38. Gotta Shovel? Bag Pipes and the Motorcycle Clergymen

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

The experience of a snow day through the eyes of a child is awesome. It means a reprieve from school; sleeping in; Flexible Flyer sleds and Norwegian toboggans leaned against the garage; snow angels and evidence of less-than-successful snowman rolling efforts in the front yard; wet coats, hats, and mittens strewn about a home’s entryway; hot cocoa and rosy red cheeks. The State Education Department only allotted a specified number of flexible days that each district could use for snow. Any school district that went over, school days were tacked on at the end of school in June. Nobody wanted that!

The weather forecasters the prior week had been calling for a huge storm this weekend. Well, the cold and snow came to pass. Sixteen inches in my youth would have been a mere flesh wound. Today, it is a snowpocalypses. Everyone and everything shuts down, closes down, doesn’t go in to work. Just another day in Western and Central New York. When I shake my head with disdain, I can’t help but think to myself, “Yes, I have become my father.”

For years we lived within a mile of Lake Ontario. When the forecaster spoke about lake effect snow, we took notice. Fifteen miles away would get a flurry; we’d get two feet. One winter, our driveway had to be plowed out seventeen times. At twenty-five bucks a pop, back in the day, ouch! Snow was expensive. The town highway department would plow the snow back so far, then push the top even further back with an elevated wing, resulting in snowbanks with shelves of layered terraces. Impressive.

Palmyra was a good fifteen miles south of Lake Ontario, but we still received our share of winter punishment from both Lake Ontario and Lake Erie. John Blazey and his wife Alice, were members of the parish. John grew up working long hours to scrape together a living for his wife and family. He welded for the New York Central, the Town and Village. He repaired farm machinery, and sold lawn tractors and implements. In the winter, John would put a plow on his truck and set about plowing out the church and his neighbors. John used to have a wood stove in his store, where friends and neighbors would gather round to shoot the bull and catch up on the community news. For lunch, Alice would set a plate for family and employees of the store. All were welcome around their table.

As a member of the local fire department, we did our best to keep the community safe. There were about forty, or so, active members who kept up our training. I served as a driver (passed the NY State Emergency Vehicle and Pump Operator courses), as the department chaplain, and as a medic on the ambulance. I was getting too old to be going into burning buildings, so I took a pass on keeping up my certification and training for interior firefighting. I never liked heights, so I never qualified on the aerial truck other than as a driver and pump operator. I’ll carry a ladder, put up a ladder, even hold a ladder while someone climbs up or down. But don’t ask me to go up. Heights have never been my friend.

Our volunteer department were a bunch of loveable rugrats. We had all ages; young bucks right out of high school, old dogs with sixty or seventy years of service. We had four officers of each rank: chief, captain, and lieutenant. I was happy not taking a leadership position; the church was enough for me. Training and calls were a great relief, a way to stay in shape, a good social outlet, a wonderful way to keep my hand on the pulse of the community. We had professionals and factory workers, common laborers and union bosses, retired and those still working a regular job, night shift folks and out of towners. Some came for the quarter beers in the soda machine in the truck bay, others for the wild and crazy antics of the younger breed.

Being a volunteer, but highly trained medic on the fire department ambulance, we were always down at the firehouse. We averaged more than a call a day, so there was always something to do: wash a rig, restock inventory, training, delivering oxygen, updating paperwork, getting the oil changed, swapping out batteries, checking expiration dates. 24/7/365 we were on call, prepared for any emergency, be it a jetliner falling from the sky to a call for a back ache from a fall, three weeks earlier.

The county 911 dispatchers were wonderful to us. We got to know them by their voice and tone, their ability to sort sense out of chaos, and their willingness to go the extra mile for a neighbor in need. Every year they were invited to our annual banquet for a free steak dinner and award recognition. We’d get called out in the darkest of nights, in the foulest of weather, on a mutual aid call to a neighboring department that couldn’t raise a crew. Sometimes we’d drive for miles in uncharted territory, guided in by our dispatchers to the proper location.

In later years, our mongrel of a dog got loose one night after a High School Band Concert. I drove around the neighborhood, calling for that miserable dog, listening for any hint of a response. Then, there he was. Lying in the middle of the road, flat as a pancake. I fetched a shovel from the garage and carried his lifeless body back home. The family was sad at his death, but, truth be told, we had only had “Doc” for a year and he just had not fit in.

“911. State your emergency,” the operator spoke back on the phone, his voice sounding suspiciously like the County Fire Coordinator. Could he be taking a shift in the dispatch center? “I called the number for Animal Control. How did I get you?” I asked. “After hours, the call gets routed to the 911 center.” “How can I help you?”

All my fire department and ambulance experience placed a face on the familiar voice. “Rick, is that you?” “Yes, Todd,” he replied, undoubtedly he had all my contact information on the screen in front of him. I told him the tale of woe and how the appropriately licensed family dog had gotten loose and run over in the road. “What should I do,” I asked with the attitude of a good, law abiding citizen wanting to do the right thing and avoid any fines or penalties.

“Well,” Rick replied, both of us knowing full well the call was being recorded, “Do you have a shovel?” “Well, yes.” “How about you go bury him?”

—

The ophthalmologist is still prohibiting me from swimming. There the lap pool sits, silently waiting my return. Hard to believe, but I miss the routine; the locker room, familiar faces of people who share a common journey.

So, it is today 20 laps around the walking track. A mile and a half by my calculations, lost in thought, listening through earbuds to a podcast on politics. As the laps tick by, it is hard for me to think of all the acrimony that comes from the public square.

Families divided by one party or another, one policy or something else, threats and intimidations, quietly pushing mounds of mashed potatoes at family meals because the tension about the table is so thick it could be cut with a knife.

We are not meant to be this way.

When we know each other by name, it becomes much more difficult to demonize each other. When we are curious about each other’s lived experience, meaning and motive become more clear, love and grace become easier to extend, and receive.

My voice is so small, so little, so insignificant. Yet, my voice I raise and join the prophet Micah, “What does the Lord require? To do justice. Love kindness. Walk humbly with your God.”

—

Steve replaced Clint as the Presbyterian pastor across the street. Clint would be greatly missed from our breakfast group of community clergy. He and his young adult son (with autism) hand crafted fishing lures and sold them to bait shops in pre-internet days. They found a mutual passion and a means to provide gainful employment for a beloved son. Winners all around. 

Clint moved up to middle management in Presbyterian circles. Steve was his replacement. After a long search committee process, he and his family bought a house in town and moved in. We all came to love Steve and his quiet, reflective approach to circumstances. His congregation was perhaps the most affluent of all the churches. It certainly was larger. Steve was full of surprises.

One summer day, I was enjoying my front porch. A good book and a fine cigar always put me in a contemplative mood. A warm day with cicadas buzzing and a cold glass of diet Coke made it a perfect afternoon. 

The windows of the Presbyterian church across the street were open. I assumed they were open to ensure a flow of fresh air. Steve’s car was parked in the pastor’s designated parking spot in the lot. I knew he was in his office. Emanating from the sanctuary through the open windows came a loud, offensive wail, similar to a pig in heat, though I’ve never heard a pig in heat. The wail certainly impacted the Main Street intersection, and drivers who passed the offensive blast. It varied in frequency and pitch; always grating and painful. 

Over bacon and scrambled eggs the following week I asked our table of ecumenical representatives if anyone knew about the terrible noises coming from the Presbyterian church. No one had a clue. Steve arrived late, hung up his cowboy hat, and joined us at the table. “What’s up with the noise?” I asked. 

A smile and twinkle in his eye worked his timed response just perfectly. “I’ve started taking lessons on the bag pipes, and the sanctuary is the best place to practice,” he informed us. “Great,” I responded with a forced smile. “Hope that works out for you.” My church and parsonage were across the street, directly in the line of fire. All the while, I’m wondering how much I can endure of a student’s bag pipes. 

Besides fitting in well with his Scottish heritage, Steve informed the table of us clergy colleagues that, once he became proficient in “Amazing Grace”, he could sell his services for weddings and funerals at $250 a pop, as opposed to the fifty bucks we’d be lucky to earn from the undertaker, or the hundred bucks we might get from the parents of newlyweds. Bag pipes, vile as piss poured from a boot, paid better than preaching. 

And it was as simple as that.

—

I greatly admired Steve and his odd Presbyterian and Scottish customs. He was slightly older than me, and so were his children. In those days, Chrysler began to manufacturer a new type of vehicle, marketed for families with children. They called it a minivan. Those front wheeled drive beaters served a generation of American families, all the while inhibiting paternal testosterone. Nearly every family had one.

Looking out my office window, I noticed a motorcycle was parked in the pastor’s spot in the Presbyterian parking lot, replacing Steve’s familiar family hauler. I needed a break from my work, so I crossed the street and stopped into his office. “Who parked their motorcycle in your spot?” I inquired with a suspicious eyebrow. 

“That would be mine,” he looked up and grinned. “Get out of town,” I enthusiastically responded. “You got a motorcycle? You got a license?” I was standing in the midst of middle aged manhood, lone defiance to stifling cultural norms, the whole world expecting their pastors to behave in public and wear Hush Puppies. 

Our weekly clergy breakfast table began to be regaled with Steve telling us about his new friendship with his motorcycle mechanic, where he had most recently ridden, what new accessories for his bike he had just purchase from the mail order catalogue. It became too much for me to bear; I just had to have a motorcycle, too. 

The motorcycle bug also bit my Methodist colleague from the next town over. Don was a second career Ordained pastor and a regular at our weekly clergy breakfast table. Don and I both purchased motorcycles on the used market; entry level bikes that we thought would be easy to control. I believe Don had previously held a motorcycle endorsement on his license, so he just had to rebuild muscle memory. I had never had a motorcycle, so I had to start from the beginning. 

In New York State, anyone can get a permit, but one has to pass a written and road test to earn the coveted motorcycle endorsement on their driver’s license. Learning with a permit required that you rode with a licensed partner. “Would you ride with me?” I asked Steve. Of course he would. Presbyterian grace covered Wesleyan circuit riders. 

(It is said Episcopalians went West by Pulman car; Presbyterians came by stage coach; but Methodist won the West on horseback.)

Steve taught me well. In due time, I passed the written test and scheduled my road test. Steve drove his minivan and I followed on my $400 Honda CB750. The road test began at the DMV office at the county seat in Lyons. I was on time and eager to demonstrate my newly obtained two wheeled skills. The rule was that the evaluator would ride with the motorcycle licensed driver in a car, following the student rider, around a pre-defined course. 

The evaluator stormed around the corner and down the sidewalk. His appointment, prior to mine, had nearly killed him. He flunked her and walked back to the office, mad as a hornet. He forced a smile at me as he reviewed my paper work. He took note of Steve’s minivan, came to a stop, and leered over the top of his glasses. “Your test is canceled,” he announced. 

“But why?” We protested. The mini van’s registration was expired. He wasn’t allowed to evaluate a road test from a non-registered motor vehicle. Steve was smooth in his response. “Can you squeeze us in after lunch if we come back with a registered car?” The state evaluator looked at two middle aged Protestant pastors wearing Hush Puppies standing before him. He rolled his eyes and said, “Yes, I’ll see what I can do.” 

“Come with me,” Steve pulled at my elbow. We walked over to the Presbyterian church across the village park. He introduced me to his colleague, a newly installed pastor seated behind her desk. “Can I borrow your car?” She didn’t know us from Adam, but Presbyterians must know each other just by their scent. 

We returned to the DMV road test station with the keys to a brand new car, that was properly registered and inspected. Thank you, Jesus!

Passing the road test and getting my motorcycle endorsement was a piece of cake. Don, Steve, and I rode often together, many times apart. We did hospital calls on our bikes. We even arranged for an annual motorcycle ride fund raiser for the local Habitat for Humanity organization. Hot summer mornings, we three would pull into the diner together for our weekly clergy breakfast. 

One Fall Saturday, Steve was pulled over by the local constable for exceeding the posted speed limit. He reported the officer scanned his paperwork and asked him why he was going so fast through town. Steve sat on his bike and thought. He told the cop that he was the Presbyterian minister in town (obviously lobbying for sympathy and leniency) and that he was late for a wedding. Or funeral. Or, whatever ministers rush to.  

“Say, I’ve heard about you,” the village police officer replied. “You’re one of three preachers in town who just got their motorcycle licenses, aren’t you?” “Yep,” Steve reported he replied. “My Methodist colleagues, Don and Todd, also ride bikes with me.” Cool beans, the officer thought, and let Steve off the hook with a warning.

Ten minutes later, while the cop dozed behind the wheel at his speed trap, another motorcyclist speeds past. Officer friendly responds with lights and siren, pulling over the offender with haste. The motorcyclist removed his helmet and opened his jacket, exposing a clerical collar. With no time to call in his traffic stop, the cop walked up to the motorcyclist dressed in a collar and asked, “Just who in the hell do you think you are speeding through my town? Are you Don or Todd?”

Don reported his eyes grew wide at the apparent divine clairvoyance by the officer of the law, knowing without checking, the perpetrator of his near felonious offense. Don confessed his sin and disclosed his identity. “But, how did you know it was me?” He asked. 

“Because I just got done pulling over your buddy, Steve.”

And thus began the lore and oft repeated and exaggerated tale of the great clergy motorcycle caper.  

More than friends; closer than blood; God knows how much I loved my clergy colleagues. Our breakfasts were sacred; sacramental I’d suggest. Our love, eternal. Thank you, Lord.

“Could you please pass the Tabasco?”

Post Script: Don died this past year, his struggles with disease ended. The world is at a loss without him. We all miss him. Until we see each other once again, rest in peace, dear friend. Rest in peace.

37. Farts in a Submarine and Peeing in a Pool

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

The parsonage in Palmyra was large and well maintained, though the basement was dark and creepy. Few churches are good landlords, but the good people on the Board of Trustees in Palmyra kept the parsonage up to snuff.

The parish supplied parsonage was right behind the church at the four corners in the center of town. It is fondly remembered as being large enough to have played basketball in the attic, pocket doors between downstair rooms, two fireplaces, and a stained glass lined staircase that wound its way upstairs from the first floor. It had four bedrooms and a parlor; big enough for me to comfortably set up a home office.

We had a key to the church in the parsonage foyer, hung on a hook on the backside of the door jam, chained to an oversized block of brass. It was an ingenious effort to prevent the key from walking off. I still think everyone in town had a key to the church and our house. Common were the late Saturday nights after the bars let out that we’d have a drunk leaning against our doorbell, slurring, drooling, begging for dollar or a ride home. 

The back door exited right on the church parking lot. Our son, Nicholas, and I enjoyed riding our bikes on that parking lot, playing an improvised version of polo, using hockey sticks and pucks. I’m sure the neighborhood talked about the new crazy Methodist pastor playing with his son. It didn’t matter to me what other people thought. A father playing with their son was a reputation well earned, I thought to myself.

We used thick sticks of chalk to draw on the pavement and the sidewalk connecting the parking lot to the church. Encouragement; everyone needs some! Faith; “Come, join us!” “Grow deep your faith.” “Rise and shine! Give God the Glory!” It was sidewalk evangelism at its finest.

The church, parsonage, and parking lot were right in the center of village life. Two doors to the North was the old village cemetery, overlooking the Erie Canal. The eldest brother of the founder of Mormonism, Joseph Smith, is buried there. Mormon pilgrims from all over the world come to visit the grave of Alvin Smith.

During the summer, tour busses would pull into our parking lot, where my son and I played, to drop off and pick up pilgrims. Not once or twice; multiple times a day. It was unsafe. No one asked permission. This practice exposed the church to unacceptable liability and risks, so I thought. I put my foot down and told the local community that the church parking lot could not be used for tour busses. 

My response was like a fart in a submarine. The message to our Mormon neighbors was loud and clear. Palmyra took notice. Colleagues raised an eyebrow. Certainly, some giggled about the crazy Methodist bicycle riding, polo playing, preacher and his son.

—

A true benefit of serving in a larger village church is the blessing of likeminded colleagues from other Christian denominations. We, local clergy, met weekly for breakfast at one of the village restaurants. Presbyterian, American Baptist, Roman Catholic, Episcopalian, Friends, United Methodist. It didn’t matter. Those who gathered around the table were safe. None would be promoted or elected to be your supervisor. There is no risk of saying or doing something that would damage a career.

It was a good opportunity for fellowship, to network community resources, sometimes, to just let down our hair and be silly. Families from different churches married one another. We covered for each other when vacations were taken and made hospital calls when another was out of town.

We learned about one another: best practices, denominational differences, career risks and rewards. We talked about undertakers; who paid what for funerals. And we talked about musicians; “anyone know where I can find a good cellist for a wedding?” Our families and spouses enjoyed each other. It is a joy to work together, collaborate on community wide ministry projects, and to establish a track record of success.

We shared communities secrets. Confidence was held. We could be safe with each other over a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon. Kids. Schools. Local politics. Rumors. Gossip. Births. Deaths. Adultery, divorce; you name it. We heard and saw it all. Peers serving sibling faith communities became fast friends, tenured anchors of objectivity and wisdom, lifelong blessings. 

Thank you, Lord, for my clergy colleagues and friends.

One local tradition was the Advent choir festival, an annual gathering of choirs on the first or second Sunday of Advent. It was held late in afternoon to a standing room only packed house. Choirs shared Advent and Christmas anthems. We always ended with one of the choir directors leading all the choirs and congregation in singing Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus” from Messiah. It was glorious! Lay and clergy members from the ecumenical community packed the host sanctuary. A collection was always taken on behalf of a local charity. 

One year we received a request. Could the choir from the Mormon Stake take part in the Advent Choir Festival? Debate circled the clergy breakfast table. We each consulted our respective church boards, councils and choirs, superintendents and Bishops. We debated, gathered information, discerned, and prayed. 

No formal vote was taken, but, over the course of time it became apparent to us clergy leaders that Joseph Smith’s Latter Day revelations of God and his visitation by the Angel Moroni were inconsistent with our revelation and experience of God. Joseph Smith’s choice was to lead his followers away from traditional dogma. He left us; we didn’t leave him. His experience of God was not ours. Larger ecumenical claims of faith were not on our radar, neither would be the Mormon experience. The answer was no. 

A second fart in a submarine brought each of us clergy a smirk and eyeroll from the waitress serving our weekly bacon and eggs.

—

Bright flashes and an intense headache on one side of my head caught my attention. Stroke? Or, something else?

Blood pressure: normal. Pupils, equal and reactive. Vitals were all within normal limits. Check. Check, and check. Though after hours, time to call the doctor.

Long story short, a retinal hemorrhage has sidelined my swimming. Rotating my head back and forth to rhythmic breathing makes for a shaken snow globe like experience.

Guess I’ll never be a fighter pilot.

Floaters, the doctor called them. Good thing, because floaters, together with tinnitus, could be easily mistaken for hallucinations. The doctor assured me vision will return to normal in six months. In the short term, no bending, lifting, or rotating my head. With a snow storm bearing down on the region, it means no snow shoveling (for the win!).

Aging is a beautiful thing.

An elevated walking track above a gymnasium full of pickle ball courts has to make due for the time being. My wife allows me to use one of her mechanical counters to keep track of laps. If only there was some kind of equivalent for swimmers, I think to myself. It is satisfying to punch the counter with the completion of every revolution around the track.

The competition below makes me think of the waiting room filled with newly retired people coming in for physical therapy at the specialized orthopedic hand clinic. A motor vehicle collision gave me a seat at the table in the department of broken toys. For many it was a pickle ball related injury that curbed their enthusiasm and made them bow in submission at the table of orthopedic repair and rehabilitation. 

“What happened to you?” I ask, as I elevate my broken arm and cast. “I broke my arm playing pickle ball,” was a common answer. My cast was purple. Others were pink, green, and red. Were we color coded in this strange new world? We looked at each other and shook our heads in silence, waiting for our names to be called.

Twenty laps on the walking track equals a mile and a half. Good to know. Not bad for this old geezer with two titanium knees.

— 

I received a call from one of the local Mormon missionaries, who asked to speak with me. “Yes, of course,” I replied. We set a time and date to meet at the parsonage, in our parlor. Only the brightest and best looking missionaries are sent from Salt Lake City to Palmyra for their one year service obligation. They want to put their best foot forward. I can’t blame them. I would, too. 

The door opened to my surprised. The Mormon missionary was right from central casting. He was a newly retired television anchorman from Utah. Fit and handsome, high and tight. With him, was Jud, one of my church leaders; a man born and bred, dyed in the wool, United Methodist. His lineage was peppered with a long history of Methodist circuit riders and church leaders. Jud was a veteran of the Battle of El Amin, made deaf by unrelenting artillery, and I greatly respected him.

“Pastor Todd,” the elder Morman missionary began, “I brought Jud with me to talk about his possible conversion to Mormonism.”

Jud adjusted the volume on his hearing aids, gave me a wisp of a smile and twinkle of his eye.  

Poaching members from other churches is called proselytizing, and it is hugely frowned upon by fellow clergy and our respective denominations. It is like peeing in your neighbor’s swimming pool; you just don’t do it. Apparently our Mormon neighbors had not received the memo. 

I smiled, thanked the missionary for being straightforward with me, and politely asked him to leave. I wasn’t being rude; just being honest. His protest faded, but eventually he gave up, turned on his heels and left. Jud and I sat on my front porch watched him drive out from the church parking lot. 

“You weren’t really planning to become a Mormon,” I said to Jud. 

“No,” he chuckled. “But I thought it would get a good rise out of you.” And so he did. Jud, my beloved church leader, generous and mischievous, wrinkled by wisdom and experience, reserved and dignified in a beautiful sort of way. He and I sat quietly on my front porch that warm summer day in the shadow of the church steeple, watching and listening to the life of Palmyra going about its business. And life was good.

The attempt to poach Jud and his wife from my flock came after an interview by a reporter from a Mormon magazine. I had been new, and didn’t know any different. The reporter took a nice picture. The article was kind and professional. After the proselytizing pee in my swimming pool, I wouldn’t be interviewed for any more articles about my progressive theology.

—

The final straw came at the end of my first year. Local clergy were invited to front row seats and the VIP treatment at the annual outdoor Mormon pageant. Famous Mormon celebrities, Donnie and Marie, were going to play the lead roles. The critically acclaimed Tabernacle choir was going to perform. This ten-day repeat performance traditionally drew thousands of the curious from the region. My own mother reported that she had attended once in her youth.

It was a clandestine effort to grow the Mormon church.

So, my colleagues and I declined to be used as props for their predatory evangelism. Nope, neither would we volunteer to flip hamburgers and hot dogs in their festival booths. None of us, we determined, would allow the mission and ministry of our local parishes to be undermined and ruined by our less than honorable neighbors, no matter how nicely they dressed, proclaimed lily white American values, or claimed to be followers of Jesus. 

Tolerance and respect are qualities that I’ve tried to practice and encourage others to develop in their journey of faith. I really tried to keep an open mind regarding our Mormon neighbors, but they never made it easy. I wished it was different, but I eventually came around to the opinion that the effort to proselytize members from others is so hard wired into the Mormon faith that there wasn’t anything I could do to change it. Wishing it away wasn’t going to change it. The only cooperation was to not cooperate.

Others have wondered over the years, how I can be so tolerant and welcoming to people of other faiths and religions, but be so cold to Mormons. Being neighborly must be reciprocal. I’ve tried to go overboard, to exceed expectations with abundant hospitality, to surpass Mr. Rodgers at being a good neighbor. But, once burned, shame on me. Twice burned, shame on you. 

It is important to live my values, make my stand, and never compromise my faith. Always be kind. Smile. But be firm. It is possible to say “no” and to remain friends. Sometimes, I just have to walk away. 

36. A Church on Every Corner, A Bar on Every Block – Poop, Pee, Vomit, and Blood

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

Palmyra is known for being the birthplace of Mormonism, the cult of Joseph Smith, and I was appointed to serve the local United Methodist parish. It is the only place in North America, I was told with hometown pride, that sported four churches on four corners. Mine was on the northwest corner. If asked which steeple was taller, I’d make the claim that ours was six inches taller than the others. True, or not? I don’t know, but it always made me laugh. 

While there was a church on every corner, there was also a bar on nearly every block. From fire and EMS calls, I’d come to know each of our watering holes, and those who frequented them, like the back of my hand. Palmyra was on the original Erie Canal. Booze, drinking, and fighting were central to life on the canal, a legacy that continues to this day.

Cannon Hill was so named because when the canal opened in 1825 a cannon was fired from the modest peak; one of a long string of celebratory cannons fired in succession from Manhattan to Buffalo. A hundred years later, the outdated canal was updated to the Barge Canal, which is still in operation, more so for pleasure boating than commerce. When the New York Central came through town, commerce transferred from canal boat to the high iron. 

In the center of town there was an iron flag pole, nearly a hundred feet high. We often trained on it with the aerial platform from the fire department. The pole had a patriotic history, but was tarnished with drunken and suicidal opportunist. Many a crowd I witnessed at its base, encouraging one to jump. Not a good look by the Chamber of Commerce. Eventually, village leaders welded steel plates to restrict access. Too many horses had already fled the barn. At least progress was being made. 

The church building was built of similar red brick architecture as other churches across upstate New York, two towers in front, with a tall steeple capping the one over the entrance. It was fun to climb the hidden access, circular staircase up the one tower, cross over the sanctuary rafters to the steepled tower, then climb ladders up to the bell. From this pigeon poop encrusted lair, one could look straight down Main Street, State Route 31, both East and West, and down Route 21 to the South and Division Street over the canal to the North. It was always peaceful and calm high above the village below. 

The sanctuary was modernized, everything was able to be repositioned. Worship in the round? No problem. Traditional back to front? Many hands make light work. Even the (expensive to maintain) pipe organ was connected by an electrical umbilical cord such that the console could be relocated to an ideal location. Cool beans. 

We were blessed with great people and families in Palmyra, though my volunteer team of church leaders didn’t always agree or get along. We held it together for eight years, a good run for any pastor and parish, ending with as many people in worship as when I started. Maintaining worship attendance was a win in the 1990’s when all the world was idolizing church growth and the mega church phenomena. Even then, mainline Protestant churches were in decline. The director of the New York State Council of Churches at that time described the religious environment as “an angry electorate,” and that the people in our pews were a reflection of the larger community. What did grow during my tenure was the endowment, more than tenfold, due to some very generous members of the parish and intensive efforts to provide exceptional pastoral care.  

From my prior experience assisting a capital fund drive and from my work in Palmyra, I learned that giving begins and ends with relationships. A cold solicitation rarely produces fruit. Making friends, developing friendships, building trust, showing oneself dependable, sharing trials and tribulations, mutually enjoying the joys of life’s success, traveling the journey of life together; this is the successful recipe for developing a culture of generosity. There are no shortcuts. 

—

The pool this morning didn’t happen. My shoulders and neck have been stiff and painful all week. Range of motion is suffering. The thought of fifteen laps of crawl stroke is a non-starter. 

“If it hurts, Don’t do it,” is common medical advice that gives me cover to take a day off. Maybe if I let my body rest and heal? That’s it! That’s the ticket; but, when presented to my wife, the medical professional in our household, I get the stern look out of the top of her eyes. 

“Have you called the doctor?” 

“No.”

“Why not?”

We’ve been through this a thousand times before. We both know the script. “I hate to waste money only to be told there isn’t anything more that can be done other than Tylenol and rest.” No one needs a medical degree for acetaminophen and bed rest.

“But, maybe it is something else.” (Pause for effect) “If you’re not feeling better by next week, will you call the doctor?” 

“Okay,” I concede, defeated by my aging body and prideful mind. 

—

The village fire department was one of the larger ones in Wayne County. We had about forty active volunteers, three pumpers, a brush truck, rescue truck, and aerial platform. Though we had no paid firefighters, lots of young bucks would hang out at the station just waiting for calls, watching television, or wasting time on video games. Training was held every Thursday evening and Sunday morning. Each volunteer was required to attend and participate in a certain number of yearly training sessions to keep in good standing.

I was warmly welcomed; after all, I had experience as a driver, pump operator, interior firefighter, and chaplain (though I was happy to yield my interior firefighting skills to younger and stronger members of the department). It didn’t take long before I was elected President of the company, a non-line officer. I was not elected to be a firefighting officer, like one of the four chiefs, captains, and lieutenants. They got radios, colored helmets, and red lights and sirens for their personal vehicles. My responsibilities were purely social, raising money, renting the hall, bringing in new members, sending cards and flowers, ensuring the beer machine and bar was stocked.

We also had two ambulances. We were a mixed department, running both fire and EMS calls. We were called the Oxygen Squad from the days when we supplied Oxygen dependent residents with free tanks of pressurized gas from a cascade system installed at the fire hall. We took care to ensure people had an uninterrupted supply of this life essential commodity.

I was intrigued. 

Did I have the chops to learn how to take a blood pressure? Start an IV? Save a stabbing victim? Did I have the stomach to deal in the industry of mayhem and death? My wife was a labor and delivery nurse. She spoke the language of medicine and knew the difference between proximal and distal. My dad had served as a navy medic during World War Two, training and serving to do some of the most horrific tasks known to human kind. If dad could do it, well. So could I. I signed up to take the Emergency Medical Technician course, offered for free by the State of New York, to become an entry level medic on our fire department ambulance. 

Our emergency medical services, essentially rescue, first aid, and transport to the local hospital, was a community service handed over from local undertakers, fifty years earlier. We were dispatched three times more for EMS than for fire or rescue calls. My highest year, I ran 325 EMS calls; I would guess, that averages to about three hours a day. A rival, competitive not-for-profit ambulance also ran in town, but their availability and quality suffered. Today, both services have quit the field to for-profit ambulance companies. At least modernization has given some of the young bucks a job and a paycheck. 

There was a lot to learn.

The course was long and thorough, covering everything from trauma to medical emergencies, helicopter transport, to the jaws of life. From birth to death, from the time a call is dispatched to when you call the rig back in service. Just about everything that can happen is covered. Law, consent, ethics, mass casualties, heart attacks, strokes, burns, amputations, weather disasters. You name it. We even learned were the best donut and coffee shops were located between the hospital and station.

The course ran twice a week for six months. Reading and comprehension before every class was essential. Lectures by senior instructors, doctors, and nurses were common. Time had to be spent with experienced, senior medics answering calls. We had weekly tests, final test, and a practical exam at the end. The wash out rate was pretty high.

I strived for perfection. I was scared half to death that the one answer I got wrong could result in the injury of death of someone. The responsibility that came with the credentials and patch weighed heavily on me. Rookie medics need not worry, for within our squad, outside of the class, we were paired up with veterans and taught the ropes. 

Poop. Pee. Vomit. Blood. These were the essential body fluids that defined many calls. Brains, too; they became fluid if dropped from sufficient height. Can’t forget the calls that involved brains. The more common body fluids were also the means to break in the new medics, present company included. Could I do what had to be done without being sick myself? Only time would tell. 

One rite of passage for new medics was when a patient had to be fully immobilized. This was to protect the head, neck, and spine from further injury. This was the result of motor vehicle collisions, falls, and other traumatic incidences. Head stabilized. Check. C-collar, used to immobilize the head and neck, sized and fitted. Check. Patient fixed to a rigid back board to protect the spine. All check. A good evolution results in a patient hog tied and gussied up like a thanksgiving turkey, fully unable to protect their own airway. 

And then, there is the meal they ate right before becoming my injured patient. Three tacos covered in jalapenos. All you can eat pasta buffet. Burgers, fries, and chocolate milkshakes. Lying flat and strapped to a stretcher in the back of a moving ambulance. On a warm summer night. You get the picture. It doesn’t take long for one to start to get that Pepto feeling. 

Pro tip: aggressively open windows, crank vent fans on high, and turn the air conditioning up to 10. Pro experience, learned in the heat of the call: despite the best efforts to reduce a patient’s nausea, sometimes what went down is bound to come up.

Both veteran and rookie medics sit on side benches, flanking the patient, hog tied and strapped down to the rigid back board. The veteran medic, learned by fire and experience, knows to aggressively unstrap, lift, and tilt the back board on its side, allowing the immobile patient to let gravity clear their airway. Tip it away and all the productive content, if aimed correctly, coats the rookie medic with a baptism of all things holy, head to toe. It happened to me; in turn, I passed on this sacred tradition to those who followed in my footsteps. It isn’t pretty. It’s not a nice thing to do. But it was our rite of passage.

Remember your baptism, and be thankful.

—

Before leaving my student church in Ohio, the congregation had a celebration for me. One gift I received was from my senior pastor, Nunzio Donald Catrone. The gift was a blank book titled “Pastoral Record.” It’s significance didn’t register in 1986, but as years began to accumulate, the pages became filled with names, dates, and significant notations. Baptisms, marriages, and deaths each have a section.

For the past week I’ve been thinking about Francis. Her entry in my Pastoral Record is January 11, 1996.

Francis was a member of my congregation in Palmyra. She was widowed perhaps fifteen years prior to my arrival. She was proud of her marriage, though their love never produced any children. Her husband had been the village postmaster and a faithful Episcopalian. She was a Methodist, and proud of her independence. Her house was on top of Cannon Hill, a house at the end of the street, the backyard sloped down to the original Erie Canal (in the foreground) and the Barge Canal, a hundred yards beyond.

Children in the neighborhood avoided Francis and her home. Mrs. B was thought to be a witch, ogre, or some other monster who feasted on the unsuspecting child who was caught crossing her yard or peeking in her window. Francis attended church every week, sat front and center, and took in every word of my sermons. She especially loved Summer worship. Bring a folding lawn chair on Sunday evenings; I’ll provide the lemonade. Age compressed her bones and joints, losing her six inches, or so. Francis was being doctored for a heart condition.

It was so enjoyable to stop by and visit on hot summer afternoons. Francis would serve me tea under a tree in her back yard. The flies would be buzzing. People passed, walking the canal path down below us. Time slowed. We’d talk about the past, my most recent sermon, faith, hopes, and fears. Though she was a woman of strong faith, she, like most of us, also had her fears.

Living alone, she feared calling for help, if and when the time came that she found herself in distress. She had a scanner, like most residents in the village, that monitored the fire and ambulance frequencies. Scanners were the source of gossip and juicy speculation. Though we had codes for many circumstances, mostly we spoke on the radio in plain English. She was modest and didn’t want her name and address broadcast publicly for all the world to hear.

Over the course of five years I received her call numerous times in the dead of night. “Pastor Todd, can you come,” she whispered. “Did you call 911?” I’d ask, rubbing the dirt from my eyes, according to our well-worn script. “No, I don’t want to start any trouble.”

“Any chest pains or trouble breathing?” Her answer was always a resounding “Yes! I can’t hardly breath,” she’d say. I could almost see her squirming. “I’ll be right over.”    

A quick-to-don pair of coveralls hung from the closet door next to the bed. Shoes and my department cap, and I was out the door. My Ford Ranger carried a small Oxygen tank, a manual defibrillator, a first aid kit, and my radio. My call sign was Palmyra 14-15. “Fire Control, this is Palmyra 14-15. Dispatch my rig to this address for chest pains and trouble breathing.” The three minute head start would give me precious time to make a thorough assessment of Francis before my crew arrived with the ambulance.

Time and again, we’d take Francis to the hospital to have her stabilized, admitted, healed, and discharged. Each time her heart grew weaker and weaker.

Calls taking Francis to the hospital in the middle of the night were special. I did what needed to be done; repeat vitals, heart monitored, high flow Oxygen, IV started (I had since taken advanced courses and certifications), and, if needed, called for a higher trained medic (to pass medication) to intercept us during transit (though protocol called for the request, a higher level of care in the field was rarely needed). When completed, I turned the lights down low, tucked her in, and held her hand. I’d pray with her; we prayed that the current crisis and pain would end, for diagnostic clarity for the doctor, for compassion for her bedside caregivers, to safely return home.

Francis liked that I prayed with her and for her.  

“Pastor Todd, could you stop by the house this week sometime?” she called. “Yes, of course.” Tea beneath the tree was always a happy place for the both of us.

“My doctor wants me to have open heart surgery,” she stated matter of factly. “Split me right down the middle.” She paused, biting her lower lip. “I thought I’d run it by you. What do you think?” she asked.

Time slowed like molasses in wintertime. What did I think? I’m just a medic on the ambulance. I don’t know about such things, I thought to myself.

Except… Except that I was Francis’s pastor. I did know a little something about faith, life, death, and eternal life. I knew Francis, her life, her passions, her love, her wishes. She and I shared a sacred place between us. We truly loved each other, as only a pastor can love, like a sister or a child, as a shepherd and a sheep.

As we talked, listing pros and cons, discussing risks and rewards, Francis found herself coming to the conclusion that she would have the surgery. We prayed together. The date and time were set. I met her at the regional cardiac surgery hospital as she was being prepped. “You sure you want this?” I asked, holding her hand. She looked so small in the oversized hospital bed. “Yes,” she said, “I’m ready.”

Those were the last words I heard Francis speak.

She became one of those far too frequent individuals who the doctor would proclaim “the surgery was successful,” but they lost the patient. She was splayed like the crucified Christ, being kept alive by artificial respirator, drugs, and fluids. No family; I was alone by her side.

I cried.

For years I felt the guilt of talking her into a surgery that she would not survive. In time, the guilt dissipated. Acceptance has taken its place. As her wounds have healed her into eternal life, so, too, have I been healed from the regret, mourning, and loss of a dear friend and parishioner. God shared Francis with me, for a time. When that time was up, that was it. God led her home. I can now see how Francis was God’s gift of grace to this simple parish pastor.  

A number of months later, the church received in the mail a letter from her estate lawyer, a copy of the will, and the largest check I had ever seen with my eyes. Amazing grace. I’ve heard the sound.

35. Discerning a Way Forward

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

The two of us worked out a way that we could function as a pastoral team to support the needs of the people, despite our personal differences and uncomfortable circumstances. We kept lines of communication open between us. We shared equally the responsibility of preaching and leading worship. We were professionals, we told ourselves, and, by golly, we should act like it. 

The winds of war were shifting the year before I had moved from Dresden. Across the lake was the chief Army Depot for the East Coast. A cruel, greedy dictator’s action to steal his neighbors oil half a world away was waking a slumbering American giant. Huge C-5A cargo jets cycled in and out of the military airfield, withdrawing munitions, depositing them in distant lands. Trains plied the iron, loaded with the means of war, unloading at East Coast docks. 

Politicians postured. Lines in the sand were drawn. The era felt as if we were being flung into the inevitable, a clash of extreme violence.

“Blessed are the peacemakers,” I recall preaching from Gospel beatitudes, to two full worship services each Sabbath, averaging over 350 per Sunday. One or two showed their disgust, got up and walked out. The hint of Christian nationalism was starting to show itself, and the future was cloudy, at best, apocalyptic, at worst. 

The lesson of disgruntled members of the parish for me was to grow a thicker hide. Stand convicted on the Gospel, the Truth of Jesus Christ, and let the chips fall where they may. Some, I’m sure, hate our Lord’s message of love God, love neighbors, love your enemies, and pray for those who persecute you. While it may feel like a personal rejection, from my Christian milieu, turning one’s back on Jesus, is a rejection of God. 

It isn’t, and never was, all about me. The conflict is a deeper struggling for meaning, a conflict that is written in the DNA of the human experience. In my own attempt to square the circle, I’ve come to believe in the Divine Providence of a loving God. At the same time, I recognize that the evil of this world, if left unchecked, will destroy with wonton abandon. 

The only logical conclusion is that it takes brave men and women to make a stand opposed to violence and evil, that the rest of humankind may live in peace. I’m grateful that God calls others to positions of responsible deterrence. Concurrently, I’m grateful to be called in a different direction, to tend the flock of the faithful, to preach the Word, and celebrate the Sacrament. Blessings to those called and prepared brave men and women who stand firm in the breach of impending violence, prepared to risk it all, be they fighter pilots, submariners, or cops on the beat. 

Others just see the world differently.

—

Ministry in the heart of the Finger Lakes of New York was good. We are blessed with four distinct seasons of the year, rare cases of catastrophic climatic events, and prosperous hamlets, villages, and towns. 

Healthcare has always interested me. Had it not been for a bad experience back in high school biology class, I could have gone the way of medical school, as my older brother did. Our city congregation was blessed with numerous doctors, nurses, therapist, and social workers.

One physician was about my age, married and had three beautiful children, two sons and a daughter. He was balancing the work, family matrix. After a difficult clinical shift, he would often stop by my parsonage to destress over cigars in my garage.

He was raised in a progressive Christian family, his parents serving as missionaries in South America. He learned to fly the missionary airplane into and out from jungle stations before he learned to drive a car. Home schooled, he went to a prestigious university and graduated from an exceptional medical school. Less than ten years into his profession, he was the head of a department at one of the local hospitals. He was going places.

Just not the places I expected.

There was a nurse, he explained to me, who desired to expand their relationship from the bedside to the bed. He was tempted by the sugarplum imagination of passionate adultery with another woman. He had even confessed his temptation with his wife. Yet, he claimed, he did not know what to do. What was my take on it? He asked.

A quick response is unusually a bad reaction, no matter how well meaning, in my experience. I puffed on my cigar in deep thought. My soul was frightened, fearful that one wrong word would result in utter catastrophe. A loving, talented wife. Three beautiful children. A professional reputation. A lifetime of deep faith and Christian morality. All this, and more, hung in the balance. I recalled my wife’s disgusting reports of similar behavior at her hospital. Colleagues disreputable behavior causing painful harm in clergy families and local churches also raced through my mind. 

“Don’t do it,” I finally broke the silence. Absolute truth and honesty surprised both him and me. It had to be said. I proceeded to lay out the dilemma with my God given talent for mathematics and logic. “Are you prepared to live a dishonest life?” I concluded. 

“No,” he slowly resolved. “I am not.”

But what about his matrimonial confession? His wife most certainly was feeling lost, betrayed, on the verge of abandonment. “Have your wife meet you here,” I’m strategizing even as I’m thinking. God, Don’t leave me now, I’m thinking to myself. “My wife and I will leave the house to just the two of you so you can talk it out.” Space and time would give him the opportunity to express his resolve to end the amorous flirtation and create the possibility for healing to take place. 

My friend and parishioner made the call. My wife and I went shopping. Something Divine must have taken place. In time, he left his prestigious position and took another at an academic hospital in the mid-West. We exchanged Christmas cards for years thereafter. Their letters were filled with family, love, and faith. 

My heart was contented. God’s healing grace is truly amazing. 

—

Laps in the pool this morning blew by. I started sharing a lane with a gentleman who I was becoming familiar with through our greetings in the locker room and on the pool deck. He is kind and considerate, values I appreciate and try to reciprocate. He finished his laps just as I was about to get started. 

As I reached for the final wall, another swimmer joined me. We exchanged pleasantries. I was breathing heavily, cooling down, thinking about the hot shower that was waiting for me. “You know,” he began, “I appreciate swimmer’s courtesies. Some are more readily willing to share a lane, others not so much.”

I agreed. “We only rent a lane for a short period of time,” I struggled to find the right words. “It’d not like we own it.” Mutual respect among swimmers avoids collisions and injury.

“If only the rest of the world was as kind and considerate as you are,” he concluded. The silence hung pregnant in the moment. I departed, leaving behind a blessing, wondering if I was worthy of his kind words. 

Sometimes circumstances demand that I just take it, God’s grace be praised. 

—

My petition to the Bishop’s office for a move was met with silence. I had two solid years of fruitful ministry, five years of full-time tenure. It was just the fact that my sails were cut from different cloth from my appointed partner. I needed to captain my own ship. 

Bigger churches and larger compensation appointments were the first to fall with the start of the new year. Moves traditionally took place the end of June, the beginning of July. The telephone rang mid-March and the call was from the District Superintendent, an old friend of the family, serving in the rural Adirondacks. “The Bishop and I would like to send you to …,” he began. 

My heart fell as fast as the Roadrunner’s anvil.

A quick reaction is a bad one. Hold your tongue, I told myself. Pause. Count to ten, my mother taught me. He offered me a two point charge, a larger village church and a small country chapel. It was miles away from civilization and the nearest hospital where my wife, Cynthia, could continue with her call as a labor and delivery nurse. 

Fortunately, I was the benefactor of a two-year continuing education opportunity with Perkin’s School of Theology at Southern Methodist University. I was placed in a core group of eleven youthful peers from across the country, paired with two seasoned elders, visionary leaders from their respective Annual Conferences. My mentor was the pastor of the Methodist cathedral in Houston, Texas. He visited me twice in New York. I made the sojourn four times to a restful Episcopal retreat center in Flower Mound, Texas. Dr. Stan Menkin, a professor at Perkin’s brought us all together.

Episcopal appointment making was one of the topics. Each subject matter required a lot of reading and writing in preparation, and resulted in lively discussion within our core group when we met.

Don’t make a snap decision, was the wisdom. Give room for the Holy Spirit to speak. Consultation is the word used in The Book of Discipline of The United Methodist Church. Our mentors concluded: Take the gift of consultation to do your homework, discern the Spirit’s will, then come to a conclusion and make your case forthrightly. 

“Give me 48 hours and I’ll get back to you,” I told the Superintendent. 

My wife and I set out for an anonymous visit to the prospective parish. We tried our best to keep an open mind. We visited some firefighters washing their firetruck on the ramp of the village fire station. We had lunch in the local diner. We took a long walk down Main Street and visited the swings at a local park. What is the mood of the community? How are the schools? What keeps people occupied? What do you do for fun? We asked around, a lot. 

The local papermill was closing. People were either hardscrabble farmers or public employees of the town or school district. Storefronts were abandoned. Housing was in decay. Life had boomed in the 1950’s, but had gone downhill ever since. The nearest labor and delivery hospital was an hour away. Lake effect snow fell each season with apocalyptical effect. The parsonage was physically attached to the church.

The Spirit was speaking. 

“No,” I responded to my disappointed colleague. “I’m not feeling called to a parish and town in decline, where my wife would be unemployed, and where we couldn’t meet our student loan responsibilities.”

“But, could you do the job?” He asked me again and again, like a hammer and chisel searching for a crack. Of course I could do the job, I asserted with all my five years of pastoral experience. “I just don’t believe I’m called to take this appointment.”

And thus I hung it all out there. “I’ll get back to you,” he replied.

Back to waiting …

Meanwhile, the fire alarm fired off my pager at three in the morning. “Tree down on West Lake Road,” I heard as I dressed, got in my truck, and activated my flashing blue light. 

An ice coated tree lay across the road, and all the associated downed power lines were draped like spaghetti in the darkness. An ice storm had taken up residence throughout the Finger Lakes. The paid firefighters (with the responding engine) and I listened to a cascade of calls flowing in from the dispatcher. Trees down. Power out. Smell of gas. Traffic lights dark. More crews. More engines. More fire companies across the region were being called to duty.

“Can you remain here protecting the road with your blue light while we start answering the other calls?” The paid guys asked. “Sure,” I responded. “Go ahead.”

Ice and falling branches sounded like breaking glass as I waited sentinel at my post. Little did I know at the time, but ice pulled the electrical service box from my parsonage, like it had from thousands of other houses throughout the city. My wife and son waited in darkness and dropping temperatures. She had to get our son to day care. Was it going to open? She had to get to work; mommas in labor don’t wait for no ice storm. While I was working fire calls, she was working the complex decision tree that was facing families everywhere.  

I was out for four days and nights with the fire department while my wife and son relocated to her parents’ house in Syracuse. They had lights and heat. The local Chase-Pitkin’s hardware store opened it’d darkened doors to the fire department. The kind general manager donated a pallet of new chain saws for the fire department; I used mine nearly continuously for the next week. Generous, oh my goodness. The world is full of great people like that store manager.

It broke my heart to pump out flooded basements and turn off utilities to families in need. The risk of accidental death was far too great. We delivered food and potable water, drove people to dialysis, and kept people’s home oxygen supplies replenished.

The second telephone call came a few weeks later. “The Bishop and I would like you to take an appointment to Palmyra.” It was only fourteen miles away, still in the familiar Finger Lakes. It was a one point charge. Cynthia would still be able to commute to her hospital in Geneva. I was ecstatic. “But wait,” I told myself. Take a breath. Count to ten. “Take the gift of consultation to do your homework, discern the Spirit’s will and direction, before you make a decision.”

Thankfully, I did. The judgment was made; the die was cast. We would be moving in June and I would become the captain of my own ship, once again.

Thank you, God, for the gift of discernment, for the clarity of your will, and for the opportunity to serve the faithful members of a new congregation.  

34. Disillusioned but Wiser & Parish Ministry Undercover

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

After three years in my first parish I was asked to move. Ordination and full membership box, checked. This modestly increased my compensation package, but it just wasn’t in the cards for both churches to sell more hamburgers at the county Fair to cover my additional cost. We were happy where we were planted; the people were happy with my effort. The only thing that didn’t add up was the Conference minimum base salary and the bottom line. 

My wife, Cynthia, was comfortably employed by Geneva General Hospital, working nights and weekend doing labor, delivery, and post-partum care. She was hitting her stride, fulfilling God’s call for her life, doing her best to keep the obstetricians from knee capping each other, and expanding her circle of friends and coworkers. I pale in her shadow.

My new appointment was within commuting distance to Cynthia’s hospital. I was to serve as a co-pastor with someone who was fifteen years my senior. That’s what I was told, anyways. The vision of a big church with lots of people, far reaching missions and ministry, and a bump in compensation was too much for my pride to turn down. With three years of tenure, I can now look back and see how entirely naive I was.  Indeed, pride comes before the fall.

My partner was at the top of his game, politically connected with the Bishop and conference leadership, and well liked among peers. He looked and acted the part. In hindsight, he was probably excited by the possibilities of a bigger church, having an associate pastor and staff, and the prestige it provided. It also helped that he had family in the new church. 

My district superintendent sold me a bill of goods, some true, some not-so-much, and a whole lot of obfuscation. “There is a bit of a mess to clean up,” he repeated to me, an echo that led me to my first appointment. I showed up July first to find the larger office was already claimed, and I was to be happy with one half its size. Red flag, number one.

A prior beloved pastor left behind in a closet an aerosol can labeled “Bullshit Repellent”. We both laughed at the find. I should have been paying closer attention.

The people were wonderful to Cynthia and me, welcoming us to our new parsonage, making us to feel right at home. The staff became like a second family, Joanne running the office, Frank the custodian, Trixie on the organ, Sharon the choir director, and Barb the head of Christian education. All top shelf, first class professionals. 

Frank made the best coffee, and could often be found loafing in the boiler room, chair tipped back, his eyes closed in rest. The floors shined. The job got done, so, who should care?

Likewise, church leadership was excellent, local business leaders, a healthy mix of gender, background, and experience. All, well-educated, lifelong United Methodists and disciples of Jesus. The congregation was generous in sharing their time, talents, prayers, and gifts. Groups of the willing were being added to the roles with each new membership class. Fewer were quietly exiting by the back door. Racial diversity was lacking, yet, we were blessed beyond imagination.

One undertaker in the congregation was known to palm me a one hundred dollar bill at holiday time. Nice.

The second red flag was soon to be raised. In walked a former pastor to say “hello,” when, in fact, he appeared to be showing off two trophy women, one under each arm. He had left with a spouse dying of cancer, and under a pall of infidelity. The first attempt to move him was aborted when the new church learned of his portfolio and told the Bishop to go back to the starting block. His second attempt at assignment would end in unflattering ways, with alleged victims writing to me and drawing me into his mess. He was forced into retirement, but never asked to surrender his credentials. 

My foxhole just wasn’t deep enough.

The next red flag rose when we divided up assignments. Working with the Capital Fund campaign and the Board of Trustees was mine. Finance and Staff-Parish went to my partner. The one who is the steward of the money makes the rules, a painful point when it came to negotiating my future compensation. 

Other troubling red flags tipped up. No, I could not keep some things secret, especially where ethical lines were alleged to be crossed. No, I was never in the room, a la Alexander Hamilton, but I was being pulled into other situations where I was absolutely uncomfortable. Neither did I get any support for my less-than-forthcoming District Superintendent. 

It didn’t take long for trust to break down and for me to be seen as a potential liability. After two years, I was thankful for the experience, but I realized I was the captain of my own ship. Instead of ducking behind cover, it was time to maneuver.  We parted ways without any hard feelings, on my part, anyways. But our relationship would never be close. Over time, much has been forgotten, thankfully, but it was time to ask for another appointment.  

—

The lap pool at the Jewish Community Center is down for maintenance this week, forcing me to forgo my three times a week pattern of swimming. We are all in need of retreat, fixing, healing, cleaning, and restoration. Even community assets like pools, recreation centers, and houses of worship need time and attention, I suppose. 

I laced up my Pentecostal red walking sneakers, planning to take on the walking track. Elevated above a gym that hosted three pickleball courts filled with competitive geriatric players, the walking track appeared unusually occupied this morning. Probably displaced lap swimmers, like myself. My wife allowed me to borrow her mechanical lap counter; an occupied mind easily loses track of such mundane details. Ear buds, inserted; Handel’s Messiah is especially poignant this season of Advent. 

The voice of Isaiah spoke powerfully through the eons. “‘Comfort, O comfort my people,’ says the Lord. 

Twenty laps ticked off before I knew it. Arms waving, conducting an orchestra of my imagination, I’m sure others stared in disbelief at this self-absorbed nut job. 

Both my artificial knees held up without a whisper of pain. Thank you, Lord.

—

My original office just wouldn’t do. It was small, a closet really, right off the main welcome desk and administrative work station. Noise and constant interruptions were not conducive to the thinking, reading, and writing necessary for an Ordained, parish pastor. 

Ministry happens in the interruptions, a wise seminary professor once told me. Even he would be seeking new real estate given the unrelenting interruptions. A former storage room right off the choir room was perfect. Large windows gave me a northern view. And quiet; listen to the quiet! In moved a desk, my Kay Pro computer, books, and assorted office supplies. 

Patterns are revealed over time and with an attention to details. Each week, an older pensioner would walk across the church lawn to the center where a three inch pipe stood silently a foot tall. Just what was that pipe? And where did it go? The gentleman unslung five or six one gallon jugs, inserted a hose down the pipe, and began to crank a hand operated pump. Dark fluid began to fill the jugs. When finished, he carried the jugs to the trunk of his car, retrieved his pump, and drove off. Once a week, like clockwork. 

After a few weeks of this carefully choreographed routine, I decided I needed to meet this man. “Hi. I’m Todd, one of the new pastors here,” I introduced myself. “Who might you be?” Even as he continued to crank his pump he looked up and smiled. He introduced himself as a former custodian. He further told me that a former pastor had given him permission to draw off fuel oil as he needed, since the buried fuel tank was no longer used. A natural gas boiler had replaced an oil burner years earlier.

“Is it okay with you?” He asked.

“Yes, certainly,” I paused. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Oh,” he stroked his chin in thought, “probably for the past twenty years, or so.” 

Here was something they don’t teach in seminary.

The concerns of the chair of the Board of Trustees were embedded in the wrinkles above his eyebrows. He obviously had never known of the buried fuel oil tank in the church yard. His concern for the elderly gentleman paled in priority to a larger pan of frying fish.

“Wonder how big it is?” He asked. We had no idea, other than it had been pumped out a few gallons each week for the past twenty years.

“I wonder if it is leaking?” He wondered out loud. 

At the next meeting of the Board, the chairperson had the newly discovered fuel oil tank at the top of the agenda. Members shared concerns based on their knowledge and experience. What about the DEC (Department of Environmental Conservation)? They didn’t think highly of potential or actual fuel spills. Remediation costs were always astronomically high.

What about the city’s Historical Conservation Commission? Nobody on Main Street could so much as paint their house a different color (or pick their nose) without pre-approved permission. Professed ignorance was no defense. A long history of punitive fines proceeded our deliberations. 

Everyone talked themselves out. Apparently, there was no solution to this Gordian knot. No notes in the minutes were recorded and no decision was made; the topic was tabled by inaction. The chair moved on to the next agenda item and we got on with it. I could see from his demeanor that he was still working on a solution to the buried fuel oil tank in his brain, even as other items were checked off the agenda. Prayer. Motion to adjourn. We departed for the evening. 

A week, or so, later, I opened the shades on my office window and noticed a newly reseeded area of lawn where the pipe once stood. At eight in the morning, the church was just awakening. Downstairs in the kitchen, hot water was dripping into a basket full of grounds. The dew was still wet on the grass. I walked over to investigate. Hum. “What in the devil is this all about?” I wondered. Escaping my notice were two tractor trailer low boys parked in the back parking lot. By the time I returned to my office, they were gone. 

“What happened to the yard?” I asked the chairperson over the phone. 

“Is there a problem?” He asked. 

“No, its just that yesterday, the yard was green and this morning there is a 20 by 40 foot patch of newly seeded ground covered in straw.” I noticed the pipe was missing, but failed to mention it.

“I guess the boys got to work last evening,” he said, “but I’ve got to swear you to secrecy.” 

After dark the preceding evening, the chair had called in a favor. One of his friends owned an excavating company. With stealth and speed, a crew moved in with a shovel and cutting torches. Out they pulled a six-thousand gallon empty fuel oil tank, thankfully with no signs of leakage, cut it into quarters, and chained the remains to flatbed trailers. With my back turned in the morning, his guys departed with all the evidence taken to the scrap yard. Ten wheel dump trucks had filled the hole; the area hand graded and raked. Seed and straw completed the clandestine mission. No one the wiser, except the Board chair and this new, green-horned pastor. 

“Your secret is safe with me,” I replied.

That was nearly forty years ago and all the suspects I’m sure are gone to their heavenly reward. I am thankful that everything turned out okay, there were no leaks, and not a penny of church money was used. Whenever I’ve driven by, I take notice that the grass is still green. The only regret came when I informed the retired pensioner the next week that his old reliable source of free fuel oil had dried up. 

—

The new parish and parsonage was in a smaller city. There were even movie theaters in town. Funny how one remembers what is important. We moved from being a big fish in a small pond to becoming a small fish in a big pond. The local fire department had both paid, union firefighters, and, three companies of volunteers. My former neighbor, George, well connected in the volunteer fire service made the customary introductions. 

“You’d fit in fine with the Merrell Hose,” the full-bodied paid guy said, as he tilted back in his chair. That was fine with me.

The Arenea Hose company was the traditionally Roman Catholic company. The Hook and Ladders were an assortment of cast offs, want-to-be paid guys, and manual laborers. The Merrells were the Protestant guys (we were all male), the oldest fire company East of the Mississippi, we were told, and composed of all the local doctors and lawyers in town. No, most did not actually respond to calls or fight fires; they left that up to about five of us willing young bucks.

The Merrells meetings were held in secret, in an upstairs room of one of the city fire stations. High backed chairs lined the four walls. A desk, gavel, and chest were located in the center. Votes were cast by placing a white or black marble in the hole in the top. I received not one black ball, was voted in, and shown to my chair. Wow. Cool beans. I was in. They even assigned me a chair.

The Merrells raised money by their bi-monthly steak and clam roasts. It was quite the social affair. Liquor flowed unabandoned. Some of the money went to charity. Some of the funds went to outfit the actual volunteers who answered calls with only the best firefighting equipment money could buy. I received new bunker gear, a leather helmet, a grin, and a handshake. That helmet was a status symbol, the envy of every other firefighter in the region. 

The call came in for a fully involved house fire on Fort Hill Avenue. I drove to the scene and met the pumper and paid crew on scene. The first rule I was taught early on, was only union guys were allowed to touch a fire truck. Rule number two: volunteers don’t violate rule number one.

I backed up and a self-contained breathing apparatus (SCBA) was hung on my back. Straps were pulled tight, hose attached to my face mask, and air was turned on, just as I had been trained. Brian Mace, another Merrell guy, was my interior attack buddy. 

We grabbed an uncharged inch-and-a-half hose line, handed to us by the white helmet safety officer standing at the door. Glass was breaking, flames were rolling inside, and it appeared as if the house was building up pressure. We handed our ID tags with the safety officer and entered into Dante’s Infernal. Black smoke descended from the ceiling down, forcing us to our hands and knees. The fire had started in a wood stove at the far end of the room. We pushed the hose line ahead as we slowly, but deliberately, advanced. Flashover was imminent. Brian was in the lead with a radio and I was right behind him. He was much more experienced, and I felt confident he knew what he was doing.

The ceiling by the double walled stovepipe blew out and fire filled the room with explosive force. Brian called for water and opened the valve. We knelt and held on tight, ready for the surge of water. As the 60 psi stream hit the fire in the ceiling, the blown in insulation soaked up every drop of water that hadn’t be converted to steam. The ceiling sagged with the added weight and let loose right on top of us. We were driven flat to the ground. I was knocked silly. 

The hot water and steam flowed from the shower over my battered and bruised body, as I stood in silent reflection and nursed an ice cold beer. Thoughts of life, death, and eternal life flashed before my closed eyes. I was thankful for the Hopewell firefighters who arrived on scene just in time to bring their own hose line in, all the while dragging Brian and my sorry asses outdoors to safety. Just. In. Time. 

Thank you, Hopewell Fire Department.

My tie and dress shirt was ruined. Pants were torn and smelled of smoke. They could be replaced. But, I was alive. Brian was alive. We survived. We all survived; nobody was injured. The collective effort of volunteer and paid professionals saved the house from further damage. After a few months of intensive clean up and remodeling, the family returned to their house and home, none the wiser. 

Fire and furry humbled me, leaving me wiser, smarter, thankful for God’s amazing gift of grace: the ability to live to see another day. Thank you, Lord.

33. Clergy Scandals, Money, and Sex

~ toddgoddard ~ 1 Comment

Clergy are human, at least I am. Having outlived many of my peers and most of my mentors, I believe my observation of fellow clergy is accurate. Clergy are human, just like everybody else, stained by the same patina of temptation and sin.

How about the newer generation taking firm control of Saint Peter’s keys? How do they stack up? I just don’t know enough of the younger generation of clergy to make an informed opinion, but I suspect they are no different than my generation, or those that came before us.

Scandals? Yep. Hypocrisy? Without a doubt. Flawed? Yes, but not mortally so. Many rub their hands in glee wanting to hear all the salacious details of a fallen man or woman of the cloth. 

In my forty plus years in the parish, and the twenty, or so, years as a preacher’s kid, I’ve seen it and heard it all. I’ve learned how the sausage is made and I know where all the bodies are buried. Never let a good story get in the way of the truth, peers and I would toast around a campfire, when we annually gathered to heal and grieve. One would think that clergy are above good old fashioned gossip, but that isn’t the case. 

Sex and money are the two greatest temptation to clergy, present company included. Secrets, facts or otherwise, are safe with me; recognizing the pastoral counseling hypothesis that secrets are always a sign of disfunction. But, I will afford the reader with a few generalities that may benefit the Church of today, laity and clergy alike. 

Honest, self-awareness is a good thing.

—

1. Never have I heard or been aware of any abuse or exploitation of children by an Ordained clergy person in the United Methodist Church. It may have happened, but that is not my experience, nor on my watch when I had anything to do about it.

The Boy Scouts got a lot of headlines and the denomination settled a whopper of a class action lawsuit, but abuse and victimization, in my opinion and from my experience, did not involve the clergy person appointed to a parish with a scout troop, pack, or den.

Perpetrators were often found to be local scout leaders, not the clergy listed on the charter. Sadly, the settlement paints all clergy in unflattering colors and has contributed to much discouragement and discontent.

I am aware of one lawsuit filed against a parish by an individual who claimed to be victim while a member of the Boy Scouts, but, there was no evidence that they were ever a member of the Boy Scouts, nor did the church ever hold a charter. Opportunist? I suspect so.

Sadly, this spoils the efforts to bring healing and justice for those who have been truly victimized. 

—

2. Thief, or misuse of money. Mom and Dad taught me at a young age the Ten Commandments, including the law against stealing. Don’t take what doesn’t belong to you. This victimizes the person or organization from whom money is stolen. It further is an abrogation of God’s willful distribution of time, talent, and treasure. 

Clergy are not immune from the temptation to take what isn’t given or earned. Some have, and probably never will be caught. Others have been caught with their hands in the cookie jar, and, without exception have been turned over to the authorities for criminal prosecution and escorted out of the union of the Ordained. 

There is no justification for taking what doesn’t belong to you. Full stop. Period.

Low pay or poor compensation? Certainly. But, that isn’t an excuse for theft.  A lack of supervision or peer accountability? Welcome to the reality of the Ordained. We often call those who are young, independent, and resistant to joining with peers as lone rangers. Ordination isn’t a license to steal. A lack of self-esteem? Come on; theft is a massive over compensation for a personal, character defect. 

I mentioned to my psychiatrist recently that I estimate 90% of clergy are afflicted with clinical depression, of various severity, at one point or another in their career. Perhaps I shot high, but not by much. This is my opinion based on observation and experience. He was surprised, but I am not. Most of us tend to not take care of ourselves. My profession suffers from challenges of mental health, physical comorbidities, and, yes, spiritual crisis. Clergy are one hundred percent human, high blood pressure and morbid obesity, oh my. 

God has blessed me with a social circle, composed of professionals and peers, who hold me accountable, who improve my emotional awareness, and support me when I identify a character flaw and set about making corrective efforts. They are my coaches and cheerleaders, peers that would never abandon me, nor would I them. They mourn my loses, abide with me despite my flaws, and cheer my success, recognizing success finds its source in the amazing grace of God. 

My wife and our marriage has been a rock.

To be sure, some colleagues have abandoned me in my time of need. Don’t let the door hit you on the butt on your way out of my life. Leave me? You’re loss, not mine. I’ll try not to miss you.

My personal policy regarding finances has been to have as little to do as possible with the physical contact with money. Don’t leave me in charge of the cash box during the rummage sale or turkey dinner. Receive the offering plates from the ushers and immediately place them on the altar table, holding my empty hands high while praying a prayer of thanksgiving.

Honor the designation of every giver and gift, all-the-while, advocating for undesignated gifts, to give room for parish leadership to maneuver and lead. Advocate for parish funds with transparent stewardship, encouraging conservative principles, and ensuring regular audits. God’s money is God’s. Not mine.

I’ve also attempted to manage my personal finances with the same principles. I’m grateful for the advice early on in my ministry to save all that I can, give all that I can, and live within my means. It helps to be married to a spouse who generously and unselfishly contributed to our family finances from day one. 

—

It was six degrees this morning when I pried myself out of my heated lounger and left my fireplace to go to the pool. Bare feet in Crocks is cold! With two hoodies up one guy in the locker room told me, “Your look says it all.” 

Which, made the water feel colder than usual. Under the lane marker I bobbed, fully immersing myself in the same water that baptized my Lord, the same water that was used in my baptism, the same water that initiated Christian sinners and saints throughout the ages. One with Christ. One with each other. One in Christian unity. 

I pulled at the water, digging in with every stroke, breathing to my left, taking notice of the life guard who strikes a pose similar in my imagination to that of Jesus. On the return length, the low winter sun sparkled into the water, diffused as a prism distributes light across the spectrum, warm on my face when I rotate to take in each breath. How is it possible to feel the warmth of the sun on such a cold, winter day? 

God’s grace is awesomely amazing. 

—

3. Clergy sexual sin. Yep; it is a real thing. It breaks apart marriages, takes advantage of the vulnerable, and traumatizes parishes for generations. “We once had a pastor back in the day,” it was common to hear, “who had an affair with the church organist (or secretary) and ran off to Timbuktu.”

Sometimes, the old boy network would swing into action. For shame.

The Board of Ordained Ministry and the Bishop share in the responsibility for clergy conduct, sexual, and otherwise. As peers cycle on and off the Board, policies and enforcement ebbs and flows. As Bishops come and go, some were better than others for demanding a strict moral code of conduct. Some were swayed by the good-old-boys protective network, reassigning offenders to another location, often to offend again. Others took the time and effort for thorough investigations, careful application of Church law, as defined in our Book of Discipline, and imposed appropriate punishment. Policy consistency is an oxymoron, in my experience. Rarely have I heard or experienced efforts for healing, restoration, or support of a traumatized parish. 

This uneven, unhealthy approach to sex and sin, has been a source of frustration and discouragement to the rank and file, present company included. 

Boundary training, as is deftly labeled, has been all the rage in recent eras. Recognition of the inequality of power and authority has been helpful. Full stop measures, such as, sex between a pastor and a parishioner can never be consensual, have been long overdue. The topic may be obvious to those of us with conservative moral backgrounds, but is often bewildering to liberal others.

Peer trust is rare; one never knows who will become a District Superintendent or Bishop. Peer accountability, from my experience, is best when doled out by my psychiatrist and by peers who serve in other, sister denominations (who, therefore, pose no professional threat). I have come to love and treasure my Presbyterian, Episcopal, Lutheran, UCC, and Roman Catholic fellow clergy.

The waters are dangerous and murky. Divorce is a painful reality for some clergy, while completely outside of the experience of others. LGBTQ and transgender issues challenge even the best of us hush puppy liberals. Pornography is readily available and the bar of temptation is ridiculously low. There is so much I don’t know and I don’t want to embarrass myself by asking questions. Temptation is everywhere. The lowest common denominator default is to just pretend it doesn’t exist and that it can’t happen to me. 

Clergy are human. 

We should be held to the highest moral and ethical standards, and expect nothing less. At the same time, our humanness defines our imperfections, warts and all. 

It may be old school, but I learned early on to treat every person as a beloved sibling, sister or brother. When tempted, the abhorrent stigma of incest helps keep me in my lane. Lord, have mercy, and keep me on the up and up. 

—

I’d like to think that I’m non-judgmental, but that would be dishonest. I do judge others; all-the-while, I seek ways to mitigate risk, stay reasonably well informed, and apply best practices to my own life.

I find it difficult to relate to peers who have failed to live up to the high ideals of the ordained. It is easy for me to feel that those who have failed the Church have personally failed me. See them in a crowded room? Make way to the other side. It’s awkward to bump into a person who has shared the common path of serving as a parish pastor, yet, who has failed to live up to even the basic standards of professional conduct.

“I know what you know, even what you don’t think I know,” my interior voice says to myself. Not only do I frequently know them, but I know their families, too. Generations of clergy run deep. Who is married to who, as well as who owes who a favor, too often, has served as a “get out of jail free” card for offending clergy.  

A moral and ethical dilemma I’ve frequently faced is notification of clergy who follow me. Should I let them know the depth and breadth of trauma that others have inflicted on a parish, its members and friends? What about when a lay offender who demonstrates predatory behavior and simply moves on to another parish. Do I warn that pastor? I have gone to the District Superintendent (a representative of the Bishop’s office) with concerns, only to be rebuffed with “how would you like it if someone made the same accusations against you?”

In my experience, too little effort has been made by bishops and clergy to attend to issues of theft and sexual abuse in the parish. Abuse brakes people. The just response should be to open the flood gate. We should be compelled to do everything in our ability to heal, restore, and repair victims and congregations. Law enforcement should be involved immediately, even if it is remotely suspected that a law has been broken. The just response shouldn’t begin and end with a press statement from the Episcopal Office or with lawyering up.

It is easy for me to complain, since I’ve never served in church administration beyond that of a parish pastor, or as a member of the Board of Ordained Ministry. Yet, the sins of the Church have been a slow grind on me, and not in a good way. “And are we yet alive?” we sing when the ordained annually gather. Are we? Am I?

John Wesley outlined a life of grace, where the faithful is always moving on towards perfection. Today, I’m less than perfect; but committed to getting better. When tempted I make my confession to my psychiatrist, seek to change my ways, make amends such that I harm no one, and set about in a new direction with the goal of being perfected in the likeness of Christ. 

In short; confess, repent, make amends, become better. Do no harm. Keep my own nose clean. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. This is how God’s kingdom on earth approaches the perfection of God’s kingdom in heaven.

32. What Parents and a Parish Teaches

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

Rural Yates County was the perfect place to begin my parish ministry. The people are salt of the earth, hardworking, generous above and beyond expectations. Faith runs deep. I had much to learn. 

Elderly residents of the local nursing home had much to teach me. I took my turn in the cue of pastors from nearby churches providing worship services on Sunday afternoon. Every six or eight weeks was my turn in the barrel. I quickly learned to bring my choir from Dresden. The overly sedated, room full of residents, dozing in Gerry-chairs were largely unresponsive to my skillfully crafted academic sermon of the day. When the choir began to sing one of the familiar gospel songs, everyone would perk up and began to sing. As soon as the song was complete and I began to speak again, everyone fell back asleep. 

I’ll take my humble pie with a slice of cheese, please.

An invitation came in soon after we moved in to join the Lectionary study group of United Methodist pastors that convened once a week in Geneva. Charlie Hess (who won the fishing boat in the Roman Catholic raffle, and refused to honor the Social Principles about gambling by giving it back) was the host pastor.

Sam Davis, smart as a tack, joined us from Seneca Falls. He never met a sugar donut he couldn’t resist, and ended up wearing powdered sugar all over his face and shirt. Gary Hakes hailed from Phelps, the father of one of my fishing camp nippers, and chair of the local chapter of Planned Parenthood. Progressive; my kind of guy. And Steve Parr, a long suffering elder serving a rural parish on the other side of the county, whose wife was the chaplain at the local private college. Steve was frugal, to the point of buying donuts in quantity from the local wholesaler then freezing them in his freezer. Instead of buying donuts from the local donut shoppe, he’d bring in frozen, sugar coated  pucks in a zip locked bag. Gotta love him.

The first morning I attended, I showed up with a stack of academic Biblical reference books and commentaries. Everyone burst out laughing. Sam Davis, a graduate of University of Chicago, was impressed. The next week, I bought the donuts.

The Lectionary study group taught me the value of peer fellowship, support, and humor. Life in the trenches of a Parish Pastor is rough, filled with huge doses of both laughter and tears. We were five white, privileged pastors dressed in Hush Puppies, raising families, juggling demands, and doing the best we could with what we had. With little supervision, we functioned as an accountable discipleship group. Our friendship lasted all lifelong. They are all gone now; I’m the last one standing. I smile with the warm memories of these giants in my life, gently guiding me through the challenges of Ordained Ministry. 

I learned much from the local undertakers.

Bruce owned one funeral home uptown in Penn Yan; Steve owned the other. The competition was friendly. Bruce served on the leadership team of a nearby United Methodist parish and he liked to gripe to me about the conference, Bishop, and denomination. He was also the source of much parish gossip: “I saw so and so at the pharmacy the other day. She was checking out with cart full of lubricating jell and weight loss supplements.”

Five minutes before one funeral, Bruce showed me a letter of complaint he sent to the bishop, claiming his pastor was engaged in inappropriate behavior. “What are you going to do about it,” he asked, the veins bulging from his temples and neck. “Well, nothing,” I replied, “because I have a funeral service to start.” 

Often the best response is a smile and silence. 

—

I couldn’t go to the pool this morning because a new clothing drying was being delivered. The old one stopped working after three years. Two hundred dollars for a repair man to assess the problem, then more to commence repairs, or, for a few dollars more, get a scratch-n-dent floor model replacement. I hate planned obsolescence and American consumerism. 

Two days ago I hit the pool for the first time in two weeks. We had traveled to the far coast to visit family. Cynthia and I took our time out and back, riding the train to take in all the scenery of our great land. Time with my brother and his family was priceless, much more fulfilling now that we are all retired. 

The water was cold and I doubted if I could swim hard for a full fifteen laps. But, I did. My arms and shoulders pulled at the water, pushing it behind, as my brain was lost in thought attempting to process all the conversations I had with family. 

What was the meaning of my (our) father’s early death? Does death have to have meaning? What about my (our) mother, living more than thirty years after dad died? That is a long time to be alone.

Our mother was a strong woman, I thought as I swam. She grew up in an orphanage, became the cutout for Rosy the Riveter, married dad after he returned from the Pacific, raised four children, followed Jesus and lived her life accordingly. When he died, she had to learn to make due on her own, balance a check book, return to driving, living independently. She did so with grace and humility. Mom died after nearly twenty years of Alzheimer’s in a nursing home at the height of COVID. Mom deserved better than me telling her that I loved her over the telephone while she took her final breaths.

My mother had taught me so much. Love. Faith. Grit. Hard work. And apple pies. Rare was the pie she didn’t give away to someone in need or from Dad’s parish or to a neighbor going through tough times. But every now and then, one of her pies were made just for us. 

—

The day was April 15th, a day made memorial by the Internal Revenue Service. In the dark of the early morning, the Plectron fired off the alarm to our volunteer fire department. Barn fire, at the cross roads of City Hill and Ridge. I jumped out of bed, stepped into my coveralls and shoes, and took off for the fire house, across the street and through two back yards. It was always a foot race to see who could get there first, Bill or me, my trusty church lay leader and friend. 

In the pre-dawn light I could see the mushroom cloud of a burning barn as I ran for the pumper. A barn to most of us is the image of rural life, a character from a Norman Rockwell painting, a calendar picture inviting us back to a simpler more wholesome time.

To a farmer, a barn is the center of a small business, generating income, often in competition with mounting expenses. A barn is a milking parlor, a hay mound, a storage space protected from wet elements. It houses valuable farm machinery, is home to cattle, a neighbor to a silo holding grain or chopped corn, and a place for kids to play.

This barn belonged to one of my church families. 

The string of pumpers, tankers, and the rescue truck snaked out of town, uphill in every direction. The water haulers carried a thousand or more gallons of water because only city people had hydrants. I drove the lead pumper, having won the foot race. Next to me was another volunteer, dressing and strapping in to his bunker gear to protect him from flame and heat.

The radio squawk from the chief, another one of my church leaders, now on scene in his personal vehicle, asking for mutual aid from at least ten neighboring fire departments. Barn fires needed a lot of water quickly. I feared this one was already beyond saving. 

I pulled into the farm yard to find the family and our chief frantically getting livestock and machinery out of the infernal. I had never seen a fire so large and frightening. “Oh Lord,” I prayed to myself, “don’t let me goof up.”

Tank-to-Pump lever; pulled. Pump primed. Hose lines laid and charged. Water flowing. Hard suction connected to the pump and pounded tight with a rubber mallet. Portable pond set up. Tankers from other departments arriving, waiting their turn to replenish the pond as fast as my pump would drain it. Sweat dripping in my eyes, tears for the family welling up in my eyes. 

My chief, Charlie, came over and looked me in the eye. “Todd,” he said somberly, “let someone else relieve you from the pumper. The family needs to see you inside the house.”

And so, the other shoe was about to drop. 

Around the dining room table sat Mom and dad, son and daughter, and a deputy sheriff. Eyes were down, the room was silent, the coffee pot announced a fresh pot was brewed. “Pastor Todd,” Mom said when she saw me, “come in and have a cup of coffee.” Mom was also a leader in my parish, a woman of strong faith, accustomed to hard work on the farm. 

The Sheriff asked the father about the farm and possible causes of the fire. Yes, there was electricity to the barn to run the lights and compressor for the milking machine. But he didn’t suspect there was a problem with the power. The night was clear so a lightning strike was doubtful. Dad truly had not a clue as to what may have started the barn fire. 

I sat waiting for divine inspiration. 

“Yesterday afternoon,” the son began speaking barely above a whisper, “my friend and I were playing in the barn. Just fooling around. We didn’t mean nothing. We got some matches and made a little fire. It didn’t get too big and we thought we put it out.”

The silence that followed was deafening. The guilt that descended was overwhelming. “I did it,” the young boy screamed, “but I didn’t mean to do it.” Tears burst the flood gate and he ran bawling to his room. The rest of us sat stunned in silence. 

“What do you want to do?” the deputy asked gently. All of us were thinking of legal actions, loss, and grief. All of us, except for dad. 

“When I was young,” dad began, “about the age of my son today, I, too, accidently burned down my Daddy’s barn. It was an accident. I knew, but no one else did. It’s been my secret these past forty years and it has always weighed heavy on my heart.” 

I thought of Christ on the cross, dying for our redemption. 

“The one person,” I carefully began, “who needs to hear your confession, is your son crying in his room.” 

The pause was pregnant. “You’re right, Pastor.” Dad pushed away from the table. “I gotta do what’s right.” Dad left us in the kitchen and went in to console and confess his sin to his son. 

That was a morning nearly forty years ago. It was a day in the life of this parish pastor where I learned about redemption, the depth of love Christ has for each of us, and the depth of love a father had for his son. 

31. Lent, a Bat from the Belfry, Tech in the Parish, and the Yates County Fair

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

Lent is a time of year for personal reexamination of one’s spiritual health, relationship with God, and our personal journey with Christ. It is forty days long that, except for Sundays, grants recognition of Jesus journey in the wilderness, being tempted by the Devil. Every Sunday is a celebration of the resurrection, hence, every Sunday is a mini Easter. As Lent progresses towards Holy Week, we spiritually journey with Jesus from the Judean wilderness to Jerusalem atop Mt. Zion. The journey is uphill all the way, and, as such, is only for those who dare. 

Do you have the right stuff?

The wilderness is a windswept gravel and sand mountainous expanse between Jerusalem (to the West) and Jericho (to the East). Four times in my life I’ve been privileged to lead pilgrims to the Holy Lands and to sit quietly on a dusty ridgeline taking in the environment of the wilderness. It is humbling to consider the temptation to eat where there is no food, to drink where water is rare. As the sun sets, oppressive heat is replaced by bone chilling cold.

If Christ could resist the Devil’s temptation to turn stones to bread, can I not resist the temptations of daily living? If Christ could reject a challenge to his sovereignty, can I also not resist challenges to my call and Ordained Ministry? “What wondrous love is this?” My thoughts return to the sacred hymn in the silence of the wilderness that surrounds me. 

Lent in the parish included both a personal call for introspection and a communal call for learning and shared fellowship. We’d host Wednesday evening dish-to-pass dinners followed by a Bible study or an appropriately themed movie. It was a time to be together, to be as one, as the Eucharist liturgy reads, one with each other and one with our God. 

Back in the day (Now you know that I am old!) I had arranged for the delivery of 16mm films to be delivered weekly from the Conference Resource Library. This was years before projectors and Power Point. The church had a cantankerous movie projector that displayed the 16 millimeter film on a flimsy screen. As the dessert was cleared and coffee cups refilled, all settled in for an inspiring Lenten movie. 

The lights went out and we all settled in for the show. People were happy. I was happy, content with myself that I was providing spiritual guidance for my flock.

Suddenly, a shadow swooped across the screen. Then, back again. “What was that?” I heard some startled to awareness. That was a mischievous bat, nothing more than a flying mouse that probably was housed in the church belfry. Children squealed. Mothers ducked for cover. The men entered the gauntlet determined to put a heroic end to the bat’s misadventure. 

It was a free for all!

The lights flew on. Coats were stripped from hangers and a half dozen men began chasing the offender with the hope of bagging him. After several failed attempts, amidst a crowd of now shrieking children and mothers  telling their husbands to “do something,” the men regrouped. What to do? 

“I’ve got a tennis racket in my truck,” one gentleman offered. The rest of us wondered what he had a tennis racket in his truck for? Playing tennis wasn’t exactly a thing in rural Yates County. “The bat’s radar won’t see it coming.” 

The refined dinner and a movie group of parishioners became a cheering crowd as the lone man chased the bat around the fellowship hall, flailing with a tennis racket. Finally, a swift backhand launched the bat across the room, knocking it silly. A coat was quickly thrown over it. A group of victorious men walked the bat-in-a-coat out the side door and set it free into the night air. 

It took a while for proper Lenten decorum to be reestablished. When all were settled in, the lights went out, the projector was restarted, and the movie returned to it’s inspirational self. 

—

An athlete I am not. Don’t even pretend to be. I swim my fifteen laps every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning, not because I want to, not because I like to, but because my doctor and medical research has demonstrated the importance of regular exercise. 

“If I had it my way,” I thought to myself this morning, “I’d be home in my nice warm bed.” 

This morning I dug at the water, fluttering my kick, raising my heart rate for a half an hour. Three groups of five, my brain tells me, is an easy way to keep pace, an easy way to keep count. Except, I have been known to lose track, lost in meditation or thought.

Reach and pull. Reach and pull. My reach extends my arms as far forward as I am able, stretching sinew and muscle, causing oxygenated blood to surge and flow. My fuselage rolls with each reach, giving opportunity to breath out of the side of my mouth in a rhythm worthy of a drummer. 

Just as quick as it starts, I’m done, leaning against the end of the lane gasping to catch my breath. The lifeguard takes notice. I nod that I am okay. I just need to catch my breath. 

—

There are times throughout my pastoral ministry that I’ve needed to just stop and catch my breath. Periods of hard work and preparation, followed by execution, relief, exhaustion, and nodding to sleep in my easy chair. 

Technology was breaking out all around me. Copy machines became small and affordable. Stencils and ink spewing AB Dick duplicating machines were relegated to the junk closet in every church. Bulletins and newsletters could be typed and copied much easier, much faster. 

I bought my first personal computer; portable it was called. My new K-Pro sported two five and a half inch floppy disk drives and a whopping 16 k of working memory. It weighed in at about thirty pounds. Portable? Just barely.

Programs were on one drive, data was saved on the other. My K-Pro spoke programming languages I was familiar with, harking back to my college days working IBM and DEC mainframes. The only thinks lacking on my new K-Pro were the punch cards and a printer. New daisy wheel printers were expensive, but I bit the bullet and had one delivered to the parsonage. 

Parishioners scratched their heads in wonder. 

Lightyears before email and the internet, it was hard to imagine what a computer and printer could do for a parish pastor. I provided printed spread sheets for finance teams and the Board of Trustees. I began to print a bulletin and monthly newsletter, run it over to the corner store where the one copy machine in the entire village was located, pay five cents a copy, fold and press, and, boom, it was like Jesus turning water into wine.

My volunteer printer and AB Dick bulletin maker, covered in ink when that contraption blew up one morning, spewing ink from head to toe and across the walls and ceiling, thought I was able to walk on water.

Who was I to bust her bubble?

—

The county fair came every July. Each of my two churches ran a food stand on the main thoroughfare, selling hamburgers, hot dogs, fries, macaroni salad, homemade pie, and assorted other things. The question became, which of the two booths were you going to work, Pastor?

I couldn’t prioritize one over the other, neither could my choice reflect any preference or quality of food. The Fidelus Class of young adults, who’s average age was about 65, ran the one booth, while the other was operated as a Y’all Come type of affair. Everyone was expected to volunteer and make donations. If you couldn’t come up with four or more home baked pies, and schedule yourself for 16 hours’ worth of shifts flipping burgers, you’d better send a sizable check. The two concession stands stood on opposite sides, facing one another. My choice would be affirmed by one, at the same time, observed by the other.

What was I to do?

So, I did what any young buck, newly ordained, inexperienced pastor would do; I did both. The best controversary was the one avoided, I naively thought to myself. How soon I would learn different.

The week of the county fair, I rotated on a daily basis between the two booths. No time to prepare for Sunday; I was stuck working twelve or more hours each day hawking food to fair goers. At the end of fair week my first year in the parish, I was beat! Completely and utterly exhausted, and everything about me smelled of grease. The following Sunday should have been a vacation Sunday, but, nope, I was too green to know better and nobody was forthcoming to tell me different.

By God’s grace, each year I learned. Each year, I got better.

I learned to stop and catch my breath.

30. The Post Office, Conflict, Voting, and Emergency Surgery

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

Life serving a small parish was good. Expectations were low, so it was easy to excel.

Mornings were spent in the church office. There was no heat. In fact there was no office. I simply made space for myself out of a large closet and had moved in a glass top antique desk. When the temperature dropped below freezing, my hand would stick to the glass. Parishioners took pity on me, even thought they wondered what I was doing in the church building every morning. Someone kindly provided a kerosene heater. 

Each morning the mail would come in at the post office around 10 am. It was a social event, where I could catch up with everything happening in the neighborhood. While the post mistress filled each box, about ten women and I waited intently for each mailbox to be filled. Each had a husband or a live-in man who worked out of town. My neighbor, George, and I were often the only men in the village between 7 am and 5 pm. 

One morning I went to fetch my mail, waited patiently for my mailbox to be filled, opened the locked door, and removed the contents. Everyone in that cramped, little post office looked at me, at the mail in my hand, and had a panic look of a deer in headlights bug eyes. “Oh, my,” I thought to myself. “What did I do now?”

On top of my stack of mail, in plain sight for all to see, was a pornographic magazine; not one that could be described as soft, filled with worthwhile articles, so said every male who nervously turned every page. No, it was a raunchy magazine, the kind that was mailed in a protective, tinted plastic sleeve. 

“It isn’t mine,” I protested, turning every shade of red. Snickers abounded.

I took it to the window, behind which the post mistress held court. “Oh,” she said, looking over her cat glasses that sported a silver chain drooped around her neck. “I must have put it into the wrong mailbox.” She promptly slid the offending item into the post office box right above mine. We all knew who owned that box. 

A year or two later, I conducted the funeral of said mailbox owner. He had been one of the last blacksmiths before hiring on to work the coal piles at the Greenidge electrical generation power station. Covered with coal dust, I could only see the white of his eyes when I’d see him after his work. Laying peacefully in his casket, I trusted that he was now at peace at home with his God. 

—

The pool this morning was all business. Get in, get it on, get it over with. My thoughts churned with my flailing crawl. I had been recent witness to a sudden, emotionally charged, vulgar laced slur that took everyone in the room by surprise. It was defensive, instinctual, verbal violence meant to hurt and to harm. 

Others responded with tempered defense, while my broken heart filled with empathy for the one who took the unwarranted brunt of the offense. How one responds to such harm defines character and spiritual wellness. 

Now there is something to focus on, as the laps churned away, the cool morning water providing me with a sense of balance and support. Character. Spiritual wellness.

No, I do not like conflict. Most people don’t, with the exception of lawyers. But I’ve learned with time and experience that conflict is best dealt with immediately, with confidence, and kindness.

Delay results in retrenchment, resentment, and deepening malaise. My response should be balanced with love and insight regarding motives of those involved. Is someone’s anger coming from a childhood experience, from demons of addiction, from anxiety over marriage, children, or employment? Is their outlash the result of an untreated mental health condition? Sometimes it is as simple as their dog biting them in the butt as they went out the door that morning on the way to work. 

I can’t take away the anger and hurt of this world. But my faith, in the God of my experience and understanding, is able to work a healing balm into every broken soul. 

The soap and hot shower after my laps this morning cleansed my body of the pool’s chlorine and brought restoration.

—

One church in town. One cemetery. One  village, I paternalistically considered my own. It was a privilege to be with my people in their disease and death, connected with family and ancestors that had gone on before them. Many were the graves at which I stood, leading prayers of reluctant release from this mortal life into the hands of our eternal God. 

Graves trembled with each passing coal train that fed Greenidge’s boiler, generating electrical power to homes throughout the Finger Lakes. Skiffs transported employees and navy personnel to and from the barge anchored in the center of Seneca Lake conducting top secret research. School busses picked up and dropped off children as they went to and from school up town in Penn Yan. The hotel served up game dinners for hunters and served cold beer to a sublime cliental. 

The local town offices were shared with the highway department and a substation for the State Police. My wife and I presented ourselves to vote before election officials. “Last name, please,” as if they didn’t know the new preacher in town. Out was hauled a large binder of registered voters. “I can’t seem to find you here,” she said, as she licked her finger and leafed through the pages. “You are registered Republican, aren’t you?”

The room fell silent. All eyes were on Cynthia and me. 

“Um. No,” I confessed. “We are registered Democrats.” 

“Oh,” she sighed as she pulled out a one page list from a file folder. “Here you are,” she smiled weakly. We cast our votes with humility, having learned our lesson in small town life. 

The women in town were strong and formidable. They worked the vines for the exploding New York wine industry, trimming with both hands in the cold of winter. They worked chores on dairy farms along with the men, milking cows 365 days a year. Never a day of rest.

Women buried their dead husbands and lovers, who died an early cancerous death as a result of working the coal plant. One tended her husband’s home dialysis, another a loving, devoted caregiver for her husband with Parkinson’s. Yet another stood by her man, even when her man proved unworthy of her faithful love. One woman aged gracefully with her retired husband, another spent her time baking the most delicious Danish pastries to be shared with neighbors (and the occasional visit by her pastor). 

Neither did I find any slackers among the men in town. Salt of the earth. Hard workers. Raising their families as best as they knew how. Oh, there were some exceptions, but they were rare.

The men in town were interesting characters. Those who displayed odd behaviors or a peculiar character added color to an otherwise drab environment. One played the marimba every Memorial Day at church, while another arranged for a high school senior to recite the Gettysburg Address. I discovered one dancing with a tree in his front yard, as I walked home after a late night church meeting. No, I did not suspect he was under the influence. That is just the way he was; happy to dosey doe with a Dogwood.

Conflict was rare. It was a thankful reprieve from future experiences. One couple thought I wasn’t sufficiently conservative in my interpretation of the Bible that they sat disapprovingly in their pew with arms crossed and scowls on their face. I would not apologize for emphasizing grace over judgment or love over law. I let Jesus do the talking for me. 

Sunday morning was chilly and snow swept as I headed out for worship at the other church of my appointment, a tiny church that sat in the middle of a cornfield at the intersection of a former stage coach stop. Reluctantly, I left Cynthia behind with our newborn son, Nicholas, who had been up all night crying and vomiting. The doctor up town agreed to open up his office and see them as soon as they could get there. Our neighbor, George, offered to go with  them to the doctor. Off we went our separate ways. 

After the early worship service, I returned to town. Time was of the essence, especially if delayed by a slow, rumbling coal train that blocked entry into the village. I quickly parked in my reserved spot and entered the church office to don my white clerical apparel. Just in time, I processed into the sanctuary to organ music and an assembling crowd speaking to one another in low murmurs. I took my seat up front, behind the pulpit and altar table. As the organ played, I closed my eyes attempting to center myself, and pray that Nicholas was okay. 

Serenity was broken as one of my Trustees (and fire chief) approached my chair. He leaned over and whispered in my ear. “George just went with Cynthia and Nicholas to the hospital in Geneva for emergency surgery. What do you want to do?” He asked. “I can take you to the hospital, if you want.”

“Yes, please,” was all I could weakly reply. 

I gathered my six page, double spaced, typed sermon and handed it off to my lay leader to read in my absence. Off we went. Buckled in. Lights and siren weren’t needed due to it being Sunday morning. Kindness. Appreciated beyond words. Thank you, Lord, for the kindness of a Parish who loved me back and a Trustee who delivered me to the hospital waiting room. 

A quick hernia repair and a short hospital stay averted catastrophe, and we returned home. Healed. Whole. Thankful.

29. Lights and Siren: Closing One Door, Opening Another

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

Before moving on to my first parish, I had to say goodbye to SK Wiley and friends at the Miamisburg Police Department. I rode road patrol with them a minimum of once per week my last year of seminary, usually the evening or late night shifts. I was privileged to get to know the officers well, learn their back stories, and of their present day joys and challenges. Saying goodbye was the least I could do; saying thank you for their gift to me and my professional development was even more important.

They pulled pranks on each other, shared tragedies, locked up the same career criminals, week in, week out, over and over again. Shared experience made them tight as a family, dysfunctions, and all. One moment I’d hear whining, “Yeah, that fat fornicator served in Viet Nam, but he spent his whole tour sitting on his ass changing airplane tires.” Or “hope his wife never hears from his mistress.” Or “Too bad he can’t hold his liquor. I found him last week sleeping in his car, passed out behind the wheel, stuck in a ditch, drunk as a cooter.”

It was a different time and a different era.

Yet, when the chips were down, everyone came out of the woodwork to protect one another. Be it “shots fired” or “personal injury accident” all stops were swept away, off duty cops responded, everyone, from the chief to the new hire, jumped into harm’s way. It was tight as blood, and I had been made an honorary member of the family. How cool was that?

There were too many experiences to write about, but here is a sampling: Doing donuts in the high school parking lot after a heavy snow, giggling like high school kids. There was the guy who hung himself in the basement, having his wife discover the grizzly scene. Then, the lady and her infant who’s pickup stalled on the railroad tracks, only to be demolished by a freight train. “You smashed up my brand new $50 truck?” her husband shouted at her over the phone.

I’ll never forget the kid arrested by an Indiana cop on a warrant in a city park, ready to be beaten to a pulp, until the young, inexperienced, poorly trained home-town-hero looked up and saw me standing there in my clerical collar with arms folded across my chest. Not on my dime, Jerk.

Playing the intruder in a darkened bar with an open door, crouching on a toilet in the women’s room, dressed in oversized protective padding, having the police dog sicked on me. Jake was good, even with one incisor missing. Everyone got a laugh of the terrified Padre.

Skyline Chili is a thing. I love it, a five-way topped with melted cheese and tabasco sauce. The local franchise charged us half price if the cop was in uniform and parked the cruiser out front. Problem was, after a five-way and four or more skyline slider hot dogs, the GI system responded with a plumb. “Damn, Padre!” Steve would yell at me. “Roll down your window cause I can’t breath!”

Steve’s radio crackled, “See the domestic, at such-and-such address.” “That’d be Jokie Horn and his girlfriend,” Steve told me. “Let’s go.”

Lights and siren. I love me some lights and sirens, revolving red and blue, both the wail and the European high-low. Traffic parts for you, especially for cops. For fire trucks and ambulances, not so much. I guess a badge, gun, and handcuffs make all the difference. Power. Authority. Command. It matters.

We pull up to find Jokie and his girlfriend duking it out on their front porch. Jokie has a handful of hair and she had cut Jokie face real good. Blood was everywhere. Both hillbillies were blind drunk. Snow was lightly falling and I can still remember seeing my breath. Must have been Christmas time.

Bam! Steve hit them both like a hurricane, while I stood back on the freshly shoveled front sidewalk, unknowingly stepping in something soft. They both collapsed like a house of cards. With Jokie and girlfriend cuffed and locked behind the cage in the back seat, we started the drive back to the station.

The smell of dog shit filled the cruiser. Jokie and his girlfriend began to complain and their eyes watered. The heater was on full blast, which made the situation all the worse. Tear gas would have been an improvement. Steve looked over at me, slammed on the brakes, and said, “Padre, if you go stepping in dog shit, be sure to wipe it off before getting in the car.”

“Yes sir,” I said giving him my best Gomer Pyle salute. I got out, cleaned off my shoe, wiped the floor mat in a snow bank, all the while, Steve, Jokie, and his gal were laughing themselves silly. “Jokie was beating on my face,” she later wrote out her complaint when she sobered up, “That’s why I called the P-O-L-L-I-C-E.”

I can’t make this stuff up.

—

Laps this morning were matter-of-fact, no nonsense, fifteen laps of up and back hard charging freestyle. My wife was late to breakfast, so she kindly sent me ahead with her promise to follow.

Our normal routine is for her to meet me when I emerge from the locker room. She’s able to use the machines in the Jewish Community Center that work her arms, legs, abs, and everything else in-between. She knows when I’m coming out because she hears the squeak of my wet Crocks, pink beauties that resemble oversized clown shoes. They protect my feet from the dangers of a dirty, viral infested locker room floors and pool deck. 

Laps today were meditative, restorative, quick to pass by. With each lap I thought of each year I served the churches in Dresden and Milo Center (1986-1989), Canandaigua (1989-1991), and Palmyra (1991-1999). The final two years (to make 15 laps) were painful but necessary years for a mid-career adjustment. 

Reflecting with each stroke I saw beautiful Finger Lakes and autumn leaves, back country roads and Mennonite buggies, and villages nestled in valleys, hidden by wood smoke from fireplaces and stoves. Snow days brought time to a standstill. Fresh plowed and tilled fields graced dairy farms, red barns, and blue silos. Vineyards laden with grapes and orchards of apples and peaches. Tall church spires pointed to heaven and graveyards marked the final repose of both sinner and saints. Trains moved commerce and fire sirens signaled  the ending of the day. 

Life in the Finger Lakes has been good.

—

One of my last opportunities to go on patrol with SK was hard. Emotionally, I knew I had to say good-bye. At the same time, I was having more fun in my clerical collar than should have been allowed. These cops were my cops, and I loved them all.

Steve loved to regale me with his stories of working at his previous department. He was the only white guy to successfully work undercover drugs in black neighborhoods, or so he said. Steve told me of responding to a call on Thanksgiving to find the whole family chowing down on turkey and gravy, even as dad laid with his face in his plate, a bullet hole in his forehead. “I told him to pass the meat,” momma said, and went right on eating. Yikes!

The cops provided perimeter security for a local factory, all very hush-hush, highly classified government stuff. The campus was ringed with military wire, elevated machine gun towers and missiles that pointed towards the sky. I kid you not. A middle of the night call went out, an alarm for a possible security breach. Blue and red lights are beautiful at night. No siren was needed, for the streets were empty during these early morning hours.

SK parked his cruiser diagonally across the intersection, he pointed toward a tree and said, “Padre, park your ass behind that tree and pray nobody starts shooting.” He didn’t have to ask me twice. I peeked out to see SK pop the trunk, put on tactical body armor, strap on a  helmet, and pulled out the coolest looking H&K submachine gun I’ve ever seen.

Now there’s something you don’t see every day.

I salute brother and sister law enforcement officers. They’re often down in the dirt, wrestling with the devil, day in day out, trying to hold their family and personal life together, and remain sane at the same time. It’s a tough job.

Bad cops? Yep. Thankfully, in my experience, they’re rare. Good cops? Lots more good cops than bad. Way more. Exceptional cops? There are a lot of them who live a disciplined life, who embody service and love of neighbor, give extra effort, and strive to be better every day. I hold all in my prayers and highest esteem.

It was really hard saying goodbye.

Those lights and sirens.

—

Writing about my experiences in the parish is complicated. “Do no harm,” my conscience tells me. I couldn’t bear to hurt anyone. Some have died in the Lord, yet, their legacy needs to be respected, defended even. Others live. Their confidences are not mine to share. Even the use of pseudonyms isn’t sufficient, for events may unintentionally identify individuals. 

Parishioners confide in their pastor. That information is theirs, not mine. They own it like a car and title, like a house and deed. I’m not free to share without express permission. Throughout my forty plus years in the parish, I’ve carefully created compartments in my mind to hold memories of confidences. Even a judge’s court order would not compel me to talk without explicit permission from the owner. My wife is not privy to these, nor anyone else on the planet, except for one: my psychiatrist. 

Having the support of a psychiatrist is an essential key to my success in the parish. I’ve been blessed with the same professional for over twenty-five years. He is the one source of objective feedback regarding my mental, emotional, and spiritual health. Our relationship is locked tight confidential. 

During periods of anxiety or stress, my psychiatrist has carefully monitored me and provided effective treatment. Symptoms of depression have been held in check. He’s taught me effective management techniques to remain healthy and productive. He has put more tools in my toolbox than all the workshops or continuing education experiences I’ve attended combined. He is a cheerleader, guide, counselor, and accountability check. I don’t get a free pass when I’ve screwed up. Rather, options are played out for redemption and healing. It also helps that he is a faithful layperson in a similar protestant denomination. He knows how the sausage is made.

Over the years, I’ve counseled new or less experienced pastors to get themselves a good psychiatrist. Not because I think they are crazy. No. We all need that someone we can go to when the going gets rough. And, yes, it can get rough in the parish. 

Okay. So I can’t betray confidences, but …

… there are stories of triumph to share, heartwarming experiences to tell about. There are moments of faith to witness. There are accounts of the movement of the Holy Spirit – the God of my experience – to testify. I’ve even been witness to miracles. My life lived in the Spirit gives me goosebumps when I fathom the blessings and grace I’ve received. 

This, I will attempt, with pastoral love and affection, with the sole purpose of giving glory to God. 

—

George and Laura were our neighbors. I came to love them both.

Each in their eighties (I would guess), George was retired from the local power plant; a boiler operator who spent his life watching and adjusting the ratio of coal, sulfur content, and oxygen being atomized and shot into a firebox. Industrial scale electricity generation, courtesy of New York State Electric and Gas. George spent a lifetime at top level engineering, critical thinking, and decision making. It was soot covering, sweat stained, muscle straining, salt of the earth hard, honest work. It fascinated me.

George smoked a pipe, so I did, too. He had a Sears lawn tractor; the church provided me with an identical grey Sears steed, so when he mowed, I mowed, too. George had a split rail fence between our houses that we’d lean against and talk about everything except getting down to doing something productive.

One hot, summer afternoon we took a break from mowing. We chatted small talk over the fence when a flatbed truck pulled into my back yard. The driver, a farmer from my parish, didn’t say a word. He just backed up to my door, left arm farmer tanned flopped out the window, navigating in reverse using his side mirrors. He squealed the brakes to a stop and tilted the bed. Off slid a wood crate full of freshly harvested cabbages. “This is for you and the misses,” he said, giving me the thumbs up.

“Good for the colon!” he grinned, and drove off.

“Now, what am I going to do with a crate of cabbages?” I wondered aloud. “If you don’t want them, I’ll take ‘em,” replied George. Visions of sauerkraut ferries danced in his head. George had a lifetime of being well prepared for such an occurrence.

Over the next couple of weeks, the neighborhood became saturated  in the smell of sauerkraut fermenting from his garage. Cut up in a 55 gallon barrel, simmering over a slow burning propane flame, George cooked down some mighty fine tasting, old fashioned kraut that he shared with the neighborhood. Um, good!

“Can you drive a fire truck,” George asked me as he pulled on his pipe. Cyntha and I had only moved in a week, or so, before. The parsonage had been left a wreck, so we stayed at a parishioner’s lake house for three weeks while work parties (and Cynthia) stripped wall paper, patched walls, repaired cabinets, replaced appliances, and painted. The parsonage was like new when we moved in. The generosity of parish volunteers still takes my breath away.

“I suppose I can drive anything, if you teach me,” I replied. “Good,” George replied. “Here is an application for the volunteer fire company,” he pulled the form from his pocket. That afternoon, George gave me my first orientation, most certainly before I was elected and approved.

There were three institutions in town, the church, fire company, and the Masonic Lodge. My church trustees were the fire chiefs and officers. They also served as the grand poo-baas in the lodge. I figured I could do two of the three. Being the pastor of the church, I was happy to be a worker bee in the fire company.

“Here’s the starter,” George patiently told me. “And over here is the radio, the lights, and siren.” Red and blue lights. And a siren. It was if my heart skipped a beat. Memories of Miamisburg flooded back to me. It didn’t come with a gun, badge, and a pair of handcuffs. But, it would do.

George and I would go on to putting out a lot of fires over the next three years. It was often just him and me in town during working hours. He was a county deputy fire commissioner, which entitled him to add a radio, emergency lights, and a siren to his F-100 brown pickup. Well into retirement, George would pull up behind my pumper at a scene, drag off a hose line, stretch it to where it needed to go. I charge it with water from the tank, and boom. George put the fire out.

Time to take the truck back to the barn, clean up, put everything back in order, and have a cup of coffee. Becoming a volunteer firefighter in Smalltown, USA was about as close to heaven as this country boy could get. And it came with lights and siren. Be still my soul.

One day, over the side yard fence, George had a pained look in his face. “What’s up,” I cheerfully asked. “My daughter has brain cancer.” Silence followed. What is there to say. My empathy and love for George and Laura were unbounded. “Would you take part in her funeral Mass?” he asked. “Yes, of course. It would be my privilege.

The Roman Catholic priest uptown was a good friend and trusted colleague. He was the fire chaplain for his department and a medic on the volunteer ambulance. We ran in the same circles. Our paths often crossed. Father M readily agreed to grant me access to all his bells and whistles.

The processional halted midway down the aisle and Father M began to use a mace to splash holy water around the casket. “In baptism, she was born to Christ. In baptism, she has died in Christ. In baptism, she has been welcomed home by Christ.” Or something like that. Father M stopped, pivoted in my direction and handed me the mace, smiling. When in Rome, I guess. I too, splashed the holy water. George and Laura took notice.

Not long thereafter, Laura became sick and was dying. Hospice arranged for a hospital bed to be place in the living room. My heart was breaking for George. With a stiff constitution, his faith saw him through. “Would you celebrate Laura’s funeral Mass with Father M?” “Yes, of course. It would be my privilege,” I repeated my promise. And I did.

George died a few years thereafter, perhaps of a broken heart. I cried deeply at the loss of my friend and neighbor. As a lifelong volunteer firefighter, his casket was carried on the hose bed of Dresden’s polished pumper from the funeral home to the Roman Catholic Church. Father M and I rode in the undertaker’s car at the front of the processional. The sky was turning black as we pulled up to the church and George’s casket was solemnly brought by the pallbearers into the sanctuary.

Midway through the funeral Mass the sound of rain on the roof and windows began to rise. Flashes of lightening increased in frequency. The roar of thunder growled over the church, village, and Finger Lakes region. Burial in a thunderstorm wasn’t going to be pretty. The church was full, mostly with volunteer firefighters in formal uniform dress. Midway through the funeral, pagers simultaneously went off, and a dozen or so local firefighters filed out before the Mass was done.

During the recessional, the rains came to an end and sunlight began to filter through the stained glass windows. We exited the church to witness a rainbow, beautiful and full of assurance, that hung above town. I said to Father M on the ride to the cemetery, “Wasn’t that just a beautiful sign from God?”

We pulled into the village cemetery and made our way to the open grave. There were three firetrucks parked off to the side, hoses lying on the ground, and the burnt trunk of a tree next to the grave. Yes. A bolt of lightening struck a tree beside George and Laura’s grave, just as we were prepared to say our final prayers. It was one of those God moments. A divine intervention for all of us to witness.

I’m still moved with emotion forty years later. Bearing witness to God’s grace, power, majesty, intervention is truly miraculous. Thank you, God, for extending to me your unmerited privilege.