She was from Alabama. As such, our group of friends called her ‘Bama.

It probably wasn’t my single favourite thing about her, but I really enjoyed that she got to Burning Man by convincing her mom she needed money for Christian Camp. As such, I have come to refer to Burning Man as Christian Camp.

Along the road onto the playa, beside a crawling chain of cars and trucks and vans and campers and campervans, there was one guy waving a homemade sign that read:

JESUS DIED SO YOU WON’T BE BURNIN’, MAN

It didn’t sit well with the three other people in our vehicle, and I would guess most of the other people along the road weren’t crazy about it either. Unless it was the intent of the sign’s author to almost literally preach to the choir, his creation was an unmitigated communications disaster. Although it probably resonated with however many people there were out there who, like me, have the benefit of a fairly robust Christain education. A failed indoctrination, one might say.

In turn, this group of us could then explain to our now somewhat-defensive travelling companions that the intent of this sign was probably not to condemn us for our week of desert idol worship. Instead, it was to remind us that what Christains actually believe is that Jesus sacrificed himself—really somewhat reluctantly—to save us from our own sins. So that, even if we happen to make some questionable choices at Burning Man, we’re not also eternally damned to the fires of hell. We are, in this view, only saved by grace.

That’s the narrow interpretation of it.

More broadly, and (much to the chagrin of my grandmother) arguably secularly, I found it to be a wonderfully generous reminder that compassion and forgiveness are infinite. Ever open to our acceptance, and ours to offer freely.

Sure, it’s a debatable assertion.

But not in my heart.

When the last car had passed, I’m sure my friend packed up his sign, hopped into his RV, and drove through the gate to join the party.