Month: September 2025

27. United Sound, Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE), and the Blackbird Massacre

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

My third and final year of seminary was delayed a week while Cynthia and I honeymooned in Nova Scotia. We loaded up a rooftop carrier and headed out to Dayton. We moved into Roberts Hall, a newer residential building directly across the campus from Fouts Hall, my first year home. Roberts was more suited for married couples. Both buildings bred cockroaches like rabbits. Our neighbor down the hall used to collect dead cockroaches and deposit them weekly under the slot at the bursar’s window.

I just settled into fall classes and clinical pastoral education (CPE) at Kettering Memorial Hospital. Cynthia was looking for a job in labor and delivery and was quickly snatched up by Miami Valley Hospital to work in their neonatal ICU. My puny Eastway paycheck paled in comparison to her paycheck, a pattern that we would follow for the next forty years.

A month into the term and my father died of sudden cardiac arrest (see my earlier chapter about Bob Stoppert making the notification and giving Cynthia and I a blank check to fly home). I had a marvelous father the first twenty-five years of my life, mentor, and supporter of my call to ministry.

My dad and my new father-in-law, Irving, were like oil and water. Irv was the Dean of the Cabinet, the Bishop’s right hand man. Irv was the system. Dad was the crusader for the little guy, who always stood up for right over wrong, and was always vocal about bucking the system.

Dad served small steeple churches in rural upstate New York; Irv served the big suburban and urban churches. We didn’t have to worry about how our families would get along after dad died. Though I grieved his death, I was blessed with a strong, loving, and wise surrogate father, my father-in-law Irving, for the next twenty-five years. 

I was two weeks behind in my reading and classwork by mid-October. There would be no time for United Sound in my third year. United Sound was a choral, comedy, dance, skit group that traveled the country between terms each year, visiting churches served by United alumni. It was great fun pulling into an unknown town in a huge tour bus, to be assigned a host family, have them feed us a good home cooked meal and house us over night. We’d do our stick at their church, often drawing full sanctuaries of happy United Methodists. Aaron Shaffer was the director and Robert Simmons was the assistant.

Doc Simmons was the Dean of the Black Gospel Association of America. He taught fifty plus white seminary students how to sing black gospel. How to sway. How to repeat. How to move and be moved. And he was good at it. We’d sing twenty minutes of “If you confess the Lord, call him up” and have the whole house on their feet clapping, swaying, and praising the Lord. Truly phenomenal.

Doc also taught the young and naive how to play poker in the back of the tour bus between gigs, unloading the unsuspecting of excess money. Oh, how we loved both Aaron and Doc. 

The movement of the Holy Spirit was experienced where ever we traveled, whenever we performed, when we swayed and sang, and when we cracked corny jokes: “those who have ears to hear (pull out two cobs of corn), let them hear!” 

Our most notable gig was singing for General Conference in 1984, held in Baltimore, Maryland. This is a gathering every four years of about 500 elected clergy and 500 lay delegates from around the world to set policy for the United Methodist Church. It was the one and only General Conference I would attend, for I witnessed too much pride, ego, and hubris for my blood. Lots of want-to-be Bishop’s worked the crowd. Protesters for LGBT rights picketed outside. New Hymnal recommendations were finalized. Underneath it all was the common thread of United Methodist DNA, a belief and appreciation for the grace of God.

It was, and is, inspiring to witness such diversity of culture, language, and believe all under the big tent of United Methodism. Grace is how we roll. Though flawed, John Wesley, the Anglican priest responsible for the Methodist movement would have been proud.

—

The pool this morning. Three times a week, I return to the pool. 

I’ve never liked a dirty floor in locker rooms or on a pool deck. My toes curl with involuntary nerve when I see hair, dirt, or thread. Drains are to be especially avoided. Unseen bacteria lurks and athlete’s foot threatens. I wear Crocks, pink Crocks, whenever I can, burning routine deeply into my core, simplifying and making economies only a veteran lap swimmer can master. We know who we are. 

There is no rational explanation why I have such irrational beliefs about feet and deck. I’ve always thought my feet are ugly. Mine are also ticklish. Never have I hosted a foot washing service during Holy Week. Not going there. I may have been okay for Jesus, but not for me. Nope. Nadda. Zip it.

As I swim this morning, I meditate on the rest of the world who think rationally about feet and cleanliness. Consider how many children throughout the world who have no shoes, I think to myself. The shoeless children and adults who’ve I’ve worked with in Nicaragua and Guatemala are so different from me and my privilege. Where did I come from? How did this come to be?

Ten laps this morning of crawl stroke, five of breast. I finish under a hot shower staring at the drain.

—

Every candidate for ordination had to complete one unit of Clinical Pastoral Education. One unit could be earned part time in nine months, as I did, or full time in three. CPE met weekly for half a day, 12 of us in the program with our supervisors, to discuss the ministry implications of our projects or call time working as a chaplain in the hospital. 

Kettering Memorial Hospital was a regional cardiac transplant and bypass medical center, operated by the Seventh Day Adventist church. It was conservatively operated. No meat. No alcohol. No tobacco. No caffeine. No fun. But, who goes to a hospital to have fun?

Caffeine was smuggled in, to make my own tea or coffee. I’d carry in my own sandwiches to avoid the meat-like substitutes in the cafeteria. Yes, they served “Blam” which was compressed in a mold to look like ham, treated with artificial color and esters (because presentation and smell is everything), and was sliced and served with a smile.

On call chaplains slept in the doctor’s on-call suite and covered all hospital floors and departments. Weekend call was especially busy in the emergency room. 

AIDS was just emerging and threatened to burn the world down. In some ways my pastoral ministry could be defined by the AIDS pandemic at the beginning and COVID at the end. Not knowing how it was spread and the realization that AIDS is almost always fatal fueled the fire of fear, requiring patient visits while donning full environmental suits. Not exactly the setting conducive for good pastoral care, holding a hand, or communicating empathy. 

I had enough of my father’s German stubborn non-conformist values that when I was yelled at for not presenting myself one weekend call in a suit worthy of a chaplain, I went out and bought the cheapest polyester suit I could afford. It looked terrible, and I looked like a fly-by-night televangelist wearing it.

I became friends with a week-end ED doctor, much like myself, and we would meet after dark behind hedges beyond the ED entrance. Over cigars, we’d talk, debrief the trauma of the day, and just plumb the facets of life.  

Most of us dislike conflict and confrontations, myself included. One member of my CPE group was a 50’s something Roman Catholic Irish laywoman on a mission. She wanted to be Ordained, and saw the Church’s gender gap as an issue of injustice that she was determined to correct, even if it meant going directly to the Pope. She also had a son my age, who, she reported, looked just like me, with whom she was estranged. Thus, I became the focus of much of her rage over the next 9 months. 

My CPE supervisor was really good. He was able to help me to see interpersonal conflict as something more than an instinctual reaction like  touching a hot stove. Rage and anger came from somewhere unknown and unexplored. Secrets and estrangement were not personal, they were signposts pointing the observant towards a course of action that reflected the grace of God. My maturity struggled to keep up. 

Dick, my CPE supervisor, took me where my secular mental health training from Eastway Community Mental Health could not go. CPE revealed an intersection of theology, psychology, and pastoral ministry that resulted in me being molded into a better prepared parish pastor, even at the ripe age of 24. 

—

The shift supervisor, a sergeant who was known to frequent donut shops and hide his cruiser behind the store, called the third shift to attention, then started to hand out boxes of 12 gauge shells. He addressed the 7 patrol officers on the shift, and one awkward volunteer seminary student posing as a chaplain dressed in a clerical collar. “These are for our 2:00 am training. Everyone make sure your shotgun is clean and be on time. Dismissed.”

“Ei eye, chief,” SK Wiley said as he gave a Gomer Pyle salute and pulled me by the shirt to the parking lot.

I had been around the Miamisburg cops long enough to learn that most juvenal delinquents came to a fork in the road at some point in their early adolescence. Some went to prison for getting caught engaging in serious criminal activity, others became cops. Misbehaving was core DNA of every cop I got to know.

The first time I rode with Steve, he asked me if I was willing to shoot a man. “What?” I asked, caught completely off guard. “You, know,” he replied, “If some dirt bag is about to cap my ass, could you drop him with the shotgun?”

“Well, kind of, yes. Er, no. I don’t know,” I answered in honest frustration. My moral compass should have been better prepared and aligned. “If you can’t, you’re not riding with me.” There it was. Truth spoken and made real. Time for me to put up, or shut up and go home. “Okay. You’re right.” Yes, I would use the shotgun locked in the cruiser to protect my officer. “Good,” he replied, then showed me how the quick release worked. Imagine that, a padre with a shotgun.

If I had to, I was willing to take a life.

Two clicks of the microphone by each of the officers on duty alerted the shift sergeant that all were present and accounted for. Our respective patrol cars surrounded the city park in the center of town. This was a clandestine operation, even the dispatcher (pre-911 era) wasn’t told what was about to go down. One shotgun per cop, and we all huddled up, with me nervously wondering how many years I was going to spend in an Ohio State Penitentiary.

The City of Miamisburg had been overwhelmed by migrating black birds, who, for some unknown reason, interrupted their seasonal trek and vacationed for an enormous amount of time in the beautiful city of Miamisburg. The Chamber of Commerce should have been proud that all these black birds considered Miamisburg a destination vacation, except for all the shit they were depositing on resident’s cars. The birds roosted in the city park.

“On ‘three’, and everyone let loose,” the sergeant ordered. Everyone nodded and separated ten or fifteen yards. Everyone looked confident, except for the one female cop, who looked undersized compared to her shotgun.

“Three!” and the city erupted in gunfire. One chambered and five in the magazine, pumps making friction, and shell casings flying. Pause. Everyone is reloading. Bam! It’s off to the races again.

The effects of the heavy antiaircraft fire was immediate. Birds fell like rain. For every bird killed outright, three or four fell from the sky, wounded, flapping, squawking and screaming like beaked creatures do in death’s throws. For every wounded black bird dropped in our immediate vicinity, another half-dozen flew in fear far enough away before overcome by their wounds, they dropped into the neighborhood swimming pools, back yards, and driveways.

Heavy gunfire at 2 am lit up the emergency switchboard at the police station. The dispatcher was terrified; you could hear it in her voice.

The supervising sergeant was great at planning and execution, but poor at anticipating potential consequences. No one was hurt. Cops were laughing like school children. I thought it funny the female officer shot right over her twelve o’clock and nearly fell over backwards. But the black bird massacre created a huge mess, angered everyone who had to get up in a few hours for work, and scared the crap out of every child woken from sleep by gunfire.

Beauty is often found in recovery.

I’ve done boneheaded things in my life, made mistakes, said things I later regretted. I’ve learned, often times the hard way, that the sweetest part of life is often found in recovery; be it an apology, forgiveness, redemption. It may be found in sobriety, stability, learning new ways for embracing life and living with joy. Recovery is a gift of God’s grace, a beautiful thing.

That Miamisburg sergeant was twisting in the wind. Before his supervising lieutenant was dispatched and sent to the city park, the sergeant confidently stood, cued his mic and requested a DPW crew dispatched to the scene, complete with pickup trucks and shovels. Overtime be damned.

Within 20 minutes there were a dozen cops, another dozen city DPW workers, and one volunteer student chaplain whacking the wounded with shovels, scooping the deceased, fetching drowned remains from back yard pools, and tossing them in the back of the trucks. The dispatcher, enlightened to the tomfoolery imparted by the sergeant and officers, was an anchor of grace fielding calls on the emergency line from concerned and angry citizens.

That, right there, my friends is how one recovers from life’s misfortunes, personally or professionally. Take it. Own it. Do it. Recover like a boss!

26. Laundry, Sin, and a Kid Named JAC

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

The living conditions were pretty spartan. I was given a third floor apartment with uneven floors, an ancient kitchenette and rusty shower. My bed and mattress was early American threadbare. Interior exit was to a hallway, an exterior exit that I most often used was by metal fire escape.

Stan and his family lived in an adjacent house. The kitchen and dining room were directly below. Alcoholics Anonymous held their regular meetings in the downstairs conference rooms and frequently clogged the urinals with cigarette butts. Stan was the director and direct supervisor.

One Saturday morning he sent me to the basement with a pipe wrench and step ladder. The sewage pipe from the first floor men’s room was clogged and I needed to clean it out. As soon as I had the waste pipe separated, the gush of effluent hit me square in the face. The job was completed and I quickly jumped into a long hot shower. 

Hospitality was job one at Camp Miami. I’d welcome guests, give them the fire drill spiel, point out where the linens and bathrooms were located, and enjoy meals with them in the dining room. There was a large outdoor swimming pool that required upkeep and maintenance. Cleaning it with an acid wash was not my favorite task. 

A family of skunks moved into one of our many campsites in our back forty. Campers and counselors alike were spooked. Stan knew that I had my 12 gauge pump locked in the trunk of the car. He asked me if there was something I could do about it.

One early morning when there were no campers or staff in the campsite, I drove out and set up shop. Sure enough, along down the path came mom, dad, and lots of children skunks. It took mere seconds to empty the chamber and five in the magazine. I should have felt bad about unleashing violence and death upon defenseless critters, but the smell quickly brought me to my senses and the awareness that I had not made plans for the disposal of their remains. I returned with a shovel and scooped up the bloody remains into the kitchen pickup truck. Evidence of the slaughter was deposited in the dumpster behind the kitchen. I thought my mission was complete.

It wasn’t.

The smell was terrible. It mixed with the aroma of the kitchen, making the cook mad. The pickup continued to smell even after I hosed out the back. “Todd,” Stan told me, “get some Clorox from the storage closet and a good broom and clean it out.” Wonderful. I scrubbed the truck clean as a whistle. After the trash company emptied the dumpster, I did the same, holding my nose and trying not to gag. But, I cleaned up my mess. Had my mother known, she’d be proud.

Mom would not have approved of the way I did my laundry. Clean cloths would be dumped on my bed. I didn’t have time to fold and store them, so, I figured, if I showered before bed, I’m be clean, the cloths would be clean, and all would be good. Neither would I need to change sheets. 

All wasn’t good when Cynthia flew to Dayton for her planned visit. I picked her up at the airport and brought her to my apartment at Camp Miami. She looked at the pile of cloths on my bed and probably realized that I was more than a boyfriend, but if our relationship was going to go any further that I would become a project for her transformation. 

We sat one evening on a recliner in the living room with her on my lap. We talked about the future, our hopes and dreams, of family and children, of her nursing career and my future serving as a pastor. “Do you think we are ready for marriage?” I asked. “I think so,” she replied. “Then, will you marry me?” I proposed. She rolled her eyes and said “yes.” Forty years later, we remain happily married, having raised two wonderful sons, both retiring from jobs when God called us to serve, blessed beyond any fathomable possibility. 

Our memories don’t coincide. Perhaps I sabotaged the laundry by mixing colors and whites, or, it was just my lazy attitude about folding and putting away the clean laundry. Whatever and however it happened, Cynthia ended up doing the laundry.

I don’t take her kindness and grace for granted. Cynthia is God’s gift to me. Full stop.

— 

I was so tired this morning, I rolled out of bed, dozed at my 6:30 am video meeting and got myself ready for the pool. As I handed Cynthia off to the gym, I told her, “pray I don’t fall asleep doing laps and drown.” 

The water was crisp and fresh, like fall apples snapped from the tree. I woke, in the proper sense of the term, only to realize that I was the only one swimming laps this morning. No distractions. God is good.

As water was pulled across my skin, leaving eddies, swirls, and bubbles in my wake, I thought of how busy I had become in retirement. I chair two not-for-profits boards, and constantly worry over the responsibilities of income, expenses, jobs, the mission and people we serve. The home owners association board on which I serve is undertaking a big project and I don’t want to offend my neighbors. I’ve been asked to serve on another board, because of my experience. Is this an appeal to my pride? I ask myself as the laps tick by.

I don’t know. So much of life is unknown and unknowable. What is God’s will and how will I know if I get it right?

—

Theodicy is the study of sin and evil, and God’s hand in it. Dr. Inbody taught the class. It was his specialty, and he taught with passion. He would write a book “The Transforming God: An Interpretation of Suffering and Evil” (1997) on the topic. In the opening chapter of the book, Ty told us a story of Indian lore, in an effort to warn us of the dangers associated with studying evil.

A rabbit is much faster than a cobra, yet cobras regularly feast on rabbits. “How can this be?” Ty asked us. The answer was eye contact. The hungry cobra will spy a rabbit, obtain eye contact in an almost trance like state, and slowly, deliberately, approach to within striking distance. Whereupon, the snake would strike its killing foe. His point: Don’t stare at evil for too long without a break. Step back, focus on other things, pleasurable things. Refresh and restore before diving back into the study of evil, less thee become consumed by it. Good advice.

The common belief that God took someone and caused their death disturbed me. It still does. It appears inconsistent with the God of my experience, One that loves completely and desires the best of every person. Ty’s class on Theodicy provided me a framework for ministry in the midst of death and dying.

I do not believe God creates suffering. The biological nature of the human condition is confined by lifespan, blood vessels with weak spots, lungs that are vulnerable to environmental stress, brains that are oxygen sensitive, bodies formed nearly, but less-than perfect, in the image of God.

I do believe God is deeply moved by human suffering and actively seeks ways of transforming suffering and evil into good, as he writes “through an influential and persuasive process, not a controlling one.” Believing that God is a partner with creation, it is my personal experience that God’s presence and active involvement in suffering brings a rich personal meaning to our ministry and service to others.

Whenever I counseled parishioners over the course of my pastoral ministry, I’ve encouraged those enduring suffering and grief to pay attention to their God given spiritual antenna, to watch and listen for the movement and words of God in their presence. God may be experienced through the loving touch of a nurse, the words of kindness and love from a family member or friend, or by an extravagant act of kindness by a total stranger.

—

It was about eight o’clock in the evening when the emergency tones went off on the patrol car’s radio. “Man down. Ponderosa Steak House.” The address followed, along with the dispatch of fire, rescue, and EMS agencies. Steve hit the lights and siren and floored the accelerator. I was riding the evening shift with the Miamisburg Police Department with my favorite officer, S.K. Wiley.

“Turn off the air conditioner, Padre!” Steve yelled at me, as he had every bit of grip handling the Ford Crown Victoria through heavy traffic. Cut out the air conditioner and more power would be available to the engine, or so it was thought.

We pulled in the Ponderosa to find the restaurant emptied of patrons standing outside, and a parking lot full of emergency vehicles. Steve and I went in, believing our presence could actually change a tragic outcome. In front of the deep fryer lay an adolescent male being worked on by the paramedics. We called it “the old thump and pump,” while more informed sources would call it CPR. “Gotta get him to the ER,” the one medic yelled. Quickly a stretcher appeared, the boy was transferred with hardly a missed beat or rescue breath. In a flash they were gone.

“Come on, Padre,” Steve motioned to me, “Time for you to earn your keep.”

We arrive at the hospital emergency room to find a crowded trauma bay. Doctor’s with arms across the chest, giving directions to the numerous specialists crowding around. Social workers made notifications. Scribes documented. Cops and paramedics and firefighters lingered off to the side, spilling into the hallway. Lots of onlookers stood as silent observers with looks of reverence, concern, and prayer.

Compressions continued. Manual respirations were modified by a mechanical respirator. IV lines ran open, drugs were pushed, a lumen was thread into the stomach, a catheter was inserted into his penis. Naked, splayed as if crucified, eyes wide open, pupils fixed and dilated.

With nothing to say, I stood sentinel as time ticked by, the clerical collar chaffing at my neck. A hospital social worker made her way over to Steve and I. She whispered to me “His mother and family are waiting in the consultation room. They’ve just been told there wasn’t anything more that can be done.”

JAC, his initials, had suffered a sudden hemorrhage in the blood vessels of his brain. Unconsciousness was quick. After the rapid onset of a severe headache, he probably didn’t suffer pain. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, right in front of the greasy fryer where he was working. Death was denied and delayed by the life saving and life sustaining efforts of modern medicine. “Would you come and speak with them?”

Anguish. Pure, unfiltered grief poured forth from their soul. “Before they turn off the respirator, would you baptize my son?” JAC’s mother asked. “He’s never been baptized and I don’t want him to go to hell.”

This was no time for a theological discussion on the fine points of Theodicy. Though I was an un-ordained seminarian the details of such ecclesiasticism were not relevant. The unforeseen consequences I could and have to deal with at some later time would have to wait. From an emerging spring of pastoral care and compassion I assured his mother, “Yes, of course, ma’am. I will baptize your son.”

We gathered. Bereaved  and broken family and friends circled close, supported by hospital staff and a host of neighbors, some in uniform, others not, many openly weeping. Mom was by my side caressing her son’s hair. A registered nurse held an emesis basin filled with water. “What name is given this child?” I asked. “JAC,” his mother replied. I baptized Jeffery in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, my first baptism, a child of God, prepared for imminent death and eternal life.

Afterward I consoled weeping first responders, including the on-call Captain of the police department. JAC’s family and his were next door neighbors. Their kids played together. The ride back with Steve was silent, each of us lost in our own thoughts, tears dabbed from our eyes.

In the days that followed, I was given absolution from my senior pastor in Miamisburg and the faculty from the seminary. Pastoral care apparently trumps polity and doctrine. The parents asked that I’d conduct the funeral. I would, of course, and I did. To date, it was the largest funeral I’ve been privileged to celebrate. JAC’s classmates, seniors at the High School, one and all, attended, ‘en mass. Teachers and staff gave up their seats to elders in the overflow crowd and stood in God’s holy presence. He was the “Voice of the Vikings” I learned, the student announcer for the radio and public address broadcasts for every home football and basketball game. JAC’s voice had drawn silent.

The high school principle invited me to stop by and talk with a few of the kids. I spoke with perhaps three groups of ten, each session running about an hour. They, we cried, as I told them what had happened. The truth displaced rumors and assumption. They needed to know. From someone who was there. Who was trustworthy. This, I did. With the care and compassion I’ve come to know as divine grace, I poured it all out for those kids. In those moments, my spiritual antenna hummed as unlike anytime before.

God was there. God loves. And, miraculously, God healed. 

God loves you, and so do I.

25. Summer Stars and Fall Youth Fellowship, 1984

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

First year of seminary was under my belt. Only two years to go. My buddy from North Dakota, Doyle, and I decided to stay in Dayton and work full time at our respective agencies. He was at the Dayton Free Clinic (I seem to recall) and I was at Eastway Community Mental Health, working the crisis lines and conducting psychiatric assessments. At 40 hours a week and at $5 an hour, two hundred bucks a week was money in the bank.

It was a brutally hot summer. Doyle and I were about the only two inhabitants in the four story residential apartment named Fouts Hall. We bought dart guns. Late nights we stalked each other in the dark, aiming for the forehead,  scaring the crap out of each other. Fouts Hall wasn’t haunted, but it would have been great to see ghosts of seminary students past pop up from the dark recesses of the basement every now and then. 

When it was too hot in the evening, we’d go to the one dollars movie theater in town that was air conditioned. We must have watched Ghost Busters fifty times that summer. Signory Weaver was oh, so hot. 

There was also a solitary video game machine in the basement of Fouts Hall that played Missile Command. We rigged it up so it didn’t cost us a quarter for each play. We got pretty good at it. Some dinners we’d go up to the roof through the escape hatch and grill hamburgers on a hibachi grill, drink beers, look up and stare at the stars, and talk about theology class. Being a fan of Karl Bart, Doyle called me a Bartian boob. In deference to Paul Tillich, I called him a Tillichian tit. A vertically crushed beer can flew nicely from the roof into the dumpster. Life was good. 

I did make a short break to return to upstate New York. I went to visit Cynthia, the former Casowasco nurse who had caught my eye. She invited me to camp out on her apartment floor in Cooperstown, where she was working her first job as a newly minted RN at the local hospital. 

My visit went better than expected. She worked during the day, but that left us with dinner and the evening to spend time together. The weather was great, the sunsets were romantic, and we made plans for her to visit me in the Fall in Dayton. Something was percolating deep inside; could it be God whispering to me? Life was looking up.

At some point during the summer of ’84, I answered a want ad for an assistant camp director at Camp Miami in Germantown, OH. It was right next to Miamisburg where I was to start my student pastorate. The job only took a few hours a week of my time and offered free room and board. Given my experience working at Casowasco, I landed the job and moved in prior to the start of the Fall term. 

I was juggling a lot. Forty hours at Eastway, soon to be cut to 20 when the semester started; Saturdays and Sundays at the Miamisburg United Methodist Church; evenings working at Camp Miami; plus a full load of five classes at United. There was no time for sleeping in. 

—

Laps in the pool this morning were saturated with memories of seminary, the people I met, the experiences I was privileged to attend, the mentors who kindly lent me a hand along the way. Selfishly, I enjoyed my own lane, pulling ten laps of crawl stroke, smoothing sifting sand for another five laps of breast stroke. 

I didn’t even take notice of the swimmers in other lanes. Nothing notable, swim, shower, repeat, just like every other Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. 

—

Fall term began and I inherited a Youth Fellowship group of about 50 kids. Yeah, back in the day, kids and youth went to church with their families. These formative experiences are lacking today when even large parishes struggle to get out a few kids for Youth Fellowship. 

I organized the kids to develop a leadership team that planned all events. We planned and carried out a short term mission trip, a canoe trip down the Great Miami River, visited the control tower of the Dayton International Airport (a church member was the FAA chief), and rock climbing and rappelling in South East Ohio. 

We partnered with Rick Stackpole’s youth group to hit the cliffs. The comedian Steven Write used to joke that he isn’t afraid of heights, he’s afraid of widths. I was just the opposite. I don’t do heights; never did, never will. Climbing was too much like work and the kids quickly petered out. They wanted the thrill of rappelling. 

Great. 

Off we hiked to the first cliff, about 30 feet high. It was a good teaching rock face. Our Christian guide and rope expert taught us how to hook up, lean over, and descend. Don’t look down. Keep your eyes up to watch the person above providing belay. Easy peasy. 

We graduated to the 65 foot cliff, then, for the finale, we hiked to the 130 cliff. The final 60 feet was cut out, so it was a free drop after about a 70 foot descent. I tried to act cool around the kids. To a person, they were gung ho. I was crapping my knickers.

Kids went over the ledge, exactly as instructed. We’d hear a hoot and holler as they free dropped the final height. My fellow seminary student and Casowasco alumni, Rick, was up, hooking onto the single line, and backing towards the edge. He looked confident. If he could do it, why couldn’t I? 

Rick went over the lip. The first few feed are the most difficult because the line is so short. It puts all your weight on your feet. With a yelp, Rick lost his footing and fell. Upside down. 130 feet above the ground. Frozen in place. I saw his head replace with his legs pointing straight up to the sky. I thought he’d died.

Nope, Rick was very much alive. The guide talked him how to right himself and begin his descent. Rick was able to get his shit together. Down he rappelled. Then the guide turned to me. It was my turn. How on earth was I supposed to follow that?

“How about I read to you a few Bible passages as you go over the edge?” He asked. Obviously, I wasn’t this guide’s first rodeo. “Yeah, whatever,” I replied, certain that my future involved the removal of my corpse from the bottom of the cliff. I was that scared. 

I backed up. My legs held. My eyes were locked on the guide, who read scripture from his pocket Bible. Jesus Saves, pop theology asserts. On that fall day, leaning backwards over the abyss, I discovered this to be true. I was saved from a fatal fall, embarrassment in front of my youth group, and from wetting myself with fear.

I swung on the rope, side to side, even finding a little bit of enjoyment. When I passed the undercut, I hung in the air, free of everything except the single line that held me suspended in the air. I stopped. Took in the scenery, then descended the final feet laughing out loud. 

No need to call the rescue squad or the undertaker. God is good.

—

A few weekends later, I found myself in the police station. My goal was to arrange for a mock DWI arrest for kids and parents. My role was to play the village idiot. The Miamisburg Police Department consisted of about 40 road patrol officers, five, or so, detectives, and assorted sergeants, lieutenants, captains, and a chief.

S.K. Wiley walked in and introduced himself, all five foot four, one hundred twenty pounds of him soaking wet. He looked bigger than his small stature because of the tactical vest he sported, his 40 caliber Glock on his hip, and shield on his chest. “You can call me ‘Steve’,” he said, “and I’ll call you Padre.” 

Gee. Thanks for asking. 

Over the two years I got to know Steve, I learned that what he lacked in size and strength, he more than made up for his deficit by his mouth. Loud. Stunning. Foul. Filthy. Steve walked and talked like he was the new sheriff in town. If the bad guy drew up short by Steve’s obnoxious, loud, sailor like tirades, it gave him the split second advantage of being able to slap the cuffs on them. 

“Padre, I’d be happy to arrest your ass in the church parking lot,” Steve said to me smiling. 

And so it came to be. 

That Sunday evening, I pulled in and parked next to Steve cruiser. His red and blue emergency lights were flashing. All fifty of my kids were gathered around, along with their parents, lots of snickering church members, and the curious from the neighborhood. Rev. Catronie stood in the front, with his arms crossed, smiling at what was about to come down. 

The cuff hurt. A lot. Steve bent me over and pushed me into the back seat of his cruiser, behind the plexiglass shield. My arms stretched behind my back. There was no position of comfort. We processed downtown in a parade of cars, ending at the city jail. Steve was laughing his ass off. 

We pulled into the Sally Port. Other officers ushered into the jail the crowd of youth and adults. They watched me get myself finger printed, a mug shot, and walked to the drunk tank. The place was packed with onlookers watching the local youth pastor getting arrested. Lots of oos and ahh were heard as they explored the confines, bars, locks, and drains. 

There in the drunk tank we talked about the dangers of driving while under the influence of drugs or alcohol. The cells stank of vomit and other bodily fluids. It probably surprised the cops in our midst when I led everyone in prayer. I prayed for those who faced addictions, who ran fowl of the law, for victims of addiction, those who were harmed. I prayed for the cops, for their safety, for their families. 

I suspect that prayer went a long way with the soon-to-be friends and officers of the Miamisburg Police Department. It sure impressed Steve. 

“How would you like to be our department chaplain,” the Captain asked me. “The chief said it would be okay. You can ride patrol with anyone any time, so long as you don’t get in the way.”

WOW. I could ride with cops. You know, like Adam 12. I would have to cut back on my hours at Eastway, but, yes, I could juggle it all. I was young, didn’t need much sleep, and the streets of Miamisburg were calling. 

“One thing, though,” the Captain continued. There is always one more thing. “Whenever you ride with one of my officers, you have to wear a clerical collar. The public needs to know who they are dealing with. You’re not a cop. You’re our chaplain.” 

Sign me up, baby! The rest is history.