Sixteen-year-old Julie Danner thought she knew exactly what she believed. But when her best friend, Elijah, confesses he is gay, she abandons her conservative religious beliefs and stands beside him. Her courage does not falter even when his father, the pastor of her church, discovers his son’s secret—and preaches about it on Sunday morning. At home, Julie pretends to be the same girl she always has been so her mother won’t worry. At school, her Christian friends ostracize her when she joins the Gay-Straight Alliance. Then she meets Finn Haywood, a new guy at school who tells her it’s more important to appreciate the randomness of life than to worry about understanding the pattern behind it. Finn encourages Julie to explore her adventurous side and casts himself as her partner in crime when it comes to helping Elijah. Everything would be perfect—if Finn didn’t have a jealous girlfriend back in Virginia.
Can Julie’s religion evolve with her changing beliefs? Can she really call herself a Christian if her best friend is gay? Will she ever know what she truly believes? Julie slowly begins to realize that seeking answers is just as important as finding them. And with her friends and family beside her, the journey will never be a lonely one.
We crucified Jesus on Wednesday night.
We did this every summer at Victory Christian Camp. The counselors lined us up next to the pool and led us down to the nature trail. Candles in paper bags lit our way and mostly saved us from tripping over tree roots. We stopped along the way to watch counselors dressed in bathrobes re-enact the last few days of Jesus’s life. Two picnic tables shoved together set the scene for the Last Supper. As the man playing Jesus prayed at Gethsemane, his disciples sprawled on the ground behind him. One of them wore white tube socks under his sandals.
Pine needles and mummified palm fronds crunched under our feet as the counselors led us along the path. The thirty-nine lashes were impressive this year. Someone hid behind a tree and cracked a belt every time the fake cat-o-nine-tails hit Jesus’s back. As usual, they really counted all thirty-nine aloud, making us suffer through two full minutes of hammy acting. After Jesus flinched his last flinch and let out his thirty-ninth groan of pain, he fell to the ground and rolled over so we could all see the red lipliner welts drawn on his back.
When we finally reached the cross, a lot of the girls started crying. I tried to pay attention to Jesus’s face but I mostly looked at his feet. He stood on a platform nailed to the base of the cross, but it was a little too narrow. As his persecutors jammed the crown of thorns on his head and held up the sponge soaked in vinegar, he constantly shifted his feet from side to side and walked his heels backwards, trying not to slip.
A few counselors in bathrobes snuck up behind us. Most of the campers jumped when one of them shouted “Crucify him!” I didn’t jump. They did this every year. It was supposed to make us realize that even though we weren’t alive when Jesus was crucified, we were still just as responsible for his death.
After we left the empty tomb behind, we walked to the large central campfire where we always had our evening prayers. The counselors used the old-fashioned word “vespers,” which always sounded like an old-lady disease to me. I got the vespahs somethin’ turrible, honey. We sat on wooden benches, staring at the flames and thinking. Some people sat a little apart from others, hands folded in their laps, shoulders hunched. Others clumped up, put arms around each others’ shoulders and let tears flow freely. One girl stood facing a counselor with her face buried in her hands. He placed one hand on top of her head and raised the other in the air, screwing his eyes shut as he prayed fervently.
“Julie, do you want me to pray with you?” a counselor whispered, crouching down beside me for a moment.
“I’m okay,” I said, shaking my head.
“You sure?” she asked, staring at my face.
I tried to smile. “Yeah. Thanks.”
I looked at the people gathered around the fire and tried to guess what sins they were feeling guilty about. Smoked pot at a party. Let her boyfriend put his hand up her shirt. Borrowed his parent’s car without asking.
One of the counselors, still in his Judas costume, picked up a guitar and strummed a few chords as softly as possible. A few people sang along: “We will glorify the king of kings. We will glorify the lamb. We will glorify the king of kings who is the great I Am.”
This time last summer I knew what I believed. I was probably remembering all the little lies I’d told my mother, or maybe the times I’d let someone copy my math homework before class. I wish I had something so small to think about. Rather than wondering what I even believe anymore.