The kids of Jesus Camp, 10 years later: 'Was it child abuse? Yes and no'

The controversial 2006 documentary about an evangelical church camp outraged secular audiences, but its subjects have mixed memories 

Josiah Hesse

Wed 6 Jul 2016 07.00 EDT Last modified on Thu 15 Feb 2018 07.02 EST

https://www.theguardian.com/film/2016/jul/06/jesus-camp-christian-documentary-kids-10-years-later

Ten-year-old Andrew Sommerkamp, with his shy demeanor and floppy blond hair, mounts the stage of the Kids On Fire church camp, and nervously tells the crowd that he’s struggling with his belief in God. He’d spent days watching his fellow Christian campers weep uncontrollably, repenting and begging God’s forgiveness, and he has a confession to share.

“I just want to talk about belief in God ... I’ve been having a hard time with it,” he says, staring at the ground, scared and confused as the other kids look around at each other with anxiety in their eyes. “To believe in God is hard because you don’t see him, you don’t know him much. Sometimes I don’t even believe what the Bible says. It makes me a faker, it makes me feel guilty and bad.”

It’s one of several emotionally exhausting scenes in the 2006 documentary, Jesus Camp. Over the course of its celebrated and contested life, Jesus Camp has become a Rorschach test for audiences: some evangelicals see it as a fair representation of their culture, while secular, left-leaning audiences typically see an expose against a malicious force of right-wing indoctrination, often walking away with one angry phrase on their lips: child abuse. 

Ten years later, Sommerkamp (yes, that’s his real name) has abandoned evangelical Christianity, living with a group of spiritual seekers in Mount Shasta, California. His split from the evangelical world happening when his father came out as gay. He says he spent several years angry at the church, but has since discovered peace in eastern mysticism, quantum mechanics, and psychotropic drugs.

“Was it child abuse? Yes and no,” he said in a recent interview, about his time at Kids on Fire church camp. “I think they had the best of intentions, but I see it as sick people trying to treat sick people. It’s their coping mechanism for figuring out why we’re alive. I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything, though, because it allowed me at such a young age to question my existence.”

‘I have peace of mind’

Levi O’Brien was 12 when he was featured in Jesus Camp, sporting an enormous rat-tail, oversized T-shirts, and an unusually confident demeanor. Unlike Sommerkamp, in the film, O’Brien was wildly enthusiastic about his faith, speaking passionately about how his life had been transformed by God. It’s an intensity that continues in him today, which he applies to his job as a staff member of World Revival Ministries. 

He says that people are often shocked that he’s turned out to be a happy, healthy young man who wasn’t traumatized by his experiences at Jesus Camp. 

“I’ve been asked the same question hundreds of times by people from all over the world: do you believe you are the way you are because of how you were raised?” he says. “Isn’t everybody? 

“And let’s look at the outcome: I have peace in my mind, I have drive and purpose and character.” 

According to child psychologist Valerie Tarico, an outspoken critic of evangelical culture, many children of evangelical upbringing don’t turn out so well.

“One of the problems with faith-based teaching is it teaches children not to trust their own reason and intuition, undermining their ability to have confidence in their own knowledge and ability to process information. There is a lot of psychological damage that follows when people are trained not to trust themselves.” 

For many viewers, Jesus Camp was their first exposure to a Pentecostal church service, where crying, screaming, dancing, speaking in tongues and convulsions are as ritualistic as incense at a Catholic ceremony. 

Co-director of the film Heidi Ewing said she disagreed with the teachings of the camp, but didn’t feel camp leaders were abusive. 

“They’re not doing anything illegal, and if you want to raise your children as liberal progressives, to be amped up about environmentalism and being pro-choice, you can do that,” she said. “Some of the arguments against the film were so knee-jerk, it made me realize the far left and the far right have a lot in common.”

Liberal outrage

In addition to the camp, the film captures an intimate portrayal of the children’s lives at home, where every aspect of their day is wrapped up in evangelical beliefs. Their home-school textbooks deny global-warming and teach creationism. They listen to Christian music and rightwing talk radio, watch Christian movies, and pledge allegiance to a Christian flag. Activities included proselytizing to strangers at a bowling alley, and protesting abortion outside the supreme court. 

Liberal audiences were outraged by a scene featuring pastor Ted Haggard (leader of the National Association of Evangelicals, and informal advisor to then president George W Bush), where he disparages homosexuality as a sin, then makes a joke about infidelity and blackmail into the camera. 

Serendipitously, Jesus Camp hit theaters at the exact time that Haggard was exposed as having a three-year relationship with a male prostitute, from whom he also purchased methamphetamine. 

Late-night political comedians like Jon Stewart and Bill Maher had a lot of fun with that clip, fueling the outrage and popularity of Jesus Camp among atheists. 

Director of the Kids On Fire camp and lead subject of the film, Becky Fischer, declined to speak with us for this story. Though in her memoir, Jesus Camp, My Story, she said that while the film sensationalized and overly politicized the camp, overall she was satisfied with it.

Following the documentary’s release, Fischer helped promote Jesus Camp along with an evangelical PR company, but soon found herself the target of a radical opposition to her ministry. 


“My email box was spilling over with angry accusations. “‘Child abuse!’ ‘Brainwashing!’ ‘Indoctrinating Children!’ ‘You should be ashamed of yourself!’” she wrote. 

Fischer says she often feared for her safety when people would recognize her in public. Following the film’s explosive popularity, and an Academy Award nomination, the camp was vandalized and Fischer was not allowed to rent it for her ministry again. 

“For the first time in my life I could truly relate to Jewish people, seeing how a Holocaust could have its embryonic beginnings,” she wrote.

While she no longer operates a church camp, Fischer continues to provide religious instruction to children through her company, Kids Ministry International. 

By the end of our conversation, Sommerkamp said that he didn’t think he was abused. He was extremely critical of evangelicals, at one point calling Becky Fischer “a terrible fucking person who is fueled by the spiritual suffering of other people”. But, he said, he had chosen to have love for her, and was even grateful for the experience of Jesus Camp.

“They showed us what it meant to really feel deep emotions for life, for God,” he says. “Some people would say that it was all fake, but when I look back on it, our belief in it had made it real. It really taught me the power of belief.” 

Kurt Gerron: The Artist

Kurt Gerron

http://holocaustmusic.ort.org/places/camps/western-europe/westerbork/gerronkurt/

In a small theatre in Berlin in the summer of 1928, the curtain rose on a bare stage, the spotlight falling on the actor and singer Kurt Gerron.  As his large body moved in time to the music of a small orchestra, his voice boomed out:

Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear
And it shows them pearly white
Just a jack-knife has old MacHeath, babe
And he keeps it … ah … out of sight ....

This was the opening night of one of the greatest theatrical productions of the twentieth century, Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht’s Three Penny Opera. This was also to be a great moment for Gerron himself, cast as police chief Brown, famously nicknamed Tigerbrown.  The initial shock with which the play was greeted rapidly transformed into enthusiasm.  The crowd demanded encores, and ‘Mack the Knife’ was to become one of the greatest songs of the Weimar stage.  Fourteen years later, Kurt Gerron was to sing those famous lines one last time, this time before a movie camera and a circle of Nazi officials.  In Theresienstadt, for a propaganda movie made by Gerron himself under orders of the SS, for a last time the original Tigerbrown belted out the story of murder and terror in a German town – before he, too was shipped to Auschwitz, another of the countless actors, musicians and entertainers lost to Hitler’s ‘Final Solution’.

A cabaret artist, theatre and film actor and important director of theatre and early sound movies, Kurt Gerron was one of the most successful entertainers of the 1920s and early 1930s.  Born on 11 May 1897 to a middle-class Berlin Jewish family, his father was a confectioner, and his mother a housewife and educator of their only son.  After serving in World War I, Gerron decided to study medicine, and was a supporter of the leftist November revolution.  After completing medical school in 1920, he decided instead to dedicate himself to acting, convinced that 'doctors and actors have something in common: the observation of people'.  A year later, he joined Trude Hesterberg’s cabaret ‘Wild Stage’, the first in a long line of illustrious cabaret groups that he joined.  Soon after that he met and married Olga Meyer, with whom he had a life-long relationship.  In 1926 he began a tumultuous working relationship with Bertolt Brecht, and frequently performed with his friend Willy Rosen, writing anti-Nazi or socialist-influenced skits.

1927 saw Gerron’s first film role, with film taking on an increasing importance in his career: that year alone he took part in more than 20 films. After the success of Three Penny Opera, he became increasingly well known, by the early 1930s having established a reputation as a movie director; he was also cast in the 1930 classic Blue Angel, the movie that started Marlene Dietrich’s career.  Wealthy and successful, Gerron lived well in Berlin in the early 1930s, refusing to acknowledge the growing danger of the Nazi Party, though he staged political theatre explicitly mocking Hitler and the SA (Brownshirts).

As soon as the Nazi party came to power, Gerron’s career came to an end in Germany.  Forced to break off work on his current film, he went into exile, first in Paris for two years, and then in Vienna.   Austria was increasingly under Nazi control, however, and in October, 1935 Gerron and his wife moved to the Netherlands, a popular destination for many German refugees because of linguistic and cultural similarities, as well as a relatively generous policy toward German and Austrian immigrants.
In particular, these Hitler-refugees went to work re-invigorating the Dutch film industry.  A record number of movies was made in Holland between 1934-1940, many under Gerron’s direction.

When Germany finally occupied the Netherlands in May 1940 there were thousands of émigré Jews there, and one of the strongest resistance movements in occupied Europe.  The Nazis, however, were able to rapidly crush the resistance, and the Jews of Holland began to be targeted and deported as they had been in Germany and eastern Europe.  During the early years of occupation, however, German policy was relatively lenient, and Jews were allowed to pursue entertainment and theatre performances.  Here, as in 1920s Berlin, Gerron was involved in émigré German cabaret, performing with old acquaintances including Max Ehrlich, Eva Busch, Camilla Spira and Rudolf Nelson.  Gerron was also one of the few German émigrés allowed to appear in Dutch theatre pieces, as he had mastered the language.  The respite came to an end on 20 September 1943, when Gerron was sent to Westerbork with his family.

Arriving at Westerbork relatively late, he was quickly incorporated into the already successful cabaret group, for their third performance in October.  (This was to be the actress Camilla Spira’s final show).  He composed and performed a solo piece shortly after arriving, but soon thereafter, in late February 1944, he and his wife were sent to Theresienstadt, where he was considered to be a ‘privileged Jew’ due to his fame and his military service.  The Czech ‘show camp’ was to offer the final stage of Gerron’s career.  When he arrived, it was in the process of a beautification program in preparation for a visit by the Danish Red Cross; Gerron and his wife were assigned an apartment, and he was given a part in the local cabaret, soon receiving permission to found his own, named ‘Karussell’.  His cabaret was a success, popular with the SS and the camp commander. The program included songs from Three Penny Opera, French and Yiddish songs, and songs composed by the many musicians imprisoned with Gerron in Theresienstadt.

The success of the Nazi deception of the Red Cross encouraged the next, even more perverse plan: a propaganda film about life in the camp.  Of course Gerron, one of the best-known German directors before 1933, was the obvious choice for film-maker. At every moment of filming the SS was there, controlling discussions between actors, staff and director.  Gerron and the other workers were never given a copy of the script, nor were they ever allowed to see the film that was being shot.  He would simply be told what was to filmed next, and expected to produce it.  One of the few survivors of the film-making remembered the impossibility of the situation, as the SS ordered Gerron to shoot a scene of Jews laughing uproariously at a theatre performance.  The Jews, understandably, had no desire to laugh.  Terrified of the consequences of disobedience,

bathed in sweat, Gerron urged us, implored us, begged for discipline, for us to follow orders, absolutely ... and he began a contagious, irresistible laugh, during which he wobbled his fat belly, so that we really had to laugh, even though the situation for him and for us was anything but funny ... Thus he stood before us, pale, sweaty, laughing loudly, with a wobbling belly.  And thus they filmed peals of laughter from three thousand cheerful country-dwellers enjoying their glorious summer variety show.

The film also included scenes from his cabaret, and his final August performance of ‘Mack the Knife’.  Gerron, his wife Olga, and all the others who had worked on the film were transported to Auschwitz in the October transports, and the movie was completed, edited and cut without the presence of the director.  Former inmate Vlasta Schön remembers his disbelief at being on that fatal list, standing 'at the ramp. The train was ready to leave.  Gerron fell on his knees and asked for permission to stay.  He said “I made this movie for you!”  The SS boots kicked him inside the wagon.'  Kurt Gerron was killed on 15 November.

The actor and director’s long and distinguished career was largely overshadowed by the controversy over his final film: he was criticised for betraying his people, and for being the main force behind this propaganda.  More recently, however, he has begun to be remembered for his remarkable life and contribution to Germany’s cultural legacy.  In 1999, a full-length documentary movie was made about him by Ilona Ziok, titled Kurt Gerron's Karussell, and there has been increasing interest in his films and songs.

Sources

Alkalay-Gut, Karen. ‘Kurt Gerron: Prisoner of Paradise’. http://www.jewish-theatre.com/visitor/article_display.aspx?articleID=1707
 
Baaske, A., 1991. Musik in Konzentrationslagern, Freiburg im Breidgau: The Projektgruppe.  
Felsmann, B. & Prümm, K., 1992. Kurt Gerron -- Gefeiert und Gejagt, 1897-1944: Das Schicksal eines deutschen Unterhaltungskünstlers: Berlin, Amsterdam, Theresienstadt, Auschwitz, Berlin: Hentrich.

Jelavich, P., 2001. Cabaret in concentration camps. In Theatre and war, 1933-1945: performance in extremis. Balfour, Michael (Ed). New York: Berghahn Books.

Kater, M.H., 2000. Composers of the Nazi Era: Eight Portraits, Oxford: Oxford University Press.  
Kühn, Volker. They played for their life: Cabaret in the Face of Death. http://www.jewish-theatre.com/visitor/article_display.aspx?articleID=529
 
Stompor, S., 2001. Judisches Musik- und Theaterleben unter dem NS-Staat, Hannover: Europaisches Zentrum fur Judische Musik.

I Am Not Your Negro review: race, rage and the American Dream

SEE ALSO: http://www.pbs.org/independentlens/films/i-am-not-your-negro/

Raoul Peck’s fluid documentary uses the timeless anger of James Baldwin to animate his history of the black experience in America, from Hollywood stereotypes to police brutality.

Violet Lucca
4 December 2017

 https://www.bfi.org.uk/news-opinion/sight-sound-magazine/reviews-recommendations/i-am-not-your-negro-raoul-peck-race-rage-american-dream

As part of a 1961 radio panel that included fellow black literary luminaries Lorraine Hansberry and Langston Hughes, James Baldwin remarked: “To be a Negro in this country and to be relatively conscious is to be in a rage almost all the time. So that the first problem is how to control that rage so that it won’t destroy you.”

The agonising succinctness of this statement – so tight and perceptive, extemporaneous and journalistic – makes its truth sting that much more. It’s no doubt because of that furious, acidic crispness of his words that it’s Baldwin, not Hansberry, Hughes, Ralph Ellison or any other highly influential African-American writer of the 20th century, who has enjoyed a resurgence in the era of limited characters and outrage. (Baldwin secured his spot as a mid-century public intellectual through his media appearances, in part prepared by his years as a preacher in Harlem.) As Raoul Peck repeatedly demonstrates in I Am Not Your Negro, this anger is timeless, unwavering and (do I really need to say it?) completely justified; it is inseparable from the American experience.

Peck’s documentary begins with Baldwin’s unfinished book Remember This House, which intended to grapple with the lives and deaths of three civil rights leaders (Martin Luther King Jr, Malcolm X and Medgar Evers) who were also his friends. Baldwin’s words are brought to life by the raspy, hushed voiceover of Samuel L. Jackson, who gives his best performance in more than a decade. With access to the author’s entire archive, Peck uses photographs and television clips of Baldwin with these three figures to ‘illustrate’ their relationships, but also uses pictures of the men in similar but separate places to create the illusion that they were together at times they weren’t. It may seem like a small, typical doc trick, but the rhythms established through Alexandra Strauss’s editing stitch these images together in a way that makes them coherent and lively, filling in the gaps in historical records: although the men weren’t always photographed together, they were very often together.

After outlining the concept of the book and exploring the climate of the era (including a news clip of a pro-segregation woman claiming that God will forgive murder but not miscegenation), Peck begins using passages and ideas from The Devil Finds Work, Baldwin’s 1976 book about cinema. Because of the cohesiveness of Baldwin’s words and approach, this switch isn’t so jarring: his inability to find a man akin to his father at the dream factory, save for a blubbering prisoner who just looks like him, is crucial in the understanding of race in America. This disconnect between what Americans are told the country stands for (a place where everyone is free, a land of opportunity and scenic beauty) and what it actually is for millions (a place where the police, whose salaries are paid with all citizens’ taxes, are disproportionately more likely to kill you if you’re black) eventually becomes the main argument of Peck’s documentary.

Through montage and Baldwin’s words, the film deconstructs images of white heroism (such as John Wayne), racial forgiveness (such as Sidney Poitier falling off the train with Tony Curtis in 1958’s The Defiant Ones) and the function of the N-word itself (as Baldwin says on The Dick Cavett Show in 1968, “If you think I’m a nigger, it means you need it…”). A particularly jarring instance is the pairing of a blasé industrial film titled The Land We Love (1966) with footage of the Watts riots in 1965, and seeing, in addition to the absence of black faces in the former, how the American Dream is a wonderful dream but is also used as a nightstick to beat those who have been systemically prevented from enjoying it. (See also: the ‘pull up your pants’/All Lives Matter crowd.) Lovely images can hurt just as much as ugly ones.

More than simply weaving together Baldwin’s thoughts in an incisive, poetic way, what makes Peck’s film truly remarkable is how it repeatedly connects the writer’s thoughts not just to the present but to all of American history and its visual culture. The pandemonium of white bodies at a picnic in a Technicolor musical turns into the pandemonium of black bodies being subjected to police brutality; early photographs of black men and women, likely counting among W.E.B. Du Bois’s ‘talented tenth’, transition to filmed portraits of African Americans in the present day confronting the gaze of the camera; we see plantation stereotypes and blackface evolve from burnt cork to coded, subservient subjects in advertising. This stream-of-consciousness approach to history is always critical and never forced: as Baldwin describes the idea that crime is only perpetrated by “a handful of aberrants”, vintage footage of a group of black teenage boys being led to a maximum-security prison is juxtaposed with the harrowing images of (white) mass shooters and a clip from Gus Van Sant’s Elephant (2003). Without putting too fine a point on it, Peck shows how these uniquely American myths can swing both ways.

Despite covering all this ground, Peck rather oddly avoids a crucial aspect of Baldwin: his sexuality. Save for an excerpt from his FBI file (which states that he’s possibly a homosexual), there is no mention of his queerness. Although an argument can be made for time constraints, it’s a rather glaring omission in a film that deals in nuance and multilayered critiques. Baldwin’s sexuality was as much a part of his canniness and oppositional stance as his blackness; so while I Am Not Your Negro remains an astounding statement about race, a sequel that makes his queerness visible is sorely needed.

The house is innocent

I thought this film was great. I love how it uses humor to make light of murders. I had never heard of the murders or of this house before but it was really cool to learn about. I thought it was really funny that he put up signs that talked for the house and how when he took them down the people wanted him to keep them up. It was really funny and really interesting to see how this couple handled the past of the house and I think it is awesome that they did what they did with the signs and the props.

Reclamation

I really like this film a lot. When the Dakota Access Pipeline was in full forced we learned a lot about it in school. We got to see a lot of the different sides of the story but never really got to hear in depth the story of the people who lived on the land. It was very interesting to get to see and hear from the people that lived there and protested there. And it was amazing to see so many young people leading the movement and pushing forward. This film was very emotional and really brought light to how awful this issue is and how even though there were small victories there is still so much work to be done. I think a lot of people have forgotten about the pipeline but this film really shows that we cannot forget about this issue.