My weekend in Iowa, Part I

So it was a busy weekend. It began with a visit to Cedar River Baptist Camp one last time, for the wedding of Mike Harty (who was a benevolent senior when I was a freewheeling freshman) and Carie von Hagen (whose first summer on staff at the camp was my first summer, too).

It was a beautiful wedding, and I couldn't be happier for the two of them. They both have hearts to serve God, and they're just fun to be around. Having met them when I did, it's amazing to see God bring them together.

The reception was held in the Dining Hall, which has always kind of been the social center of the camp for these many years, at least in my opinion. With lots of things happening in other places (tabernacle, playing field, mud hike, etc.), the dining hall is where a lot of my connections with people happened.

When I was on summer staff, it was where Bro. Dave Smith poured out his heart to us every morning in devotions. It was where, when there was a problem among us guys, Bro. Dave would confront us. We ate there together, fed campers there...

So it was really cool to see the dining hall filled with people one last time, eating, sharing, filling to the high ceilings with an atmosphere of joy. I'm glad I was there for it.

And I got to see Bro. Dave, who is taking quite a bit of heat for his decision to do what God has led him to do. He seemed, in the middle of all the joy, a little weary. Even more so than one might expect in the time of transition.

So I have this sentiment for those who would criticize: get off his back, already. Let the man do what he believes God wants him to do. Stop sitting in your environments far, far away from any understanding of the actual issues and decision, badmouthing a man with whom you have no relationship warranting the credibility of your opinion.

Just stop it, already. Don't just stop the rhetoric: stop the attitude. Do you really think that kind of judgmental self-righteousness doesn't spill over into other expressions of leadership/life in Christ/etc.?

I'm just saying...it's disappointing, is all.

No thank you. No thank you very much.

It's been a while since I've posted. I've got some things running around in my head, and I've tried to work them out on paper a little, but nothing finished so far.

A possible opportunity to pastor a church has arisen, and I'm waiting for further word. I ask for your prayers.

That said, I now move to the subject of my post: my first crack at social commentary. Kind of.

- - - -

Let me begin by making the following background statements:

I was not alive when Elvis was. At least, I don't think so. If I look up the actual date of his death, it would probably be on the same page as other historical/background data that could alter my current point of view on the subject.

So, anyway, I am not familiar with Elvis Presley, the living person. Being a red-blooded American who made it out from under my rock, I am familiar with various aspects of Elvis, the performer: Elvis, the owner of outfits where the sequins outnumbered the thread count 30 to 1: Elvis, the legend and figurehead/center of worship/root cause for a sector of our GDP equal in size to that of several third-world countries.

Since I have grown up listening to Southern Gospel music, I am also vaguely familiar with the fact that the Stamps Quartet used to sing and record with Elvis sometimes. (Which just strikes me as...weird. I mean, if Bono stopped in the middle of a U2 concert and had Steve Green come on stage to do "Sing Praise To God Who Reigns Above," as The Edge stood still with his head bowed and contemplated, wouldn't that be just a little... weird? In my mind, same kind of thing.)

So, it was with this grasp of context that I spotted an ad for a concert that's happening in my town in a couple of weeks.

"He Touched Me", a tribute to Elvis. The Stamps, who traveled and recorded with Elvis from 1971-77 will perform Saturday August 20th in the Dome. Dave Stovall will appear as Elvis.

The pictures accompanying the ad included a small picture of the current version of the quartet, and a picture of the Elvis impersonator that stretched the entire height of the ad. At least three times as big as the picture of the entire quartet.

And not the 50's Elvis, either. No, sir. This is an impersonation - a central Illinois impersonation, no less (not exactly "Straight from the Mandalay Bay") - of the early 70's, big-sleeves, huge-sideburns, goofy-sunglasses Elvis. The incarnation of Elvis that pegs out my Cheeseometer.

And that's not even the best part:

For the low, low price of just $25, you, too, can be part of this...event.

Now, I've paid more than that for tickets, so don't get me wrong. But the average ticket price for a Southern Gospel group in this area is $10 or so. If there are several groups, maybe $15.

For $25, they should be advertising Elvis making an apperance from the hereafter. Himself.

All of this leads me to some questions:

- Can you spell "Stamps Quartet" without "s-e-l-l-o-u-t"?

- Do concert promoters expect any paying customers under the age of 72?

- No, seriously, do they?

- Could people who sing - and listen to - music that is supposed to articulate the journey of life in Christ stop hitching their bandwagon (perhaps "gravy train" is more appropriate here) to the first popular secular figure who shows any interest? What does it say about the sufficiency of our relationship to Christ when we do that?

Elvis has, indeed, left the building. In dragging him back in, perhaps the reflection of the glory of God is what's been forced to leave.

But I liked this pile of rocks

The call came last Wednesday morning. I was at my desk at work, minding my own business, when the phone rang.

It was my friend Doug. A pastor, he was with the teenagers of his church at camp. Cedar River Baptist Camp, in Letts, Iowa, to be exact.

"You ready for a shocker?" It wasn't a giddy tone of voice, the kind you'd use when you saw someone eat a grasshopper for the first time or something. This tone of voice was more serious.

"They're shutting down the camp. This is the last Senior (teen age) camp, they're doing Take the Challenge next week, and that's it."

A full five seconds passes before I respond. An icky feeling takes up residence in the pit of my stomach.

We talked for a few more minutes, then Doug had to go. As soon as I hung up, I picked the phone back up and called Kristy.

"We're going to camp tomorrow."

- - - -

Doug asked me once how long I'd been going to Cedar River Baptist Camp, and I couldn't even remember. After a little mental exercise, I settled on 16 years. Every summer.

I was a camper for several years. Camper of the Week once.

I worked on the summer staff for two summers, sandwiching my senior year of high school.

As Mr. Mike, I've taken the teens of my youth group there for several years. Seven or eight, at least.

And the years that I wasn't doing any of those things, I just showed up. This year was one of those years, for the first time in a while.

The camp has become, for me, a sacred place. To use the biblical parlance of Jacob at Bethel, this place has been my pile of rocks. Especially particular spots, places where I experienced God's presence in really intense ways, places where I saw God do things and change lives, places where I saw the direction of my life being tweaked by God. I have always loved to be there. The place challenges me, is a place where I almost instinctively take stock of where I am in my relationship with God.

Bro. Dave Smith, the director of the camp, is a personal friend of my family and of mine. I consider him a mentor, someone from whom I have learned a great deal. I love to be around him. Same with Mrs. Smith, and their adult children and spouses.

Not to mention that God has done some great things in the lives of my children in the faith during weeks of camp. Some have accepted Christ; many have grown and become more like Christ during their time there.

So when I heard that last Thursday was going to be the last Thursday evening service (always the highlight of a week camp at Cedar River), I knew I had to go.

- - - -

I made the trip in a borrowed convertible, which did nothing to dampen the coolness of making a three-hour trip on a beautiful day in a convertible. Pulling in and hearing teenagers say, "Hey, cool car!" took me back to...never. As it turns out, this was my first time to ride in a car cool enough to elicit audible comments.

Kristy rode with me. She wasn't sure she wanted to go, being pregnant and all, but when she heard I'd borrowed a convertible, she wanted to go.

Twenty minutes from camp, I stopped and picked up my friend to go with us. He has a lot of personal connection to the place, as well. And he'd taken a lot of flack for the directions in which God was taking his life and walk, some of it from people who were at camp, so I wanted him to come and be there with me. He doesn't need my vote of support or anything, but I thought I'd offer the chance, and he took me up on it, and I'm really glad he did. As it turns out, he'd never ridden in a convertible either, so the bonuses were flying on several levels.

So we pull into camp, and Kristy goes to find Doug's wife, and I'm hanging out with Doug and my friend. Pretty quickly, I establish that I need to go to the amphitheater. Doug wanted to come along, which I wasn't keen on initally, but I said okay, and it was cool.

The amphitheater is a place at the back of the camp property, a natural amphitheater-shaped piece of clearing in the middle of the forest next to the Cedar River. Back in the day, a long path was cleared, and several times a week, young men would traipse down the winding path to the clearing. There were benches there, and a pulpit. These were times that Bro. Dave would share with us his heart: to see us become men of God. Bro. Dave would have us yell across the river, seeing if we were loud enough to cause an echo.

Cedar River! Cedar River!

I will be a man of God!

We were always just loud enough.

So Doug and I are coming to the entrance of the path, and the first thing we notice is that there isn't really a path anymore. No one's gone this way in quite a while. So we pick our way through, along where I roughly remembered the path being, and we finally made it to the clearing.

And this is what we found.




It's grown up in weeds. Rain and various other forces of nature have washed away much of the ground that was there. The benches and pulpit are gone.

This pile of rocks, this most special of places...well, it wasn't the way I remembered it. At all.

And now I knew that I was going to be here for the last time. Because this would be the last time that a teen camp was conducted on this property, as Cedar River Baptist Camp.

All I could think was, "What the...?"

- - - -

I come from a spiritual lineage that, on the whole, prides itself on never changing. It kind of looks down its nose at change. It splits off, separates itself, distances itself from change. It places a positive moral value on things that are old-fashioned. It champions things that haven't changed. Songs, preaching styles, ministry methods, ministries themselves, you name it.

If the Lord never changes, as the fashions of men,
If He's always the same, why, He's old fashioned, then!

And for the whole time that I'd been coming to Cedar River, it had been championed by others - and itself - as a place that would never change. But here I was, looking at an overgrown clump of weeds that had been a sacred place, at a camp that was preparing to close its doors and reincarnate three states away.

And then it hit me:

It's all up for grabs.

See, God never changes. (As a side note, that makes Him timeless, not old-fashioned.) His Word, as an extension of Himself, never changes, either. But everything else does.

People? Check.
Places? Check.
Culture? Check.
Relationships? Double check.
Etc.? Check.

As I looked at that plot of ground, it hit me that it wasn't the same place it was, say fifteen years ago. But why would I expect it to be? I'm not the person I was before I started writing this, let alone fifteen years ago.

I was overtaken by this really intense idea:

I must hold on to God, and I must hold everything else pretty loosely.

God wants me to continue to be conformed to the image of His Son. That means I can't not change. And it would be wrong - it is wrong - for me to be so selfish that I would not want for a place, or another person, to continue on the journey that God has given to them.

Security comes, not from being able to return to sentimentally warm and fuzzy locales, but in the constant presence of The One Who Never Changes.

So right there, on the spot, I sang to Him.

I love you, Lord,
And I lift my voice
To worship You. Oh my soul, rejoice.
Take joy, my King,
In what You hear:
Let it be a sweet, sweet sound in Your ears.

And for one last time, the ground was holy.

I turned to face the river, and yelled across to catch the echo one last time. Part of me hopes I was the very last one.

Cedar River!

My heart full, I walked away, and never looked back.