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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.