“So today, we’re going to discuss the challenges of having a camper who isn’t Christian,” the lead counselor said, circling the room where I joined thirty other teenagers, all crowded around a large foldout table for our daily staff training session. “It doesn’t usually happen, but sometimes—”
“Campers who aren’t Christian?” said a fellow counselor-in-training (CIT) across the room, her pitch rising. “If you’re not Christian, why would you come to Camp Peppermill?”
Lots of murmurs, chuckles of agreement and at least one secret: Though my t-shirt spelled out the same Proverbs verse as everyone else’s, I wasn’t one of them. A Christian, that is, even though I was charged with leading dozens of middle schoolers to see His light from air-conditioned cabins in the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Growing up in North Carolina, I attended a school filled with Baptists, where Fellowship of Christian Athletes and Young Republicans were the most popular student clubs. Through the JCC, I knew all of the other Jews in a three-town radius, and their parents shipped them to a Jewish summer camp in Georgia. But to my parents, that camp was too far away, and its programming too long.
So, Jesus Camp it was. For the first month of summer, my sister and I swam for the J-rays, a portmanteau of “JCC” and “stingrays.” And then we drove through winding mountain roads to Camp Peppermill, where blonde teenage counselors beamed and waved at each car that inched toward the gravel road entrance.
For five years as a camper, I tie-dyed t-shirts (though my purple and yellow combination never worked out), I made friendship bracelets (though I never had many friends to give them to) and I learned how to shoot three kinds of guns (under the supervision of Christian teenagers). Days began with flag raising and prayer, and on Sundays, we gathered in the newly-constructed outdoor chapel, where a 30-foot wooden cross cut through the camp’s best view of the hazy, blue-gray mountains.
I mostly tuned out our nightly prayer circles, chuckling at my counselor’s opening line of “Sup Jesus?” or “Hey God.” I couldn’t help but think, Do you really speak to the esteemed higher power in text lingo? How does God respond — “Lol nice to hear from you?”
Somehow, I didn’t think about prayer circles and Sunday services when I applied for the counselor-in-training position. All my camp friends were doing it. It was simply the next thing to do.
The app technically didn’t ask if I was a Christian, just whether or not I embodied Christian values. I wrote about generally trying to be a good person, then googled “Jesus’s best traits” to be safe. I viewed the “faith” portion of the application as a fun writing challenge: Which Christian values do you exemplify? We take spirituality very seriously at Camp Peppermill. Why do you think the Christian emphasis is such an important part of camp life? I paraphrased the camp’s mission statement to answer the Christian emphasis question. Boom. Accepted.
Of course, the week before camp, I woke up in a cold sweat, realizing what I’d done. “Crap, I have to do Jesus stuff. Crap, I know nothing.” I drove to Barnes & Noble, bypassing the familiar Young Adult section for the Religion section, where I found an annotated Teen Study Bible. Maybe the “Teen Real Talk” notes could help — there was plenty of highlighting around Leviticus, with a warning to avoid “the homosexual lifestyle.” Pass. I took my own notes instead, putting sticky notes on any potentially relevant, potentially inoffensive passage.
I really thought I could blend in at Christian camp. I really did. At school, my last name — Zuckerman — automatically marked me as a Jew, as the Other, because it was on every attendance list and assignment I turned in. But at camp, as I hummed the worship songs and bowed my head in prayer like everyone else, I was just Caroline.
When I became a CIT, my campers loved my prayer circles, which focused on bullying and body image, with the requisite “Dear God” (not “Sup God”) and a relevant verse thrown in for good measure. With every hug I received after my prayer circles, I thought I was blending, and I thought it was okay, because even though my religious language came from mere obligation, my life lessons came from a place of sincerity.
But with the laughter about non-Christian campers, I knew I wasn’t blending, and that it wasn’t okay. I knew it again when I couldn’t sing a popular camp ditty, which featured the hook — “I am a C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N! A Christian!” I could hum lyrics to songs about God or Jesus, but I couldn’t say, “I am a Christian.” I couldn’t spell it out, shouting out each letter, as I beamed and proclaimed my faith like everyone around me. So I clapped weakly as color crept into my face, hoping that my peers were too absorbed in their own salvation to notice the absence of mine.
I’m not sure if they noticed that I wasn’t Christian, but they noticed something. During my final evaluation, the lead counselor informed me that I should really smile more. “People say you look unhappy walking around,” she said. She then moved through a list of personal attributes, scored on a scale of one through ten. “You were a good role model, but you didn’t stand out,” she said. She’d circled “five.” Average.
That turned out to be the most generous comment I received. I was too quiet, too insecure, irresponsible — apparently I’d worn open-toed shoes to supervise climbing one time. But I think it was more than that. I didn’t look or sound like what they imagined a good, Christian counselor to be. I wasn’t the upbeat Southerner with rounded, soft features, even though I tried to be, squealing “Come on, it’s the Biebs!” when pulling shy campers up to dance to “Baby,” one of five songs approved for that summer’s G-rated playlist. Even though I too would have been the shy camper, rocking slowly in my Crazy Creek chair, wishing we were listening to Radiohead instead.
At the end of my evaluation, the lead counselor told me I need not apply next year. Like a scene from a movie, I walked out of the cabin into a summer storm, letting the heavy rains wash away my tears and thunder drown out my sobs. In a sort of reverse baptism, I realized that no matter how many prayer circles I led or smiles I forced, I would still be the Other at Jesus Camp, even if no one knew my last name. Though I had dark curly hair and angular features, I blended in just enough that my peers couldn’t fully articulate my difference, although they depended on it — the Jewishness inside me, constructed by those outside me — to constitute their own white gentile femininity.
The next summer, I found myself back at the JCC, preparing kosher snack bar food to satisfy even the strictest Orthodox community members. Just kidding, not everyone was satisfied. I hadn’t been “peppy enough for Peppermill,” but my disgruntled patrons weren’t, either. And that was more than okay.
Editor’s note: The true name of Camp Peppermill has been changed in this essay.
Welcome to Hey Alma’s 2024 Camp Week! We’re celebrating the unique experience that is Jewish summer camp. Check back in all week long for personal essays, pop culture moments and great memes that encapsulate Jewish summer camp.
