Let me begin with a story from one of the great preachers of our time.

“Come over and see this picture of Jesus,” she said. It was several years ago. I did not know the lady well. I anticipated that she had either painted or purchased a likeness of Jesus. Instead, she handed me a photograph. It had been passed on to her from her mother. “Now wait a minute,” you say. “A photograph of Jesus?” That’s what she contended she had. Then she told her story.

I don’t know whether you’ve noticed or not, but not everything that looks tame is tame. Like some of the animals that run around my neck of the woods. One Sunday afternoon, a little red fox scampered across our deck. Then, just a few nights ago, we froze him in our headlights on the side of the road. Maybe it wasn’t the same fox. And maybe it wasn’t a fox at all. Not that I would know.

Over the course of eight summers (from the summer following the third grade to the summer following the eleventh grade), I went to church camp twelve times. A week each time. Meaning that there were some summers when I went twice. I camped at Lake Louise, Lake Huron, Mill Lake and Judson Collins Camp on Wampler’s Lake in the Irish Hills. That’s where I started.