Church Camp
Bad Skits, Cry Night, and How White Evangelicalism Betrayed a Generation
By Cara Meredith
Broadleaf Books, 226 pages, $26.99
Between my freshman and sophomore years of college I worked at an evangelical, nondenominational summer camp in the South. Every night of each camp session had a theme. Monday was the Cowboy Hoedown, complete with hayride and “cow paddy” hamburgers, Tuesday was the Fishing Derby and fish fry, and Wednesday was the Carnival, featuring shaving-cream hairdos and a talentless talent show. But Thursday nights were the night everything hung on.
Thursday was Come-to-Jesus night. Once a week, after dinner, half of the female counselors would don robes, headscarves, and Birkenstock sandals, while most of the male counselors dressed up as Roman soldiers, including prop cat o’ nine tales and whips. One honored male counselor would wear a crown of thorns, and a loincloth over his swim trunks, fake blood streaking his back and sides.
Then, while counselor-Jesus dragged a large wooden cross up the aisle of the barn where the campers and remaining staff sat on the cold concrete floor, the camp director would share in explicit detail all the ways Jesus was mentally and physically tortured. The mourning women (counselors) following him would cry, while the Roman soldiers (counselors) snapped their whips and yelled insults. All the while, the praise band up front would play a very melancholy version of “Awesome God.”
This night was the whole point of camp. It was the point of all the games, all the devotionals, all the skits, and all the swimming and horseback riding. This was the night of reckoning for 200 campers, ages 8 to 16—the night they would come to Jesus. It’s what Cara Meredith refers to in her new book, Church Camp, as “cry night.” It’s the moment of culmination when all the shame and emotionality of this style of camp pays off for those who are keeping tally of souls saved, and who measure their success and raise their funds off the tears of the repentant.
“The truth is, it is easier to work with the cross than it is to work with the resurrection, for the cross is clearly more transactional,” Meredith writes. “Do this, get this. Believe this, receive this …. Instead of leaning into the power of God who pumps new life into dead things, we take the road most traveled.”
For those who did not grow up exposed to this wing of American Christian culture, cry nights might sound harsh, exploitive, and manipulative. Which they were. And, for those raised to see grace and mercy as commodities to be exchanged for allegiance to a certain understanding of God—one based in fear, behavior modification, and a distrust of anything outside the system—this kind of camp night felt normal, even expected, even right.
Church Camp lays out this reality and more. In this dense and worthy work, Meredith fills in a gap that books like Jesus and John Wayne left by telling the story of how white evangelical culture shaped the lives and hearts of young people by way of church camp. For anyone in camp ministry, Church Camp will most likely be equally frustrating (She should write about all the good things my camp is doing!) and convicting (Oh, yep, we still make that mistake). For those who grew up attending this style of summer camp, Meredith’s struggle between what she loved about church camp, as a camper and staff member, and the underlying issues will most likely feel familiar.
Through research and narrative—her story and the stories of others—Meredith shows how both denominational and for-profit Christian camps harnessed the allure of American individualism and sold it to kids and particularly teenagers. This a demographic is eager to both fit in and stand out simultaneously, as part of the faithful “Christian walk.” This message was as toxic as it was attractive, and as harmful as it was certain, a message Meredith believes continues to shape both the Church and our country today.
It has been 30 years since I sat through a cry night. Now, as an Episcopal convert, I am the camp director who talks to the kids sitting on the floor of the chapel, while band members noodle on guitars in the background. But instead of using shame and guilt to convince campers to follow Jesus, I try to speak words of the good news, of new life, of hope, of being beloved, of welcome for all. Words that convey resurrection and hope for the hurting. Words I hope somehow accompany whatever work the Holy Spirit is stirring in their hearts.
But as Meredith writes, it’s much harder to sell resurrection. It’s not as sexy. The resurrected life is both more mysterious and more daily. As she points out, the resurrected Jesus interacted in much smaller groups, doing very ordinary things, like cooking breakfast over a campfire, going for a hike up a mountain, and a walk with friends. That sounds like the very best parts of camp. They should remind us that ultimately church camp—a sacred place for transformation and connection with Christ—is not something we sell. It is something we share as a ministry of the Church.
Jerusalem Greer is the co-executive director and agrarian minister at Procter Center in the Diocese of Southern Ohio.
