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He started his wall-less church meeting with students on the Quad about 15 years ago. “The first conversation I had was with a young man who said to me, ‘I just broke up with my boyfriend, and I don’t know what to do.’” Bouzard recounts. “I’d been in a parish for 20 years and had never heard that sentence before. Love is love.”
The rainbow flag hanging from Bouzard’s booth hopes to show passersby he’s fully welcoming for all LGBTQ students. “That ship has sailed for them, the notion of a church that would exclude gay friends,” Bouzard explains. “I get students who stop by and say ‘I’m glad to see this, tell me more.’ And I get to tell them how our theology goes.”
It’s in stark contrast to the fire and brimstone preachers who drove Pastor Jaime to the Quad in the first place: Brother Jed and Sister Cindy. Now TikTok infamous, they would travel to college campuses with a highly confrontational, hateful style of street preaching.
“Jed would come with these horrific sermons about why gay people are going to die,” Bouzard recounts from his early days in campus ministry. “I would go out there with counter protest signs like ‘Jesus is about love not condemnation.’”
“I decided I needed to be out there to offer a different face to the faith I hold so dear. It seemed to me it should happen more than when those characters show up, to represent the faith even when they’re not around.” Bouzard’s Quad vigil was born.
Bouzard was a military kid, who later graduated from Luther Seminary in St. Paul, Minnesota. Talking with him, it’s immediately apparent why students are comfortable opening their hearts to him, a near stranger in a public setting. His demeanor is both reassuring and engaged, a friendly listener and wise pastoral presence. Practice makes perfect, and his unflappable attitude probably comes in part from the variety of confessions and questions he’s heard from college students over the years.
“I’ll hear things like, ‘My girlfriend’s pregnant and she’s thinking about an abortion and I don’t know what to do.’” Bouzard recounts. “Also: Where do I get my tires? I get that regularly.”
“Some days, from the moment I set up my booth, I don’t have five minutes alone,” Bouzard explains. “There will be people waiting in line, two to three wanting to talk about stuff. Hearing their hurts and trying to be empathetic can be pretty tiring.”
“But it's an honor to be invited into their lives, and to share with them, and of course it’s not a one way street. I learn lots of colorful slang. Like boo thang. Drip. Riz. Slay. What’s the other one I heard the other day? Fax no printer. (Translation: “That’s the truth.”)
I asked Bouzard, why do busy, young adults, whose generation is increasingly areligious, trust him so quickly? “They can spot insincerity or a secondary agenda from a mile away. Since I don’t do that and I’m out there pretty much every day it doesn’t rain Monday through Thursday, they figure I’m not a short term person.” Around a dozen students have become “Quadrigants.” They’re not congregants who come to Sunday worship, but they talk to Jaime every time they come through Quad.
Pastor Jaime is deeply involved in campus life. On Sunday evenings he leads church services at the school’s Christ Chapel with up to 30 students, about a quarter he says are Lutheran. He teaches a one-credit class at Texas State, known as ‘College Survival.’ It’s an hour-long, weekly seminar where Bouzard and students discuss time management, note-taking, wellness, diversity, and career exploration. It’s designed to keep students from quitting school if they don’t have support or resources.
“College is a tough place, and a lot of people who walk up to him are trying to figure out who they are. Jaime’s meeting them as they are,” says Kelley Cato.
Cato was a Texas State student when Pastor Jaime started hanging out on the Quad, and she’s now Council President of Living Word Lutheran Church in nearby Buda.
Cato had me wishing we had more public gathering spaces when she explained why few other pastors do similar work. “In normal parish work, there’s so many other things going on, it’s hard to get out of your shell. And there isn’t a designated Quad for the real world.”
“I’m a renter in our campus church,” Bouzard explains. “My campus ministry is situated in that I don’t have to worry about other responsibilities like building upkeep.”
To me, it sounds a bit like Jesus’ ministry, meeting people where they are, with loving open-mindedness and firm faith in God’s unending embrace. Not to mention, prioritizing time with people over building maintenance.
“There’s a lot of sadness that walks by my table. But there’s a lot of overcoming it,” Bouzard explains. “And when I hear those stories, it's a reminder that God is at work in all sorts of ways, showing mercy and kindness and grace all over the place. I think it’s probably deepened my faith.”
“The young man who plopped down who said my girlfriend is thinking about having an abortion, he stopped by a year and a half later, and asked, ‘You remember me?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘We got married, we have a baby boy, we couldn’t be happier, thanks for listening to me.’ All I could say was ‘You’re welcome.’ I could barely choke those words out.”
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