Jesus Camp

Written by Eva Erhardt

Illustration by: Jane Zyung

Jesus Camp spits itself out on a still, blue lake, settled among thick pine, and lazily floating boats. In the school year, it is cold and empty, grisled by North Georgia winter. But at the end of May, it thaws with the arrival of hundreds of school children, and accompanying counselors.

You are nine when your mother tells you you’ll be going to camp. You are the personification of the city, understood only by the roaring skyline. Camp will be good.

The first day speeds by quickly. There is no time to consider homesickness, any want of TV. This little neighborhood is run by teenage America. Children follow children blindly. To you, they seem older, brighter, everything figured out. They talk of sororities, State schools. Go Dawgs! Someone tells you. You agree, even if you don’t know what she’s saying.

Everyone gathers in a concrete auditorium after dinner. The walls are plastered in paper signs, advertising the themes for each cabin. Nothing makes sense. Everything is hilarious. A gorgeous boy with gorgeous hair plays computerized music from a far-up booth. Everyone moves in unison, like water.

It is less like a trinkle, or a flow, but a rushing stream, picking up pebbles and rocks and city children.

When your analogue watch nears ten, things start to slow down with hopping music being replaced by a warm guitar. You know Jesus. You know God. Your grandmother brought you to mass once, and cartoons filled in the rest. But this is something else. You are a child, sitting on a damp concrete ledge, and the children of Jesus Camp are revealing the secrets of the world. The comradery radiates off of your new friends, and it feels like the closest thing to heaven you can imagine.

On different days, you visit deep gorges and make-believe tourist towns. A coke and candy bar is guaranteed every Wednesday. When you hear rumors of dating counselors, it sounds like the most romantic thing in the world. It is a dream. It is a need.

This continues on for years. A week turns into weeks and weeks grow into rolling summers. In dense wood and humid evenings, you understand what you are told. Listen. Way up in the mountain tops, touching the blue skies, this is God as you know it. At school, you feel alone, but here, friends come easy. Boys try to hold your hand. Independence is on your tongue and it rhymes with a hymn.

Early teenage years are cruel, and awkward, but at the finish line, you are promised two things: high school, and an introduction into the counselor program. You will not be a real counselor for many years, but it is a taste of what you’ve idolized. At the first wave of interviews, you are asked if you’re a Christian. When you respond positively, it comes out metal, and hard. Your ‘of course’ is a step away from a choke.

You are Christian. You are. You like to sing songs about lions and oceans and sandy footprints. You feel his presence in the tanned lifeguards, sunning in front of you. You see him off of the zipping speed boats, the bikinis hanging outside of cabins. Down rivers, in buses, and off diving boards.

It’s a feeling in your heart, a true love, bright excitement. You have a passion for your camp — your friends. This spark of independence is what God is to you. You have faith in the feeling you have.

Every morning, you fall in love all over again. The sun dances over the glass water, and you make a point to stare at it, getting lost in its soft ripples. Someone talks about the lord, about Him (capital H). It echoes off the waterfront. When prayer is said, you go through the motions instead focusing on the soft hand you’re holding. When you let go, the boy next to you smiles.

He wears cut-off jeans and a tie-dye shirt. His toenails are gnarled in hippie sandals. A temporary tattoo peels off of his tight arm. You think about rubbing sunscreen into him, watching the tattoo pill off into small pieces. Beautiful boy. He is one of many, but in this light, he glows. You think of the prayer beads displayed in Chapel, rainbow and wooden, settled into plywood walls. With his soft sigh, you want to say your rosary to him. Shame doesn’t occur to you.

Jesus camp exists in this tandem, moving between the hotness of adolescence and the heavy weight of His watch. Everyone exists in paradox, leading children in prayer at sundown, then running into warm adventure when the moon hangs high. It doesn’t feel disgraceful or unholy. It is just the function we’ve been taught, and learned to love.

This is how you learn about love. You are the plain Christian girl, in the large Christian camp, but you are in the fast lane of experience. Passion is fleeting, and easily exchanged. Every day, you fall in love all over again. Not just with the thin, shining people you swim with, but also the linking feeling it brings you. When it’s time to have devotions, you feel the tugging of the red string between your heart and his. You are seventeen, and dumb, but this is the closest thing you’ll ever feel to heaven. Jesus camp.