We have now been in Caronport, Saskatchewan for the same length of time that we were previously in New Sweden, Maine. These past seven years in Caronport (summer 2003 to summer 2010) were preceded by seven years pastoring in New Sweden (summer 1996 to summer 2003). When I left New Sweden in 2003, I was not happy with myself as a pastor. When I left New Sweden, I left the pastorate.
Last night we watched a home video of scenes of New Sweden and footage of some church events. Watching that video, I was reminded of how good God was to us in New Sweden. God did very good things in my family during our New Sweden years.
Steve grew in some very important and lasting ways. In New Sweden Steve grew into owning his own faith in Christ and his own commitment to God’s truth. Steve came to New Sweden a young boy and left a young man. In those crucial growing-up years, Steve acquired a special sense of belonging to New Sweden, and now claims it as his home town. Actually, all of New England has captured his heart. He feels a gravitational pull to Boston, which I think is very cool. In New Sweden, Steve also became a guitar player, a scientist with a bent toward romanticism, and a lover of politics, mysteries, and theories.
Mike showed boldness and self-confidence in New Sweden that helped set his trajectory into adulthood. When he moved to Caribou High School from New Sweden Elementary, he was smaller and looked younger that most kids in his grade. He just had fun with it. When people asked him “how old are you?” he answered “I’m twelve – I’m a genius.” That kind of chutzpah has been Mike’s hallmark. Fear and anxiety don’t push Mike around, thanks to the inner growth spurt he took in New Sweden. Mike also became a fine pianist during his New Sweden years.
Eric, who now in his high school years is finding great pleasure in music and drama, first found “the stage” in New Sweden. Part of our New Sweden home video shows Eric hamming it up in the Sunday School Christmas program, and harmonizing in a duet with Mom. Until watching that video last night, I had forgotten that Eric never struggled with shyness or stage fright. And when Eric took up the violin, it wasn’t long before he was playing in church. He had such a good ear for music that once he knew a tune, he could easily cheat and not learn the notes on the page. Using his killer musical ear he cultivated his love of performing, thanks to encouragement from his New Sweden violin teacher and his church family.
New Sweden was very good for Anne and me. We worked together every day on one thing or another. Anne did not have a job outside of the home or church, but her ministry involvement was full time. She was involved in Sunday school, youth group, women’s events, visiting, and all things secretarial. Our praying together and encouraging each other was the lifeblood of our relationship. There was so much in our ministry life that brought us joy. People continually took care of us and prayed for us and blessed us.
As for me, I am counting my New Sweden blessings. Every aspect of the ministry of preaching and teaching was personally enriching. Days with baptisms I called the happiest days of the year. Being welcomed into a family circle during times of crisis and grief was a high privilege. I had the profound experience of sitting with families as a dying loved one breathed their last breath. In our traditional, rural area, people not connected to any church would simply expect me to talk about God, and I enjoyed those golden opportunities. Praying with people and hearing testimonies of God’s grace made God’s presence palpable. I have precious memories of times when we as a body walked together through times of challenge and times of joy.
My family’s New Sweden experience testifies to the great truth that among the many variables in the life of a church, God’s grace is the constant.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Pimples: A Love Story
Ages 14 to 24 I call my “decade of acne.” I went to the dermatologist every month, put goop on my face every day, and tried hard to avoid pimple food. This was before “Proactive.” The best we had was “Oxy 10.” The stuff my dermatologist prescribed was a useless, thick white paste that I smeared all over my face every night (and every night it smeared off onto my pillow). Three of those years were my Briercrest years, and the school was small enough that you knew everyone. So I can definitively report that in the pimples category I was top of my class three years in a row. In the 1978-1979 Briercrest yearbook (p.19) there is a picture of me working on my face in front of the mirror in the “B” Dorm second floor washroom. The caption says: “Mirror, mirror on the wall: is it a dimple or a pimple?”
I’m blogging in order to learn from my life’s experiences and from the Bible’s truths—to see how my experiences have bumped up against biblical truths, and how the Bible interprets my life. So now I would now like to share my reflections upon the adventure of a decade lived among the pimples.
I felt bad. This is my most vivid recollection. I felt bad about myself. (OK, I’ll say it again: some of my “hard times” stories are amazingly wussy. This is miniscule when compared to the suffering of so many. But I’ll also say again that my stuff is my stuff. Click away if you want. This is me). I felt bad about myself because I was blemished. When I saw the old movie “The Face Behind the Mask” I could relate to Peter Lorre, who plays a guy whose face was badly burned, and when he eventually meets a kind (and blind) woman he says “My face is aaagly; could you love meee?” I really catastrophized. I let the lowly pimple do a number on my self-worth. (Of course I had them a hundred at a pop). I was aware that I was wrongly judging myself, but I couldn’t shake the verdict. I related to good old Peter Lorre. I related to those Old Testament lepers: “Unclean!”
Of course I understood that God (and anyone else with any maturity) would know that it’s what’s inside that counts. God even said it to Samuel as he sought a man after God’s own heart to replace the superficially perfect man for the job King Saul. “For the LORD sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the LORD looks on the heart” (1 Sam 16:7). Yes, that’s right—it’s the heart that matters, not the skin. “Keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flow the springs of life” (Prov 4:23).
OK, my heart was pretty messed up too. The heart is the love zone, and I loved myself a lot. I loved myself according to sin’s normal promptings: pride, comparing, judging, needing to be at least above average. Typical sinful self-love. The flip side of this kind of self-love is self-loathing which I was excelling at it. God looks on the heart. Great. But just because you have an “acne motif” outward appearance does not guarantee you have a great looking heart. I didn’t.
While I was judging myself by my complexion, I was pretty consistent in judging everyone else by appearances too. Even at Bible College, though I knew better, I assumed the best people were the best looking people. I was getting what I was giving. The measure by which I judged others was the measure by which I judged myself.
I learned all the above. I learned how easy it is to catastrophize, making mountains out of mole hills. I learned that even when you understand that “it’s what’s inside that counts,” you can still feel like scum for the most superficial of reasons. I learned that a bad outward appearance does not guarantee a lovely heart. And I learned that if you set up wretched standards by which you judge others, you’ll probably judge yourself by those same standards.
But here’s my favorite thing that I learned: be loved. I’ve mentioned my sinful self-love. OK, so biblically, how should I love myself? Accept God’s love for me. Bask in it. Embrace it. Receive it. I don’t deserve his love but he loves me anyway, and I shouldn’t waste his good, good love. So I’ll open up my messed-up heart and be loved. When I was yielding more pimples per acre than anyone else at Briercrest, God loved me. A bunch of neat people loved me. Anne even fell in love with me. (I’d tell her in my best Peter Lorre voice “my face is aaagly—could you love meee?”)
Pimples became a love story. Just be loved.
I’m blogging in order to learn from my life’s experiences and from the Bible’s truths—to see how my experiences have bumped up against biblical truths, and how the Bible interprets my life. So now I would now like to share my reflections upon the adventure of a decade lived among the pimples.
I felt bad. This is my most vivid recollection. I felt bad about myself. (OK, I’ll say it again: some of my “hard times” stories are amazingly wussy. This is miniscule when compared to the suffering of so many. But I’ll also say again that my stuff is my stuff. Click away if you want. This is me). I felt bad about myself because I was blemished. When I saw the old movie “The Face Behind the Mask” I could relate to Peter Lorre, who plays a guy whose face was badly burned, and when he eventually meets a kind (and blind) woman he says “My face is aaagly; could you love meee?” I really catastrophized. I let the lowly pimple do a number on my self-worth. (Of course I had them a hundred at a pop). I was aware that I was wrongly judging myself, but I couldn’t shake the verdict. I related to good old Peter Lorre. I related to those Old Testament lepers: “Unclean!”
Of course I understood that God (and anyone else with any maturity) would know that it’s what’s inside that counts. God even said it to Samuel as he sought a man after God’s own heart to replace the superficially perfect man for the job King Saul. “For the LORD sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the LORD looks on the heart” (1 Sam 16:7). Yes, that’s right—it’s the heart that matters, not the skin. “Keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flow the springs of life” (Prov 4:23).
OK, my heart was pretty messed up too. The heart is the love zone, and I loved myself a lot. I loved myself according to sin’s normal promptings: pride, comparing, judging, needing to be at least above average. Typical sinful self-love. The flip side of this kind of self-love is self-loathing which I was excelling at it. God looks on the heart. Great. But just because you have an “acne motif” outward appearance does not guarantee you have a great looking heart. I didn’t.
While I was judging myself by my complexion, I was pretty consistent in judging everyone else by appearances too. Even at Bible College, though I knew better, I assumed the best people were the best looking people. I was getting what I was giving. The measure by which I judged others was the measure by which I judged myself.
I learned all the above. I learned how easy it is to catastrophize, making mountains out of mole hills. I learned that even when you understand that “it’s what’s inside that counts,” you can still feel like scum for the most superficial of reasons. I learned that a bad outward appearance does not guarantee a lovely heart. And I learned that if you set up wretched standards by which you judge others, you’ll probably judge yourself by those same standards.
But here’s my favorite thing that I learned: be loved. I’ve mentioned my sinful self-love. OK, so biblically, how should I love myself? Accept God’s love for me. Bask in it. Embrace it. Receive it. I don’t deserve his love but he loves me anyway, and I shouldn’t waste his good, good love. So I’ll open up my messed-up heart and be loved. When I was yielding more pimples per acre than anyone else at Briercrest, God loved me. A bunch of neat people loved me. Anne even fell in love with me. (I’d tell her in my best Peter Lorre voice “my face is aaagly—could you love meee?”)
Pimples became a love story. Just be loved.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Briercrest
Does God use places? Well, he uses people and he uses events. Like a shepherd, God gathers his people. Once gathered, God’s people engage in Spirit-prompted action and interaction. Suddenly, things happen. Wonderful life-changing things. Events about which we find ourselves saying “this is a God thing.”
So if these “God-things” are the events that change us, and if these events are simply God’s people in action, and if these actions are Spirit-prompted, and if the Spirit-prompting happens when we are gathered, and if we are gathered because God has gathered us in certain places, then I’ll say yes, God uses places.
Maybe certain places have such a concentration of God’s people engaged in Spirit-prompted action, that the place becomes a “hot spot” of changed lives. For me, Briercrest College and Seminary is one of God’s hot spots. Here are the “God things” that have happened to me at Briercrest.
The Bible became part of my life at Briercrest. When I was a Briercrest student from 1978 to 1981, three of my teachers were Dr. Henry Hildebrand, Dr. Henry Budd, and Mr. Orville Swenson. The strongest lasting impact of those three men was the unshakeable biblical basis for what we believe and how we are to live. Years later as I worked on my Doctrinal Statement for ordination in the Baptist General Conference, I had earned a Master of Divinity degree at another school, but found myself continually remembering my theological foundation established at Briercrest: never let go of the authority of Scripture.
The Great Commission became part of my life at Briercrest. World missions was the air we breathed. We heard from at least one missionary each week in chapel, and there was a strong “Student Missions Fellowship” program that we were all to have at least a minimal involvement in. Some of us jumped in with both feet. In my second year I led the “Africa Prayer Band” which was a weekly gathering of students who wanted to pray for Africa. There were 6 or 7 other prayer bands focused on other regions. We students covered the whole world in prayer every week. For my entire adult life, I’ve had a strong sense of accountability to the task of making disciples of all nations. That started at Briercrest.
Ministry became part of my life at Briercrest. My leadership in the Africa Prayer Band was hugely formative. The following year I was asked to coordinate the entire prayer band program. Other ministries that were part of my Briercrest years included children’s Bible clubs, a witnessing group, helping with a Youth Quake missions session, teaching Sunday School to college students, my first preaching experiences, and one summer of involvement in an inner city multi-racial church. I searched for and tested my spiritual gifts at Briercrest.
Anne became part of my life at Briercrest. In our second year, when I led the Africa Prayer Band, Anne was our guitar player. During that year, Anne and I grew from teammates to friends to a “couple.” The next year was our senior year, and the year after graduation we got married. After seminary in Minnesota, a stint as a health care chaplain, and pastoring a church in Maine, the Paulson family came back to Briercrest in 2003 so I could work on a Master’s degree in Old Testament. Since 2004 I have had the privilege of serving as a “Faculty Adviser” (part teaching; part advising). Anne is the manager of the Briercrest Bookstore. We love our life among Briercrest students.
Each of our three sons has seen their Caronport experience become a “God thing.” Steve and his wife Kara found each other here, and are currently blessing both sets of grandparents by living in Caronport with baby Ella. Mike has found his way to the University of Waterloo through the influence of his good Caronport buddy Chris (and in Waterloo God is doing very good things in Mike’s life). Eric is going into grade 12 and has found a niche in which he can thrive—the arts—thanks to faculty and friends at Caronport High School.
God gathers his people, God’s people engage in Spirit-prompted action, and things happen that can only be called “God things.” God uses people and events in the places to which he calls us. He has profoundly used Briercrest in the lives of the Paulson family.
So if these “God-things” are the events that change us, and if these events are simply God’s people in action, and if these actions are Spirit-prompted, and if the Spirit-prompting happens when we are gathered, and if we are gathered because God has gathered us in certain places, then I’ll say yes, God uses places.
Maybe certain places have such a concentration of God’s people engaged in Spirit-prompted action, that the place becomes a “hot spot” of changed lives. For me, Briercrest College and Seminary is one of God’s hot spots. Here are the “God things” that have happened to me at Briercrest.
The Bible became part of my life at Briercrest. When I was a Briercrest student from 1978 to 1981, three of my teachers were Dr. Henry Hildebrand, Dr. Henry Budd, and Mr. Orville Swenson. The strongest lasting impact of those three men was the unshakeable biblical basis for what we believe and how we are to live. Years later as I worked on my Doctrinal Statement for ordination in the Baptist General Conference, I had earned a Master of Divinity degree at another school, but found myself continually remembering my theological foundation established at Briercrest: never let go of the authority of Scripture.
The Great Commission became part of my life at Briercrest. World missions was the air we breathed. We heard from at least one missionary each week in chapel, and there was a strong “Student Missions Fellowship” program that we were all to have at least a minimal involvement in. Some of us jumped in with both feet. In my second year I led the “Africa Prayer Band” which was a weekly gathering of students who wanted to pray for Africa. There were 6 or 7 other prayer bands focused on other regions. We students covered the whole world in prayer every week. For my entire adult life, I’ve had a strong sense of accountability to the task of making disciples of all nations. That started at Briercrest.
Ministry became part of my life at Briercrest. My leadership in the Africa Prayer Band was hugely formative. The following year I was asked to coordinate the entire prayer band program. Other ministries that were part of my Briercrest years included children’s Bible clubs, a witnessing group, helping with a Youth Quake missions session, teaching Sunday School to college students, my first preaching experiences, and one summer of involvement in an inner city multi-racial church. I searched for and tested my spiritual gifts at Briercrest.
Anne became part of my life at Briercrest. In our second year, when I led the Africa Prayer Band, Anne was our guitar player. During that year, Anne and I grew from teammates to friends to a “couple.” The next year was our senior year, and the year after graduation we got married. After seminary in Minnesota, a stint as a health care chaplain, and pastoring a church in Maine, the Paulson family came back to Briercrest in 2003 so I could work on a Master’s degree in Old Testament. Since 2004 I have had the privilege of serving as a “Faculty Adviser” (part teaching; part advising). Anne is the manager of the Briercrest Bookstore. We love our life among Briercrest students.
Each of our three sons has seen their Caronport experience become a “God thing.” Steve and his wife Kara found each other here, and are currently blessing both sets of grandparents by living in Caronport with baby Ella. Mike has found his way to the University of Waterloo through the influence of his good Caronport buddy Chris (and in Waterloo God is doing very good things in Mike’s life). Eric is going into grade 12 and has found a niche in which he can thrive—the arts—thanks to faculty and friends at Caronport High School.
God gathers his people, God’s people engage in Spirit-prompted action, and things happen that can only be called “God things.” God uses people and events in the places to which he calls us. He has profoundly used Briercrest in the lives of the Paulson family.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Meeting Olivia
If this wasn’t our greatest teen-age adventure, it is certainly the most fun to talk about. To the best of my memory, the facts of this story are true. The reflections are my own. The adventure was real.
It was the summer of 1975 and Olivia Newton-John was coming to perform at the Minnesota State Fair. One August evening with the Fair a week or two away, Brian, Bob and I were hanging out, pondering the wonder of seeing Olivia live in-concert. The three of us shared a yearning for Olivia that psychology has undoubtedly categorized for accurate diagnosis and appropriate treatment. But in simple terms, we were just goofy about her.
It had to be our buddy Bri who had the wild idea of trying to meet Olivia. Bri always was the perfect combination of wizard and scientist: first imagine the impossible, and then figure out a way to make it happen. Bob was real practical, so he was good at getting things off the drawing board. My usual role was to anticipate how we might get in trouble and suggest alternatives. I was the self-appointed wet blanket. But tonight’s idea carried a mandate like none other. If there was a way to meet Olivia, we must find it.
Obviously we couldn’t sneak back stage of the state fair grandstand because they’d throw us out. And we couldn’t break into Olivia’s hotel room, because we would get arrested. But there was one opportunity and it was genius in its simplicity. We would meet her as she arrived at the airport.
We knew from Billboard Magazine that Olivia was on tour that summer, and Toronto was her concert date immediately prior to the Minnesota State Fair. The very night that our scheme was birthed, we jumped on our bikes and went out to the airport. I think we got there about 11:00 and the airport was pretty quiet. But international airports never close, so we went to the booths of all the airlines, collecting their flight schedules. We looked for all the flights arriving from Toronto on the day we knew Olivia would be traveling. We knew that the potential of a private jet could mess with our plan, but important adventures carry such uncertainties. The plan was in place, and we waited for the big day.
On the day Olivia would be arriving, one of our parents gave us a ride to the airport. We were wearing our better school clothes. Our buddy Mark was the fourth member of our team. He looked older and more mature that Bri, Bob and me, and we thought we needed an air of respectability. We also had worked up a bit of a ruse. We were going to present ourselves as reporters. We didn’t want to flat-out lie, so we were prepared to say that we were from "The Standard” newspaper, because our high school paper was “The Roosevelt Standard.” Being reporters would also explain the cameras (a couple Kodak instamatics), Mark’s movie camera, and Bri’s tape recorder. We had prepared some questions if we could actually get an “interview.”
As we were loitering around the airport, suddenly it occurred to us that if Olivia was flying in from Toronto, she would need to go through customs. So we raced over to the customs area. This was a stroke of luck. Somehow we confirmed that the four young musician-types goofing around in the customs parking lot were indeed Olivia’s band! One of them actually asked us if we were their drivers! We did not dare have much of a conversation with these guys. They were too cool – way out of our league. Somewhere in our sick little minds, we thought we’d have better luck with the world’s most popular female vocalist.
The customs building was not conducive to us barging in. We waited right outside the door. After a few minutes, Olivia’s main dude (we assumed her road manager) came outside, saw our cameras and recorder, and said to us “We’ve had a difficult time here. When we come out I don’t want any filming or taping, do you understand?” We were intimidated. He was treating us like kids—we were being scolded by a grown-up. We said meekly “OK.” The dude went back in the building. We conversed quickly: “He can’t stop us from saying ‘hi,’ and we’ll get it on tape! Mark, you be ready to film, and Jim you try to snap a picture.” We were ready to be “paparazzi” before we’d ever heard the word.
In a couple minutes, the dude was back outside and in our face again. “I said no filming or taping!” And to Bri he said “You take that recorder out of record mode or I’ll take your cassette!” Bri held it up in the dude's face and clicked the recorder off. Now we were really whipped pups.
The dude went back inside, and immediately came out with Olivia. She was wearing the typical celebrity disguise: big sunglasses and a big hat. She looked at us and smiled and said “Hi” as the dude whisked her passed us and down into the waiting limo. I didn’t even have the nerve to snap a picture of the limo as it drove away.
We went to Olivia’s concert that night, and then because there was a second show, we hung around outside the grandstand fence where we could listen to the whole thing again. Outside the fence were some girls our age. We bragged to them about what we had done at the airport, and they were very impressed. That made us feel pretty good.
And that was that.
My greatest adventures have been adventures of the heart. While mentally we grow and mature over the years, the heart is always young. Feelings never grow old. I think far differently now than I did as a teenager. I think back to those adolescent days and I hardly recognize the way I thought about life. But I still recognize the feelings. Without effort, I feel those feelings again. Wow – memories and feelings. Today I’m remembering the day in 1975 when I met Olivia Newton-John.
I remember you, Olivia – do you remember me? Yes, I think you do. I feel it.
It was the summer of 1975 and Olivia Newton-John was coming to perform at the Minnesota State Fair. One August evening with the Fair a week or two away, Brian, Bob and I were hanging out, pondering the wonder of seeing Olivia live in-concert. The three of us shared a yearning for Olivia that psychology has undoubtedly categorized for accurate diagnosis and appropriate treatment. But in simple terms, we were just goofy about her.
It had to be our buddy Bri who had the wild idea of trying to meet Olivia. Bri always was the perfect combination of wizard and scientist: first imagine the impossible, and then figure out a way to make it happen. Bob was real practical, so he was good at getting things off the drawing board. My usual role was to anticipate how we might get in trouble and suggest alternatives. I was the self-appointed wet blanket. But tonight’s idea carried a mandate like none other. If there was a way to meet Olivia, we must find it.
Obviously we couldn’t sneak back stage of the state fair grandstand because they’d throw us out. And we couldn’t break into Olivia’s hotel room, because we would get arrested. But there was one opportunity and it was genius in its simplicity. We would meet her as she arrived at the airport.
We knew from Billboard Magazine that Olivia was on tour that summer, and Toronto was her concert date immediately prior to the Minnesota State Fair. The very night that our scheme was birthed, we jumped on our bikes and went out to the airport. I think we got there about 11:00 and the airport was pretty quiet. But international airports never close, so we went to the booths of all the airlines, collecting their flight schedules. We looked for all the flights arriving from Toronto on the day we knew Olivia would be traveling. We knew that the potential of a private jet could mess with our plan, but important adventures carry such uncertainties. The plan was in place, and we waited for the big day.
On the day Olivia would be arriving, one of our parents gave us a ride to the airport. We were wearing our better school clothes. Our buddy Mark was the fourth member of our team. He looked older and more mature that Bri, Bob and me, and we thought we needed an air of respectability. We also had worked up a bit of a ruse. We were going to present ourselves as reporters. We didn’t want to flat-out lie, so we were prepared to say that we were from "The Standard” newspaper, because our high school paper was “The Roosevelt Standard.” Being reporters would also explain the cameras (a couple Kodak instamatics), Mark’s movie camera, and Bri’s tape recorder. We had prepared some questions if we could actually get an “interview.”
As we were loitering around the airport, suddenly it occurred to us that if Olivia was flying in from Toronto, she would need to go through customs. So we raced over to the customs area. This was a stroke of luck. Somehow we confirmed that the four young musician-types goofing around in the customs parking lot were indeed Olivia’s band! One of them actually asked us if we were their drivers! We did not dare have much of a conversation with these guys. They were too cool – way out of our league. Somewhere in our sick little minds, we thought we’d have better luck with the world’s most popular female vocalist.
The customs building was not conducive to us barging in. We waited right outside the door. After a few minutes, Olivia’s main dude (we assumed her road manager) came outside, saw our cameras and recorder, and said to us “We’ve had a difficult time here. When we come out I don’t want any filming or taping, do you understand?” We were intimidated. He was treating us like kids—we were being scolded by a grown-up. We said meekly “OK.” The dude went back in the building. We conversed quickly: “He can’t stop us from saying ‘hi,’ and we’ll get it on tape! Mark, you be ready to film, and Jim you try to snap a picture.” We were ready to be “paparazzi” before we’d ever heard the word.
In a couple minutes, the dude was back outside and in our face again. “I said no filming or taping!” And to Bri he said “You take that recorder out of record mode or I’ll take your cassette!” Bri held it up in the dude's face and clicked the recorder off. Now we were really whipped pups.
The dude went back inside, and immediately came out with Olivia. She was wearing the typical celebrity disguise: big sunglasses and a big hat. She looked at us and smiled and said “Hi” as the dude whisked her passed us and down into the waiting limo. I didn’t even have the nerve to snap a picture of the limo as it drove away.
We went to Olivia’s concert that night, and then because there was a second show, we hung around outside the grandstand fence where we could listen to the whole thing again. Outside the fence were some girls our age. We bragged to them about what we had done at the airport, and they were very impressed. That made us feel pretty good.
And that was that.
My greatest adventures have been adventures of the heart. While mentally we grow and mature over the years, the heart is always young. Feelings never grow old. I think far differently now than I did as a teenager. I think back to those adolescent days and I hardly recognize the way I thought about life. But I still recognize the feelings. Without effort, I feel those feelings again. Wow – memories and feelings. Today I’m remembering the day in 1975 when I met Olivia Newton-John.
I remember you, Olivia – do you remember me? Yes, I think you do. I feel it.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
The First Kiss
Anne and I had our first date serving at the Briercrest graduation banquet for the class of 1980. We were juniors – next year would be our graduation. All juniors had to serve at the grad banquet, and we needed to be in guy-girl pairs. Our friend Gowmatie told me that if I asked Anne to serve with me, she would say yes. After a year of working with Anne in Africa Prayer Band, I was seriously interested in her, so Gowmatie’s words were from Heaven. I asked Anne, she said yes, and we served together.
Not many days later on Good Friday, Anne and I got together to show each other some family pictures. We sat on the lawn in front of the Admin Building, facing out toward the athletic field, and after sharing our pictures, I made a little speech about how I could see myself marrying Anne, and that I would really want to pursue that possibility. Would she want to “go” with me? In briefer, less torturous words, she said yes.
It was Spring, and close to the end of the school year, but we were now a couple. We only had one or two actual dates before school was out, but we took walks around town and ate most meals together. People got great entertainment out of seeing me every day at suppertime standing outside Anne’s dorm, waiting for her. Then it was summer vacation, and a long summer of being apart. We wrote letters, and talked very rarely on the phone. There didn’t seem to be cheap long distance rates back then.
Senior year we were an obvious couple. But I was very cautious on two fronts: saying “I love you” and kissing. I did not what to mess things up; I believed in the dangers of “too fast.” Sometime pretty early in Fall semester I said the first “I love you.” I remember the thrill of seeing Anne’s breath catch when I said it. Anne also got the nickname “Twinkles” from her dorm buddies, because her eyes twinkled when she talked about me.
But the first kiss: when should it happen? Anne eventually got tired of waiting, and took the initiative.
We were double dating with our friends Sandi and Gerry, all 4 of us squeezed into Gerry’s pickup truck. We pulled into the crowded parking lot of the restaurant. Gerry backed into such a narrow spot that we knew the only way out of the truck would be through the windows. Gerry stopped the truck. All three had goofy grins. Sandi said she and Gerry would head in and get a table, and Anne and I should stay in the truck and talk for a bit. Gerry and Sandi wriggled out the driver’s side window and were gone. Anne was grinning. I was confused.
She turned to face me and put one hand on each of my hands. She said “Once there was a boy turtle (tapped one hand) and a girl turtle (tapped the other hand) who had gotten lost from each other at the foot of a mountain. But they had wanted to climb the mountain and enjoy the view anyway, so from opposite sides of the mountain they each started climbing.” And Anne’s fingers started climbing up my arms. Then all I remember is “blah blah blah turtle this turtle that” as her fingers kept climbing up my arms and shoulders until the turtles were reunited behind my neck. Then Anne said “But who wants to talk about turtles, anyway?” And she kept grinning, with her hands around my neck.
That’s how we had our first kiss.
Not many days later on Good Friday, Anne and I got together to show each other some family pictures. We sat on the lawn in front of the Admin Building, facing out toward the athletic field, and after sharing our pictures, I made a little speech about how I could see myself marrying Anne, and that I would really want to pursue that possibility. Would she want to “go” with me? In briefer, less torturous words, she said yes.
It was Spring, and close to the end of the school year, but we were now a couple. We only had one or two actual dates before school was out, but we took walks around town and ate most meals together. People got great entertainment out of seeing me every day at suppertime standing outside Anne’s dorm, waiting for her. Then it was summer vacation, and a long summer of being apart. We wrote letters, and talked very rarely on the phone. There didn’t seem to be cheap long distance rates back then.
Senior year we were an obvious couple. But I was very cautious on two fronts: saying “I love you” and kissing. I did not what to mess things up; I believed in the dangers of “too fast.” Sometime pretty early in Fall semester I said the first “I love you.” I remember the thrill of seeing Anne’s breath catch when I said it. Anne also got the nickname “Twinkles” from her dorm buddies, because her eyes twinkled when she talked about me.
But the first kiss: when should it happen? Anne eventually got tired of waiting, and took the initiative.
We were double dating with our friends Sandi and Gerry, all 4 of us squeezed into Gerry’s pickup truck. We pulled into the crowded parking lot of the restaurant. Gerry backed into such a narrow spot that we knew the only way out of the truck would be through the windows. Gerry stopped the truck. All three had goofy grins. Sandi said she and Gerry would head in and get a table, and Anne and I should stay in the truck and talk for a bit. Gerry and Sandi wriggled out the driver’s side window and were gone. Anne was grinning. I was confused.
She turned to face me and put one hand on each of my hands. She said “Once there was a boy turtle (tapped one hand) and a girl turtle (tapped the other hand) who had gotten lost from each other at the foot of a mountain. But they had wanted to climb the mountain and enjoy the view anyway, so from opposite sides of the mountain they each started climbing.” And Anne’s fingers started climbing up my arms. Then all I remember is “blah blah blah turtle this turtle that” as her fingers kept climbing up my arms and shoulders until the turtles were reunited behind my neck. Then Anne said “But who wants to talk about turtles, anyway?” And she kept grinning, with her hands around my neck.
That’s how we had our first kiss.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Mutant Powers
I have had 3 and only 3 athletic triumphs in my life, 2 of which make perfect sense. The other one was mystical.
In grade six I won the “Field Day” blue ribbon for “Target Pitch.” Field Day was an annual last-event-of-the-year for which no one ever explained the name. To me, the playground hardly qualified as a “field.” I now have to assume they meant “track and field” day, because it was mostly running, jumping, and throwing your shoulder out of joint. But as a fore-runner of today’s school awards days, which go to any length to make sure everyone wins something, my school included the fake Olympic event “target pitch.” I won because for a couple years, Bob and I had been playing “catch” constantly.
In grade twelve I won the archery contest—the concluding event of the archery portion of my “lifetime sports” class. There was much to be thankful for in this class. I was in a senior, so I realized that finally the purgatory called “gym class” would come to an end. Furthermore, this class had no football, volleyball, bombardment, or any other “let’s try to kill a twerp today” activity. The only other sport I remember from this class was golf. We hacked around in the gym for a week or so, then went to the Hiawatha golf course and did a 9-hole round of golf. I shot 93 for 9 holes. But—when we had our archery unit, I was head of the class. And at the final “tournament” I shot all bull's eyes except one which missed the bull’s eye by an inch. The gym teacher walked the row yelling “Paulson won—you’ll need all bull’s eyes to beat him.” I didn’t even know the teacher knew my name! But my archer triumph was no surprise. Bob and I had been doing archery avidly for about 4 years.
Here’s the spooky one. In my 2nd year of Bible college, I led a witnessing team for my Christian Service assignment. One Friday, just for fun, our whole team went 5-pin bowling (note: this is not real bowling—this is Canadian pretend bowling. Sorry). Well, it started out much as any other game/sport/athletic thing does for me. I was doing crummy. But somewhere in the first game, something happened. I was totally conscious of what was happening—I was deciding to bowl great. But I don’t know if I was active or passive in this. I want to get freaky and say that the forces of the universe aligned and I just said “OK, Universe, let’s have some fun.” Suddenly a switch flipped and I was killer. I was winning games. Then there was a game that everyone in the bowling alley played, in which the guy with the microphone gave a series of instructions: “knock out the far right pin; now just the center pin; now get a strike.” I won! The prize was a teddy bear, which I gave to my witnessing partner Yvonne (I had a crush on her—see “Primeval Journey: Girls”).
I’ve often thought about that crazy night of bowling. What if I could harness that power all the time? I’ve bowled occasionally since then, both 10-pin and Canadian-pretend style. Nothing. Back in the old rut. I stink. But that night in 1979, I had mutant powers.
In grade six I won the “Field Day” blue ribbon for “Target Pitch.” Field Day was an annual last-event-of-the-year for which no one ever explained the name. To me, the playground hardly qualified as a “field.” I now have to assume they meant “track and field” day, because it was mostly running, jumping, and throwing your shoulder out of joint. But as a fore-runner of today’s school awards days, which go to any length to make sure everyone wins something, my school included the fake Olympic event “target pitch.” I won because for a couple years, Bob and I had been playing “catch” constantly.
In grade twelve I won the archery contest—the concluding event of the archery portion of my “lifetime sports” class. There was much to be thankful for in this class. I was in a senior, so I realized that finally the purgatory called “gym class” would come to an end. Furthermore, this class had no football, volleyball, bombardment, or any other “let’s try to kill a twerp today” activity. The only other sport I remember from this class was golf. We hacked around in the gym for a week or so, then went to the Hiawatha golf course and did a 9-hole round of golf. I shot 93 for 9 holes. But—when we had our archery unit, I was head of the class. And at the final “tournament” I shot all bull's eyes except one which missed the bull’s eye by an inch. The gym teacher walked the row yelling “Paulson won—you’ll need all bull’s eyes to beat him.” I didn’t even know the teacher knew my name! But my archer triumph was no surprise. Bob and I had been doing archery avidly for about 4 years.
Here’s the spooky one. In my 2nd year of Bible college, I led a witnessing team for my Christian Service assignment. One Friday, just for fun, our whole team went 5-pin bowling (note: this is not real bowling—this is Canadian pretend bowling. Sorry). Well, it started out much as any other game/sport/athletic thing does for me. I was doing crummy. But somewhere in the first game, something happened. I was totally conscious of what was happening—I was deciding to bowl great. But I don’t know if I was active or passive in this. I want to get freaky and say that the forces of the universe aligned and I just said “OK, Universe, let’s have some fun.” Suddenly a switch flipped and I was killer. I was winning games. Then there was a game that everyone in the bowling alley played, in which the guy with the microphone gave a series of instructions: “knock out the far right pin; now just the center pin; now get a strike.” I won! The prize was a teddy bear, which I gave to my witnessing partner Yvonne (I had a crush on her—see “Primeval Journey: Girls”).
I’ve often thought about that crazy night of bowling. What if I could harness that power all the time? I’ve bowled occasionally since then, both 10-pin and Canadian-pretend style. Nothing. Back in the old rut. I stink. But that night in 1979, I had mutant powers.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Dad
Grief has caught up to me. Or I have caught up to grief.
Dad died in January 2005 after living with Alzheimer’s disease for several years. We were thankful for a good Christmas 2004 visit. We all gathered in Minneapolis, and spent a nice afternoon at the Veteran’s home as they put on a wonderful Christmas party. Dad was on par with the progress of the disease: untalkative, looking around at us blankly, not knowing our names. But not belligerent, not contrary, not depressed in any obvious way. Just quiet, passive, and empty. A one syllable acknowledgment of a question, maybe a slight grin reflecting our forced smiles. That Christmas, closest thing to a “gift” was captured in one photo. At the veteran’s home, after the party and meal, we took Dad back to his room. We got Dad seated, and Bob and I got down on a knee on either side of his chair. I told Dad what he meant to us and how we loved him. The “gift” came in the way he looked me in the eye. His back was so hunched that even with my head at his level, he had to look up to see my face. I said maybe four sentences, but his eyes stayed on mine for the duration, and someone snapped a photo that captured the moment. Dad’s eyes had the vacant gaze of advanced Alzheimer’s disease, but also the gentle warmth that had always been Dad’s truest quality.
Anne and I and our guys returned to Saskatchewan; Bob and Karen and their guys returned to South Carolina. As always, Jo, Bill, and their girls continued to be the ones close-by for Mom and Dad. We learned slowly over the next month that the meal at the Christmas Party was essentially Dad’s last decent meal. His deterioration accelerated. Maybe it’s more accurate to think not of acceleration, but stopping. Dad just stopped. Stopped eating, stopped walking, stopped looking around at his little world. In a month, he died.
We re-gathered in Minneapolis for Dad’s funeral. When everyone else cried, I did not. I couldn’t believe that my brain I was stuck in pastor mode. I’d been a nursing home Chaplain for 6 years, a pastor of an aging church for 7 years, and for 2 years in between I was “on call” with several funeral homes when families needed “protestant clergy.” I’ve officiated about 100 funerals. At Dad’s funeral, whether I was stuck in that rut or hiding in that role, I hated my dry eyes, and the possibility that underneath was a heart too cold or too cowardly to grieve.
Suddenly this summer, 2010, Dad is everywhere. I mow my lawn with a “reel” lawn mower. The pleasant swish of the hand-propelled blades always reminds me of Dad, who certainly was the last guy on our block to graduate to a power mower. I’m also finding myself intensely curious about America in the 1920’s, 30’s and 40’s because those were the decades that Dad lived before I came along (Dad was born in 1918; I was born in 1958). Even my late-blooming ability to celebrate things Scandinavian (see my blog “Primeval Journey: Roots) is in large part an honoring of Dad who is my symbolic connection point to that heritage. As I write this, we are on our annual Minneapolis trip, as is Bob and family, and yesterday we visited distant relatives—the last of Dad’s generation—for the express purpose of gleaning more information about family history and connections. Dad was very present in our reminiscing. This summer I am bathed in the light of “Dad memories.”
Today Mom, Anne and I paged through a few photo albums. Mom is increasingly forgetful and we urge her to try and remember—to try and reminisce. Looking at pictures of Mom and Dad (“Harold and Hazel”) dating and newly married, we saw Dad vigorous, sharp, handsome, and happy. I encouraged Mom to “remember Dad that way.” And I knew that this is what I also need to do.
For me, during these past five dry-eyed years I have not “tried” very hard. My memories of Dad have defaulted to those last years when Alzheimer’s killed his energy, intellect, and humor. It’s easy to feel relief that the Alzheimer’s ordeal is over. If all I remember are the years of pain, I certainly don’t grieve that they are over.
But as I mow with a reel mower, I see Dad the man of the house. As I think about the Great Depression and war years, I see Dad courageous. As I celebrate being Scandinavian, I see Dad the devoted son of the most Scandinavian person I’ve known, Grandma Paulson. As I enjoy the photos of Dad courting Mom, I see Dad the young soldier home after the war, strong and handsome. For 80 of his 86 years, Dad was all of this. I have so much to grieve.
Grief has chased me down. My eyes are wet. I miss my Dad.
Dad died in January 2005 after living with Alzheimer’s disease for several years. We were thankful for a good Christmas 2004 visit. We all gathered in Minneapolis, and spent a nice afternoon at the Veteran’s home as they put on a wonderful Christmas party. Dad was on par with the progress of the disease: untalkative, looking around at us blankly, not knowing our names. But not belligerent, not contrary, not depressed in any obvious way. Just quiet, passive, and empty. A one syllable acknowledgment of a question, maybe a slight grin reflecting our forced smiles. That Christmas, closest thing to a “gift” was captured in one photo. At the veteran’s home, after the party and meal, we took Dad back to his room. We got Dad seated, and Bob and I got down on a knee on either side of his chair. I told Dad what he meant to us and how we loved him. The “gift” came in the way he looked me in the eye. His back was so hunched that even with my head at his level, he had to look up to see my face. I said maybe four sentences, but his eyes stayed on mine for the duration, and someone snapped a photo that captured the moment. Dad’s eyes had the vacant gaze of advanced Alzheimer’s disease, but also the gentle warmth that had always been Dad’s truest quality.
Anne and I and our guys returned to Saskatchewan; Bob and Karen and their guys returned to South Carolina. As always, Jo, Bill, and their girls continued to be the ones close-by for Mom and Dad. We learned slowly over the next month that the meal at the Christmas Party was essentially Dad’s last decent meal. His deterioration accelerated. Maybe it’s more accurate to think not of acceleration, but stopping. Dad just stopped. Stopped eating, stopped walking, stopped looking around at his little world. In a month, he died.
We re-gathered in Minneapolis for Dad’s funeral. When everyone else cried, I did not. I couldn’t believe that my brain I was stuck in pastor mode. I’d been a nursing home Chaplain for 6 years, a pastor of an aging church for 7 years, and for 2 years in between I was “on call” with several funeral homes when families needed “protestant clergy.” I’ve officiated about 100 funerals. At Dad’s funeral, whether I was stuck in that rut or hiding in that role, I hated my dry eyes, and the possibility that underneath was a heart too cold or too cowardly to grieve.
Suddenly this summer, 2010, Dad is everywhere. I mow my lawn with a “reel” lawn mower. The pleasant swish of the hand-propelled blades always reminds me of Dad, who certainly was the last guy on our block to graduate to a power mower. I’m also finding myself intensely curious about America in the 1920’s, 30’s and 40’s because those were the decades that Dad lived before I came along (Dad was born in 1918; I was born in 1958). Even my late-blooming ability to celebrate things Scandinavian (see my blog “Primeval Journey: Roots) is in large part an honoring of Dad who is my symbolic connection point to that heritage. As I write this, we are on our annual Minneapolis trip, as is Bob and family, and yesterday we visited distant relatives—the last of Dad’s generation—for the express purpose of gleaning more information about family history and connections. Dad was very present in our reminiscing. This summer I am bathed in the light of “Dad memories.”
Today Mom, Anne and I paged through a few photo albums. Mom is increasingly forgetful and we urge her to try and remember—to try and reminisce. Looking at pictures of Mom and Dad (“Harold and Hazel”) dating and newly married, we saw Dad vigorous, sharp, handsome, and happy. I encouraged Mom to “remember Dad that way.” And I knew that this is what I also need to do.
For me, during these past five dry-eyed years I have not “tried” very hard. My memories of Dad have defaulted to those last years when Alzheimer’s killed his energy, intellect, and humor. It’s easy to feel relief that the Alzheimer’s ordeal is over. If all I remember are the years of pain, I certainly don’t grieve that they are over.
But as I mow with a reel mower, I see Dad the man of the house. As I think about the Great Depression and war years, I see Dad courageous. As I celebrate being Scandinavian, I see Dad the devoted son of the most Scandinavian person I’ve known, Grandma Paulson. As I enjoy the photos of Dad courting Mom, I see Dad the young soldier home after the war, strong and handsome. For 80 of his 86 years, Dad was all of this. I have so much to grieve.
Grief has chased me down. My eyes are wet. I miss my Dad.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Weirdness
I have a theory about weirdness. This is just my musing, so it is probably bogus, but I think it is true of me. I put it forth as a general theory of weirdness. But if nothing else, you are about to learn more about me. Sorry.
OK, here it is. Weirdness blooms from a root of insecurity. I base this on the simple fact that I am insecure. And Weird.
Insecurity. It’s social. It’s a shyness, a fear, a lack of confidence, a touch of shame, a cocooning, an overacting, a trying too hard. It’s flying under the radar, afraid of failure, just as afraid of success, falsely thinking that the comfort zone is a place of comfort. It’s hiding, hiding, hiding, ducking and wincing at nothing but thoughts. It’s cringing at the thought that everyone thinks you are as worthless as you think they think you are. It’s seeing social events as pecking-order competitions, threats to self-worth, requiring either fighting or fleeing. It’s seeing any random group as a reincarnation of that bunch of brats who were cruel to you when you were a kid. Everything is a battle that you are sure you will lose, so you either fight like a maniac, or run away like one.
(I don’t accept insecurity as an intended aspect of the Christian life. God has better for us, and I’m going after it all the time. I pray, strive, abide, trust and obey my way each day, to realize my birthright Shalom. But for you my blog friend, I’m letting you in on my real reality).
I’ve just got this continual, vague awareness that my weirdness—being too quiet or too talkative, trying too hard to entertain or to please, smiling a lot, gesturing too much, joking too much—is often my best in-the-moment attempt to deal with/wrestle with/conquer…or alternatively hide from/fly under the radar of/pretend there is a comfort zone in which I’m safe from…insecurity.
Extrapolating, I wonder if it’s true of the weirdnesses I notice in the world. When someone has annoying habits in their social interactions, I suspect I’m seeing a symptom of underlying insecurity. When someone is rude, I suspect insecurity. When someone over-reacts, I suspect insecurity. When someone is remarkably quiet or remarkably loud, I suspect insecurity. When someone wields authority like a drunk carrying an eight foot two-by-four, I suspect insecurity. When someone uses threats instead of humble honesty to try to convince, I suspect insecurity. When someone can’t make eye contact—or can’t break eye contact—I suspect insecurity. When someone just has to win every debate—or won’t even engage in debate, I suspect insecurity. I assume every jerk is radically insecure.
I work on my insecurity junk every day with the resources of faith. By faith I access the security that “there is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” and knowing that I’m invited (commanded) to abide in Christ. As I pray daily for God’s grace and peace, I’m picturing myself reaching up to Heaven to access the resources of the Kingdom of God, and bring them right down here to be used in this present evil age of “world-flesh-devil” lies and wounds.
And I really look forward to the fullness of God’s kingdom in the age to come, when there will be no more insecurity. Then, any and all weirdness will only be the beautiful bubbling over of grace.
OK, here it is. Weirdness blooms from a root of insecurity. I base this on the simple fact that I am insecure. And Weird.
Insecurity. It’s social. It’s a shyness, a fear, a lack of confidence, a touch of shame, a cocooning, an overacting, a trying too hard. It’s flying under the radar, afraid of failure, just as afraid of success, falsely thinking that the comfort zone is a place of comfort. It’s hiding, hiding, hiding, ducking and wincing at nothing but thoughts. It’s cringing at the thought that everyone thinks you are as worthless as you think they think you are. It’s seeing social events as pecking-order competitions, threats to self-worth, requiring either fighting or fleeing. It’s seeing any random group as a reincarnation of that bunch of brats who were cruel to you when you were a kid. Everything is a battle that you are sure you will lose, so you either fight like a maniac, or run away like one.
(I don’t accept insecurity as an intended aspect of the Christian life. God has better for us, and I’m going after it all the time. I pray, strive, abide, trust and obey my way each day, to realize my birthright Shalom. But for you my blog friend, I’m letting you in on my real reality).
I’ve just got this continual, vague awareness that my weirdness—being too quiet or too talkative, trying too hard to entertain or to please, smiling a lot, gesturing too much, joking too much—is often my best in-the-moment attempt to deal with/wrestle with/conquer…or alternatively hide from/fly under the radar of/pretend there is a comfort zone in which I’m safe from…insecurity.
Extrapolating, I wonder if it’s true of the weirdnesses I notice in the world. When someone has annoying habits in their social interactions, I suspect I’m seeing a symptom of underlying insecurity. When someone is rude, I suspect insecurity. When someone over-reacts, I suspect insecurity. When someone is remarkably quiet or remarkably loud, I suspect insecurity. When someone wields authority like a drunk carrying an eight foot two-by-four, I suspect insecurity. When someone uses threats instead of humble honesty to try to convince, I suspect insecurity. When someone can’t make eye contact—or can’t break eye contact—I suspect insecurity. When someone just has to win every debate—or won’t even engage in debate, I suspect insecurity. I assume every jerk is radically insecure.
I work on my insecurity junk every day with the resources of faith. By faith I access the security that “there is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” and knowing that I’m invited (commanded) to abide in Christ. As I pray daily for God’s grace and peace, I’m picturing myself reaching up to Heaven to access the resources of the Kingdom of God, and bring them right down here to be used in this present evil age of “world-flesh-devil” lies and wounds.
And I really look forward to the fullness of God’s kingdom in the age to come, when there will be no more insecurity. Then, any and all weirdness will only be the beautiful bubbling over of grace.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Believing
I heard and believed. I was a kid, hearing the Bible’s teachings from my parents and other grown-ups who had my parents’ stamp of approval. I never doubted that the Bible is “capital ‘T’ True.” Granted, the “trust” aspect of belief was more complicated, and it took a while for me to become settled re: the issue of my own salvation. But re: the “intellectual assent” aspect of belief, I never doubted that the Bible is God’s Word, and I never doubted that the God of the Bible is the one true God.
Of course the time came when I began to face the hard questions: why do I believe the Bible to be “capital ‘T’ Truth”? Why do I believe the Bible to be uniquely the Word of God to the exclusion of the books of the other religions? For these forty or so years I’ve tried to stay honest with myself, holding the Bible and my faith up for examination in the face of valid questions. But this examining of the evidence took place after belief, and has served to corroborate – not convince. Somehow I was already convinced.
I can describe my “experience of believing” as an inner, unshakeable conviction that there is a “ring of truth” about the Bible. I have this surprisingly settled assurance that the Bible is God’s written revelation in which he tells us who he is and what he is up to. Yes, my experience of believing is subjective; it’s just what is happening in me. So I don’t pretend that it has the kind of clout to intellectually convince anyone else. And while I call it “unshakeable,” in no way do I feel trapped against my will. I can’t shake it, and I love it. I recognize that I’m accountable to it, and I love it. I’ve surrendered to it, and I love it.
But my experience of believing—never doubting the truth of the Bible—how crazy is that? If I could have written the script, the Jim Paulson story would have included years of wide-ranging, deep, agonizing, intellectual searching, giving all competing systems a fair hearing, and finally landing me in a relationship with Jesus. Obviously, that is not the Jim Paulson story. Rather, to lean on Donald Miller’s expression, faith just seemed to find me.
So I ask again about my experience of believing: how crazy is it? I think maybe only as crazy as God’s crazy ways. In the Bible, I’m seeing a human side and a divine side to the experience of believing. Humanly, “hearing” is the key. “Faith comes from hearing” (Romans 10:17). Divinely, “shining” is the key. “For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ” (2 Corinthians 4:6).
I heard and believed. I think that my simple experience of believing sounds rather foolish. But I think it makes God look very good. When I heard the Truth, God made it shine.
Of course the time came when I began to face the hard questions: why do I believe the Bible to be “capital ‘T’ Truth”? Why do I believe the Bible to be uniquely the Word of God to the exclusion of the books of the other religions? For these forty or so years I’ve tried to stay honest with myself, holding the Bible and my faith up for examination in the face of valid questions. But this examining of the evidence took place after belief, and has served to corroborate – not convince. Somehow I was already convinced.
I can describe my “experience of believing” as an inner, unshakeable conviction that there is a “ring of truth” about the Bible. I have this surprisingly settled assurance that the Bible is God’s written revelation in which he tells us who he is and what he is up to. Yes, my experience of believing is subjective; it’s just what is happening in me. So I don’t pretend that it has the kind of clout to intellectually convince anyone else. And while I call it “unshakeable,” in no way do I feel trapped against my will. I can’t shake it, and I love it. I recognize that I’m accountable to it, and I love it. I’ve surrendered to it, and I love it.
But my experience of believing—never doubting the truth of the Bible—how crazy is that? If I could have written the script, the Jim Paulson story would have included years of wide-ranging, deep, agonizing, intellectual searching, giving all competing systems a fair hearing, and finally landing me in a relationship with Jesus. Obviously, that is not the Jim Paulson story. Rather, to lean on Donald Miller’s expression, faith just seemed to find me.
So I ask again about my experience of believing: how crazy is it? I think maybe only as crazy as God’s crazy ways. In the Bible, I’m seeing a human side and a divine side to the experience of believing. Humanly, “hearing” is the key. “Faith comes from hearing” (Romans 10:17). Divinely, “shining” is the key. “For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ” (2 Corinthians 4:6).
I heard and believed. I think that my simple experience of believing sounds rather foolish. But I think it makes God look very good. When I heard the Truth, God made it shine.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Five Lives I Might Have Lived
I wanted to be a geologist. All during high school, I felt I could happily make rocks my career. For a few years, I felt like I could do nothing else. My passion for geology was all about mysteries of science and the thrill of exploration. It was downright mystical. On camping trips we searched for agates on the north shore of Lake Superior, and in the gravel pits around Moose Lake. I loved everything about it. Out in the sun and wind, searching for rare and beautiful stones captured my imagination. Learning about the formation of fossils and minerals, and trying to figure how all this squared with Genesis was heady, intriguing, and profound. I could have been a happy geologist.
I could have been a park naturalist. The same loves and curiosities of geology were aroused later on in my early adulthood, after I had already started down the road toward ministry. But—as always—I would be scanning the horizon of my interests to think of other directions I might go. There was a long season of my life when I found nothing more inspiring than to walk the trails of Minnesota’s parks and nature centers. I was dabbling in the identification of trees, wild flowers, and birds. My teaching and preaching in church helped me see the rewards of communicating to groups, and I could easily see myself being the guy that takes school groups on nature hikes. That would be fun.
And I wanted to be a writer. I still do. Like pretty much everyone. All the usual reasons: be my own boss, stop shaving, sit in coffee shops all afternoon and call it work, see my book in a bookstore, be invited to “come and speak.” Be on Larry King. You know. But everyone wants that. It’s a global collective fantasy on a planet with too many books.
These days I want to be a professor of literature. There, I said it. My job right now is a gift out of Heaven from the Lord: teaching Bible and theology, and ministering one-on-one to growing young Christians. But put me in a time machine and take the Jim of 2010 back to 1981, and I think I would go to university and major in literature. “Stories and poems” is how God communicates. “Stories and poems” is humankind being God-like—creating beauty; communicating meaning. I’m only now learning the glories of it all. I will spend my last (I hope) 50 years reveling in literature. I wish I knew at 21 what I know now at 51.
I could have been a stand-up comedian. I’ve learned this in the last 6 years of teaching at Briercrest College. And on this point I choose not to elaborate.
I could have been a park naturalist. The same loves and curiosities of geology were aroused later on in my early adulthood, after I had already started down the road toward ministry. But—as always—I would be scanning the horizon of my interests to think of other directions I might go. There was a long season of my life when I found nothing more inspiring than to walk the trails of Minnesota’s parks and nature centers. I was dabbling in the identification of trees, wild flowers, and birds. My teaching and preaching in church helped me see the rewards of communicating to groups, and I could easily see myself being the guy that takes school groups on nature hikes. That would be fun.
And I wanted to be a writer. I still do. Like pretty much everyone. All the usual reasons: be my own boss, stop shaving, sit in coffee shops all afternoon and call it work, see my book in a bookstore, be invited to “come and speak.” Be on Larry King. You know. But everyone wants that. It’s a global collective fantasy on a planet with too many books.
These days I want to be a professor of literature. There, I said it. My job right now is a gift out of Heaven from the Lord: teaching Bible and theology, and ministering one-on-one to growing young Christians. But put me in a time machine and take the Jim of 2010 back to 1981, and I think I would go to university and major in literature. “Stories and poems” is how God communicates. “Stories and poems” is humankind being God-like—creating beauty; communicating meaning. I’m only now learning the glories of it all. I will spend my last (I hope) 50 years reveling in literature. I wish I knew at 21 what I know now at 51.
I could have been a stand-up comedian. I’ve learned this in the last 6 years of teaching at Briercrest College. And on this point I choose not to elaborate.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Jim's Primeval Journey: Roots
My name is Jim Paulson. I am half Swedish and half Norwegian, which is boring. I grew up in Minnesota which is a very pretty state, but other than Iowa is probably the most boring state, being half Swedish and half Norwegian. I grew up in the Evangelical Covenant Church which is a pietistic off-shoot of the Swedish Lutheran church. So we were boring but saved. The two most famous Scandinavian foods are lefse (tortillas but more boring) and lutefisk (fish cooked in lye – google it if you don’t believe me). OK, being potentially lethal, lutefisk may not be boring but lye is the dumbest cooking ingredient ever, and only extremely old Scandinavians eat it. Then they die. The famous symbol of Scandinavia is the “dala horse” which looks like the kind of horses I drew in kindergarten (google it if you don’t believe me). Talk about dumb. And boring.
When I was a young boy, what mattered was being an American. Being the world’s big, strong good guys felt pretty good to a white American boy in the 60’s. (Confusion would come later in Jr High when the hippies were protesting the Vietnam War). But I was figuring out that America was a nation of the grandchildren of foreigners. My grandma and her disconcerting Norwegian accent was a constant reminder that she wasn’t born in my country. Grandma seemed like a foreigner and it sort of creeped me out. So while my citizenship as an American was the coolest thing, my nationality as Norwegian and Swedish was…see above.
This is the last installment of my reflections on how the Primeval Narrative of Genesis 1-11 bumps into, speaks into, and interprets my own primeval (earliest days) baggage. I realize that there are several possible implications (complications?) spinning off of the Tower of Babel story (Genesis 11). Was the confusion of languages simply punishment? Was it God “forcing” his Genesis 9:1 blessing “be fruitful, multiply, fill the earth”? Was God threatened by the human accomplishment of the tower? Was the tower all about paganism? Was it all about human hubris?
I just want to focus on one implication: God made sure that “people groups” happened. When humankind tried to stay together in one big homogeneous group, God scattered them. He even jump-started cultural distinctions by creating lots of languages.
It must have been like the methods of forcing you into a little group when you are at a retreat. “Look at your nametag, Notice that it is a certain color. Find everyone with the same color nametag. That will be your group for the weekend!” And you end up in the dumb or boring group. Or the group full of jerks. (I’m trying to be edgy like David Foster Wallace or Douglas Coupland or Donald Miller. That’s why I said “jerks”).
The result of Babel for me Jim Paulson: I ended up stuck between the Norwegians and the Swedes. Like the two dorkiest kids in the school fighting for the crown of “only the second dorkiest kid.”
But I’m changing my attitude. Anne and I went to the American Swedish Institute in Minneapolis last summer. And the Hjemkomst Center in Moorhead. And Scandinavian Heritage Park in Minot. My sister and niece visited Norway a year ago and have fallen in love with our Norwegian relatives. I have actual kinfolk in Norway! And #1 son Steve is enthralled with Scandinavian folklore, mythology, legends, Viking pillaging, etc. For one year now, I’ve been on a mission to overcome yet another chunk of primeval baggage: disrespecting my roots. I’m finally trying to embrace my heritage and my nationality. My people.
When I was a young boy, what mattered was being an American. Being the world’s big, strong good guys felt pretty good to a white American boy in the 60’s. (Confusion would come later in Jr High when the hippies were protesting the Vietnam War). But I was figuring out that America was a nation of the grandchildren of foreigners. My grandma and her disconcerting Norwegian accent was a constant reminder that she wasn’t born in my country. Grandma seemed like a foreigner and it sort of creeped me out. So while my citizenship as an American was the coolest thing, my nationality as Norwegian and Swedish was…see above.
This is the last installment of my reflections on how the Primeval Narrative of Genesis 1-11 bumps into, speaks into, and interprets my own primeval (earliest days) baggage. I realize that there are several possible implications (complications?) spinning off of the Tower of Babel story (Genesis 11). Was the confusion of languages simply punishment? Was it God “forcing” his Genesis 9:1 blessing “be fruitful, multiply, fill the earth”? Was God threatened by the human accomplishment of the tower? Was the tower all about paganism? Was it all about human hubris?
I just want to focus on one implication: God made sure that “people groups” happened. When humankind tried to stay together in one big homogeneous group, God scattered them. He even jump-started cultural distinctions by creating lots of languages.
It must have been like the methods of forcing you into a little group when you are at a retreat. “Look at your nametag, Notice that it is a certain color. Find everyone with the same color nametag. That will be your group for the weekend!” And you end up in the dumb or boring group. Or the group full of jerks. (I’m trying to be edgy like David Foster Wallace or Douglas Coupland or Donald Miller. That’s why I said “jerks”).
The result of Babel for me Jim Paulson: I ended up stuck between the Norwegians and the Swedes. Like the two dorkiest kids in the school fighting for the crown of “only the second dorkiest kid.”
But I’m changing my attitude. Anne and I went to the American Swedish Institute in Minneapolis last summer. And the Hjemkomst Center in Moorhead. And Scandinavian Heritage Park in Minot. My sister and niece visited Norway a year ago and have fallen in love with our Norwegian relatives. I have actual kinfolk in Norway! And #1 son Steve is enthralled with Scandinavian folklore, mythology, legends, Viking pillaging, etc. For one year now, I’ve been on a mission to overcome yet another chunk of primeval baggage: disrespecting my roots. I’m finally trying to embrace my heritage and my nationality. My people.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Jim's Primeval Journey: Feelings
I’m pretty much a feelings-focused guy. When I think about a topic, whether big or little, my feelings dominate. Let me say it another way: the topics I think about are those that I feel the strongest about. These days I’m stuck on the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. I’m sick over it. But it goes for personal things too, like my job. I got behind during a particularly crazy March and April, and until I’m caught up, all my job-thoughts revolve like satellites around my job-feelings. It feels lousy to be behind.
But the best way for you to get a glimpse of how feelings-driven I am, is to look at these Primeval Journey reflections. I am processing my baggage, and my baggage is heavy with feelings: curiosity, romance, guilt, hate, the freak-out.
God has feelings. “And the Lord was sorry that he had made man on the earth, and it grieved him to his heart. So the Lord said, “I will blot out man whom I have created from the face of the land, man and animals and creeping things and birds of the heavens, for I am sorry that I have made them.” (Gen 6: 6-7). His feelings are mentioned 3 times: “was sorry…grieved him to his heart…I am sorry I have made them.”
This is God. This is weird for me. Other aspects of God’s character are easier to grasp—OK, to believe. I get it that he is all-knowing and everywhere and all-powerful and perfectly holy. I don’t get it that he feels.
I think I know why I don’t get it. Because having felt things so strongly all my life, I don’t think I’ve ever had an untainted feeling. On my most God-loving, God-following, God-worshipping days, my feelings are tainted with self-centeredness and pride. Even when I’m thinking right (as right as I can), my feelings get twisted. Twisted around me. I can be thinking quite biblically about God’s goodness, but he only “feels” good to me when I’m feeling good about me (feeling cozy, comfortable, content). If I’m feeling bad about me, it’s like: “God, I know you are good, but could you please work your goodness a little more in my favor?”
I think one of the surprises waiting for us in the New Heaven and New Earth will be the sensation of pure feelings; righteous feelings; truly God-centered feelings instead of our always-a-little-bit-self-centered feelings.
But when God feels, he feels purely. Our struggle to accept the wrath of the flood (Gen 6-8) should make it obvious that there is a gap between his purity and our self-centeredness. We feel God was a little bit bad to react with a universal flood. But the flood was not God being bad; it was God being good. For me this is simply an article of faith. But I admit that my feelings haven’t caught up to my faith. That’s my point.
I feel things; God feels things. My feelings don’t line up with his feelings. For years I’ve prayed, “Lord let me see things as you see them.” Now I want to add: “Lord, let me feel things as you feel them.”
But the best way for you to get a glimpse of how feelings-driven I am, is to look at these Primeval Journey reflections. I am processing my baggage, and my baggage is heavy with feelings: curiosity, romance, guilt, hate, the freak-out.
God has feelings. “And the Lord was sorry that he had made man on the earth, and it grieved him to his heart. So the Lord said, “I will blot out man whom I have created from the face of the land, man and animals and creeping things and birds of the heavens, for I am sorry that I have made them.” (Gen 6: 6-7). His feelings are mentioned 3 times: “was sorry…grieved him to his heart…I am sorry I have made them.”
This is God. This is weird for me. Other aspects of God’s character are easier to grasp—OK, to believe. I get it that he is all-knowing and everywhere and all-powerful and perfectly holy. I don’t get it that he feels.
I think I know why I don’t get it. Because having felt things so strongly all my life, I don’t think I’ve ever had an untainted feeling. On my most God-loving, God-following, God-worshipping days, my feelings are tainted with self-centeredness and pride. Even when I’m thinking right (as right as I can), my feelings get twisted. Twisted around me. I can be thinking quite biblically about God’s goodness, but he only “feels” good to me when I’m feeling good about me (feeling cozy, comfortable, content). If I’m feeling bad about me, it’s like: “God, I know you are good, but could you please work your goodness a little more in my favor?”
I think one of the surprises waiting for us in the New Heaven and New Earth will be the sensation of pure feelings; righteous feelings; truly God-centered feelings instead of our always-a-little-bit-self-centered feelings.
But when God feels, he feels purely. Our struggle to accept the wrath of the flood (Gen 6-8) should make it obvious that there is a gap between his purity and our self-centeredness. We feel God was a little bit bad to react with a universal flood. But the flood was not God being bad; it was God being good. For me this is simply an article of faith. But I admit that my feelings haven’t caught up to my faith. That’s my point.
I feel things; God feels things. My feelings don’t line up with his feelings. For years I’ve prayed, “Lord let me see things as you see them.” Now I want to add: “Lord, let me feel things as you feel them.”
Friday, April 16, 2010
Jim's Primeval Journey: Time
I enjoy mental rest stops: naps, sitting on the back steps at dusk, mellow jazz, the minutes between going to bed and falling asleep. I also enjoy mental adventures: day-dreaming, getting engrossed in a novel, planning a real adventure, when the minutes before falling asleep stretch on a while because my mind is working.
The category of mental adventure that I find the most pleasing is “the freak-out.” Some of my freak-outs are: finding something I forgot I owned, remembering an experience long forgotten and immediately re-living the feelings, having an important insight fall into place during one of those before-falling-asleep times. And suddenly I’m freaking out (def: brain explosion precipitated by extreme profundity and/or coolness and/or scariness).
Some of my favorite freak-outs are related to “time.” The following is a list of some of my time-related freak-outs. (1) We all get it at the same rate – a minute at a time, a year at a time. (2) The rich don’t get more time than the poor. (3) This minute right now is being spent by me here and now, while everyone else is spending this same minute doing their own thing in their own place. (4) Nobody gets to save up and hoard time – you use it or waste it as soon as it is doled out. (5) Nobody gets to scoot ahead of the rest of us for a preview of the future.
I usually have a time related freak-out when something big is coming up. I’m waiting, waiting, waiting…then BOOM – it’s happening RIGHT NOW – then…wow, it happened…back then. Anticipating, experiencing, and remembering. Courtesy of the inexorable passing of time.
Here is the Primeval Narrative on the topic of time: “Then the LORD said: ‘My Spirit shall not abide in man forever, for he is flesh: his days shall be 120 years’” (Gen 6:3). God says he will cap our lifespan at 120 years, which is pretty much the extreme upper limit of human life until you read Genesis 5 in which Methuselah wins the longevity award at 969 years. We ask “why would the author make up such crazy long ages?” but the ancients asked “why do we get gypped with a lousy 120 years?”
I’m with the ancients on this, especially when I remember my own primeval (“earliest years”) mindset on the human lifespan. When I was a kid, it felt like it would take 900 years to grow up. Time moved so slowly. Vacation was luxuriously long and the school year agonizingly long. It was an eternity between Christmases when I had only experienced about 8 of them. And I specifically remember calculating how old I would be in the year 2000. I’d be 42. I was sure it would take about 969 years to ever get that old.
Time flew. Wow, did it ever. And now in all likelihood I’m over half way to the grave, and I’m shouting with the ancients: “how about another couple centuries, Lord!”
I know eternity awaits. But the few years on this side of eternity are supposed to make a difference—both now and in eternity.
Time…eternity…I’m freaking out over here.
The category of mental adventure that I find the most pleasing is “the freak-out.” Some of my freak-outs are: finding something I forgot I owned, remembering an experience long forgotten and immediately re-living the feelings, having an important insight fall into place during one of those before-falling-asleep times. And suddenly I’m freaking out (def: brain explosion precipitated by extreme profundity and/or coolness and/or scariness).
Some of my favorite freak-outs are related to “time.” The following is a list of some of my time-related freak-outs. (1) We all get it at the same rate – a minute at a time, a year at a time. (2) The rich don’t get more time than the poor. (3) This minute right now is being spent by me here and now, while everyone else is spending this same minute doing their own thing in their own place. (4) Nobody gets to save up and hoard time – you use it or waste it as soon as it is doled out. (5) Nobody gets to scoot ahead of the rest of us for a preview of the future.
I usually have a time related freak-out when something big is coming up. I’m waiting, waiting, waiting…then BOOM – it’s happening RIGHT NOW – then…wow, it happened…back then. Anticipating, experiencing, and remembering. Courtesy of the inexorable passing of time.
Here is the Primeval Narrative on the topic of time: “Then the LORD said: ‘My Spirit shall not abide in man forever, for he is flesh: his days shall be 120 years’” (Gen 6:3). God says he will cap our lifespan at 120 years, which is pretty much the extreme upper limit of human life until you read Genesis 5 in which Methuselah wins the longevity award at 969 years. We ask “why would the author make up such crazy long ages?” but the ancients asked “why do we get gypped with a lousy 120 years?”
I’m with the ancients on this, especially when I remember my own primeval (“earliest years”) mindset on the human lifespan. When I was a kid, it felt like it would take 900 years to grow up. Time moved so slowly. Vacation was luxuriously long and the school year agonizingly long. It was an eternity between Christmases when I had only experienced about 8 of them. And I specifically remember calculating how old I would be in the year 2000. I’d be 42. I was sure it would take about 969 years to ever get that old.
Time flew. Wow, did it ever. And now in all likelihood I’m over half way to the grave, and I’m shouting with the ancients: “how about another couple centuries, Lord!”
I know eternity awaits. But the few years on this side of eternity are supposed to make a difference—both now and in eternity.
Time…eternity…I’m freaking out over here.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Jim's Primeval Journey: Murder
I hated Rhonda. She is the only person I’ve ever hated, but my hatred for her was simple, uncomplicated, and intense. Pure. For every day of grade seven, Rhonda was an intruder in my life, and despite occasional attempts to pray for her, the bubble always returned dead center to hatred.
Cain hated his brother Abel, and acted on it. God had regard for Abel’s offering, but did not have regard for Cain’s. We are told that Cain was very angry and “his face fell.” The narrator did not see fit to explain the problem with Cain’s offering, so I guess that’s not the point. Here’s the point: when Cain and Abel were compared, Cain came out the loser. A comparison, a loser, a fallen face, and a responsibility: do well, because sin “desires you.”
At the start of grade seven Rhonda had…bloomed; I had not. I was a good target. Every day while walking the halls, I would be loudly accosted by Rhonda. “Oh Jim, you’re such a man! I want you so much…” I was the perfect victim. Too shy to play along or to fight back, I was mortified and it showed. I assume that’s why it was so funny for everyone.
One day as “the Rhonda and Jim show” was parading toward geography class, I gave her my best hate stare, and she said “Jim, do you hate me?” I told her the truth. Another day in exasperation I blindly reached out and shoved her away with both hands. Both my hands caught her in the chest, and Rhonda shrieked! Twenty kids must have seen me do it. Simultaneous thoughts raced through my head: “So that’s what they feel like” and “come on floor, swallow me now.” Later in class, the guy sitting next to me said “Man, you turned green!”
How the Rhonda and Jim show never got old for her, I’ll never know. But the daily humiliation changed everything for me that year. A comparison, a loser, a fallen face. And…a responsibility? What—report that I’m being bullied by a girl? Not in 1970! I assume I should have done some combination of confrontation and forgiveness. But sin—hate—desired me, and it ruled.
I think person-to-person sins are just “variations on a theme by Cain.” All sins against neighbor, brother or sister bleed out of the archetype: killing. Hate is murder in the heart. I also performed kind of a killing on myself by internalizing my role: the class wuss.
Thankfully, the Rhonda and Jim show did not do a second season in grade eight. I guess she finally grew bored with me. My hatred slowly evaporated; I sort of forgave her. I like how I was shaped by my year of torment. I feel deeply for people and I try to give esteem.
In grade twelve, Rhonda and I found ourselves taking a class in which we often had to work together. We acted like grade seven never happened. That was dumb – I wish I would have told her how miserable she had made me. I wish I would have apologized for my expression of hatred. I wish I would have said “remember that time I gave you that two-handed shove?”
But I didn’t.
Cain hated his brother Abel, and acted on it. God had regard for Abel’s offering, but did not have regard for Cain’s. We are told that Cain was very angry and “his face fell.” The narrator did not see fit to explain the problem with Cain’s offering, so I guess that’s not the point. Here’s the point: when Cain and Abel were compared, Cain came out the loser. A comparison, a loser, a fallen face, and a responsibility: do well, because sin “desires you.”
At the start of grade seven Rhonda had…bloomed; I had not. I was a good target. Every day while walking the halls, I would be loudly accosted by Rhonda. “Oh Jim, you’re such a man! I want you so much…” I was the perfect victim. Too shy to play along or to fight back, I was mortified and it showed. I assume that’s why it was so funny for everyone.
One day as “the Rhonda and Jim show” was parading toward geography class, I gave her my best hate stare, and she said “Jim, do you hate me?” I told her the truth. Another day in exasperation I blindly reached out and shoved her away with both hands. Both my hands caught her in the chest, and Rhonda shrieked! Twenty kids must have seen me do it. Simultaneous thoughts raced through my head: “So that’s what they feel like” and “come on floor, swallow me now.” Later in class, the guy sitting next to me said “Man, you turned green!”
How the Rhonda and Jim show never got old for her, I’ll never know. But the daily humiliation changed everything for me that year. A comparison, a loser, a fallen face. And…a responsibility? What—report that I’m being bullied by a girl? Not in 1970! I assume I should have done some combination of confrontation and forgiveness. But sin—hate—desired me, and it ruled.
I think person-to-person sins are just “variations on a theme by Cain.” All sins against neighbor, brother or sister bleed out of the archetype: killing. Hate is murder in the heart. I also performed kind of a killing on myself by internalizing my role: the class wuss.
Thankfully, the Rhonda and Jim show did not do a second season in grade eight. I guess she finally grew bored with me. My hatred slowly evaporated; I sort of forgave her. I like how I was shaped by my year of torment. I feel deeply for people and I try to give esteem.
In grade twelve, Rhonda and I found ourselves taking a class in which we often had to work together. We acted like grade seven never happened. That was dumb – I wish I would have told her how miserable she had made me. I wish I would have apologized for my expression of hatred. I wish I would have said “remember that time I gave you that two-handed shove?”
But I didn’t.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Jim's Primeval Journey: Hiding
I’m going to tell you about my early experience of trying to hide from God. Tricky—dumb—given realities like omnipresence and omniscience. Our first parents tried hiding after their sin, when they suddenly realized they were naked (Genesis 3). They had been naked without shame until that first sin. Sin brings shame and shame brings fear, and fear brings stupid things like trying to hide from God.
There was a day in grade 10 that the Lord really laid a heavy on me. A bunch of us were attending the biggest Christian show in America – the Bill Gothard seminar had come to town. Evening #2 of the week-long event was on the topic “gaining a clear conscience.” Bill talked about a bunch of ways that a conscience can become wracked with guilt, and then he shared what the Bible teaches about asking others for forgiveness.
Here is the Holy Spirit’s message of conviction that came to me that night: “You have sinned against your brother and your mom, and I want you to ask them for forgiveness.”
It was indeed a “heavy” for me. I was remembering typical kid stuff, but sinful nonetheless. When we were little, I used my big brother status to tease Bob mercilessly. Now suddenly the tormentor was tormented with guilt over it. And toward Mom, I just realized how often I had been an irritation by being lazy…irresponsible…that kind of stuff.
Pride and fear are inseparable. My pride made me afraid to say the words of humility that Bill Gothard taught us (“I was wrong when I did __________. Will you forgive me?”) Wow.
In the years since that battle with pride, fear, and guilt, I have analyzed it from every angle. I’m aware that I have a sensitive conscience. I’m a people-pleaser, so when I hurt someone, I’m tortured over it. I also think that the spiritual battle started with healthy, constructive conviction of the Holy Spirit, but when I resisted, it became morbid, pathological guilt from Satan. But above all, I was responding to this conviction/guilt mix by using the (literally) oldest trick in the world: like Adam and Eve, I was trying to hide from God. God was asking, and I was refusing.
I refused for 4 years.
The day came when I dealt with it. Two days, actually. One day I just started saying to Bob what I needed to say. Only a couple sentences were needed to bring up the issue, acknowledge my guilt, and ask for forgiveness. He said a gracious—stunned—“yeah I forgive you.” And a week or so later, before heading off for my job at Sears, I did the same with Mom. She said “Of course I forgive you.” (She said some more, too.)
After talking to Mom, I was free. I really felt free. It was a sweet bus ride to work. That evening at Sears, I learned that Elvis had died that day. So now every August 16, when the world remembers Elvis’ death, I remember the day my pride died, and I stopped hiding from God.
There was a day in grade 10 that the Lord really laid a heavy on me. A bunch of us were attending the biggest Christian show in America – the Bill Gothard seminar had come to town. Evening #2 of the week-long event was on the topic “gaining a clear conscience.” Bill talked about a bunch of ways that a conscience can become wracked with guilt, and then he shared what the Bible teaches about asking others for forgiveness.
Here is the Holy Spirit’s message of conviction that came to me that night: “You have sinned against your brother and your mom, and I want you to ask them for forgiveness.”
It was indeed a “heavy” for me. I was remembering typical kid stuff, but sinful nonetheless. When we were little, I used my big brother status to tease Bob mercilessly. Now suddenly the tormentor was tormented with guilt over it. And toward Mom, I just realized how often I had been an irritation by being lazy…irresponsible…that kind of stuff.
Pride and fear are inseparable. My pride made me afraid to say the words of humility that Bill Gothard taught us (“I was wrong when I did __________. Will you forgive me?”) Wow.
In the years since that battle with pride, fear, and guilt, I have analyzed it from every angle. I’m aware that I have a sensitive conscience. I’m a people-pleaser, so when I hurt someone, I’m tortured over it. I also think that the spiritual battle started with healthy, constructive conviction of the Holy Spirit, but when I resisted, it became morbid, pathological guilt from Satan. But above all, I was responding to this conviction/guilt mix by using the (literally) oldest trick in the world: like Adam and Eve, I was trying to hide from God. God was asking, and I was refusing.
I refused for 4 years.
The day came when I dealt with it. Two days, actually. One day I just started saying to Bob what I needed to say. Only a couple sentences were needed to bring up the issue, acknowledge my guilt, and ask for forgiveness. He said a gracious—stunned—“yeah I forgive you.” And a week or so later, before heading off for my job at Sears, I did the same with Mom. She said “Of course I forgive you.” (She said some more, too.)
After talking to Mom, I was free. I really felt free. It was a sweet bus ride to work. That evening at Sears, I learned that Elvis had died that day. So now every August 16, when the world remembers Elvis’ death, I remember the day my pride died, and I stopped hiding from God.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Jim's Primeval Journey: Girls
Good…good…good…good…good…good…very good…not good.
Because I trust God’s first seven assessments of his creation, I have no reason to doubt his eighth assessment. But this is not about me theologizing about what “It is not good for the man to be alone” means for humanity. This is about me reflecting upon how my own primeval (earliest days) baggage bumps into and finds meaning in light of God’s words and actions in his Primeval narrative (Genesis 1-11).
I want to blame my teenage yearnings for a girlfriend on the music of the 70’s. I have no idea if today’s music has a theme, but the 70’s had a constant flow of heart-wrenchingly romantic music for those of us put off by hard rock. My buddies and I were really into pop music. We had AM radio, and listened faithfully every week to American Top 40. We also had the Midnight Special every Friday night. So my particular subculture had a steady diet of love songs: Precious and Few, More than a Woman, How Deep is Your Love (OK, everything by the Bee Gees except Jive Talkin'), She’s Gone, You Make me Feel Brand New, Don’t Pull Your Love out on Me, Walk Away Renee, Daisy Jane, Sarah Smile, Alone Again Naturally, Ain’t no Mountain High Enough, All by Myself, After the Love has Gone, Midnight Blue, I Like Dreamin', Don’t go Breakin' my Heart, I’d Really Love to See You Tonight.
In high school I actually never had what you would call a long term relationship with a girl. Truth be told, I never had what you’d call an actually serious relationship with a girl. OK, I never had anything resembling a relationship with a girl. Well, while I’m at it I may as well confess that I never had a date. There. I said it.
What I did have were crushes. For most of jr and sr high school I think I averaged about one crush a week. Of course no girl ever got to enjoy the amusement of realizing they were the object of my brief (but intense) interest. I was too afraid to talk to a girl, and not quite sick enough to be a stalker. But I was one lonely boy. Thankfully, my buddies were afraid to talk to girls too, so we just got together and talked about girls. But we were all quite sure that getting together to talk about girls was different from (likely inferior to) actually having a girlfriend.
Going away to Briercrest Bible Institute, I gravitated to a gang of guys equally afraid of (but highly interested in) girls. We’d get together and talk about girls. And laugh our heads off at the thought that if we ever walked up to a girl to ask her out, we’d just throw up on her. Now 30 years later, as a member of the faculty at Briercrest, I can’t imagine that there are any Briercrest guys as dorky as we were.
To make a long story short, I asked Anne out. The main reason I didn’t throw up on her was that her friend told me that if I asked Anne to serve with me at the senior banquet (we were juniors) that I could be assured Anne would say yes.
And to bring things right up to today, when I try to describe what being married to Anne means to me, I’m always afraid I’ll stray into idolatrous talk. My anchor, my rock, my life, my light, my joy, my love. It’s scary how important she is to me. I try to be very constant in thanking the Lord for her, in part as an exercise in keeping God #1.
As I said, I won’t theologize beyond what it means to me personally that “it is not good that the man should be alone.” What it means to me is simply this: here is part of the Bible that is near and dear to me. I totally identify with it, and I feel like I’m living it. It reads like such an understatement, but wow, what a blessing that it is my real-life testimony: God has given me a “suitable companion.”
Because I trust God’s first seven assessments of his creation, I have no reason to doubt his eighth assessment. But this is not about me theologizing about what “It is not good for the man to be alone” means for humanity. This is about me reflecting upon how my own primeval (earliest days) baggage bumps into and finds meaning in light of God’s words and actions in his Primeval narrative (Genesis 1-11).
I want to blame my teenage yearnings for a girlfriend on the music of the 70’s. I have no idea if today’s music has a theme, but the 70’s had a constant flow of heart-wrenchingly romantic music for those of us put off by hard rock. My buddies and I were really into pop music. We had AM radio, and listened faithfully every week to American Top 40. We also had the Midnight Special every Friday night. So my particular subculture had a steady diet of love songs: Precious and Few, More than a Woman, How Deep is Your Love (OK, everything by the Bee Gees except Jive Talkin'), She’s Gone, You Make me Feel Brand New, Don’t Pull Your Love out on Me, Walk Away Renee, Daisy Jane, Sarah Smile, Alone Again Naturally, Ain’t no Mountain High Enough, All by Myself, After the Love has Gone, Midnight Blue, I Like Dreamin', Don’t go Breakin' my Heart, I’d Really Love to See You Tonight.
In high school I actually never had what you would call a long term relationship with a girl. Truth be told, I never had what you’d call an actually serious relationship with a girl. OK, I never had anything resembling a relationship with a girl. Well, while I’m at it I may as well confess that I never had a date. There. I said it.
What I did have were crushes. For most of jr and sr high school I think I averaged about one crush a week. Of course no girl ever got to enjoy the amusement of realizing they were the object of my brief (but intense) interest. I was too afraid to talk to a girl, and not quite sick enough to be a stalker. But I was one lonely boy. Thankfully, my buddies were afraid to talk to girls too, so we just got together and talked about girls. But we were all quite sure that getting together to talk about girls was different from (likely inferior to) actually having a girlfriend.
Going away to Briercrest Bible Institute, I gravitated to a gang of guys equally afraid of (but highly interested in) girls. We’d get together and talk about girls. And laugh our heads off at the thought that if we ever walked up to a girl to ask her out, we’d just throw up on her. Now 30 years later, as a member of the faculty at Briercrest, I can’t imagine that there are any Briercrest guys as dorky as we were.
To make a long story short, I asked Anne out. The main reason I didn’t throw up on her was that her friend told me that if I asked Anne to serve with me at the senior banquet (we were juniors) that I could be assured Anne would say yes.
And to bring things right up to today, when I try to describe what being married to Anne means to me, I’m always afraid I’ll stray into idolatrous talk. My anchor, my rock, my life, my light, my joy, my love. It’s scary how important she is to me. I try to be very constant in thanking the Lord for her, in part as an exercise in keeping God #1.
As I said, I won’t theologize beyond what it means to me personally that “it is not good that the man should be alone.” What it means to me is simply this: here is part of the Bible that is near and dear to me. I totally identify with it, and I feel like I’m living it. It reads like such an understatement, but wow, what a blessing that it is my real-life testimony: God has given me a “suitable companion.”
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Jim's Primeval Journey: Curiosity
I am enchanted with Genesis 1-11. I get goosebumps. God’s word on how it all started. I think a lot about the stuff in those few chapters. It has such a cool nickname: The Primeval Narrative. “Belonging to the first or earliest ages.” More goosebumps.
Another thing I think a lot about is my baggage. I live with debris from my own “earliest ages.” I had wonderful Christian parents and a great brother and sister, all the essentials and a bunch of happy adventures. Nothing falling into the categories normally thought to require therapy or steps or healing. But I’ve still got stuff. And stuff is stuff. I live with it because it shaped me.
In a creepy, cool way, my pondering of the Primeval Narrative and my processing of childhood occasionally meet up. The revelations about our primeval history speak into the musings about my own “primeval history.” No surprise here: approaching the Bible, I bring all my baggage. As I try to interpret the Bible, it interprets me. Helpfully.
I was curious. I was filled with curiosity about bugs, woods, animals, clouds, stars, rocks. I assume you were too; it’s just the stuff of being a kid. Kid’s stuff – but real and wondrous. Here’s how it was for me. Being a boy in the 60’s, scientific discovery was the air we breathed. The space race was the biggest and most obvious. I was 10 when we made it to the moon. But there were other strong voices. My teachers in grades 4, 5 and 6 were three men who had not lost their sense of wonder. All three: Mr. Haakenson, Mr. Hitzeman, and Mr. Bylund were just big kids when it came to science. They had the bug, and it was contagious. I think all us boys aspired to be scientists because of those men.
I heard other voices too: National Geographic specials on PBS, Jacques Cousteau’s adventures, the specials about the Craighead family and their adventures in the American west, books from Scholastic Book Services, especially the Danny Dunn science adventure books, and “The Adventures of the Mad Scientist’s Club.” I had the science and nature bug so bad that I used my allowance money to collect at least a dozen Golden Nature Guides on rocks, fossils, zoology, pond life, mammals, reptiles and amphibians, trees…
And our family adventures fed my curiosity about nature. Fishing for sunfish and crappies with Dad and Bob fed the dreams for future adventures in nature. Archery became a major summer hobby for Bob and me, and fed a longing for adventure and exploration. But when I got into rocks, that was the quantum leap for me: hunting for agates in northern Minnesota, using paper route money to buy specimens at rock shops, reading books about rock collecting and geology, fossil hunting along the bluffs of the Mississippi River.
I won’t try to sort out all the pieces that led me to choose ministry over minerals (theology over geology – sorry). But the kid still lives. And this time of year, the bug takes hold – I get infected all over again.
“The Lord God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to work it and keep it…So out of the ground the Lord God formed every beast of the field and every bird of the heavens and brought them to the man to see what he would call them. And whatever the man called every living creature, that was its name. The man gave names to all the livestock and to the birds of the heavens and to every beast of the field.” (Genesis 2:15, 19, 20). Adam was a gardener and a zoologist—with occasional goosebumps, I bet.
This aspect of my boyhood—a consuming, thrilling curiosity about the wonders of creation—really is a God thing. I know we rightly end up in Romans 1 and the theological assertion that God’s existence is evident in his creation. I know that, and I always end up there. But today, I’m doing what I did countless times as a boy: I’m lingering, enjoying the wonders, and rubbing down goosebumps.
Another thing I think a lot about is my baggage. I live with debris from my own “earliest ages.” I had wonderful Christian parents and a great brother and sister, all the essentials and a bunch of happy adventures. Nothing falling into the categories normally thought to require therapy or steps or healing. But I’ve still got stuff. And stuff is stuff. I live with it because it shaped me.
In a creepy, cool way, my pondering of the Primeval Narrative and my processing of childhood occasionally meet up. The revelations about our primeval history speak into the musings about my own “primeval history.” No surprise here: approaching the Bible, I bring all my baggage. As I try to interpret the Bible, it interprets me. Helpfully.
I was curious. I was filled with curiosity about bugs, woods, animals, clouds, stars, rocks. I assume you were too; it’s just the stuff of being a kid. Kid’s stuff – but real and wondrous. Here’s how it was for me. Being a boy in the 60’s, scientific discovery was the air we breathed. The space race was the biggest and most obvious. I was 10 when we made it to the moon. But there were other strong voices. My teachers in grades 4, 5 and 6 were three men who had not lost their sense of wonder. All three: Mr. Haakenson, Mr. Hitzeman, and Mr. Bylund were just big kids when it came to science. They had the bug, and it was contagious. I think all us boys aspired to be scientists because of those men.
I heard other voices too: National Geographic specials on PBS, Jacques Cousteau’s adventures, the specials about the Craighead family and their adventures in the American west, books from Scholastic Book Services, especially the Danny Dunn science adventure books, and “The Adventures of the Mad Scientist’s Club.” I had the science and nature bug so bad that I used my allowance money to collect at least a dozen Golden Nature Guides on rocks, fossils, zoology, pond life, mammals, reptiles and amphibians, trees…
And our family adventures fed my curiosity about nature. Fishing for sunfish and crappies with Dad and Bob fed the dreams for future adventures in nature. Archery became a major summer hobby for Bob and me, and fed a longing for adventure and exploration. But when I got into rocks, that was the quantum leap for me: hunting for agates in northern Minnesota, using paper route money to buy specimens at rock shops, reading books about rock collecting and geology, fossil hunting along the bluffs of the Mississippi River.
I won’t try to sort out all the pieces that led me to choose ministry over minerals (theology over geology – sorry). But the kid still lives. And this time of year, the bug takes hold – I get infected all over again.
“The Lord God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to work it and keep it…So out of the ground the Lord God formed every beast of the field and every bird of the heavens and brought them to the man to see what he would call them. And whatever the man called every living creature, that was its name. The man gave names to all the livestock and to the birds of the heavens and to every beast of the field.” (Genesis 2:15, 19, 20). Adam was a gardener and a zoologist—with occasional goosebumps, I bet.
This aspect of my boyhood—a consuming, thrilling curiosity about the wonders of creation—really is a God thing. I know we rightly end up in Romans 1 and the theological assertion that God’s existence is evident in his creation. I know that, and I always end up there. But today, I’m doing what I did countless times as a boy: I’m lingering, enjoying the wonders, and rubbing down goosebumps.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
"Living the Story" - My Hermeneutical Model
When I read a novel, I want to come away changed. That’s my hope. If it is a worthwhile story, and if I’ve “lived the story” as I’ve been reading it, then it impacts me. In “living the story” I am placing myself in a position to embrace the impact of the story.
“Living the Story” is what I call my hermeneutical model for Bible reading. It consists of 3 steps which closely parallel the steps of Jeannine Brown’s model in chapter 2 of her wonderful book Scripture as Communication. If you check it out, you’ll see that I’m following Brown closely, but saying the whole thing in my own—rather simple— way. (This is definitely an exercise in the classic study guide question: “Restate Brown’s hermeneutical model in your own words”).
1. First, I “enter the story world” of the particular Bible passage. When I call it the “story world” I’m not implying that it’s fiction. Believing in the supernatural goes hand in hand with believing in the God of the Bible, so I read the stories as real historical events. So I’m cool with Jonah and the fish, Balaam and his talking donkey, an ancient global flood, etc. But calling it the “story world” reminds me that there is a narrator telling me the story. And anytime you are hearing a story, you need to decide if you are willing to place yourself in the storyteller’s hands and risk being “changed” by his story. When I read the Bible, I’m going for it: I’m watching eagerly to see how this story will impact me. And what I really want to find is how the narrator himself wants me to be impacted. (The narrator, after all, is simply a convenient and useful term for the “voice” of the inspired author).
2. Second, because I have travelled to this (“long ago and far away”) story world, I know I’m going to need a “tour guide” to explain the foreign stuff. So it’s here in step 2 that I am seeking to navigate the gap between the “culture of the story world” and the “culture of Jim’s little prairie-dwelling, American-in-Saskatchewan life.” Every hermeneutical model has to deal with this gap, knowing that Old Testament instructions such as: “don’t plant 2 kinds of seed in one garden plot,” “don’t eat swine,” and “when you enter the land, kill all the Canaanites” had meaning and significance for Old Testament Israel. But what do they “mean to us today?” Well, the quest for meaning in these foreign passages has to start with figuring out what it meant to the first hearers of the story – the “original audience.” So we study their historical, cultural, and theological context, seeking to understand the impact that the narrator intended for his first listeners.
3. Finally, I seek to receive (embrace) that same “impact” in my own life. In whatever way the particular text was trying to impact the lives of those original hearers, I want to yield to that very same impact. I’m deliberately talking about the “impact” of a particular passage (when you may have expected “meaning”). But I’m committed to finding—and indeed expecting to find—the “appropriate impact” in the “intended meaning” of the text. But I really like the focus on “impact,” because I don’t think that God ever wants us to be done when we have “found the right meaning.” We are always to let that meaning—that message—change us. Also, if my reading mindset is merely a “quest is for the text’s meaning,” I am likely to settle for grabbing of a “universal principle” for “applying to my life” in some hypothetical future situation. Rather than gleaning principles for future use, I prefer the mindset of “looking for a text’s impact.” Because that’s what reading good stories is all about: in the very reading of the story, I am changed. And that is exactly what I want from God’s stories. When I read one of his stores, I want to come away changed.
“Living the Story” is what I call my hermeneutical model for Bible reading. It consists of 3 steps which closely parallel the steps of Jeannine Brown’s model in chapter 2 of her wonderful book Scripture as Communication. If you check it out, you’ll see that I’m following Brown closely, but saying the whole thing in my own—rather simple— way. (This is definitely an exercise in the classic study guide question: “Restate Brown’s hermeneutical model in your own words”).
1. First, I “enter the story world” of the particular Bible passage. When I call it the “story world” I’m not implying that it’s fiction. Believing in the supernatural goes hand in hand with believing in the God of the Bible, so I read the stories as real historical events. So I’m cool with Jonah and the fish, Balaam and his talking donkey, an ancient global flood, etc. But calling it the “story world” reminds me that there is a narrator telling me the story. And anytime you are hearing a story, you need to decide if you are willing to place yourself in the storyteller’s hands and risk being “changed” by his story. When I read the Bible, I’m going for it: I’m watching eagerly to see how this story will impact me. And what I really want to find is how the narrator himself wants me to be impacted. (The narrator, after all, is simply a convenient and useful term for the “voice” of the inspired author).
2. Second, because I have travelled to this (“long ago and far away”) story world, I know I’m going to need a “tour guide” to explain the foreign stuff. So it’s here in step 2 that I am seeking to navigate the gap between the “culture of the story world” and the “culture of Jim’s little prairie-dwelling, American-in-Saskatchewan life.” Every hermeneutical model has to deal with this gap, knowing that Old Testament instructions such as: “don’t plant 2 kinds of seed in one garden plot,” “don’t eat swine,” and “when you enter the land, kill all the Canaanites” had meaning and significance for Old Testament Israel. But what do they “mean to us today?” Well, the quest for meaning in these foreign passages has to start with figuring out what it meant to the first hearers of the story – the “original audience.” So we study their historical, cultural, and theological context, seeking to understand the impact that the narrator intended for his first listeners.
3. Finally, I seek to receive (embrace) that same “impact” in my own life. In whatever way the particular text was trying to impact the lives of those original hearers, I want to yield to that very same impact. I’m deliberately talking about the “impact” of a particular passage (when you may have expected “meaning”). But I’m committed to finding—and indeed expecting to find—the “appropriate impact” in the “intended meaning” of the text. But I really like the focus on “impact,” because I don’t think that God ever wants us to be done when we have “found the right meaning.” We are always to let that meaning—that message—change us. Also, if my reading mindset is merely a “quest is for the text’s meaning,” I am likely to settle for grabbing of a “universal principle” for “applying to my life” in some hypothetical future situation. Rather than gleaning principles for future use, I prefer the mindset of “looking for a text’s impact.” Because that’s what reading good stories is all about: in the very reading of the story, I am changed. And that is exactly what I want from God’s stories. When I read one of his stores, I want to come away changed.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Well, I guess it's a blog
I just poke away at trying to figure things out: how the obvious stuff in the Bible is relevant, why the confusing stuff in the Bible is so confusing, how we are to be impacted by any given Bible passage, how the abundant life and the promise of shalom is to become our daily reality, what it means that so much of God's message is poetry and story.
I'm not that bright, so if I can't say is simply, it means I just don't get it yet. With me, nothing is rocket science.
But if something grabs me I'll share it.
I'm goofier on Facebook.
I'm not that bright, so if I can't say is simply, it means I just don't get it yet. With me, nothing is rocket science.
But if something grabs me I'll share it.
I'm goofier on Facebook.
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