My faith community is going on a camping trip next month. They are also having a Summer Stories panel I am applying to fill a roll for. I would deliver a 6-8 minute faith story. I want to do one on the camping trip I just did. I wrote out most of my transcript. I feel like there are aspects that are missing or could be explained better.

Picture this: You’re driving to the church camping trip next month. The sun is shining, the windows are down, and you’re following your GPS—until you make a wrong left turn. (onto 40 East to Tennessee..)

Suddenly, you’re on a forest road in the Nantahala National Forest, winding deeper into the trees. Two or three miles feel like an eternity. Your GPS insists you’re on track, but all you see are towering pines, ferns, and silence. No signs, no people. Just you, your doubts, and the creeping thought: Is my Honda Accord going to break down out here?

Then—a line of parked cars appears, haphazardly tucked into the woods like a puzzle only the forest understands. You’ve arrived.

'Welcome Home'

You step out, and before you can even unclip your seatbelt, voices call out: _“Welcome home!”_ Strangers—no, _family_—offer hugs, help carrying gear, even wagons for the trek ahead. Some of these folks are foster care graduates, folks experiencing homelessness, or people in stages of addiction recovery. None of that matters here. You’re home.

The trail to the kitchen? Half a mile. Uphill. Muddy. (This is a temperate rainforest—it rains _every day_ in Tennessee, Georgia, and Western North Carolina.) But along the way, you’re handed gifts: a ripe peach, a handmade bracelet, directions to a hidden swimming hole where the water is 40 degrees and the courage to dive in—birthday suit optional—is yours to muster. Believe me, a week of that icy plunge will heal things you didn’t know needed healing.

This is a Rainbow Gathering—local style. Sixty people, eight days, and a masterclass in communal living.

  • Water & Food: A gravity-fed irrigation system with a ceramic filter delivers clean drinking water. The kitchen? A tarped wonder with countertops made of fallen branches and fold-out tables. A dishwashing station with three bins: wash, rinse, sanitize. Every meal is vegetarian—no meat means fewer germs and happier flies. (Yes, that’s a win.) The pantry? An 8-person tent and rope-strung “banana hammocks” overflowing with potatoes, beans, and sprouts.
  • The “Slitter”: Nature calls? Follow the pink surveying ribbons to the slit trench—a safe distance from running water, stocked with a shovel, wood ash, TP in a coffee can (rainproof!), and a bottle of diluted bleach water for sanitizing. Wilderness luxury.

The eight days out there (preceded by weeks of the scouters camping out there) lead up to the Summer Solstice, or as I call it, the Summer Salsa. That weekend, more people will come in, and our numbers may get to be between a 100 and 150. Sorry, I meant to say you and your 74 closest friends. Because 75 or more, and you need a permit.

On the day of the Summer 'Salsa', or sometimes the day before, we will observe intentional silence from sunrise to high noon. This is part of a way we observe and pray for peace. This is extra fun in the woods kitchen, communicating through whispers or charades to get a late lunch prepared.

Sometimes people, especially elders, will fast while in the woods for days leading up to the Solstice. I'm not strong enough to do that. Leading up to breaking that silence, all of the kids go with their grown ups to the costume tent, and find silly costumes for the parade, when they bang pots and pans to break the silence. We welcome them in, observe the four directions, and hold hands and sing. Some of the songs I find overlap in the Circle of Mercy music archive.

The heart fire burns nightly, surrounded by songs like _“All the trees of the field will clap their hands…”_ (Some of these tunes come straight from the Circle of Mercy song archives.)

If you ask people there about the origins of this gathering, they will tell you about a Hopi Prophecy about the tribe of the Rainbow people. This 'Prophecy' is likely not of Native American origin at all, and has been linked to a book published in 1962 called Warriors of the Rainbow which was written by an Eskimo man and an Evangelical.

The Messy, Beautiful People

This is a space where:

  • A transgender sibling might gently correct, _“Actually, I prefer ‘Sibling’ to ‘Brother’ or ‘Sister.’”_ And the response? _“Thank you for teaching me.”_ (Many here are learning, but their hearts are willing.)
  • Cultural appropriation lingers—like drum circles that revere Native traditions in misguided ways. (No war bonnets, though. As one Native influencer put it: _“If a non-Native wears one, it’s a challenge to fight—and it’s okay to knock them out.”_ I don’t do that, ’cause I’m a person of peace! _(pause for laughter)_ But it’s a reminder: Reverence shouldn’t bleed into mimicry.)
  • Zionism & Antizionism: Even the act of temporarily “colonizing” the wilderness sparks debate. Is our eco-friendly camp a metaphor for peace—or a microcosm of human intrusion? We sit with that tension.
  • Addiction & Recovery: Public alcohol? Only in the parking lot—a week-long, sports-free tailgate. Need a drink to function? Keep it in your tent. Meanwhile, pot smoke drifts through the trees. It’s not perfect, but it’s honest.

+ Police and the Forest Service: Are cops who come in looking for permit fight public enemy #1, who you shouldn't engage with without a legal observer present? Or are they people doing a job that could be reached and forever moved on a human level?

+ Predatory people and safety. While it is easy to fear the cryptids and wild animals of the woods, the scariest creatures end up being other people. Not everyone has the best intentions. In a space where women, queer people, and families with kids can feel safe, certain practices and belief systems are implemented to keep everyone safe, even from each other. Generally this community is matriarchal. There are spaces for families to camp away from high risk areas. And people who go have generally been going for years, and we get to know each other, including when people we love, and those who we put up with, have dangerous tendencies. This isn't a music festival, we are more likely to have council meetings than something big loud and flashy.

Faith in the Fringes

_(Shift tone, reflective)_ The origins of these gatherings? A written work from a fringe Christian sect, echoing Jesus’ call to love radically. Here, the gospel is practical: _Feed the hungry. Welcome the stranger. Share your last potato._ It’s a temporary colony in the wild, asking: _How do we live lightly, love boldly, and leave no trace—except in each other’s hearts?_

Some conflate it with Native spirituality, but the roots are Christian. And yet—the Spirit moves here. In the Solstice prayer. In the silence. In the way a foster kid gets a second sleeping bag without asking.

Next month, our church camps together. But if you take a wrong turn—if you find yourself in a muddy, singing, potato-filled embrace—know this: You’re not lost. You’re home. And maybe pack a wagon.

  • (From my understanding, wearing a feathered headdress is also called a war bonnet, and is worn into battle as a challenge to the enemy. A prominent Native American influencer has said that if someone who is not Native American is wearing one, it means they are looking for a fight and it's okay to knock them out. I don't do that, cause I'm a person of peace! But I'm just saying. (cue laugh track) I haven't seen anybody at these gatherings wear one of these, but wait till the local Halloween block parties come around. It is This would be explained comedically in a tasteful way. )