Peace Intern

"Joe, why aren't you eating a S'more?"

“Joe, why aren’t you eating a S’more?”

Ahh, I’m glad you asked. Let’s chat.

S’mores an all American camping classic. If you didn’t eat s’mores by a campfire, did you even go camping?

At our summer camps, S’mores were served as a treat at least once during campfire. To some of you who aren’t familiar with the campfire tradition, it involves the youth sitting around the fire after dusk singing fun and silly songs, performing embarrassing skits and just generally enjoying each other’s company.

The campfire ritual is deeply spiritual and sacred to many of these camps. Time and time again I heard, “this is where I feel God!” I mean, after all, the campfire resembled church. There were people gathered in the name of God, there were songs song together, there was a common meal shared, and there was mutuality. One would think this is want church looks like!

I most certainly did not, in fact the whole campfire ritual was off-putting to me. Yes, it was a new ritual I was not used to, and it wasn’t the sitting around the campfire that I didn’t like.

What I wasn’t a fan of was the bizarre and unnoticed violent messages slipped into songs, skits, and yes even s’mores.

I noticed that the silly, fun songs were often violent and disturbing. I heard songs about little frogs dying, about moose dying, about slitting a rabbit’s neck, about going on a lion hunt, about scary Satan, about early morning birds getting their heads smashed in. To say the least, I was not a fan. I typically would remain sitting while songs like this were song…they were not fun or silly to me because they were advocating for an abuse of our power in connection to animals and other humans. The violence made me terribly sad and angry.

Then there were skits! And sometimes they were silly and fun, but how many times have you seen a camp skit where the punch line of the joke is at the expense of someone else’s humiliation? I saw skits were water was dumped on contestants, I saw skits that talked about throwing a person down a mountain, there were skits about stealing people’s clothes, about calling them suckers, about making them feel embarrassed or ashamed in front of a crowd. Several times I was called on to participate as this contestant and intentionally left in the dark.

(Thankfully I’m pretty camp savvy enough to anticipate the skits that were coming, I’ve only seen them a thousand times). I can’t explain to you the feeling, and since I have less shame than others, it didn’t affect me as I’m sure it would my other friends. Being laughed at is never a good or positive experience, because they aren’t laughing with you when you have been left out of the joke… they aren’t laughing with you when you are the only one getting drenched. They are laughing at your expense.

Lastly, there are the s’mores, a triparte treat of foods created at the expense of others. As a vegetarian, I abstain from eating foods created from the death of other animals annddddddd, believe it or not, marshmallows are made with dead animal parts. They have gelatin in them, the ingredient in jello and starburst and many other products that makes them fluffy and jiggly, gelatinous. Gelatin is made from the grinding up of left over animal parts, like bones, hooves, cartilage, skin, etc. So, I abstained from eating any s’mores with marshmallows.

So what’s wrong with chocolate and a graham cracker? Well, it depends on the brand of chocolate. I have decided to try as best I can to cut out products that profit from extremely poor worker conditions, like low wages, long hours or human rights violations. There is a specific company that is quite notorious for these types of horrific worker conditions, and without naming the specific brand, I am sure you can guess. Cheap chocolate comes at a steep price at someone else’s expense. The alternative would be fair trade chocolate, where you know workers earn fair wages.

And what is left? Just a graham cracker? I’m okay, I’d rather just not eat anything.

My abstention from songs and skits and s’mores might have offended many, but I didn’t care. They invited me into their sacred moments and spaces and I probably defiled them a little. Yet, I got to thinking, how many of them were even examining themselves closely enough to rethink these things?

How many churches have we seen go awry because they let messages or charismatic leaders led them down different paths? Without a healthy skepticism or questioning we just let the wind blow us any which way.

I think that this is how violent songs, shameful skits, and s’mores that kill animals and take dignity away from human beings, wind up into our more sacred rituals.

If we compare s’mores to communion (which at least one camp did), then we are sharing a meal together in Christ’s message. What was that message? I can assure it was not a message condoning violence or shame. And Jesus didn’t just pick any old elements for communion, and I’m positive he wouldn’t be eating marshmallows (they’re made of pork!).

What should we do? I think we need to self-examine and question our habitual practices. If we continue to allow the dignity of others to be mocked during our most sacred rituals, what does that mean our church stands for? Do we condone and endorse violence and shame?

“But Joe, if you ruin all our fun, what will we have left?”

“I don’t know, a graham cracker?”

Crossing Borders: My Week at Loch Leven

Diversity—a quality that many of our camps strive for, yearn for, dream about.

Tokenism—an unfortunate result of our desperate want to feel diverse.Unity—often confused with uniformity and conformity; being of one tribe.Tribalism—constructed borders that keep us “with our own;” Othering.

A crossroads—an intersection
a confluence
a state of being both, and
a place “sin fronteras
without borders

My past week at Loch Leven was a crossroads of culture, language, and differences. Real diversity was present, and our differences met in a spirit of worship, discussion, and unity. At camp there were youth from China, youth from Mexico, youth from Southern California, second and third generation immigrant youth, youth of different sexual identities, and youth from various faith traditions (or no faith tradition).

Needless to say, there were very clear and distinct barriers between our various tribes. There was chatter about the possibility that the youth will segregate themselves from each other reinforcing borders of separation—the us and them mentality.

And perhaps the first day of camp went a little like this. The Chinese youth hung out with their interpreter, the youth from Tijuana spoke in Spanish to their friends, and the Southern California youth fell back into camp cliques. This is how camp goes, no? People connect with people similar to themselves—segregation is natural at this age they said.

They could not have been more wrong. By the end of the first day I witnessed an ice breaker where youth were all mixed up and randomly introducing themselves to people they had never met (per usual for first day activities). In a small group, I saw a group of about four youth speaking, but there were three languages being spoken. A Chinese boy introduced himself in Mandarin, which was then translated to English. However, there were no English speakers in the group—it was merely the middle language. Once the message was in English, an adult from Tijuana was able to translate it into Spanish for the other two youth. It was truly a crossroads of language and culture in practice.

As the week went on, worship began to resemble and model what the camp began to look like. Scripture was read in all three languages, prayers were spoken interchangeably between Spanish and English, praise songs incorporated verses in different languages. Our small groups made efforts to learn words and phrases in each other’s native tongues—in one instance a Tijuana camper read scripture in English and a Southern California youth read en Español. It was purely their idea, executed by them, and received with thunderous applause from the camp.

They actually cheered and encouraged the spirit of the crossroads; they were living sin fronteras. A phrase I have borrowed from an amazing scholar, poet and activist Gloria Anzaldúa. Her book Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza has been foundational in my workshop throughout this summer. In her work she eloquently describes life trapped by borders, and how our bodies, identities are physical borderlands—bridges—crossroads—between us that unite us.

Her work combines her experience of intersectional identities—Mexican, Texan, Indigenous, Woman, Queer, Mestiza, Chicana…She writes this poem at the end of her book, a poem that made me think about my week at Loch Leven.

To Live in the Borderlands
By Gloria Anzaldúa

To live in the borderlands means you
are neither hispana india negra espanola
ni gabacha, eres mestiza, mulata
, half-breed
caught in the crossfire between camps
while carrying all five races on your back
not knowing which side to turn to, run from;

To live in the Borderlands means knowing
that the india in you, betrayed for 500 years,
is no longer speaking to you,
the mexicanas call you rajetas, that denying the Anglo inside you
is as bad as having denied the Indian or Black;

Cuando vives en la frontera
people walk through you, the wind steals your voice,
you’re a burra, buey, scapegoat,
forerunner of a new race,
half and half-both woman and man, neither-
a new gender;

To live in the Borderlands means to
put chile in the borscht,
eat whole wheat tortillas,
speak Tex-Mex with a Brooklyn accent;
be stopped by la migra at the border checkpoints;

Living in the Borderlands means you fight hard to
resist the gold elixir beckoning from the bottle,
the pull of the gun barrel,
the rope crushing the hollow of your throat;

In the Borderlands
you are the battleground
where enemies are kin to each other;

you are at home, a stranger,
the border disputes have been settled
the volley of shots have scattered the truce
you are wounded, lost in action
dead, fighting back;

To live in the Borderlands means
the mill with the razor white teeth wants to shred off
your olive-red skin, crush out the kernel, your heart
pound you pinch you roll you out
smelling like white bread but dead;

To survive the Borderlands
you must live sin fronteras
be a crossroads.


I shared this poem with the youth at Loch Leven at their Friday night worship service. The service deeply moved me, and was quite symbolic of their week of camp. They burned their border walls—literally and metaphorically.

The service had us walk and stop at stations where we reflected on borders that separated us from each other: Gender, Race, Class, Sexual Orientation, Language, Religious Belief, and Personal Barriers.

These barriers were symbolically written on logs so that the log represented the barrier itself. The logs were collected and, with enthusiasm, chucked into a camp fire to be burned and destroyed. Whether the youth who planned the service know or not, they committed a radical act of social justice. They took the step and decided to stop giving power to the borders that separate.

Their focus was not diversity, their focus was not tokenism, their focus was not uniformity, their focus was not unifying tribes.

Their intention was the opening of spaces, like Loch Leven, to be a crossroads—a borderland without borders. They intended to open the space to allow diversity to exist as it does in the world, they moved to open then space to allow tribes to exist like they do in the world, they burned the things standing in the way.

To live in the borderlands is to live in flames;

The borderlands are not easy, they are not comfortable, the borderlands are treading new ground;To live in the borderlands is to live in tempest.And yet, my week at Loch Leven imparted in me lyrics. These lyrics reassure me, they assure me that a crossroads of flame and tempest embraces—for I am yours and you are mine.

en tempestad/Descansaré en tu poder/Pues tuyo soy, hasta el final

My NoCal Chill

After 4 weeks of camp living as an extrovert, this week I found myself retreating farther into a personal bubble. I like to tell people that I don’t have a personal bubble because typically I can talk to anyone and everyone—without problem.

But this week, I felt myself lacking some of the energy it takes to meet new people and get to know them well, and become friends. It has gotten much harder to connect with people when you know you might never see or hear from them again. Many moments I just wanted to be alone with silence.

And for some of you that know me well, this might be shocking! It surprised me as well. To my introvert friends you might comfortably sympathize with my desire for me time, but for some reason I feel ashamed to have wanted some me time. After all, I am being paid to travel, teach, and engage people in topics of justice and peace. Yet, I hit a wall—I broke and I chose some me time.

When I was alone I read, I watched Netflix, and I slept—I never really felt alone, but rather I just wanted to chill (which is ironic because it got close to 100 degrees in our cabin—not chill).

Wanting to chill is OK, but for some reason taking that me time is always going to be read as selfish. I’ve been reminded thousands of times about my generation being the ME generation, the generation of selfish wants, the Treat-Yo-Self generation—labels jam packed with stigma about how anti-social we are, and how little we care about others, and how it has killed our work ethic, blah, blah, blah.

I’m tired of hearing that kind of negative shit, so I am going to combat it here in hopes that it might challenge the binary of selfish/selfless and that I might reduce my own internalized shame associated with wanting to treat myself.

This topic came up in a small group this past week where I read the following quote from the 14th Dalai Lama:

“It is important that when pursing our own self-interest we should be ‘wise selfish’ and not ‘foolish selfish.’ Being foolish selfish means pursuing our own interests in a narrow, shortsighted way. Being wise selfish means taking a broader view and recognizing that our own long-term individual interest lies in the welfare of everyone. Being wise selfish means being compassionate.”

Now this is definitely not a call to treat yo self by any means, but it includes the idea that being selfish can be connected to a larger calling to be compassionate. The Dalai Lama links self-interests to the collective interest.

Therefore, I now feel justified about reading some books by the pool in Northern California—tough gig amirite? But in all honesty, I learned a lot from that self-reflection time that will benefit my overall work towards social justice. Which means that my selfish alone time might benefit me in the short term, but in the long term? In the long term those selfish, peaceful moments by the pool might make a world of difference in a longer trajectory towards justice.

Here are the books I devoured in while in Northern California, I would 11/10 recommend:

  • Freedom is a Constant Struggle by Angela Davis

  • Citizen: An American Lyric by Claudia Rankine

  • This Bridge Called my Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color edited by Cherrie Moraga and Gloria Anzaldua

Indiana and Ohio: Building Emotional Room

Many apologies to those of you who were anticipating a blog post from me last week! When I left Bedford Christian Camp in Southern Indiana I was fairly emotionally drained. I wasn’t sure how I was feeling and what to do with many of the experiences and stories shared with me.

Many high schoolers I met have problems and hardships much deeper, and more real than many adults have. I heard stories of depression, drug abuse, and strained familial relationships (three very hard life experiences 16-year olds shouldn’t have to deal with).

As someone who hasn’t lived lives even remotely as stressful, I felt compelled to be empathetic, to listen, and to comfort. Yet, I’m no professional counselor or well versed in pastoral care. Which means, I was offering all I knew by listening and being present, but by listening I felt for them and for their struggles. I was unsure how to process hearing stories where many of these youth have felt so alone and hurt… I couldn’t give them advice or wisdoms from my experiences, I had no real way of taking away their pains—and they knew more than I did.

The youth weren’t going through the issues alone, they had counselors and doctors and pastors and parents and friends. But they were struggling with their spiritual relationships, their connection to a higher power or community. That is what camp gave them, and that is part of the power of camp. Community.

I’m not sure if I realized this until I was in Ohio, my home region, serving a camp that has transformed in so many different and beautiful ways over the past four years. I worked as secretary for the past three years at Camp Christian and I didn’t hesitate to volunteer for so many administrative needs during the week. Partially because I like to stay busy and feel needed, but partially because I was a little afraid to let myself be emotionally burnt out again. I had no problem volunteering to lead dances and songs and activities, my physically energy was replenishable. But my emotional stamina and patience was reaching max capacity.

Therefore, the more I stayed busy leading workshops, helping out in the nurse’s office, and helping facilitate dances, the less emotional energy I was expending.AND THEN, I had this liberating realization (brace yourself for its clichéd nature) that in an intentional community, we all have different gifts and talents. AND, those differences fill in the gaps where some of us lack. In Ohio, I was in need of pastoral care… and I received from some of my dearest role models in life. They allowed me to drown myself in work and stay busy and feel needed…and when I finally began to be OK? The other counselors and directors were there for me! They listened, they understood and they were empathetic. The same techniques I used when I didn’t know what I was doing.

Then, they affirmed me, they lifted me up, they appreciated me, and they humbled me. I felt spiritually rejuvenated and reinvigorated.So much so that when Friday’s worship service rolled around, I felt comfortable and willing to engage in prayer affirmations with campers. It was probably one of my best moments at camp this summer. I no longer felt too emotionally drained, I had built room for these youth, not by decompressing or forgetting other youth and hardships, but through a community that could help me fill in the gaps.

And just by praying with and affirming others, I finally felt emotionally free again—a feeling I hope I carry with me throughout the rest of the summer.

Sex Camp, WaKanDaHo Kentucky

Now before you get your panties in a bunch—sex camp is not what it sounds like.

Instead, the week is all about educating eighth graders about sex! Now, I was initially worried when I heard that I was being sent to Kentucky to talk about sex with eighth graders at a church camp. I conjured up terrifying visions of pastors preaching messages of abstinence and forcing young girls to take oaths over purity rings.

Once again, I could not have been more wrong. (Which seems to be a theme of the summer—proving my ignorant fears wrong).My week at WaKanDaHo could not have been any more lovely. I got to sit in small groups with 10 eighth graders and talk about human anatomy, pregnancy, contraception, STIs, dating, and relationships.Night one I quickly learned this camp was not what I expected as I heard youth shouting “PENIS” across a lake to a response of “VAGINA.”

Eighters’ Camp, as it is known, is all about allowing youth to talk about the taboo and often stigmatized details of sexual relations. Therefore, they were absolutely allowed to shout from the top of their lungs words like penis and vagina and vulva. (The only stipulation was that they needed to use the correct terms, not slang terms like the p-word).

And again on that first night, all my BS assumptions were rightfully corrected. Sarah, our keynoter explained that Just Say Know Ministries was not there to preach purity and abstinence, but instead give youth the knowledge to make better decisions in life. The goal wasn’t to get them to run off and have sex, but instead to teach them the merits of committed relationships and how to engage in behavior that is safe, for them and their partner.WHEW! Thank God I was wrong this time. A week condemning sex would have been hard for me.

Over the course of the week we had so many deep conversations where we were all able to share freely about our lives—especially our lives pertaining to our relationships. Personally, I felt so comfortable I shared parts of my life that I rarely talk about out loud for fear of judgement. The environment created in our small group was an oasis from reality, where none of us judged or felt awkward about deeply personal stuff.

It felt truly liberating, and I would love to carry that same oasis with me where ever I go this summer. I was inspired by Just Say Know Ministries and their dedication to filling in the gaps of sex education for youth around the country. Surprisingly, I found out that in Kentucky it is illegal to teach anything except abstinence in public schools throughout the state. Therefore, Eighters camp is the ONLY sex education many of these youth have ever had.

So, bless the courage it takes to fearlessly educate youth on such an uncomfortable topic, and bless the ability to openly discuss and talk about stigmatized topics. Our denomination is truly an exciting and dialogue producing place. I am thankful and proud.

P.S. The video included in this blog is a gift that I made with my small group. It is a gift to the camp attempting demonstrate what our week at Eighters looked like. It is silly, it might not make much sense, but it generated so much laughter, I couldn’t help but share. :) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dmornhk1Pko&feature=youtu.be

A-OK in OK

My summer as a nomadic advocate for peace and justice began two weeks ago. After a week of training at Disciples headquarters in Indianapolis, I left for the “land of the Red Man”—a name I find incredibly problematic, but not uncommon for the history of Oklahoma.

I landed in Tulsa where I was greeted by the wonderful Cassie Sexton-Riggs and her husband Michael Riggs. They filled me into the deeper, troubling history of Oklahoma’s past. They explained the brutal takeover of Native American lands for oil, disturbingly high numbers of Klans, Bible Belt super colleges, and that Tulsa was home to America’s deadliest race riots. Not to mention, they warned me that every single county in Oklahoma went red in the past election—needless to say issues of race and discrimination haven’t died.

Going into Chi Rho camp I was on edge. I was preparing myself for youth steeped in their parents’ ideology, made into mini brainwashed conservatives. I expected my workshops to get some heat and encounter some blatant prejudices.Boy, was I wrong.

Day one, I wore a pair of pink floral shorts, again expecting some judgements or hesitations. And I wore them on purpose to incite this sort of dialogue. Yet, the youth loved them.

In my workshop we talked about clothes, gender, and what is “normal.” Each time I talked with the youth, I was blown away by how open, non-judgmental and willing to accept others they were. Initially, I assumed that Chi Rho aged youth might be too young to really have true prejudices. But as the week went on, and as they described their hometowns and schools, I realized these youth at Chi Rho camp were the exception to my expectation. Without actually knowing it, these youth were aware of social justice.They knew that it was wrong to police gender roles, they knew that being gay is A-OK, they knew that racism is not normal, they knew that people around the world are denied justice on an everyday basis. My job as a justice educator quickly became easier. These youth schooled me in social justice, they wiped the court with me—in a good way.

I cannot believe how wrong I was about Oklahoma before I arrived, and I am so glad I was wrong. I was guilty of exactly the injustice that I was preaching against. I readily judged, expected, and guarded myself against people that I have never met. I was scared of being rejected by a red state, so I prepared to fight for what I believed in.

It so happened to turn out that I didn’t have to argue or fight with a single counselor, camper, or staff person. We were all on the same page. I never asked about party affiliation or voting records—that didn’t matter to me. What I care about was how we could unite our voices for justice, and surely we did!

Like I said, the Chi Rho campers schooled me. They are internet savvy animals. Name any meme and they would know it. Name any Vine, and they probably could quote it. Name any injustice? Well, they probably read about it on Tumblr. YES! They actually read about how the world works on Tumblr!

Not only was I expecting these youth to be miniature versions of their parents’ beliefs, I expected at school or church they would learn rhetoric that supports systematic injustice.

Instead, they experience the world almost entirely through the internet. One camper told me, “When the kids at school are close minded and exclusive, I go online and chat with my friends in San Francisco, New York, Chicago.” Despite living in small or rural towns, the youth of this new generation can experience urban and city experiences too. These campers are probably more connected to the world than I am, and it humbled me.

This whole week in Oklahoma humbled me. I thought I knew what I was getting myself into, and I thought I knew who these people were…and I was wrong, wrong, wrong. My mind and heart were opened all over again. I’m so deeply thankful for experiences like this that helped rewrite my perceptions of what this country looks like. Our nation is not as divided as we like to think, and that gives me so much hope for the future.