This is from a Blog so you can go there and post comments
http://www.cherokee-lodge.com
http://www.aanrmidwest.com/showme/
http://www.christiannc.com
http://www.jindofox.com/2008/01/bloglines-****d-before-god.html
It's unusually cool for a June evening at the Cherokee Lodge, and the
****ists have finally covered up. They sit at round plastic tables
under the pavilion's tin roof, drinking $3 cans of Miller High Life
and watching a 60-something in a teal thong shake her deep-dimpled ass
to some Top 40 song. Every once in a while, she spins to reveal quick
snapshots of her nipples peaking out of a fishnet top that sparkles
under the disco ball and Technicolor spotlights.
Soon the sweaty DJ spins the "Electric Boogie" as a herd of middle-
aged and elderly bodies, sagging in painful ways, begin to move
mechanically to the electric slide on the dance floor. Some of the
more practical women wear blouses and sweaters with no panties, others
wear tube tops that they wriggle down and over their breasts, which
sway freely to the beat. The men, some donning only cowboy hats and
dingy pearl-snap ****rts, terrycloth robes or nothing at all, rock
their hips -- and subsequently, their dangling genitals -- with
complete abandon. They all ****mmy from side to side, tilting forward
and snapping their fingers in the most bizarre display of jiggly, full-
frontal ****ity.
When a slow country song wafts through the night air, most of the 40
or so ****ists couple off. Rick, a financial analyst from Kings****t,
Tenn., who asked that we only use his first name, seems to be the only
eligible bachelor at the ****ist resort's Saturday-night dance. He and
I sit alone, swilling overpriced beer and talking about his divorce,
the days of disco and how he's usually not very social at these
things.
Rick's wearing a "Watch Out!! I'm Here to Raze Hell" T-****rt, which
covers a boyish upper body with no tan lines. He's managed to avoid
the round belly and love handles common among the midlife ****ist set.
You might not notice him at a bar in the city, but here, at a party in
the thicket of the ***berland Plateau nearly two hours east of
Nashville, Rick's a silver fox.
A few women do, in fact, ask him to dance -- an older, 5-foot-tall
woman almost as round as she is tall drags him onto the cement dance
floor for a Shania Twain song. And the leggy brunette bartender who
mans the beat-up beer fridge in the corner gets Rick smiling big
toothy grins as they dance to a disco beat. She's s****ting nipple
rings so elaborately coiled around her small breasts that you can't
help but stare.
Neither woman is looking for any action, but Rick doesn't care. He's
here for Jesus.
He has joined more than 20 others for the Christian ****ist
Convocation, a semi-annual gathering of salt-of- the-earth folks whose
dedication to being **** whenever possible is rivaled only by their
love for Christ. "May the Lord protect our ****ity from the sight of
those who will not benefit, and may He allow us to be seen by those
who will.... Amen," goes the prayer from one of the ****ist's websites.
In three days, they'll hike, swim, barbecue, have sing-alongs and, of
course, praise Jesus au natural. Some won't put as much as a ****rt on
all weekend. For most, the convocation is a respite from their
churches, neighbors and families -- the prudes of the clothed world
who are scared to high heaven by the thought of bare butts on church
pews. For others, it's a coming-out event, a safe place to test the
waters where "Christian ****ist" isn't considered an oxymoron.
For now, Rick's the only CNCer on the dance floor. Two of the
convocation's couples sit and watch, but the rest of the Christians
are minding the children at the campsite or stewing in the hot tub,
which sits in a small cabin made of weather-worn wood. The Christians
have cornered an atheist in the Jacuzzi, and it's time to get to work.
All this late-night drinking and dancing is not quite their scene,
even though tonight's party is devoid of the grinding and dry humping
you'd see at most nightclubs. They came here to learn how to be better
Christians, to discuss how Jesus jibes with ****ism and to enjoy the
hot tub jets without swim trunks. But they've got a higher purpose.
They're here to let the rest of the ****ies know that Jesus loves them.
And he doesn't care what they're wearing.
The CNCers make up a good percentage of this weekend's Cherokee Lodge
clientele, who have made their way off Interstate 40 to a wooded area
just outside of Crossville, the golf capital of Tennessee. More than
100 people occupy the campsites, cabins and RVs littered across the
****ist resort's 240 acres -- not counting the few dozen others who
have taken up permanent residency in trailers on the lot. This isn't
exactly a big showing for Cherokee: the ladies in the main office say
quite a few of their beer-drinking regulars decided to stay home when
they heard the Christians were coming.
But after all of the flak the CNCers get in their hometowns for their
****ist ways, they've decided their divine mission is here. And it
isn't an easy one. Many of their fellow **** vacationers are looking
for an empty lawn chair, a good buzz and an even better tan, which
leaves the CNC crowd torn between two worlds: the Christians who think
their ****ist ways are crazy, and the ****ists who don't want to be
bothered with all this Jesus talk.
"We're foremost Christians, but most Christians don't want to accept
that," says Kevin Moore, the CNC's Saturday wor****p leader. "In a
church, if someone finds out you're a ****ist, you're condemned. And
****ists have a poor view of Christians because they bug them when
they're here [at the resort]."
He gets a host of "amens" from the congregation. This morning they've
forsaken the pool and taken over the outdoor pavilion where the disco
ball hangs in wait for the night's festivities. Cherokee Lodge does
have its own chapel, the Little Church in the Wildwood. It rests
between a pet cemetery, which is marked by a smattering of silk
flowers crammed into the packed dirt, and a whole mess of trees.
The rustic church is home to Cherokee's own weekly service. The
untreated, rough wood pews are usually spotted with resort regulars on
Sundays -- even when the CNC isn't it town. But the church is small
and sweltering. It doesn't have electricity, so this morning's
convocation moved to take advantage of what's left of the cool night
breeze.
Other ****ists stare as they walk by, making their way from the outdoor
showers and heading toward the pool, carrying towels they'll use to
line lounge chairs and bar stools as they belly up to the snack shack
for beer and a hamburger.
Meanwhile, Kevin's leading a discussion titled, "Where are we going?
And why are we in this hand basket?" Only one guy laughs at the joke,
but they all get the gist. "Isn't that what a lot of Christians think
about ****ists? That we've got a fast track to a warm place in hell?"
They're thinking a lot more than that. Many consider ****ist resorts
the anti-church and, of course, orgy central: hotbeds of lust where
loose women, exhibitionists, hedonists, perverts, child predators and
the like assemble to roll around in a big stinky pile of sin and
vulgarity. And they can't see how good Christians could fit in -- or
why they'd even want to try.
The CNC crowd has gathered this morning to take notes and talk
scripture, to prep fortified biblical explanations for naysayers who
think that God would never sanction social ****ity. They do, in fact,
believe God led them here -- to their own Garden of Eden.
For the most part, the morning's conversation is typical church talk:
they were created in God's image, and what he made was very good.
Jesus died for their sins, and so on.
Then they get into this summer's Christian ****ist theme, the stuff
that they've been reading in the stream-of-consciousness posts that
CNC organizer Boyd Allen has plastered on his website. "But of course
we cannot possibly continue in this life perfectly without sin," one
post reads. "Then what do we do? We grab the nearest bush and hide
from God, right? No, no, no.... That was what Adam and Eve did,
remember? We don't want to do that again!"
Allen continues, "We run to God as we are and ask him to forgive us
and not just cover our sins but to wash them away and we will be clean
spiritually. Jesus [the] Christ washed away our sins.... We have been
restored to our original state to where we can come to God in the
garden, walk and talk with him 'just as I am.' Then why do we still
insist that our bodies are shameful?"
But wasn't it God who clothed Adam and Eve? If the eye rolling and the
groans are any indication, the CNC's Saturday morning congregation has
heard plenty of that before.
As Allen puts it, all God says to a fig-leaf-laden Adam and Eve in
Genesis is: who told you that you were ****d, and have you eaten of
the tree of which I commanded you not to eat? "Whoa here," Allen
writes. "That sounds more like he was displeased with their discovery.
Now we all know that God did indeed clothe them, but was that to cover
their ****d bodies in shame, or was it to protect them in their new
environment?"
The CNCers adhere to the latter. ****ity is righteous, but at certain
temperatures, cavorting without your pants on becomes a little silly.
Today, as the session drones on in the sticky heat, even Kevin leads
wor****p totally ****, baring an upper body shaved to appear near
prepubescent.
It's apparent that if the CNCers lack anything, it's body shame. They
adjust themselves in plastic patio chairs that leave horizontal marks
between their shoulder blades. Some are squished so tightly into the
dirty seats that their flesh presses into the armrests and spills over
the sides.
Kevin's gone through the Bible and marked every reference to
****dness, give or take a few. He talks about how God spoke to Isaiah
and told him to walk barefoot and unclothed. How Peter fished ****d
near the shores of Galilee. And how Jesus was **** when he washed the
feet of his disciples. "But there's nothing in there that says ****ity
is inherently wrong," he says. For much of the weekend, their dialogue
centers on such **** biblical references.
One woman sits facing the congregation. She's clothed only in a pair
of thin cotton shorts with an elastic waistband hiked up almost to
meet her large, heavy breasts. She takes hold of one breast, lifts it
off her stomach and covers the flesh underneath with a thick swipe of
deodorant. She moves slowly and deliberately. No one seems to notice.
If anything, the group would be hard-pressed to understand why an
outsider might find it offensive. Why wouldn't you want to sit at the
dinner table with your plate of Cherokee's famous barbecue and come
face-to-face with a passerby's ***** as you gnaw on a drumstick? Why
would you elect to keep on your top in 90-degree heat? Within the
first half-hour of meeting the CNCers, three men asked why I was the
only one wearing clothes and whether I had any intention of taking
them off. Later another offered to pay my Cherokee day fees ($25 plus
tax) if I'd visit some other day -- and fully participate.
With his freckled face and eyebrows so blond they're near invisible,
Boyd Allen looks a little like an overgrown Opie. It's fitting for a
country boy who grew up on a 40-acre farm in Florida.
When Boyd was 13, he gave into a simple, compelling urge that burned
inside him: he needed to be ****d. He would undress and sneak off into
the woods to run and explore. It wasn't what a good Christian boy
living in a strict household was supposed to do. So he didn't tell
anyone.
Nearly a quarter of a century later, he picked up a book about family
naturism in a bookstore. "It was what I was thinking, what I was
feeling, and I thought, 'This is beautiful,' " he says. He marched
over to the magazine section and flipped through an issue of **** &
Natural. He came back a month later for the new issue, where he found
some biblical talk about ****ism. "I bought the magazine and started
looking up the scriptures. I started writing my thoughts down because
it was beginning to flood my head. I just kept writing on and on."
It's that zeal that helped him become the CNC's new leader. He was
elected to take the helm when the convocation last convened a couple
of years ago at White Tail Resort in Virginia. CNC creator and ****ist
humor author Allen Parker asked Boyd and Kevin to be the CNC
torchbearers after the convocation fell short of his expectations.
Parker started the CNC in 2003 to unite a handful of Christian ****ist
resort chapels with the hope that they'd confederate and start
churches in ****ist resorts across the country. Instead, he says the
CNC morphed into what it is today -- more of a social outing, a place
for meeting, greeting and fellow****p time.
For Boyd, it's a godsend. He used to show up 15 minutes early to his
telecommunications job so that he could pray over his co-workers'
cubicles -- imploring God to give them a good day. Now he's found his
calling.
Today, Allen's 4-year-old daughter darts from tent to tent at the CNC
campsite, just as happy as she can be. Allen's wife, Gwin, grills
hamburgers and hot dogs for the group cookout. Her breasts hang
dangerously close to the sizzling meat as smoke encircles her body.
This is the family life of Boyd's dreams -- a wife who disrobed before
he did at their first visit to a ****ist resort outside of Greensboro,
N.C., and a daughter who can run free and ****, without the shame and
secrecy that marred his childhood jaunts.
But the family's ****ist life hasn't been all that easy. Boyd doesn't
talk much about their struggle to stay **** and happy. But Gwin does.
She sits at the picnic table, her cookout duties complete, and talks
about how Boyd would move the family to Cherokee tomorrow if he could.
It would certainly make ****ity easier, but Gwin isn't prepared to
isolate her family from friends and relatives who'd never step foot in
such a place.
It's not that they live in secret. Most of their neighbors know. With
Allen walking outside without as much as a bathrobe to grab the
morning paper, it would be difficult for them not to.
It wasn't until a stranger caught sight of Allen mowing the backyard
in the buff that a cop came knocking. Gwin felt a familiar fear:
they're going to take away my daughter. "All you need for something
like that to become a problem is one zealous social worker with not a
clue as to what this is all about -- and no desire to find out. That's
all it takes. I know what we're doing isn't wrong. I know what we're
doing is a good thing," she says, as her daughter scampers up and asks
for a "drinky."
The officer let them off, but it didn't put Gwin's mind at ease. Her
daughter will start pre-K in the fall, and it's hard to teach a 4-year-
old to keep quiet about the ****ist lifestyle, especially when it's all
she's ever known.
"It's annoying that I have to teach [my daughter] very strongly that
we do this -- it's OK -- but understand that there are places and
people who don't get that," Gwin says. "And in her little mind it's,
'But why, mommy?' And what do you say? Because that's the way people
are."
It's difficult to convince people that subjecting a child to so much
****ity doesn't make you a pervert. Just ask Cameron Bennett. This is
his first CNC, and he's brought his wife and two kids along for the
ride. After all the hell they've been through with their home church,
they're considering joining the Little Church in the Wildwood.
They attended the Church of Antioch until Cameron got candid about
their lifestyle. He told his Bible study group that he attended
wor****p service at a ****ist park, and things quickly began to change.
He tried to volunteer in the church's nursery but was turned away. "I
was urged during the business meetings, 'Don't volunteer anymore. The
ladies are nervous -- they don't want you in there,' " he says. "They
were afraid that I was going to molest a child. Let's face it, when I
would check my daughter's diaper, I would touch the diaper to make
sure it wasn't wet. Well, touch in an area down there, some people
think you might be molesting, too."
He withdrew his member****p from the church and asked God to lead the
way. He found the CNC. "Maybe this is where I return to the Lord...,"
he says.
Cameron and others believe children are natural ****ists. They think
that kids, much like Adam and Eve, should be free to run **** through
the garden, to live their lives without knowing shame -- that it would
take Satan, or a prudish parent, to plant the idea of shame into their
hearts and minds.
A pack of CNC kids run around the resort, fighting over Thomas the
Tank Engine and playing with flashlights. Except for the occasional
pair of pull-up training pants, they're ****. They scribble with pink
sidewalk chalk that smears across their rears and bellies. No one
cares if the kids get dirty. They'll get hosed off later.
And they appear to be very, very happy. They don't seem to notice
anyone's ****dness -- especially their own -- and don't as much as
stare at the fattest of the CNC crew or leer at all that sagging.
CNC parents think these kids will be better-adjusted adults for it.
They subscribe to the mantra that ****ism demystifies the body,
satiates curiosity about the opposite ***, curbs premarital *** and
combats poor body image in children.
Many of the CNC women wish they'd had such a childhood. They huddle
together in a corner of the pavilion for a women's-only session and
gab about everything from their own bouts with bad body image to
uncomfortable bras and The Tyra Banks Show. It's a buffet of breasts,
seven pairs to be exact, ranging from A to DD.
Most were lured into the ****ist lifestyle by their husbands. Myra
Moore, who is married to Kevin, says her husband's desire to explore
the ****ist community floored her. "I said, 'There's something wrong
with this. I can't accept it.' Being a Christian, I said show me in
the scripture...wrong, right, indifferent, where is it?" And Kevin
showed her.
It took six months to get Myra to a resort, but Kevin didn't push. He
knew it was delicate. Myra was molested at age 6 and had lingering
issues with her body. "He was caring enough and he was Christian
enough to think about me and what I'd been through," she says. "He
waited until I was ready and he showed me how to trust him, trust in
God and go to a resort."
Another woman chimes in. She was molested from age 3 to 11 and dreaded
being **** around her husband. When she agreed to dabble in social
****ity on her delayed honeymoon, she was terrified. "When I got there,
I saw that the people weren't looking at me as a piece of meat; they
treated me just like if I was wearing clothes -- in fact, better than
that. They just accepted you for you. It's really actually helped me
in many, many ways.... I can be around my house ****, around my
husband **** and it doesn't bother me. It's done a lot of healing."
All of the CNC women nod. The ****ity-as-a-healer theme is a common
one.
It's a good time for Gwin to bring up her master plan. She hopes to
bus anorexics and bulimics to ****ist resorts, where she'll minister to
them with the help of her fellow CNC women, eating disorder experts
and, of course, God. "As naturists, we're in a position to say,
'Here's our body. We're not ashamed. We're the normal size -- and it's
OK.' "
The CNC women agree that the ****ist resort is one of the few places
where they aren't judged by the size of their breasts or the style of
their clothes. But that doesn't explain why, even here, some of them
have traces of eyeliner on their lids, artfully feathered hair and
nether regions waxed -- in some cases, full-Brazilian style, which is
to say, bare -- to high heaven. For the most part, however, they're a
fairly plain group whose beauty regimens consist of little more than a
smear of sunscreen.
They consider themselves to be a modest bunch. It's the other women,
the clothed ones with cascading cleavage and push-up bras -- the ones
with the lustful "look at me" intentions -- who are immodest, they
say.
They know that many a Christian would find the ****ist idea of modesty
laughable. And all of those claims about ****ity for the sake of body
acceptance? They know some would say they're twisting the scripture to
justify their desire to let their goodies out for all to see.
But at Cherokee, no one seems to be looking. The CNCers give good eye
contact because it's considered poor form to look down. Besides, they
say they wouldn't want to, at least not for the purpose of lusting
after your wares.
When Kevin asks the congregation where lustful thoughts come from,
several of the women say Satan. "The Book of James says it comes from
within our own heart. You're making it someone else's problem if
you're saying you can't be ****d because it's going to generate
lustful thoughts in me. You're putting your own weaknesses on them."
They believe that not all ****ity is created equal. It's a notion
that's difficult for most in our ***-soaked society to comprehend,
they say. If the only time we're exposed to ****ity is in a ***ual
context, then we'll think that bare bodies at a ****ist resort must be
***ual.
The CNCers don't see clothes as lust deterrents. Even Gwin confessed
to the women's group that she has "always found that clothing, if it
drapes on a man just right, is more provocative than 100 ****d men."
See, they think of their lifestyle as "chaste ****dness." And even a
dance floor full of gyrating ****ies can't make them lust. They've got
Jesus in their hearts.
No matter how much scripture the CNCers have in their hearts, they
know there's no way to ensure that all that bare chastity won't turn
somebody else on. They call it "lust of the eyes." But it's not the
kind of transgression the CNCers can sense, or really bust you for. If
it were, the mere presence of Lonnie Kimble would've had my ass
packing before the first devotions.
When Kimble, a CNC newbie, straps on his acoustic guitar (and nothing
else), it's an image ripe for the cover of a romance novel. He plays
"Jesus Loves Me" at the morning sermon, probably without an ounce of
lust in his heart. He's got the toned, beach body of a surfer, with
tousled, sun-bleached waves that tease his broad shoulders. He looks
like Jesus with a tan and access to modern grooming.
He's the one in the group who is difficult not to look at, though
admitting as much to any CNCer would have landed me in the much-feared
group of the spiritually weak who, even when faced with such chaste
****dness, have a hot case of lust.
As sinner's luck would have it, Cherokee Lodge is not a bastion of
fitness. The hottest thing you'll see is a pair of pierced nipples.
But more often than not, they adorn breasts that have long since moved
southward. There aren't any lithe co-eds bouncing playfully on the
beach volleyball court. In fact, the whole experience is more like an
unfortunate lesson in the anatomy of the aging. Cameron puts it this
way: "I've seen some of these ladies. They look great with a ****rt on.
Take that ****rt off -- eew. I didn't know they sagged that far down."
The place is virtually ***less. And the folks at Cherokee Lodge want
it that way. The rule sheets disbursed at check-in offer these
warnings: no dirty dancing, lap dancing, lingerie or overt ***ual
behavior. There's even a surveillance camera in the hot tub.
This is no swingers club either. If it were, Rick, CNC's resident
disco-dancing bachelor, wouldn't have it. He does admit that, during a
prior Cherokee visit, one woman started talking dirty in the hot tub.
He re****ted her to management and she was banned from the resort.
"There are singles clubs. But if you want something like that, go to
Nashville or Knoxville, OK?" he says. "But it's not here at
Cherokee.... That's not what ****ists are here for."
Even without the hot *** (and with all that self-policing), the
Jacuzzi is still ****ist Mecca. To an outsider, the thought of steeping
in a tub where swimsuits are strictly disallowed with a whole slew of
sweaty strangers is unappetizing. But to the CNCers, it's just another
tool in their master plan to proselytize the ****ies.
"To most Christians, this resort would be the end of the world.... To
me, it's Jerusalem. It's our own backyard," Kevin says. He calls
****ists modern-day lepers who "most Christians don't want to touch
with a 10-foot pole."
Enter the hot tub. The Bible describes God's voice as quiet, Kevin
tells the congregation. When ****ists aren't at the resort, they're at
home with the kids, the TV and all that noise. "You can't hear God as
easily. Here, you can hear a little more." And in the Jacuzzi, they're
relaxed and easier to approach.
When Kevin burns through his long list of biblical references to
****ity, some of the CNCers take notes. Sure, they're here to get
closer to God. But, at the heart of it, they know they have lots of
explaining to do. "We have a calling to teach the average Christian
that ****d does not equal bad," he says. But they all know that's a
tough row to hoe. For now, they'd rather gather an arsenal of
explanations they can use to tell ****ists why God sanctions social
****ity.
That night, as the droves of ****ists danced the night away, the new
CNCers got a trial run. God put that atheist in the hot tub, and the
crew channeled Kevin -- and all that scripture -- and gave it their
best. There's no telling if it worked. Come Sunday morning, the CNCers
can't even remember the man's name.
The **** bodies filter into the chapel. They arrange their towels on
the pews and settle in for service. It's a big day for Pete, the only
CNC wor****p leader who's got his own clothed congregation at home.
He asked that we not use his name (in fact, he wouldn't give it) or
any indication of his age or where he lives. He even asked that we
refrain from describing his body in great detail. "If they found out,
I would lose my church, my kids, my family, my life," he explains, his
20-something wife slinking behind him in the pews, cradling her
stretch-mark-laden stomach in her arms.
You can't help but wonder if "they" means his congregation, who
undoubtedly would be outraged and awed to learn that their pastor's
been preaching the good word to a small congregation tucked away in
the Tennessee backwoods -- with his ***** peaking out of a silk navy
robe.
This is the first time I've seen Pete clothed. He slipped on the robe
while walking the rocky path that leads hikers past a cluster of
travel-trailers to the Little Church in the Wildwood. But he couldn't
have chosen a worse time to suit up. It's still far from noon, but
when the heat from 20-plus bodies meets the damp morning air inside
the chapel, it's steamy, and the group starts to smell a bit sour.
Kimble has just slipped his guitar strap off his shoulder after
leading the fellow****p in singing "Amazing Grace" and "Awesome God."
The baritone voices rocked the rough pews into vibration, and
everyone's in the mood for some more soul shaking.
Pete delivers. He starts his sermon so hard and loud, it's
frightening. Soon he's howling, "You don't have to be afraid of God
anymore!" And you're afraid. He rants in dramatized near-delirium
about "Jeee-zus!" and his "guh-lory." Before long, you're begging him
to breathe, and he does s****adically, with the deep grasping breaths
of a swimmer emerging from the water.
When he moves on to the "Book of Isaiah," he's pacing and gu****ng
Bible verse so fast that he's hard to follow. The sweat has started to
trickle from his short sideburns as his silken robe sticks to his pale
skin and begins to work itself open. He tells of how the prophet
Isaiah fell to the ground when he had a vision of God and cowered in
fear, his sins exposed. But the angels purified him and God said, "You
will go and speak for me."
"And Isaiah gives one of the best answers you can ever give God," Pete
says. "Isaiah says, 'Here am I. I'll go.' "
It rings true for Pete. When God drew him to the ****ist ministry, the
former heathen head banger was ready. "I really feel that God laid
this on my heart, that this is a ministry that he wanted me to do," he
says. "You know, of all the missionary-type endeavors to do -- some
people get sent to Africa, some people get sent to South America --
and the Lord was like, 'I want you to go to ****ist resorts.' And I'm
like, 'Wow, what an assignment.' Aren't I the lucky one, you know?"
Ever since that faithful calling, Pete has prayed over it -- hard.
He's asked God to stop him from disrobing, from traveling to Cherokee,
if it wasn't his way. But God's only reassured him, even as Pete dog-
paddled in the lodge swimming pool Saturday night.
As the cool water slipped over his bare body, Pete asked God what he
should tell a church full of ****ists. And you've got to wonder why God
didn't answer with something more original. "God especially wanted me
to tell you this morning to remember that you were created in his
image," Pete tells the churchgoers as he gets into the same we're-not-
ashamed-of-what-God-created spiel the group has been pu****ng all
weekend.
They end the service in prayer, asking God to claim the nameless, hot
tub atheist for the kingdom. To extend Cherokee's borders and to
increase the Little Church's anointed. And then they pray for their
**** brothers and sisters who will be continuing the Lord's work the
next weekend as the convocation moves on to Show Me Acres ****ist
resort, a little slice of heaven about two hours outside of Kansas
City, Mo.
They eat some burgers and rush to break camp, to roll up their tents
and corral the kids as the thunder begins to clap and dark clouds form
overhead. Gwin tries to pawn off leftover baked beans and weenies on
the travelers, but she ends up walking the dirt road to the resort's
main office, where she offers the food to the women inside. These are
the same women who gossip about how the whole CNC lot scared off the
camp's heavy drinkers.
Some CNCers begin to dress outside of the open doors to their modest
cars -- one marked with the license plate "NKD B4GD" -- as a few fat,
stray raindrops find their way to the group's ****d skin. Many of the
men dress in the same pair of clothes they arrived in. In fact, it's
all that most of the men packed. That and a towel.
The women climb into the passenger seats, reluncantly clothed but
without a bra if they can help it. And they'll ride that way, all the
way home -- where they'll quickly disrobe and once again feel free.
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