset, I knew this 17-year-old and I were in for a special time.
"Good God a' mighty, "she introduced herself, "ain't better be no spiders here, 'cause if there is, Natasha's going home!"
"There aren't many spiders, " I replied, "because the mice eat them." (In truth, there was a healthy mouse population.)
"Mice!! What'chu talkin' about? Ain't better be no mice neither. How much longer up this hill we gotta go? I'm staying down here."
By that point a large group had assembled and I suggested they all escort Natasha, Akya, Davina and Christy to their A-frame… which was another steep 15 minutes up the mountainside.
I looked at Jessica, whose eyes were frozen in an "Oh my gosh" glaze.
Saturday seemed like a long way off.

By the evening we had settled around the campfire circle just outside the girl's cabins. Natasha stepped out on the small porch from her A-frame door.
"Ya'll," it was an angry announcement, "somethin' in here smiled at me and then it waved." We all glanced up her way.
"I ain't lying now… Itz furry."
["Great," I thought, "she's already spotted a mouse."] "It'll be alright Natasha," I tried to say in a comforting, nonchalant way. Another of the girls, Suzanne, turned about face from entering her cabin… "I've got a serious mouse thing," she whimpered.

My eager-to-please counselor went in and brought back his report.
"OK, here's the deal," he announced in a seriously calm voice. "There's a tiny bat in there. Nothing to be worried about. Just a little bat hanging from the ceiling."
I thought about Natasha's words. …"Something smiled at me and then it waved"… I could visualize the sleepy bat opening its mouth and stretching its wing.
" Iain' goin' back in there," she declared.
I promised we'd deal with the bat after the evening devotions.

A couple of hours later I was in the rafters of the A-frame flushing out what appeared to be an increasingly angry bat …flashlights directing me seven feet off the floor, dancing on the two by fours, armed with a stick and a trash bag. The lights followed the erratic bat, back and forth, in unison, leaving me to dangle in the darkness more than once. Eventually the bat made an exit.

Natasha, Davina, Akya and I had a little talk.
"If you happen to see a spider," I mentioned (….happened to see?!! You couldn't open your eyes and not see something crawling…) "If you happen to see a spider, just think of it as your friend."
"If it's got 8 legs, it ain't no friend of Natasha."
They were so entertaining it was difficult to separate bluff from true fear.
Akya chimed in… "I really don't care about spiders. But I sure don't want to see a snake this week."
I crossed my fingers.

It was Sunday night and at 1:00 a.m. as I got up to turn off the lantern, I pulled the eighth tick of the day from my leg. I had no idea what I was getting into.

The next morning I glanced down into the cooking shelter to see five youth dancing around the flaming bacon. That is not the name of a recipe… 'flaming bacon.' That is what I saw… a griddle full of bacon with 2 feet of flames on top of it. I thought about going down to offer help, but decided they could handle it. The bacon turned out a little crisp, but when you're in the woods with nothing else to eat, it works just fine.

That day was designated as the hiking day. Since Curly knew the area best, he volunteered to lead. I have never been on a hike with Curly during which someone did not end up in tears. This hike did not disappoint me, as I brought up the rear and collected backpacks from three weary, tearful campers. Long hike, long day, long week ahead.

I wish that it had been someone other than Akya who walked into the A-frame that night to find the rat snake curled up beside Davina's pillow. For those who are appreciative, it was a beautiful snake …healthy, with a bright black sheen, and about four and half or five feet long. For Akya, however, it was devastating. I saw her first in Natasha's arms, sitting at the fire circle sobbing. About eight of the youth were crowded around in the afflicted A-Frame, flashlights pointing to the curled intruder. We were lucky enough to be able to catch it before it slipped under a bed (Brinkley actually grabbed it by the tail, Crocodile Hunter style, while I kept it from swinging back towards him… no small capture considering it too was done by the assistance of flailing flash lights.)
… but there was no comforting Akya… and Natasha was just plain mad.
"Where's the phone, Doug? Natasha's going home."

I asked Akya, who was quickly becoming my friend, to shoot straight with me. "What did they tell you at the Home before you came here this week?"
"They didn't tell us nothin'! They just said we were going to a Christian camp for a week and put us in the van."

The next morning, try as I might, I could not get Natasha in the car to leave for the rock climbing. "I'm gonna call Nazareth, and sit on this porch, and wait till they come…. And dat's dat, Doug. …and if that don't work, I'm gonna find somebody's keys and take care of it myself!"

My leadership skills were being tested. I had 25 youth in cars, already late to meet a guide an hour and a half away at Table Rock. Somehow we had coaxed Akya and Davina in the van already but we had lost almost an hour in the process. The only way I would be able to get Natasha in the car was to forcibly pick her kicking and screaming body up and push it into the vehicle. That was an option I was not willing to pursue. I looked at Johelen who was going to be staying behind… "Mama Jo (that had become her affectionate nick name… sometimes Jo Mama) "Mama Jo," I said, "she's yours. Thank you."
I affectionately rubbed Natasha's dew ragged head (sp?) (it was affectionately… and she seemed to accept it as such) and jumped in to drive the van.

After a day with Mama Jo, we didn't hear another peep about going home early. More than once I truthfully confessed to Johelen that she was a gift to me that week.

That night, sitting around the campfire, Natasha whispered to me. "How 'bout one of our songs." "OK," I said… "name one."
"How 'bout 'Jesus is my homey and we be kicking it all the time?'"
"Umm, Natasha," I pleaded, " just for the benefit of this ignorant white boy, could you translate that for me?"
"Doug," she replied in a tone of exasperation mixed with pity, and with an unexpectedly crisp tone devoid of any Southern or ethnic dialect, "it means Jesus is my friend and we spend quality time together."

-Thursday night Johelen shared her story with the group. Over the past year, the counselor with all the answers had turned into the counselor with nothing but questions.

-Lauren, Jet's sister, lost her make up.
-And Jet, …well he was an expert in the woods who kept a fire going for us constantly, even through the thunderstorms… and did I mention that he was a 15 year old who was on his way to MIT with a scholarship in computer sciences?

I was walking up yet another hill with Christy, the only Caucasian that came from Nazareth on Wednesday. She had a bad knee from a car accident and we were lagging behind the group as they wandered toward a waterfall with an inviting swimming hole 45 minutes from the dirt road we had parked on. Christy blurted out of nowhere.
"I've got scars on my arms from when my granddaddy put a cigar on me."
"Christy,' I offered, "was it an accident?"
"No."
"I'm sorry," I replied.
"That's OK… It's cool."

It wasn't cool of course, nor was it cool when we walked into a gas station and the locals looked at our three African American friends as if they were from Mars, …nor was it cool when the youth occasionally blew up with each other because some couldn't live with conflict for more than a minute or two at a time, while others knew conflict as their only way of life in almost every waking moment.

At points during the week I read to them from Henri Nouwen's "The Inner Voice of Love."
This selection is entitled: 'Let Your Lion Lie Down with your Lamb'

There is within you a lamb and a lion. Spiritual maturity is the ability to let lamb and lion
lie down together. Your lion is your adult, aggressive self. It is your initiative-taking,
and decision-making self. But there is also your fearful, vulnerable lamb, the part of you
that needs affection, support, affirmation, and nurturing.
When you heed only your lion, you will find yourself overextended and exhausted. When
you take notice only of your lamb, you will easily become a victim of your need for
other people's attention. The art of spiritual living is to fully claim both your lion
and your lamb. Then you can act assertively without denying your own needs. And you can
ask for affection and care without betraying your talent to offer leadership….
The kingdom of peace that peace that Jesus came to establish begins when your l
ion and your lamb can freely a d fearlessly lie down together.

By week's end, which was yesterday morning, we had really just begun to let our lambs out to play. Friday night, Natasha and Akya and Davina had taught the youth how to dance… and they were eager to teach me as well… 'The Percolator,' I think it was…
I had been otherwise occupied, dew rag on my head, sitting at the campfire with Mama Jo, talking about different ways of seeing Jesus… talking about God, who cannot be completely pinned down.

I wish we all had another week together, but I know the probability of that is as likely as not finding a spider in an A-frame.

Life, folks, I learned yet again, is an incredible gift… every day, every hour, every moment…
as was this past week for me. I had no idea what I was getting into.
Thanks be to God.    Amen.

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