bible

51. Epilogue

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

It has been such a privilege to share with you the first thirty five years of life. It helped defined my call to pastoral ministry, education, training, ordination, marriage, starting a family, and early career appointments to beloved communities of faith.

Unique to the path I’ve walked has been my training and moonlighting as a psychiatric assessment officer, providing crisis intervention, stabilization, and referral for individuals in crisis. The work was rewarding and life affirming. Also, I greatly benefited and grew professionally as a medic and firefighter in one of the many local volunteer fire departments where I was welcomed as a member. 

Decades later, I drive through the towns where I once served, looking for landmarks; places where I made pastoral calls, responded to emergency calls, or experienced life changing events. The carved stone, brick, cobblestone churches where I served bring warm memories of the wonderful souls I cared for, what seems like a lifetime ago. I don’t see ghosts, but I feel the presence of sinners and saints alike, each beloved by God and by me. 

Over the time taken to write about these God filled experiences, it became increasingly difficult to obscure identities and keep confidences. It occurred to me that this would become impossible if I wrote with the same transparency about the final twenty-five years serving in the parish. People trusted me with information which I will not betray. These confidences I’ll take to my grave. So, it’s time to bring this biography to a conclusion. 

In the years that followed I was blessed to serve eighteen years as the pastor of West Walworth: Zion United Methodist Church, in western Wayne County. We were blessed to live in our own home in the school district, giving our two sons the stability they needed to complete school; something that neither Cynthia or I (both preacher’s kids) never experienced ourselves.

After serving a short two-year appointment at the neighboring Walworth church, I was appointed to serve the local chapter of the Alzheimer’s Association, as an educator, curriculum developer, and speaker. What a wonderful privilege to brush elbows with leading researchers in the field, compassionate caregivers, both family and professionals, and the wonderful souls living with a devastating mortal diagnosis. In seven short years, our program expanded from serving 2,200 unduplicated students to over 6,400. We taught in English, Spanish, and Russian, both in person and online, making extra efforts to reach out to underserved populations and people of color.

It was a privilege to be asked to present across New York State and at national events. I learned so much about how not-for-profits operated, leading a staff, leadership development, the importance of culture, and how to infuse Christian values in every level of an organization. 

What a fun ride!

It was a blessing to serve for six years as the pastor of the East Rochester United Methodist Church, a congregation rocked and battered by circumstances largely out of their control. We were able to take a congregation in danger of failing, remove a toxic program, welcome a day program for individuals with developmental and physical disabilities, and welcome oodles of meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous. These outreach efforts swelled church attendance and warmed people’s hearts. 

In the final act, I was asked to serve as the pastor of a large suburban parish in Rush, New York. We were able to initiate and complete a lot of large capital projects, welcome a new day program for more people with disabilities, and extend our outreach into the community. Seven months after I started, the pandemic shut us down. We were blessed with technology and a resilient volunteer cohort that kept us thriving, online, and continually engaged. Our day care program never closed, a tribute to the wonderful staff and volunteers. 

It’s been a privilege to lead four groups on pilgrimages to the Holy Lands. I pray for peace every single day. Full. Stop. Making a pilgrimage is better than the best commentary on the Bible. I love Israelis and Palestinians, and deeply feel their historical and existential pain. Please find a way to live together in peace, with justice, just being kind to one another. Perhaps you could teach the rest of the world, ourselves included, how to do likewise.

The world expanded when I engaged in short term mission and outreach adventures, going with two groups to Nicaragua and three groups to Guatemala. Banyo means bathroom, but beyond that, my Spanish suffers. What does cross all cultural and language boundaries is the value of God’s love, love of neighbor, helping those in need.

We send used wheelchairs to central America for remanufacturing (in a shop staffed by people with special needs), deliver and fit them to people we visit, and make home visits to assess future recipients. We also build secure houses primarily for single mothers and children, deliver WHO nutritional packs that will feed a family of four for a month, and help people enroll their children in school and set up a business with microloans. Carpenter, therapist, teacher, social worker, pastor; we all become one. We build, support, teach, and provide spiritual guidance for the last, least, and lost.

Want to experience some eye popping, jaw dropping miracles that God is doing? Go where others ignore. Learn firsthand the ways of the world. Lead with humility. Serve with love and compassion.

These experiences have been instrumental to get over myself, placing God in the center of my obsession, and, as a result, working myself to be a channel of God’s love, peace, and grace. This approach and effort made me a better pastor, a better human being.

In 2023, I suffered a terrible automobile collision and received my second ride in Mercy Flight, this time as a patient struggling to breath, wondering all the while if “this was it.” During the recovery period my son told me, “Dad. You only get so many trips around the sun.” 

Point made. 

The Lord blessed us with conservative fiscal values, learned from our depression era parents. Our financial advisor said it was possible, so I asked my District Superintendent if we could meet for coffee. “I’m thinking about retiring,” I told her. “How wonderful!” She practically jumped with authentic excitement (and jealousy, I presume, for she would retire a year later). And that sealed the deal. 

Bishop Hector Burgos and my beloved, Cynthia at my retirement. June, 2024.

In retirement, I’ve filled in for injured or sick colleagues, took a small part-time parish of beloved for a year, but gently handed it off to a colleague just this month who needed to serve a different appointment and would better meet the needs of the people. It is a privilege to chair and serve on two not-for-profit boards, to support our son with autism, and to volunteer in the community. We travel as a family, especially enjoying cruises in warmer climes.

It is so restorative to join my wife and son for worship each Sunday at Asbury First United Methodist Church in Rochester, NY. It is large enough they can be active in its outreach ministries and I can quietly slip in, find serenity, and just worship. The music is exceptional, often led by members of local musical institutions or universities. The preaching is first rate, exceptionally well prepared, deeply engaging, Christ centered, academic and informed, welcoming and inclusive, and speaks to my soul. After 45 years of leading worship, being the one up front in alb and stole, it is gratifying to just be one of the crowd, anonymously attending with only compliments, absent of complaints. 

Church reflects larger society, mostly good people seeking a closer walk with the God of their experience. There are also a few abrasive people, individuals who could make life miserable, yet, they are in the smallest minority. I served them, anyways, sometimes in spite of themselves. The key is to not grant them free rent in my memories, where God only intended blessings. 

The journey with the God of my experience is centered on the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. I continue to welcome others to join me on this walk. Some do. Others don’t. Some join me for a time. Others have been lifelong companions. Retirement has given me the latitude to free up the schedule such that if you ever want to meet for coffee, just reach out and ring my bell. It would be my privilege. 

—

Laps in the pool this morning were nearly effortless. Then why does my body feel worn? They cleared my mind, led me to meditate on the words to two sacred hymns “O for a Thousand Tongues to Sing” and “Amazing Grace.” 

Swimming laps and inviting you into my inner thoughts in the pool serve as a foil for life, giving laser focus to life lived in the Spirit’s tether. Water cleanses. Water supports and suspends gravity. Water is the means of intertwining meditation and prayer with the physical world. The pool is the same water the Lord created in the earliest days of the universe, separated from dry land, over which blew the Spirit. That water is the same water  that baptized Jesus and me. 

The river of life flows, never the same from moment to moment, always present, always pressing, never absent, even for a moment. This river has been God’s gift of grace to me, transporting me from what was to what will become. God has provided every moment of creation, why would there be a reason to change?

Water is life, ever flowing; past, present, eternal. And life is beautiful.

—

What’s next? 

It is a blessing that I have forty plus years of original source material digitized. It may be frightening to those who observe artificial intelligence and machine learning as a threat. Where others fear to go, I see opportunity. 

Sermons? No. Nobody wants to read them. Countless retired ministers have their old sermons relegated to the landfill by nostalgic but reality minded adult children. 

How about Eucharistic prayers, known as “The Great Thanksgiving”? Now, there might be something with traction.

I worked diligently to create original Eucharistic prayers for use during worship throughout my pastoral ministry. Each created and anchored by the scripture passages identified in the three-year rotating Revised Common Lectionary, beating with the heartbeat of the ebbs and flows of the Christian liturgical year. If they can be organized and offered, why not? If no one advantages themselves, well, so be it. I’ll still benefit from the exercise. 

“Strong, Loving, and Wise” was a seminary text book that was used to teach young seminarians how to prepare and approach the Eucharist Table.

Strong.

Loving.

Wise.

It was on my mind every time I had the privilege to celebrate Holy Communion. It served me well for more than forty years. Perhaps this new effort with be somehow related to that influential text. 

In the end, my thoughts return to God’s river of grace and my love of fly fishing. In the beloved flyfishing tale of our era, there is a valley, and “a river runs through it.” 

God loves you. So do I. 

48. Honeoye Falls, Walworth, and West Walworth: Zion

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

Disability was not a destination. At least, not for me. Not now. It was respite, a temporary pit stop, a time to refresh, renew, refocus, to build back strength. Cynthia and I bought a house on the west side of town, and with the assistance of members of the Palmyra church, fire department, and family, we made the move. It was quite a sight to see my son’s backyard jungle gym on the back of Buddy’s tow truck, making the turn at the four corners. It nearly swiped the stop light.

We settled in. Made a nest. With no pressure, I was free to meet with my care team, get Christian on and off the bus to his pre-K special education program at Roosevelt Children’s Center, and to get Nicholas off to middle school each morning and welcome him home every afternoon. In between moving from Labor and Delivery nursing jobs, Cynthia worked a short time as a school nurse at Roosevelt, where she could take a more active role in Christian’s early childhood education. I’d answer a few ambulance and fire calls, but I began to slowly back away.

I didn’t need to add to the pile of traumatic stress. Over time, the pile needed to shrink.

Respite was found and tapped beside the CSX mainline. Each night, I’d park on the north side of Division Street, far enough away from the village to hear the crickets chirping in the summer, or snow gently falling in the winter. When squinting the ears, one could hear the distant horn and churning of diesel engines, nearly imperceptible at first, yet faintly present, taking time to build like an approaching storm. Watch; try not to blink, less the signal light, suspended by the rusted iron gantry, glow to life, granting engineer and conductor safe passage. In the quiet, I’d watch and wait.

Listening. Patient, actively listening for the still, small voice of God calling my name.

Got a call from one of the Bishop’s district superintendents (who would one day be elected Bishop himself) offering to take me out to lunch. The lunch was nice. His expense account picked up the tab. We didn’t talk about anything profound. He was truly caring about my life, call, health, and progress towards wellness. We parted with a smile and a handshake. Nothing more; nothing less.

Soon thereafter, a call came from the Rochester district superintendent, asking me if I wanted to cover the final three months of the year for a colleague who was out on medical leave. “I heard you were doing much better,” she said to me.

“Yes. Yes, I am. Thank you for the vote of confidence. I feel great.” I paused, thinking about who served in what churches where.

“It’s about a forty-five minute drive. It would be full time. The appointment would only be to fill in until the end of June. You’d be great.”

“I’ll take it!” I felt a wave of relief. God did have a place for me. I had a shot to reestablish my call to pastoral ministry. Within a week the Staff Parish Relations Committee (SPRC) met with the district superintendent and me and the announcement of the Bishop’s appointment was made official. Welcome to Honeoye Falls United Methodist Church.

I found a hurting church. I was on the mend. Together, we made a great team. God began to do great things with us. The family fell right in and we had a new church home. Over the course of those three months my confidence returned. It felt great being a servant, shepherd pastor. Nothing to encumber me, weigh me down, or bring distractions. Just kind, loving people who were just as eager to love me back.

Three days a week I’d spend time in my new church office, staying late for the occasional meeting, working from my laptop and cell phone, both marvels of technology that greatly assisted the work of pastoral ministry, constant companions for the later thirty years of ministry.

One Sunday I made a point of Jesus fishing for men (and women), using my fly fishing rod to whip a tapered line above the heads of the congregation. Toddlers and gray haired old ladies alike loved it. The visual demonstration served to weld into memory the value and importance of fishing for people to bring them into a relationship with Jesus.

The Memorial Day committee made it a point to include me in the Memorial Day parade and service at the cemetery. Prayers were said, the band played, a senior sang our beloved anthem. Prayers were spoken aloud with humble thanksgiving into a portable public address system. With three cracks, seven members of the local Legion fired in tribute to Americans loved and lost during time of war. Less we forget the pain of war, the message was crystal clear, let us always be cautious and reflective before the violence card is unleashed in reckless abandoned.  

“If only I could stay here, serving these lovely people,” I thought to myself.

But, it was not to be.

An aborted attempt was made to drop us into a city parish, one who didn’t like the changing neighborhood and rip tide of crime that was assaulting the region. The city school district was beset with waste and corruption, suffocating under a blanket of poverty. Health care and higher education took up the mantle of a shrinking middle class, even as Kodak, Busch and Lomb, and Xerox were fading away. The gap between the haves and the have nots was widening each year, and in the crevasse left between, crime and poverty filled the vacuum. As we left the meeting of a dying church longing for the energy of yesteryear, Cynthia and I were both in tears.

The district superintendent wasn’t naive. She saw clearly the parish killing dynamics at work. Thankfully, it wasn’t me. God’s grace allowed me to dodge a bullet.

Patience. Wait for the call. Have confidence. God has not let us down in the past. Something was bound to happen the Spirit was primed to move.

___

No pool today.

It isn’t as if I don’t have the time. I just don’t have the energy. It feels familiar like last year’s virus, or like prior fluctuations in blood chemistry, regular adjustments being necessary to keep me from nutritional Armageddon. Having the stomach removed and internal plumbing reconfigured will do that to a guy.

Time to call the doctor.

Growing up in the great depression, mom and dad would only call a doctor if death was imminent. By that time, what’s the point? at least that was my thought in middle age. Now that retirement has come and I’m riding the wave of Medicare, I can’t help but wonder.

Just when is it time to call the doctor?

Perhaps tests and scans fail to reveal the source of malaise? What then? I’m not a fraud, but what would the doctor think? Spend all that money, only to have it result in a shrug of the shoulders and the insincere assurance that “we’ll keep an eye out for any changes?”

The thought of crawling through the water with arms that hang heavy keeps me home with my head in a book. Friday will come, and with it, new medical expenses. With the new Medicare Advantage plan, at least the membership at the pool will be free.

—

We had not even lived in our newly purchased house for two years when we sold it for a loss. It was okay, the new parish had a parsonage, and it was only twenty minutes away.

Walworth and West Walworth: Zion were the answer to our prayers. We were much closer to Rochester than Roosevelt Children’s Center, so Cynthia resumed her Labor and Delivery nursing career at a large city hospital. She also enrolled, thanks to the generosity of her aunt, in a Master’s degree program at the University of Rochester to become a licensed, certified midwife, a mid-level practitioner of women and babies health care. Her call to the ministry of nursing was expanding and growing, opening new doors of possibilities. She was positioned to make a difference in the lives of many new mothers and families, many from the poorest neighborhoods. Nicholas was enrolled in the Wayne Central middle school and Christian continued in his early childhood education at Roosevelt.

Walworth, with the parsonage right next door, was the former Episcopal Methodist Church on the east side of town. West Walworth: Zion was the former Evangelical United Brethren Church on the, you guessed it, west side of town.

Zion had settled immigrant German families into lowland muck farms when America was fresh and new. Services were led in German until the first decade of the twentieth century.

Walworth people saw themselves as the sophisticated, educated members of town, an upper-middle class affluent suburb. West Walworth people reminded me they rode to school on an underpowered school bus during the great depression. East side; white collar. West side; blue collar. It was a town with two church cultures.

I followed a wonderful pastor and family who had served the people of this two-point parish for fourteen years. She did a great job. There was no way I could fill her shoes, so I tried not to.

As in prior parishes, I was blessed with two wonderful lay leaders. Jacque, in Walworth, drove a 1970’s era Lincoln, is a bra burning plank holder in the ERA, was a special education teacher for the Sisters of Mercy, and would, one day, retire from teaching and go the route of serving as a licensed local pastor. She knew where all the bodies were buried and was eager to fill me in on the details if it could further my ministry and the church.

Sharon, in West Walworth: Zion, was a recognized leader in church and community. She was the number two person at the local chapter of the Alzheimer’s Association, well connected in the United Way and Lifespan, and was a killer euchre player. Loyal, with no exceptions, Sharon would fight and die for the rights and wellbeing of others.

Now, that’s what is called amazing grace.

—

It was good to only move a short distance to start serving a new appointment. Neighboring school districts. Same funeral directors. Same hospitals to make calls. Same ecumenical clergy breakfast group. Familiar back roads. The CSX mainline was never far away, the distant crossing horn fading to silence on hot summer nights.

September rolled around. School sales abounded. Life in the parish began to tick up with the start of Sunday school. Worship was planned through New Years around a table that included Jacque, Sharon, and pianist and organ player. The Sunday evening praise band thought it was beneath them to plan. It smothered the Spirit, so they claimed. Perhaps it was the inability to sing on key. I don’t know; just thinking out loud.

Tuesday was crisp and clear. I rode my Yamaha to breakfast at the Yellow Mills Diner with my clergy buddies. As I zipped up my leather jacket to leave I overheard a stranger speaking with the cashier something about an airplane crash in New York.

CNN was leading with the headline of breaking news, showing a live shot of a burning, bellowing World Trade Center building making its last gasp. Reporters with head down and hand covering an ear, each brought a unique perspective to unfolding events.

From the left of the live frame flew another airliner, straight into the other twin tower, banked at a cruel angel, slicing through space and time, shrapnel flying, rolling fire like napalm. Horrifying. Instant death. It was an American trauma, sucking in all to the live broadcasts. Pentagon. Shanksville, PA. Combat air patrol circling above American cities.

“Uncle Todd? What are you calling me for?” my niece asked as soon as she picked up my call. “No time for questions. If you’re in Manhattan, get out now!” “But I’m at an audition for a Broadway play. I can’t leave.” “Run. Please run.” My brother, watching events unfolding in my living, room hung his head and prayed.

News slowly came in. Her uncle David, who taught at Columbia, and suffered from advancing Parkinson’s was last heard from near ground zero. He got out, made every human effort to get away, swept up in the dust covered frantic crowd of New Yorkers fleeing for their lives. He made it. Aunt Esther’s call was a huge relief.

Like most congregations across the land, people were devastated. Many had personal connections with the 9/11 attacks. Others were stranded in airports when airliners were grounded. Nearly everyone wondered: what was the next shoe to drop? And, where would it land?

Is this an act of God? Good? Bad? Evil? Whom should I believe? Whom should I fear. I felt in my bones the need to gather.

That evening we did just that. We came together, two churches as one. We prayed and sang, mourned and cried, recognized there are many more unanswerable questions than there were answers. It felt to me at the time that this would be the moment in history where society would begin a return to roots of faith, anchored deep in family and culture.

There was a surge in worship attendance, for a time. But that time was surprisingly short. In place of reflection, prayer, and discernment the cultural landscape and airwaves were quickly filled with talking heads and war-mongering commentators calling for revenge and  retribution. Instead of a message of love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, the message of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth was demanded by an angry electorate.

Thinking back, what could have the Church done differently leading up to 9/11 and in the days thereafter? So much of the effort in the 1980’s and -90’s was building and deploying programs for church growth, despite the fact that overall worship attendance continued to plummet like a rock.

Something new. Something shinny. Sign up for this program. Sign up for that. Get on board, or get left behind.

Then, boom. One bookend began with the fall of the Soviet Union and the end of the cold war. The other was defined by 9/11. In between was a peace dividend that never was, a nation dividing into rigid, non-compromising  ideologies, and a new definition for “sexual relations.” The world as we knew it came to an end.

Observing the bookends in one’s life is helpful for uncovering meaning, understanding, comprehension. “Ah, yes,” I say to myself. “Now I see.”

It’s time for a pipe.

47. Ordination and Two Women

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

“Hey, Todd. I’d like to talk with you about becoming Ordained. I think I’d like to get Ordained to perform weddings. You know, to be of service.” My friend asked me innocent enough after our group meeting, not knowing the weeks I’d ponder his question and the waves of emotions that would sweep through me. 

“Yes, of course,” I responded with a forced smile. “Anytime.”

My wife looked at me with that puzzled look on her face. “What do I think ordination means to me?” She repeated my question. Silence filled the air as she thought. “Well,” she began.

“I mean,” I interrupted her, “get Ordained just to perform marriages? You can get that online for the price of ten minutes and thirty-five bucks. But what does it mean? If a United Methodist lay person obtains an online certificate of ordination does that renounce their membership?” It remained a mystery to me. 

“In that case,” she resumed, “ordination means nothing more than the ability to conduct a civil ceremony.” Not a church service, not an act of worship, not a recognized ordinate of the Church. Her clarity swept the fog away and revealed the hard reality of today’s Church in American society. 

Online ordination was a certification to conduct a civil ceremony. Nothing more, nothing less. It held no religious or theological weight.

Civil forces are eroding the foundation of the Christian Church. School activities have taken-over time previously dedicated to youth fellowship, Christian education, mission work, and camping. Church softball and basketball leagues have been replaced by intermural sports. Community festivals, complete with carnival rides, beer tents, and marching bands have replaced church picnics, dish-to-pass fellowship dinners, and game nights.

Wedding venues have replaced church weddings and funeral chapels have removed church funerals from the sanctuary table. Civil religion, resplendent with nationalism, has hijacked two thousand years of deep theological thought and practice. Even the term “evangelical” has been corrupted to reflect a political reality, rather than a fervent, passionate desire to bring people into a relationship with Jesus Christ. 

The throne of Christ hasn’t been abdicated, it has been overthrown in an unopposed palace coup. 

The innocent question from my friend, who grew up in the Church, but, in adulthood, walked away from organized religion has caused me to think more deeply the reality of my own ordination, what it means, and why it is important. 

Ordination is Christ centered. The God of my experience and tradition was manifest as the Creator’s son, Jesus Christ. This is not to exclude the experience or tradition of others. I come to The Way in and through Jesus. I follow his teachings and pattern my behavior on him, to the best of my limited ability. Forgiveness, redemption, and salvation, both personal and corporate, are freely given as gifts of grace through Christ from a loving God. 

Ordination is Holy Spirit infused recognition of a call to pastoral ministry. The Holy Spirit first worked internally, in my experience, casting for me the vision of serving as a pastor, a shepherd leader, of communities of faith assigned to me. My call began in childhood, developed and matured in youth, and came to fruition when I was nineteen. 

“Todd, what are you going to do with your life?” The college chaplain asked me with compassion and love in his eye. Over a period of months, words began to form and I confessed to the local parish pastor that I felt called to Ordained Ministry. That got the ball rolling.

The Holy Spirit worked externally, first in my local church and the Pastor-Parish Relations Committee. We talked, thought, prayed. Did they see in me what God was revealing? Would it be a call to parish ministry, or to engineering a new road through town? They must have liked what they saw and responded to the Spirit’s prompt. I was passed on from the local church to a District Committee on Ordained Ministry and assigned a mentor. 

The Holy Spirit was at work in my mentor and the District Committee. We studied together, met multiple times a year to gauge progress and provide guidance, each time assessing if the Spirit was ripening my spiritual fruit, strengthening my vine and branches. Concentric circles of Spirit led affirmation were spreading ever outward. 

By the power and guidance of the Holy Spirit, I survived the required background checks and psychological assessments, earned a bachelor’s degree and completed seminary. The local church and District Committee still met with me on a regular basis, even when I was handed off to the Conference Board of Ordained Ministry.

The Conference Board represented Ordained clergy from across the state. They received my records, visited me in seminary, met with me annually, confirmed my trajectory towards ordination, all the while, being led by the power and direction of the Holy Spirit. Concentric circles of affirmation, like water in a pond disturbed by a falling pebble, began locally and spread globally. Two step ordination assured a successful probationary period of service, coming to completion in two years with full membership and ordination as Elder. The entire Spirit led process took seven years. 

Ordination is humble service. The self is replaced with God at the center. Accomplishments are attributed to God. Thanks goes to God. My life, my soul, my all, is given wholly to God and God’s service. The DNA of servant leadership began with the Apostle Peter, given the keys to the kingdom by Jesus, with the exclusive authority for the good stewardship of the Church. The Ordained are stewards of the office, Episcopal leaders, Diaconal support, and Elders serving as parish pastors. We share stewardship of the efficient, effective, transparent use of money and property wholly for the purpose of Christ and his Kingdom. 

Ordination is stewardship of the Sacraments. Baptism and Eucharist are commands of Jesus, Holy Spirit fueled and led activities that initiate one into Christianity and nourish the faithful, uniting us with Christ and the common vision to complete God’s kingdom on earth as it is in heaven. Initiation is one and done. Eucharist is ongoing and never ending, mysterious, yet filling. Awesome, always refreshing and filling. Give us today, nourishment sufficient for today’s work.

Ordination is stewardship of The Word. Over centuries the Church has recognized specific writings as sacred, Holy Spirit inspired and empowered texts that are useful for Christian initiation, teaching, guidance, and inspiration. Scripture becomes the foundation for music, instruction, meditations, prayers, lyrics, proclamation. To the Ordained is the charge to proclaim The Gospel, literally meaning “the Truth of Jesus Christ”, to all the world. Uncut. Uncensored. As recorded in the Biblical books of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. The proclamation of The Word has been my lifetime of labor, of love, of stewardship, given to me.  

Ordination is stewardship of order. Order must be made out of the chaos of the masses. To the Ordained is given the charge to establish and maintain order, modify order as the Spirit so moves to keep the Church relevant and engaged in culture and society. In the United Methodist tradition, order is codified by The Book of Discipline, approved by a global conference of equal lay and clergy delegates, chaired by a rotation of bishops, held once every four years. The process of change is deliberately slow and intentional, giving space for the Holy Spirit to work through discernment, study, and dialogue. 

Ordination is the union of authority and responsibility for the Church of Jesus Christ. The weight of service is symbolized by the yoke worn around the neck, the stole, often resplendent with colors and symbols of Christian seasons, celebrations, or sacred events. 

The right to wear the yoke is reserved to the few who are called and affirmed, the Ordained, stewards of the Church of Jesus Christ, successors of the Apostle Peter, each and every one of us, prepared to lay down our lives in sacred defense of the faith. 

The Ordained, present company included, are less than perfect. I cannot pretend to be. Thus, the Church on earth is routinely human. This is no excuse for failing to strive for perfection, the completion of Christ’s kingdom on earth as it is perfect in heaven. 

We do our best. I do my best. When I fail, I confess my sins, repent, ask God for forgiveness, make repairs, and start all over again. God has always responded with amazing, abundant grace and love, redemption and salvation. This is The Way of the cross of Jesus Christ. God has never let me down. 

—

I attacked the pool this morning fitted out in a Pentecost red, skin tight, streamlined swim suite. It hid some of the physical defects and signs of aging, but not all. It streamlined my stroke and make forward propulsion more efficient. Lord knows how good it felt not to be dragged down by a baggy suit and ballooning pockets. 

One. One God.

Two. God created Adam and Eve, in the near perfect image of God. 

Three. Father, Son, Holy Spirit. Creator. Redeemer. Sustainer. 

Four. Scripture, tradition, reason, experience; the quadrilateral of Wesleyan based faith. 

Five. Pente, as in Pentecost, or fifty. Fifty days following the resurrection of Jesus, he sent God’s replacement, the Holy Spirit, to guide and sustain us until Christ comes again.

Six. Six points of the Jewish star. 

Seven. The Lord created the heavens and earth in six days, then rested the seventh. Seven is Sabbath. Keep it holy. 

Eight. Hum. The higher the number the more difficult it becomes to keep track of my laps with numbers associated with faith. 

I make it to fifteen, and I’m done. Spent. Breathing hard. Steady myself by reaching and touching the wall. The hot shower felt, oh, so good. So good. 

—

It was a cold, damp, misty Monday morning, one which the Spring’s rain slicken roads and swelled creeks. Trees held the moisture, dripping the excess, under a dark, grey dawn. A young woman prepared for the office, dressed modestly, rolling on her tight stockings that revealed the muscles of youthful legs.

Driving to work on back country Wayne County roads, something cause her to swerve her late model SUV, skidding head on into a bridge abutment, flipping upside down, falling into the swift muddy creek below. Submerged, only the tires remained above the tide. Time ticked by.

The pager startled me to consciousness. “MVA. Car into a creek.” The coveralls slipped on, followed by shoes and car keys. My wife told me to be careful. Out the door I went, headed to the fire station, where our two ambulances silently stood ready, connect to an electrical land line to ensure all batteries were fully charged.

The call was way out at the furthest part of our district, a good 15 minute drive, when the roads were dry and free from traffic. One of our chiefs reported on scene and immediately called for a wrecker with a heavy duty winch. This couldn’t be good.

Safe extraction takes time. Years of training culminated with two brave firefighters dawning wet suits, harness, and ropes. No one knew if the submerged vehicle was occupied. Only the four tires stood sentinel like gravestones above the swirling water. Slowly, deliberately, the two descended the steep bank, a whole line of firefighters holding their tether in belay.

I watched the orchestra from the safety of the bridge. The tow truck backed to the edge, extended it’s crane, and slowly lowered the weighted steel cable over the side. The rescuers in the water knew exactly how to rig the automobile to hard points. When cleared, the winch slowly began to grind lifting the car from the watery grave. When above the rail, the operator, Buddy, a friend of the department, pivoted the boom and swinging, inverted SUV over to the road, water pouring from every compartment. Cable released, and a crowd of beefy firefighters flipped the car onto its wheels.

Equipment was piled on the waiting stretcher and backboard. I rolled it over to the driver’s door and pulled on the handle. It sprung open. Water cascaded out. In the driver’s seat was the woman, head down, looking as if she was taking a nap. I unbuckled the seat belt and we carefully pulled her out, laying her on the backboard.

She was as cold as ice, dark and grey, her long hair splayed around her head. There was no pulse, no respirations, no signs of life. The only anomaly I could see was a mid-thigh tear in her left stocking. A beautiful, young woman, on her way to work, now a corpse before me.

She had been submerged well over an hour, by the time she was found missing from work and people began to search for her. No, we would not start CPR or make any other life saving efforts. We were later informed that the autopsy revealed a mortal closed head injury that was the cause of death. She was dead from the initial impact, before she hit the water.

All that was left was to spread a linen blanket lovingly over her corpse and wait for the medical examiner to arrive.

—

After thirty years, sometimes I wonder why I write about these tragedies. Their memories remain vivid and real, down to the tear in a woman’s stocking. Hundreds of other scenes from my experience will remain unwritten. Only a few, the chosen, have I decided to put words to paper. Anonymity is always a critical element, never wanting to add to another’s grief.

Yet, I write. In doing so redemption fills my soul and brings me healing. Bad things happen, in spite of my will and every effort. Birth. Life. Death. Eternal life. It’s not about me. This is God’s kingdom, not mine. Rather, I’ve come to know the privilege of being present, being the tangible evidence of a loving God, even in the presence of unfathomable tragedy.  

—

It was a mid-summer, hot afternoon, one where the cicadas buzzed in the trees and a cool glass of ice tea on the front porch provided sweet relief. “MVA, route 31, east of town,” my pager tripped then squawked the details of the call.

It was a routine cycle of response, honed by training, tempered by experience. The flashing blue light on my dashboard urged me to go faster, maturity reigned me back. Eagerness and adrenaline is no substitute for physics or adherence to traffic law. The fire house was enroute to the scene, so I parked, ran in and jumped into the passenger seat of the rig.

Vern was my driver. Old. Reliable. Confirmed bachelor, Vern; who had a habit of baptizing the radio and lights and siren console with a cup of black coffee. “Hit it, Vern,” and off we went, entering the cue of responding police cars and fire chiefs also responding to the call.

One day in the near future I would conduct Vern’s funeral. He was found dead in his recliner, pager still working. We closed his casket with Vern dressed in his fireman’s dress uniform, working pager at his side. Hefty firefighters hoisted his casket to the hose bed of the pumper for his final ride to the cemetery. There wasn’t a dry eye in the company.

We pulled up to the scene. Two cars smashed in a head on collision, still smoldering, in the middle of the road, both vehicles crushed by the violent impact, passenger compartments folded tight by torn metal, covered in cubes of safety glass. If ever there was a text book evolution for the Jaws of Life, this was it.

A woman’s arm hung loosely from the driver’s compartment, attached to a crushed body, trapped in unnatural positions. There were no airbags in this era, only seat belts. A lot of good her seatbelt did for her. Her face was towards me, narrow slits in her eyes, just enough for me to believe that she was still alive and straining to peek out.

She had a pulse, weak, as it was. As the firefighters began their extraction with their noisy engine and jaws, I held her hand and placed my other upon her head. “It’s going to be alright,” I lied to her. “We just have to get you out of here.”

We were taught in training to never lie to a patient, to provide promises that couldn’t be kept. But in that moment, I lied. Not to mislead, rather, to bring comfort to a woman in the last moments of life.

Her pulse faded, then stopped. The guys on the jaws were frustrated; there just were not any hard points left on the car from which to spread, wedge, or pry. I would not let go of her hand, no matter how much it ached to maintain the position, no matter how cramp my legs became. Oh, my back ached. Yet, I held on.

It was well over an hour after her last heart beat that the wreck finally gave up it’s driver. Even the coroner arrived on scene and pronounced her dead before we were able to glide the corpse onto the backboard and stretcher. We were not allowed to transport the dead, so we waited for the local undertaker to be paged and dispatched. All we could do was cover the body and wait.

I did not know her name or family, yet I knew the grief that would fall upon them. It was important, at least to me, knowing that she did not die alone; knowing that she had died with someone who loved her, holding her hand. This was the best I could do.

I remember sitting on the back of the rescue truck pouring a cold bottle of water over my head and crying.

Welcome to my life: ordained pastor, volunteer medic, psychiatric assessment officer. This was the crucible of ministry.

45. Jim, Betsey, and the Gift of Silence

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

A good lay leader is such an asset to a congregation and a blessing to the pastor. They can provide a trusted sounding board for the possible, a breath of the Spirit’s guidance, and a faithful confidant. They function as a bridge between the pastor and the parish, serving on all church committees, and are in a position to be an effective communicator with members and friends of the congregation.

“Should I go visit so-and-so?” I’d ask Jim.

“Yeah, that would be a good idea. He is the second cousin of so-and-so, you know.”

Good to know. Vernon Lee, a mentor, saint, and denominational leader had counseled me early on to make it a point to learn the people’s history better than any one person knows it themselves. Jim was always willing and able to help me connect the dots, fill in the blanks.

Jim was an exceptional lay leader when I served the United Methodist Church in Palmyra. He was a confirmed bachelor, who lived with his aging, widowed mother. He did all the shopping, taking her to her doctor appointments, watching over her like a hawk. His car was recognizable where ever he went, a tan Bonneville, I seem to recall. He was also the village mayor, a person whom the general public endowed their stewardship and trust. 

Jim walked everywhere throughout the village. It gave him a feel for the grass roots of the community. He’d wave and greet everyone he met or passed by. Be they a kid on a bike or an elder on the front porch, Jim had the gift of being a good neighbor. He’d stop to talk with anyone on a wide range of topics – can you fix that pot hole at the corner? Or, What’s up with the fire department budget? Or, thank the police chief for bring back my lost cat. Jim was a man about town.

Though he easily exceeded ten thousand steps a day, we’d often walk the village together after dark. We’d be done with church meetings, or, he’d have the village board meeting behind him. We both needed to unwind, to talk out the stress, and wear off some shoe leather. We’d inspect the village water works, streetlights casting long shadows around the parameter. Jim and I would visit the combined village and town gas pumps and check for open doors at the village DPW. We walked the village cemetery, taking notice of fresh graves, straw, and grass seed. 

Sometimes we’d walk along the railroad right of way, pausing when a distant train whistled it’s approach. We’d step behind cover and experience the passing thunder from a safe distance, watch the color lit signals reset and go dark. Our conversations ranged from the informative to the sublime, from humorous to the tragic, from superficial to profound theological questions that plumbed the depths of the human condition. 

Mostly, I appreciated how Jim held a reverential respect for silence, the ebb and flow of sacred space between us, where thoughts freely came and went, or where nothingness became a welcomed familiar. A respected seminary professor once taught us that when you don’t know what to say, “keep your mouth shut.”

Presence speaks louder than words. Showing up; that’s what the Lord expects, laity and Ordained alike. Be the embodied presence of our loving and merciful God.

Silence.
Presence.

Just show up. 

___

We know who we are. Lap swimmers are creatures of habit, predictable, trustworthy, locker room mates of few words. Goggles and towel separate us from our pickleball and weight room cousins. Words would be wasted when an eye and nod of the head will do. I see you. I respect you. 

We look for each other. When absences occur, it is impossible to help but wonder. Are they okay? Did something happen that disrupted their schedule? Are they on the way to some distant vacation? If so, good on them. 

Windows on the south side of the pool give brief glimpses of the larger world when the crawl stroke takes me down the lane. Returning eastbound, I see a familiar, disinterested lifeguard, watching the clock for fifteen minutes to drip down the drain, anticipating relief from another guard rocking flip-flops and the red cross.

Hourly workers tend to watch the clock. 

Yesterday’s blowing snow is replaced this morning by a beautiful sunrise, west Texas orange and red, the cosmic sphere rising in the dawning sky. Spring is in the air, and, boy, does it ever smell good!

Today I ask to share a lane with an unfamiliar face. “Sure,” he smiled. “No problem. Do you prefer a side?”

This give and take is an important social lubricant, under the guise of reducing the risk of collision.

“Naw,” I replied. “I’m slow on both sides of the lane.” We share a smile in the moment. He heads out in front of me. I wait to give him a head start. 

Silence is a beautiful thing.

We are silent partners, sharing a common space and time. Unlike my walks with Jim, we remain obscure and unknown to each other. Is he a person of faith? I wonder. Children? Grandchildren? What did he do for a living? He left before me and vacated the locker room before I finished my shower. Yet, his face and kindness remained, as a whisper of potential for meeting again, perhaps, some day. 

Silence is good. For waiting. For wondering. For dreaming. For praying. Thank you, Lord, for the gift of silence, and for the ability to share your silence with a friend. 

___

Silence isn’t naturally comfortable, at least in my case.

The scenery around the retreat center was Rio Grande brown and flat, wind swept, with few natural trees, bookended with stunning sunrises and sunsets. Our group was a cohort of younger pastors from around the country, each paired with a denominational leader or seminary professor, a mentor who would help shape our life, call, and career.

Chapel was a shared experience, with devotions multiple times a day. Early in this post-graduate program, a worship leader invited each in attendance to enter into five minutes of sitting in silence. One would think a bunch of pastors wouldn’t have any problem sitting in silence.

You’d be wrong.

I sat and stared at my wristwatch. The sweep second hand took forever to work its way around. My weight shifted, from one cheek to the other. There was an itch on my nose. Someone coughed. The pew on which I sat cracked. Thoughts raced though my head. Tangents, snippets, randomness, questions that couldn’t be answered. There is a sound of undisciplined silence, and I discovered it is as deafening as tinnitus.

“Five minutes is up. Let’s talk about what just happened.”

The debrief revealed a shared experience, and it wasn’t good. Distrust. Uncertainty. A space filled with anxiety, anger, and justification. The troubles of the world filled our spiritual containers, yet the drain was clogged and all the flotsam and jetsam overflowed. Like innocent bystanders with mouth agape, watching the train wreck of the soul in slow motion, unable to control, slow, or stop the flow.  

Is it possible to just be? This was uncharted waters.

Put a crimp on thinking. Throttle thoughts and distractions. Breathe; deeply breathe. Listen. Dial in the hearing. Narrow the eyes, just enough to welcome the shadows yet ward off the temptation to sleep.

Become one with the silence.

For me, silence has become God’s gift ready for me to claim.

___

Betsey was a colleague, twenty-five or so years my senior, a contemporary of my father (and his generation). She and Dad were buddies, hanging together at clergy gatherings and conferences. Years later she reported, after the daily session they’d sometimes go out and have a beer. Or two. Or three. This was in spite of his promise to my mother that he’d never drink again.

A resentment arose from me after hearing of Dad’s alcoholic transgressions, but, over time, and with greater understanding of his traumatic younger life, I’ve forgiven his flaws and let go of these harmful thoughts.  

My first encounters with Betsey were not positive. When I visited annual conference, usually supporting camping and retreat ministries, I observed that Betsey was one often at the microphone, asserting her case, advocating for justice, calling out hypocrisy. She was a bra burning, tie dyed, anti-war feminist, Selma marcher of the first kind. She was obviously no friend of the bishop. Yet, neither were they foes. Other female clergy members of conference loved her and often rallied at her side.

Women clergy seemed to have a thing among themselves. It was mysterious; a secret bond, or so it seemed, unknowable to men. It made other male clergy and me jealous.

As a co-chair of the Board of Ordained Ministry, I had to deal with Betsey when I came through the ordination process. When all was said and done but the bishop’s laying on of hands, I got a note in the mail with her return address. It looked like it was written in pencil on a piece of brown paper torn from a grocery bag. The note informed me that, in lieu of the traditional ordination gift from the conference, the Board of Ordained Ministry decided to make a gift to Africa University, in our name. 

Without our permission. Without our input. Gee, thanks for asking. The message I heard was, take it, new guy, and like it. Welcome to the union. And, oh. I wasn’t worthy of a decent piece of paper, or the effort of a typewriter?

Though her loud-and-proud presence repelled me, and the resentments I harbored from the gift I didn’t receive continued to gnaw away at my serenity, there was something more about Betsey that caused me to pause, to wait, to watch and listen for the Spirit to move. God was using Betsey to catch my attention, lassoing her into my sphere of friends with the invitation for us to become friends. 

We two could not be more unlikely friends.

In time, we got to know each other. Social circles began to overlap. I witnessed Betsey weave her means of grace serving as defense counsel to clergy charged in church trials, one in our conference and another in a neighboring conference. Though guilty of dishonoring the office of the Ordained, every defendant deserved competent counsel. And Betsey gave it her best effort. 

Betsey was not afraid to call any bishop on the phone, day or night, and demand an accounting. She’d stop in the conference office un-announced and request the treasurer go over with her the budget and pension numbers for the ensuing year. She served a minimum of one week per summer at one of our camp sites, ensuring kids had a chance to have a personal relationship with a female clergy person. Being a role model was important, and her actions spoke louder than words. 

The church calls forth strong, independent clergy women, and it’s past time for us men to pay attention. I loved it. 

Betsey was a butterfly at annual conference. One clergy, one laity, parity in decision making, gather for three days of annual conference, usually at a regional college or conference center. We worship and learn together, celebrate retirements, honor the dead, conduct ordinations and consecrations, pass resolutions, and debate a proposed budget. Passing a budget means sharing the burden equitably among local churches.

I was Ordained in the former Central NY Conference, centered in the Finger Lakes region. Consolidations over the years led to the North Central NY Conference, and, to the Upper New York Conference (when Western, Troy, and Wyoming conferences were added). Think of it this way: Big meeting, chaired by the bishop, produced by conference staff. It is time to socialize, caucus, and toe the line defined by Robert’s Rules of Order. Attendees grab free pens and tchotchkes from vendor tables, drink bad coffee, and gather for terrible meals.

In later years, I learned to lodge with local clergy colleagues, instead of grabbing a hotel room. This allowed us to show up to conference late in the morning, and leave early in the afternoon. Attend only to be seen. Keep under the radar.

We learned nothing we could say or do would impact the agenda or momentum of legislation, so why bother? For the colleagues and I who ran in the same social circles, annual conference was a three day affair to gather around an evening camp fire, talk about the challenges we overcame the prior year slugging it out in the parish, to catch up on family and friends, and to reminisce with embellishment past escapades of pastoral ministry. Often, cigars and alcohol were involved. Nuff said. 

Over the years Betsey circled into these gatherings for annual conference. We’d meet and stay at the local home of one of our colleagues, or at our family cottage on Bradley Brook. We’d sing. We cried. We shared responsibility for preparing meals. We had some of the finest steaks off the grill. We ate, drank, and smoked until we fell into our respective beds to sleep the night away, waking the next morning to do it all over again. 

We’d sit in silence around a campfire.

When Betsey’s husband died, we all showed up. Nothing need said. We gathered from across the state, just because that’s what we do. She bought the bar that day. By this time, I was living sober (thankfully so).

In her retirement, Betsey was surrounded by a close knit family she loved to take on worldly travels. From Iceland to Antarctica. It was ironic that I received news of her sudden, unexpected death while I was with my family in Alaska, exploring faraway lands, glaciers, and seas. Though unable to attend her funeral on the opposite side of the continent, the silent space between us was powerful, and brought me to tears. It still does.

Silence makes room for the Spirit to fill.

Over the years our numbers diminished. What is left of our dwindling group of clergy colleagues gathered last year for the annual conference memorial service. Betsey was one of many of our colleagues being remembered that day.

Betsey was something more to us. We honored her memory. We are grateful that we shared the journey together. Her name was read, and the bell was rung. We bowed in reverence to the loving God of our experience. In the silence, the pause, the in-between, we whispered “thank you.”

43. Can Humpty Dumpty Be Put Back Together Again?

~ toddgoddard ~ 1 Comment

The answer is “yes,” but it takes a lot of work.

This is a sensitive topic, but, if I am to be rigorously honest, mental health is one that needs to be posted. Mental Health, like it or not, is a taboo, carries with it a stigma, and visions of psych wards staffed by Nurse Cratchet right out of the 1950’s. The self-righteous are known to use it as a weapon, a useful tool for manipulation or blackmail, or justifying superiority. 

Fact is, 46 percent of Americans will have a mental illness sometime in their life. One in five will have a diagnosable mental health condition in any given year. (mental health America dot org)

Talking about one’s personal mental health exposes vulnerabilities, but, in my case, is an opportunity for healing, triumph, and perseverance. Successfully navigating through this mine laden field, one is better educated, is able to employ a tool box of self-care, and has empathetic insight that brings strength to relationships. 

I’m a better pastor because I have walked the valley of the shadow of death.

The day of this writing is Good Friday, the day of crucifixion, blood, scorn, and death writ large on the I-Max screen of life. Redemption is a gift from God, laid at the feet of the cross, ours to claim and benefit. God made the call, Jesus made the sacrifice, humankind benefited. God’s grace is amazing.

My Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Psychiatric Conditions, the DSM-3, in my library is well worn from use from years of providing crisis intervention and psychiatric assessments services at Eastway Community Mental Health (Dayton, OH) and Clifton Springs Hospital and Clinic (Clifton Spring, NY). I’ve interviewed and seen it all: homicidal or suicidal people, depression, bi-polar disorders, schizophrenia, borderline personality, and everything in between. 

On this day, the DSM-3 would be used for me.

I was at the top of my game, or so I thought; a successful parish pastor for ten years, chairing the District Committee on Ordained Ministry and serving on the Conference Board. I was running North of 300 calls a year as a volunteer firefighter/medic, working every third night conducting psychiatric assessments, living on caffeine and peering dangerously at the cliff edge, observing others falling over, smugly thinking to myself that it could never happen to me. Our beloved family dog, Job – named after the Old Testament portrait of suffering, had aged out and we had to have him euthanized. Oh, how I cried. 

Then, our son, Christian was born, given birth through trauma and now diagnosed with pervasive developmental disabilities. Our home had become a revolving door of early intervention professionals. Before Christian had learned to walk, we put Christian on the peanut bus to take him to the regional school for handicapped (I hate that word) children. 

It felt to me like I was on a carousel, the world was spinning past, yet, I was revolving in the opposite direction.

The signs were obvious to others, but my lack of introspective insight left me blind to the dark clouds that were moving in like a Canadian cold front. Weight had always been a challenge to me; I had put on a hundred pounds. Check that box. Mood was depressed, chronically running on empty. Check that box. Situational stressors were off the chart. Check that box, too. 

For the large part, the church leadership team was wonderful, compassionate and accommodating of my community based ministry. All but one. An ultimatum was thrown down, “If you force me to pay our Conference apportionments,” he said, “I’ll quit.” He was a reputable local businessman who was used to getting his own way. 

Ultimatums, I had learned in graduate school, were nuclear bombs in human relationships. The professor had taught us seminarians that ultimatums should always be called out. “I call your bluff, and raise you another twenty.” Never give in to ultimatums. 

I didn’t, and neither did the church Board. If looks could kill.

The next Sunday, prior to worship, during the parish announcements, the treasure stood, swore at the assembled (yes, he used Ralphie’s choice word that got his mouth washed out with soap), threw the church checkbook into the air and loudly informed us that he quit. One well-meaning man from the congregation walked him out. In the church foyer they loudly argued. We all could hear the entire commotion. We feared that the confrontation would break into fisticuffs. The outside door slammed shut, and he was never seen in the church building again. 

I sat in my revered seat in front of the traumatized congregation and cried. Humpty Dumpty broke. 

For the next year and eight months I worked to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. I went on disability leave. We purchased a house in town and a new pastor was appointed to the church. 

The dark clouds of depression overwhelmed me. Blessed are those professional clinicians who gathered as a team to help me stand, learn to walk, and, in time, led me back to health. The inpatient and outpatient help I received was exceptional. Medication and Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT) broke the situational stress that pushed me over the precipice. Once the storm clouds parted, intensive interventions prevented chronic depression from metastasizing. I was given space and time to safely wean off the sedating psychoactive medication. It took more than a year and a half to get back on my feet and feel confident about returning to parish ministry. 

I’ve been depression free for over 25 years.

DBT filled my toolbox with all things necessary to maintain stable mental health. I learned the importance of setting boundaries and sticking to them, of self-assessment (what to watch for and how to ask for additional help if needed), how my relationship with family and loved ones needed repair (and how best to work on it), and how to restore professional self-confidence. 

I was called by God to be a parish pastor, and nothing in heaven or hell was going to change this fact. A few insights:

First, I lost some friends and colleagues. Too bad, so sad. Don’t let the door hit you on the ass as you leave. I don’t know if they couldn’t handle the stigma, or if my circumstances led them to wonder about their own vulnerabilities. Perhaps they thought life was just easier to not know, to remain ignorant, to deny the possibility. It is just easier to go along and get along, than to have someone have a mental health crisis that you have to deal with. I don’t know, neither did I feel the need to investigate further. Exit interviews are not necessary, nor my cup of tea. Those individuals who meant the most stuck to me, visited me, prayed with me, gave encouragement, and endorsed my progress. These cheerleaders were true angels, gifts of grace from God. 

Thank you. You know who you are. 

Secondly, my fall and healing were hard on my wife and family. They sacrificed much to accommodate my resurrection. God’s love brought us together, and it was God’s love that saw us through. Every day brings new revelations, opportunities, insights. Maintaining good mental health is all about being made new. It isn’t taken for granted; it is to be practiced with gratitude. 

Thirdly, I’m grateful to the United Methodist Church for providing leave and disability support for clergy like me. Yes, it is a Conference expense item. In this era of cuts and declining support, this benefit should be aggressively maintained and strengthened. The Church is a means of God’s redemption and healing. The shepherd leaders are in need of this grace, as well as the laity. We don’t shoot our wounded; we pick them up, dress their wounds, and take them to the inn to recuperate. This is who we are, who we are called to be. 

Lastly, work with my psychiatrist helped me identify priorities. This changed and energized my parish ministry. I culled all work on denominational boards and committees, tempered my participation in conference politics, and brought focus to the communities I served. I ditched the fire department, quit my part time job at Clifton Springs, and slept peacefully through the night. I got my weight under control, for the time being, and my physical health improved.

—

I plunged beneath the lane lines and waded to the open lane. Cold; bone chilling cold. Like being plunged into baptismal waters. But, once wet, acclimation comes quickly, exposing a resilient character trait that keeps me coming back.

“Stay with me, remain here with me, watch and pray, watch and pray.” (1991 Les Presses de Taizé, GIA Publications, Inc.) This beautiful Taizé worship chant rolls my synapse, reminds me of the prior evening’s Maundy Thursday service, focuses my meditation this Good Friday, as I pull myself back and forth, keeping to my swimming lane. Reach. Plunge. Pull. Breathe.

Stay with me. It is as if these were words of Jesus spoken to his drowsy disciples in the Garden of Gethsemane. Remain here with me almost sounds like a plea.

How many laps had passed by?

Watch. Be on the lookout for God to do something cosmically awesome right before our eyes. And pray. Open the channel of communication between God and the self.

Pull and breathe.

Time has passed. 15 laps had to be completed, “don’t you think?” my inner voice inquires my own conscience. Stay with me. Remain here with me. Watch and pray.

Stay. Remain. Watch. Pray.

___

Prioritization in life didn’t happen overnight. It took years of hard work, coaching, networking, discernment, and prayer. The payoff has been life changing. Some of these changes took over a decade to implement.

Discovered and honed values identified these main concerns:

1. Disability & Theology.

Christian received early intervention service through Wayne ARC at Roosevelt Children’s Center, so I found my way onto the Board of Directors. Twelve (or so) members of the board wielded a $65m budget, serving thousands of people, staff, and families. My voice at the table was welcomed and appreciated, much more so than in the denomination (where 800 gathered annually to debate a $4m budget). An added benefit was that I learned how non-profit organizations operated. Finance. Human Relations. Publicity. Quality Assurance and Improvement. Corporate compliance. It was a brave new world. 

2. Compassionate Eldercare.

In time, my mother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease and began a long good-bye of more than twenty years. I found my way onto the Rochester Presbyterian Home (RPH) Board of Directors. It was an expansive, multi-campus of homes for the elderly. The RPH was known to be a world leader in dementia care. Though separated from my mother in geography, we connected with a compassion for seniors and their care. I chaired the capital campaign to expand to an additional campus. The depth and breadth of my not-for-profit experience was growing.

3. Addictions, Mental Health, and Rehabilitation.

A family member had suffered from alcoholism for decades, destroying family, jobs, and relationships. He crashed his car and live to tell about it. He asked me for help, and I did my best to rescue him from the quicksand of addictions. One night he called me from jail and asked if I could bail him out. He had been arrested at a DWI roadblock. He lost his license, and I became his personal driver. He attended out-patient rehab through FLACRA (Finger Lake Addiction, Counseling, and Resource Agency), which helped to save his life. He is over twenty years sober, and I could not be more proud of him. 

Over the years, I had led countless parishioners to FLACRA and Alcoholic’s Anonymous.

I joined the FLACRA Board. Today, I’m completing my second stint as Board Chair and have been blessed with more than two decades of service. We are a $35m organization that provides wrap around in-patient, out-patient counseling, supportive living, and employment services, employing nearly 600 staff. FLACRA does amazing, lifesaving work. We are blessed with an exceptional CEO and executive staff. 

4. Campus Ministries.

Lastly, I joined the Board of Genesee Area Campus Ministries (GACM). It was a campus chaplain who looked me in the eye in my Freshman year of college and asked me where I was going in my life; a real wake up call. I’ve been paying it back with my service on GACM for the past twenty plus years, providing a chaplain and ministry to students at the University of Rochester and Rochester Institute of Technology. 

Wow! How did I ever become so blessed? A major depressive episode turned into personal growth and strength and community service. Priorities led me to compassionate efforts in the areas of developmental disabilities, aging, addiction, and campus ministries.

God’s healing favors descended on me, not because of what I said or did, but solely, wholly by God’s amazing grace. Humpty Dumpty had been put back together again. Thank you, Lord.

42. Don’t Look Under the Tarp & Be Careful For What You Pray For

~ toddgoddard ~ 1 Comment

There is a reason police, fire rescue, and EMS people cover up a corpse. There is a dignity angle to it. A dignified conclusion to life should highlight the positive aspects of a person’s legacy. Final memories should be of love, warmth, butterflies, and licking puppy dogs. Covering a corpse protects a person’s dignity.

There is a modesty angle, too. Sometimes private parts of the body are exposed by the violence of injury or the circumstances of intervention. Avert the eyes, shield the view of others. Use a blanket, sheet, or tarp. If ever there is a time to be serious, this is it. Be the professional. 

There is a respect angle to be considered. Those old bones and brains propelled a person through life, the good and the bad, down valleys filled with the shadow of death, and back up to mountain peaks. Those arms held newborn babies. Those eyes witnessed a thousand sunsets. That butt occupied chairs in countless classrooms. Those feet completed marathons or took romantic strolls in the park. Props to God’s creation for the gift of cells and sinew, teeth and bones.  

For the Christians in the room, there is a theological angle to be considered. We are Jesus people, resurrection believers. The soul has left the body and now resides with God. No need to watch flesh decay to dust. Close the casket and celebrate the greatness of our God who forgives and saves! 

Yes, rubberneckers slow and stare, hoping to sneak a peek, as if some mystery is being withheld, as if some conspiracy is unfolding. Maybe, if I rush home I’ll see it on the local news.

The tarp, tent, or blanket is there for other reasons, too. I have covered the deceased to stop the trauma, to limit the shock to a minimum few, and to preserve the mental health of everyone involved. 

Such occasions are not for the squeamish. The topic isn’t covered in training, leaving first responders to default to instincts, experience, or a gut feeling. Some are blessed with more insight, others, less. Many are the rookie responders who get one look or whiff of a traumatic scene, drop everything, and quit on a dime. It is a shame that we invest a lot of time and money into training, but when it comes to prevention and preservation of mental health, first responds are often met with the sounds of crickets. 

Old school responders might play the “time to get tough, kid” card.

We shouldn’t shoot our wounded. Jesus told a story of how a mixed race immigrant found a beaten man by the side of the road, bound his wounds, and took him to an inn to rest and heal up. He even paid the bill before it came due. So should we. There is a lesson here.

Wise veterans of shock trauma have to protect ourselves. One look is all it takes. “Okay, everybody out.” Evacuate the scene, establish a perimeter, work with police to use tarps or tents. Look once, but again only if necessary. No need to burn that memory into your own synapse so completely it takes years of therapy to break up and get it out of your system. I learned the hard way.

Mature, first responder leadership will also take into account the composition of responding crews. Does an eighteen year old rookie need to look for body parts, or would they better be posted at the intersection detouring traffic? Some are more psychologically vulnerable than others. The big mouth, tall-tale master of exaggeration might better monitor the pump panel or stay at the base monitoring the radio. The parent of many children probably shouldn’t be eager to volunteer to troll the bottom of the canal with grappling hooks in search of a drowned child (especially, if other first responders are available). Leaders need to know their crews. 

Take care of your first responders. For the rest of us, mind our own business and go about our day. Don’t stare. Refrain from gossip. Discipline engagement on social media. If television reporters show up, step back, count to ten, talk it over privately with trusted others (professionals, if available), then, and only then, should one consent to carefully engage with media. First responders should always seek the advice of command. 

Unfortunately, someone has to clean up. Sometimes that person was me. The coroner needed assistance, an undertaker needed a helping hand, the hose line needed someone on point to dilute and dissipate blood, an officer seeks a pastor to assist with a notification. Here I am, Lord; take me.

Each time it happened I tried to answer the call with eyes wide open, knowing full well that I was taking a bullet so someone else didn’t have to. I knew beforehand that I would need follow up care and was risking a lifetime of therapy. My mental and emotional health is good today, only because a community of professionals have invested in me best practices to manage stress and limit the impact of trauma. 

Education has been really important for my wellbeing. Taking part in a county-wide Critical Incident Stress Debriefing (CISD) Team, resourced by recognized leaders in in trauma, has been instrumental for my own healing, as well as the healing of others. Furthermore, I’ve been blessed with a good psychiatrist for nearly thirty years; we’ve been through the shit together.  

Even the strongest have our limits. I take myself with a grain of salt.

—

Monday morning and it is back in the pool. No fuss. No muss. Just 15 hard fought laps. Not even a flesh wound to someone going through Seal training or preparing for an Olympic medal.

I’m just a little known, retired clergyman, trying my best to stay healthy and limber.

As I pull through the water, I think of my latest book, written about the Krupp dynasty in Germany. This family of industrialists made the arms and weapons of war, from – the first Kaiser and the Franco-Prussian war, when steel overcame brass canons, through the first world war, to the National Socialist Party (led by the Evil One who shall not be named) of the second world war, – to the modern era. Politics, fortunes, and racism brought about mass slaughter and atrocities that shocked the world. Millions died in anonymity. Disappeared. Simply vanished.

“Please, Lord,” I petition, “wash my sins away, the sins of my generation and those who came before me. Create in us a pure heart, to navigate your ways of peace and justice, of love and grace, that such evil may be extinguished and never appear again.”

Fifteen and done.

The shower is hot and restorative.   

—

“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray thee Lord, my soul to keep. God bless Mom and Dad, and please send me a baby brother.” My son had been making his nighttime petition to God for nearly ten years. It wasn’t like he was dissatisfied with Cynthia or me; he just observed other kids in the neighborhood, church, and school who did have brothers or sisters, and he wanted one, too. 

Specifically, he wanted a brother. 

Circumstances of life and health made the probability of another pregnancy highly unlikely. We didn’t want to bust his bubble, but we also wanted to parent with honesty and love. After all, who was I to suggest that God couldn’t perform the miraculous? I’m an Ordained pastor, after all. We are in the business of miracles (at least God is), so, what’s so wrong with giving in and allowing our son to pray for a miracle brother? 

I’m not saying Christian, our second born son, is the result of an immaculate conception, but the hand of God was somehow involved. An angel, lightning bolt, or seductive dream? I don’t know. One day the rabbit died. All three of us were thrilled with the prospects of a second child. An ultrasound confirmed my wife’s suspicions. The water in the pool of Siloam rustled and the Holy Spirit breathed new life into our family. 

Throughout my life I’ve witnessed prayer answered so frequently I wonder how anyone can remain an atheist. Prayer is often answered differently than what was asked for or expected. But, answered, none-the-less. God’s ways are not our ways, and they certainly are not mine.

When the Lord heard my nine year old son’s nightly petition for a baby brother, eventually something had to give. Nicholas wouldn’t let up. He wouldn’t cave in. My wife is a career labor and delivery nurse. Experience taught us to temper our enthusiasm. Too many things can go wrong. So, let’s put off telling others for as long as possible, so we thought. Her gynecologist was as surprised as any of us. Given her history, she didn’t think it was possible. 

Everything held fast. Eventually we informed family, church, and friends. We made prenatal appointments and I attended birthing classes once again. At this point in our lives, we were both in our late 30’s; old, but not really old. Nicholas was filled with excited anticipation. By golly, he asked and God answered! From his perspective, he was responsible for my wife’s conception. 

Delivery was planned with the Midwifery practice where Cynthia worked. She knew all of the providers and was comfortable with their care. They had just opened a state of the art, free standing birthing center. We were given a due date. The women in our life threw baby showers. Everything seemed like the trains were running on time.

The day arrived, but the baby just refused to budge. Stop the presses! The midwife made a sudden change of plans. We’d have to travel the ten city blocks to the hospital for delivery, if necessary, by cesarian section. Who doesn’t like driving through one of the most dangerous urban sections of town in the middle of the night with your wife in labor?

Christian was born with great difficulty. He made his appearance in this world as white as 20-pound Georga Pacific copy paper. He made no attempt to breath. White quickly turned to blue. Alarms sounded, crash carts appeared, and highly energetic clinicians gloved up and dived in. Blood splattered on the ceiling. Our newborn son was whisked away faster than I could process what was happening. “Come with us,” a member of the perinatal resuscitation team invited. 

Stay with my wife? Or go with our baby? I had never faced such a dilemma. With Cynthia’s post-partum nod, I followed my newborn son to the intensive care nursery, while cardio-pulmonary resuscitation was taking place. 

Christian survived, thankfully so. During his discharge, he experienced what was thought to be a seizure, so, instead of home, he was rushed by ambulance to the highest level of care, a pediatric intensive care unit across town. For days specialists ran tests and continuous EEG’s. In the day of analog paper records, Christian did his part to clear the rain forest. 

Finding nothing, he was discharged to home a week or so later. Cynthia, Nicholas, and I were thrilled. Family and church celebrations ensued. Everyone and everything was progressing according to plan. Christian was baptized by his beaming grandfather Irving and we all enjoyed a big pot roast meal after church. 

Every baby who goes through the NICU has a follow on assessment at six months. Just the policy, I assume. Cynthia was back to work, so I packed up baby, stroller, and diaper bag and went to the Kirsch Center for what I thought would be a routine appointment. 

A parade of Medical Doctors and PhDs made their examinations, often with a gaggle of interns, residents, and post docs in tow. People smiled but didn’t say much. Hush whispers made the whole hospital floor seem more like a monastery than a highly specialized regional medical center. I thought to myself, “we aren’t in Kansas anymore.” I was in over my head and out of my league. 

The final assessment was conducted by a developmental neurologist, a brain doctor without knives for infants and children. After his evaluation, he picked up his clipboard and began to fill in the paperwork. Check boxes were labeled “Normal” and “Abnormal.” Christian got a perfect score. Every abnormal check box was checked with a deliberate stroke of the pencil and a verbal confirmation.

It was like an anvil being pounded without mercy. “Abnormal. Abnormal. Abnormal.” Page two. Three. Four. The walls started to breathe and I broke out in sweats. I grabbed Christian in my arms and hurried out the exam room and made haste to the closest men’s room. As soon as the stall door closed, I broke out in sobs. 

The universe tore, and it felt like I was falling through the crack. 

On the way home I called my brother, a primary care physician, who lived and practiced on the other side of the state. It was a first generation cell phone, the size and weight of a brick, with a rigid foot long antenna sticking out the top. Cell phones were so new there wasn’t any stigma about talking on the phone while driving. My brother must have been between seeing patients because he immediately took my call. I cried on the phone. I relayed what was taking place, fighting static and distorted sound.

“Todd,” he said to me, “take a deep breath. It’s going to be alright. Just breath. Everything is in God’s hands.” He assured me that our hospital had some of the best in the world specialists in developmental medicine. He had heard of the developmental pediatrician assigned to us, even had attended her lectures. This was the major leagues. 

I pulled into the parsonage and parked the car, next to a car that didn’t look familiar. I got Christian out of the car seat, grabbed all his gear and made our way to the door. 

On the porch was a woman waiting for us. “Hi, my name is Rosemary,” she greeted me. “I’m from the county health service. I was told that you are just returning from the hospital and had received bad news. I’m here to help.”

I was floored. Overwhelmed. Swamped by God’s amazing grace. 

God was working though science and technology, medicine and communication, to activate a network previously unknown and unseen, of therapists, specialists, educators and providers – angels, every one – who would become a part of our lives and family. Each worked to maximize Christian’s developmental potential, the thought being, early intervention leads to lifelong benefits. 

Cynthia and I recall each name with fondness: Maida, Diane, Kathy, Eric, Rosemary, Dr. Hyman, Annie, Sue C., and Sue M. Occupational therapists, physical therapists, speech therapists. Craniosacral therapy; brushing Christian’s entire body, head to toes. Early child intervention. Our front door became a revolving door of specialists coming and going. By twelve months of age, Christian was on the peanut bus to a specialty school operated by Wayne County ARC (Roosevelt Children’s Center) that offered the exact early child intervention he needed.

No one had a name for it beyond the DSM catchall: “pervasive developmental delays, or PDD for short.” No one could predict what the outcome would be. Could he grow to be a doctor or lawyer, or a plumber or electrician? Would he be in a group home or confined to a wheel chair? No one knew, and false hopes and speculation was discouraged. 

“Just enjoy your baby,” Doctor Hyman told us, “and make certain Christian makes all the appointments with the services I prescribe.” “Will do,” Cynthia and I promised, outwardly confident of God’s amazing grace, inwardly scared as chickens being chased by a fox in a hen house. 

We were entering a brave new world. And neither of us felt especially brave.

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. 

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.