Holy Weeks
During my high school years, I was lucky enough to spend some time at a Bible camp in central Missouri volunteering. It was lucky because I learned a lot at that camp- other Christians can show you important differences in perspective, the joy of serving students, and the satisfaction of hard work in the sweltering humidity of summer in the Ozarks.
Looking back on those times, I see now how precious they were. It was something separate and set apart from all of the hustle and distraction of high school. For me, high school was about music, girls, and grades. Somehow, these few weeks were truly holy in a way I didn't even know at the time.
My first impression of the camp was that I was going to be lost in some place time had forgotten. The surrounding hills were populated with people who looked like those old photo's from Johnson's War on Poverty as he visited Appalachia. I thought outhouses were a thing of the past, until my grandparents navigated those twisting roads and the small wooden shacks peeked out between the verdant flanks of the hills. What had my cousins drug me to? Would I regret ever waking hour?
The camp occupies a few acres in the midst of a hollow. I can still see the Gasconade River winding its way along the edge of the property. Bright sunlight would pour into the opening of the pioneer cemetery which bordered the southern edge.
It turned out that the caretakers and constituents of the camp cared for it as a modern, well-apportioned facility. Manicured laws, generous common buildings, and sturdy cabins surrounded a neat chapel. The long cafeteria and staff dormitories rose above a pool smelling of bleach and summer. What a place!
There are many things stuck in my memory from this place, even though I only served a few different weeks over a couple of summers. There are two in particular I will share.
First, the way we celebrated in worship together on Sunday mornings. We worshiped in the round. I had never experienced this before, and it was ground breaking to me. We sang simple songs, accompanied on an acoustic guitar. There was no pretense, and the music filled the building, haunting me to this day. Equality in worship cannot be fabricated.
Second, the daily devotionals given by the volunteer staff every morning. Pictures of people get stuck in your mind. Sometimes for the good, sometimes for the bad. I will take one picture of my cousin to the grave with me. It's something I can never fully express, but seeing him worn out from giving himself to younger students, and sharing a simple devotion about Jesus will always stick with me (it was from Mark 8:24-25 if you are interested).
The naivety of faith produces much better results than the viciousness of scholastic competition or lavish pageantry. I long for the days of summer when I could have those types of conversations with my cousins again. It was the closest I ever felt to them. It was not long after we started growing apart. Who knows why? I might have changed, they certainly seemed to change to me.
It's easy to look back and see holiness in the set apart times like those weeks at camp. In some ways, I would love to go back there. However, I also know those kinds of impressions are gossamer and will never be replicated fully. Instead, as I reflect I want to look for the holiness in the regular things, the tired things.
Holy weeks were times to remember and to look forward. The holy weeks of our lives are often only remembered absent-minded or in strictures, fits, and gasps of regulated restraint.
Maybe we should return to our tiredness, brokenness, and our giving to other people to celebrate the holy weeks. Maybe I'm just naive in my faith. I'm o.k. with the possibility.
Looking back on those times, I see now how precious they were. It was something separate and set apart from all of the hustle and distraction of high school. For me, high school was about music, girls, and grades. Somehow, these few weeks were truly holy in a way I didn't even know at the time.
My first impression of the camp was that I was going to be lost in some place time had forgotten. The surrounding hills were populated with people who looked like those old photo's from Johnson's War on Poverty as he visited Appalachia. I thought outhouses were a thing of the past, until my grandparents navigated those twisting roads and the small wooden shacks peeked out between the verdant flanks of the hills. What had my cousins drug me to? Would I regret ever waking hour?
The camp occupies a few acres in the midst of a hollow. I can still see the Gasconade River winding its way along the edge of the property. Bright sunlight would pour into the opening of the pioneer cemetery which bordered the southern edge.
It turned out that the caretakers and constituents of the camp cared for it as a modern, well-apportioned facility. Manicured laws, generous common buildings, and sturdy cabins surrounded a neat chapel. The long cafeteria and staff dormitories rose above a pool smelling of bleach and summer. What a place!
There are many things stuck in my memory from this place, even though I only served a few different weeks over a couple of summers. There are two in particular I will share.
First, the way we celebrated in worship together on Sunday mornings. We worshiped in the round. I had never experienced this before, and it was ground breaking to me. We sang simple songs, accompanied on an acoustic guitar. There was no pretense, and the music filled the building, haunting me to this day. Equality in worship cannot be fabricated.
Second, the daily devotionals given by the volunteer staff every morning. Pictures of people get stuck in your mind. Sometimes for the good, sometimes for the bad. I will take one picture of my cousin to the grave with me. It's something I can never fully express, but seeing him worn out from giving himself to younger students, and sharing a simple devotion about Jesus will always stick with me (it was from Mark 8:24-25 if you are interested).
The naivety of faith produces much better results than the viciousness of scholastic competition or lavish pageantry. I long for the days of summer when I could have those types of conversations with my cousins again. It was the closest I ever felt to them. It was not long after we started growing apart. Who knows why? I might have changed, they certainly seemed to change to me.
It's easy to look back and see holiness in the set apart times like those weeks at camp. In some ways, I would love to go back there. However, I also know those kinds of impressions are gossamer and will never be replicated fully. Instead, as I reflect I want to look for the holiness in the regular things, the tired things.
Holy weeks were times to remember and to look forward. The holy weeks of our lives are often only remembered absent-minded or in strictures, fits, and gasps of regulated restraint.
Maybe we should return to our tiredness, brokenness, and our giving to other people to celebrate the holy weeks. Maybe I'm just naive in my faith. I'm o.k. with the possibility.
(A typical picture of the Gasconade River in Missouri, from another blog)
Comments
Post a Comment
Thanks for your comments. As soon as your comment has been screened and approved it will appear. Please remember that no hateful written speech, trolling, or advertising will be allowed.