I grew up in a Quaker sect of Christianity in North Idaho during the 1990s.

Now, before you assume this means we all sat quietly in circles contemplating inner peace while quietly discussing different ways to prepare oats… you’d be absolutely right.🤪

Now, in conjunction with Quakerism, allow me to introduce you to the single most adrenaline-fueled church camp activity I have ever encountered.

It was called…

Persecution.

I’m not making this up.

Every summer our church held camp on the shores of Twin Lakes, Idaho. As a kid, camp was magical;

swimming,

canoeing,

campfires,

excellent cafeteria food,

and desperately trying to look older than we all actually were!

But the real prize wasn’t any of that.

The real prize was finally becoming old enough for overnight camp.

Not because our parents weren’t there.

Not because we got to stay up late.

Because…

…we finally got to play Persecution!

For years the older kids whispered about it like it was some classified military operation.

They always said it like know-it-all survivors of something so wonderfully terrible, that it could not be spoken allowed.

So one glorious summer evening, after the sun slipped behind the pines, every camper was summoned to the giant A-Frame chapel.

This was it.

The counselors stood before us with grave expressions.

We were informed that we were no longer campers.

We were now…

Christians living in Nazi-occupied Europe during World War II!

Again…

I’m not making this up.

Our mission was to spread the Gospel without being caught by the Gestapo; who, conveniently, was now every adult counselor we’d trusted just minutes earlier!

Suddenly these people who had taught us memory verses after breakfast were stalking through the woods in military jackets, interrogating twelve-year-old white kids.

Everyone was wearing camouflage and black clothing because apparently every underground resistance movement shopped exclusively at the same surplus store.

Once released into the forest, chaos erupted.

Kids scattered into the darkness.

Branches snapped.

Flashlights danced between trees.

Someone inevitably tripped over a root within the first thirty seconds.

Our job was to navigate secret checkpoints hidden throughout the woods.

At each location we delivered our “Gospel information” and received a painted rock worth points.

Collect enough rocks…

Win the game.

Simple.

Except…

The Gestapo was hunting you.

If they caught you, they could interrogate you.

If you accidentally gave away enough information…

They marked your hand.

One mark?

Back to the A-Frame to begin your secret missionary career all over again.

Two marks?

Execution.

Well…

Not actual execution.

You were just out of the game.

Which, to a middle-schooler, felt emotionally comparable.

So there we all were.

Dozens of church kids dressed like tiny woodland commandos, sprinting through North Idaho forests under the cover of darkness, diving behind logs, whispering Bible verses, trading painted rocks, and fleeing youth pastors pretending to be Nazi officers.

Looking back…

It sounds less like Vacation Bible School and more like someone combined The Sound of Music and Capture the Flag into a bizarre Evangelical fever dream.

And here’s the truly remarkable part.

None of us thought this was weird.

We thought this was awesome!

For one magical night each summer we became heroes in a story larger than ourselves.

We learned courage.

We learned teamwork.

We learned that if Anthony was on your team, he’d absolutely sell you out under interrogation for a blue rock!

Life lessons.

Now, as an adult, I can appreciate just how wildly strange the whole thing was. I certainly wouldn’t recommend reenacting World War II as a church game today. We’ve grown in our understanding of history, trauma, and the weight those events carry in real life.

But beneath the spectacularly questionable premise was something surprisingly human.

Children long to believe that courage matters.

That conviction matters.

That doing the right thing costs something.

That even ordinary people can quietly carry hope through dark places.

Those lessons stayed with me far longer than the camouflage or the painted rocks.

I still laugh every time I think about Persecution.

It may have been one of the most gloriously unhinged church camp games ever invented.

But somewhere between the pine trees, the laughter, the panic, and the rocks…

A bunch of kids accidentally learned that faith, and life itself, isn’t measured by how safely we hide.

It’s measured by how faithfully we keep moving forward, even when the woods turn pitch black.