christianity

23. God Talk, Ricky, and The Turkey in the Straw

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

As it turns out, a lot of people down through the ages have been thinking and talking about God. I wasn’t unique. Theology is quite literally God Talk. Theo- = God, -ology = words and the study of God. One doesn’t need to be Clergy to think and talk about God. Rather, it is everyone’s best interest for Clergy to spark discussions about who and what God is, how God has worked and acted through the ages, and one’s personal experience with the God of their revelation. 

What is God’s will; and, is my will aligned with God’s will? How does God reveal God’s self to humankind, in general, and to me, in particular? What are the benefits of God’s presence and influence? What are the characteristics of God’s divinity and, in the Christian experience, humanity? 

In addition to introductory classes in Old Testament, New Testament, Hebrew and Greek, I was privileged to take Introduction to Theology in my first semester at United Theological Seminary. Dr. Tyron Inbody taught the class. He quickly became one of my many heroes.

Ty taught us the unique language of theology, derivatives of Greek, Latin, and German, words found only in theological scholarship. It is helpful to discussion if everyone uses a common language, not so different than the language unique to medicine or law. Ty opened up to me an expansive cosmos, created out of divine joy and love. 

Whip smart, articulate, and a leading academic, Ty had learned his trade at the University of Chicago, from the presence of luminaries in the field, including Paul Tillich. He studied in the original French and German, taught with passion and context, and wrote prolifically. Ty was the real deal. Every single moment I was in Ty’s presence, I wanted to learn more. He had a talent of bringing the leading theologians of the age to United, many of whom were controversial, to expose us to the fullness the discipline had to offer. 

Doyle and I slid into our seats just as the class was about to begin, each of us sporting a big gulp from 7-Eleven. Before us was Norman Pittenger from Oxford, a guest of Dr. Inbody, to teach us about his work in the field of process theology. Pittenger spent a lifetime thinking, learning, teaching, and writing books expanding upon process theology. Long hair, unkept, very non-British, Doyle and I made our entrance. Dr. Pittenger pointed at Doyle and me and asked Ty, “what exactly is that?” Was he asking about the big gulp or Doyle and me? 

Process theology, was birthed in the later 1800’s by the writing of Alfred North Whitehead (I have all of his books, as I have read all of Pittenger). It gave birth to liberation theology, which spread with Evangelical fervor throughout central and south America and into Africa. No, it wasn’t communism disguised as church. It is the voice of the oppressed, the poor, the hungry and homeless. It opposed power, violence, and the evil of the world. Liberation theology was the movement of people who sought to be free, to live lives of meaning, to love and to be loved.

Now we are talking. 

What appeals to me about a process theology worldview is the intimacy of God. God did not create the world, set the earth spinning on its axis, and walk away with eternal disinterest.

It has been, and continues to this day, my experience of God acting and reacting in every moment (actual occasion, in process parlance) of life. I make a bad decision, God adapts. God acts, and I have the freedom to respond. God’s love is manifest in drawing me to make God’s approved choices (God’s will). God lures me towards a life of perfection, my own imperfection leads to the next actual occasion where I’m given an opportunity for redemption, to right the ship, and align myself better with God’s will for my life. 

—

As I approached the pool this morning, a swimmer finished his laps, got out and graciously offered me my own lap personal lane. “I warmed it up for you,” he smiled. “Why, thank you,” I replied. 

Lap speed is so over rated. The temptation is to pull too hard and injure a shoulder, kick too hard and run out of breath, try to keep up or draw ahead with swimmers in adjacent lanes. 

Avoid temptation, I tell myself. 

A half-hour swim is a half an hour, whether it is a half a mile or a mile and a half. The cosmos doesn’t care. Though my cardiologist might want me to do more, I’m trying to ride the fine line between quality and longevity of life, living faithfully, listening and responding to God’s encounters in every actual occasion. 

—

“Hello. Eastway Community Mental Health. This is the Crisis Center. How can I help you?” This was the corporate greeting with which we were taught to answer every call for help. 

“This is Ricky,” the barely audible, raspy voice whispered. His throat had held court to a lifetime of cigarettes, crack cocaine, and every form of alcohol known to human kind. As far as I could tell, none of the crisis counselors on staff had ever met Ricky in person. He was always a 3:00 am caller on the crisis line, calling from a payphone primed with his last dime. 

“How can I help you, Ricky?” I asked. The line was silent, but I knew I had to wait. Be patient, I told myself. His brain cells weren’t firing on all cylinders and his cerebrospinal fluid was intoxicated with industrial solvents, his recent MO, dumpster diving the factories in East Dayton in search of chemicals to sniff. 

“I need help, man.”

Prior attempts to get Ricky to come in had been unsuccessful. He was homeless and proud of it. He had rags and cardboard boxes sufficient to survive the coldest of winters. If he ate, it wasn’t much, and must have been whatever he happened upon in dumpsters. He was a black ring wraith who ruled the night.

“Can I get you to come in and talk to me? I can get you some hot coffee and something to eat.” I tried. Lord knows, I tried, not knowing these would be the last words I’d ever have a chance to speak to him.

Word of his death spread rapidly through our crisis team. Dayton PD had found his body in a dumpster, his head crushed when the lid fell on him. Factory-sized and scaled dumpsters were like that. Ricky’s life had meaning to his mother. He meant something to me, though I didn’t have the words to articulate it. 

Addiction is a ravishing disease. Progressive. Fatal. Yet, every actual occasion is an opportunity for God’s gift of grace to make a better decision, to hold addiction in hibernation, to suspend the craving and orient the whole self to God, light, and love. 

Years passed. Memories faded. Some attempted to keep Ricky alive with prank calls to new staff members. I couldn’t join in the cruel laughter. Ricky and thousands of other clients at Eastway deeply touched my heart, gave me a lifelong empathy for people who struggle with chronic mental health diseases or addictions.

Every parish I ended up serving had its share of people with mental health challenges and addictions. Experience at Eastway gave me the tools for my toolbox to work with these kinds of people, empathy to love when others judged or rejected, light in a world of shadows and darkness.

—

Common Meal at United and it was the day before Thanksgiving. Following lunch, campus would empty for the holiday weekend; everyone gone except for the few of us who hailed from a homeland too distant to return. We planned to get together for our own dish-to-pass thanksgiving meal at one of our apartments. We’d have plenty of time to study for the end of term and to get a jump start on the papers that were due. 

Dr. Jim Nelson stood and the room fell silent, upper class students with foreknowledge of that which was to come extended reverence where reverence was due. Jim was a professor of something that I don’t remember anymore, but it didn’t matter. He was an elder among professors, a teacher who’s pastoral approach and wisdom was absorbed by every student in his class. 

Dr. Nelson wore his life long struggle with depression on his sleeve. I could feel that it was a deep source of his empathy and love. You could see it in the contours of his face, wrinkles and shadows deep with meaning. Depression was yes, a struggle, but yet, even yet, a blessing, a gift from God, from which Jim drew and drank. 

Jim stepped onto his chair, then onto his table. The room was silent. He smiled. “Turkey in the Straw” was piped in from the public address system. Off came his pants, baring for the world to see Jim’s skinny, bony, hairy legs. He sang the lyrics and danced awkwardly as if the room was a Dodge City shindig.

We stood in awe of greatness. We clapped and stamped, whistled and hollered. We cheered Dr. Nelson and this encounter with God, humanity, with us lowly seminary students in the basement dining room of Fouts Hall. 

That actual occasion had meaning and I knew it. 

Decades later, I’ve emulate Dr. Nelson, dancing my own Turkey in the Straw for day programs, families, and friends in local churches I had the privilege to serve. Every time I’ve done so, it was with a smile on my lips and a prayer of thanksgiving in my heart for God’s enormous, amazing grace, and the lives of those like Ty Inbody, Ricky, and Jim Nelson.

God loves you. And so do I. Cue the music, please. 

22. Learning Church and The Dancing Lady

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

“Why do we attend church on Sunday?” I innocently inquired. The Sunday part, even I knew that Sunday was the third day after the crucifixion of Jesus when his tomb was found empty and he first appeared alive and resurrected to Mary and the disciples. Every Sunday is resurrection Sunday. But, why church? 

One would think that a preacher’s kid growing up and forced attendance to both Sunday school and church would have provided me a clue. But, nope. As a first year seminarian in the Introduction to Worship class led by Dr. McCabe, I sincerely didn’t know the “why” part of attending church.

Dr. McCabe’s tight lips betrayed a wisp of a smirk. “Mr. Goddard,” he began, pointing his index finger at my nose, “we attend worship to give praise and thanksgiving to God.” 

Boom! Like lightening and an energized light bulb above my head, I was given clarity to a question I long had wondered.

We gather, as a community of likeminded followers of Jesus, to praise God. Praise for God’s handiwork and marvelous creation, from atom to cosmos. Praise for God’s abundant, all encompassing, inexhaustible, unconditional love. Praise for God’s unmerited amazing grace that saved a wretch like me. I wasn’t feeling like a wretch, mind you, but, even I, a first year seminary student was self-aware of my imperfections. 

When we gather to worship God, we return our thanks. We thank God for the gift of scripture, God infused truth, Spirit filled insight and strength, that anchors my foundation of faith. We thank God for the gift of sacraments, initiation through baptism, sustenance for the journey with the body and blood of Christ. We thank God with such fervor that we sing out with hymns of praise, prayers of confession, intercession, and petition, and with silence to contemplate the awesome sauce of God’s plan. 

Praise and thanksgiving is a community effort on Sunday’s, as well as for weddings, and funerals. Praise and thanksgiving became my focus every time I placed the yoke of ordination around my neck, a stole resplendent with colors and symbols of the body of Christ across the centuries, at work to redeem and save the world. Sometimes praise and thanks were channeled to God by my labors of liturgy, sometimes in spite of me. Every moment at the pulpit or behind the altar, I experienced the awesomeness of responsibility, of privilege, of God’s imminence when leading worship. Leading worship is humbling, leading me to become greater disciplined, reflective, discerning.

In my 42nd year of leading worship I take to heart Dr. McCabe’s defining words that changed my life. I could get over Dr. McCabe’s pointy finger, and I did. Thank you, God, for Dr. McCabe and his impact on my life, call, and ministry.

—

The pool. My lane. This morning, I was uninterrupted. 

The water was cool and refreshing. The laps sailed by and in the blink of an eye, I was done. 

The water in which I swam, was the same water that baptized me in a little Evangelical United Brethren church (a predecessor denomination of The United Methodist Church) in Stillwater, New York. I swam in the same water that flowed among Jesus and John when Jesus was baptized in the Jordan River. The same molecules of water floated Moses, drifting him into the Egyptian bullrushes. The water that gave me buoyancy is the same water the Lord created, and found it good.

The water in which I swam is God’s gift of hospitality, of inclusion, welcoming even me into the community of sinners and saints, from time before, until time unending, salvation in the here and now and salvation into the eternal here after. 

We swim together.

—

The Rabbit died. 

My new-to-me yellow Volkswagen that carried me to Dayton to attend seminary wouldn’t shift into any forward gear. Reverse was good, but highly impractical in city traffic. My parents, poor as church mice, had nothing to give but empathy and prayers. Three days later (resurrection perhaps?), a check came in the mail from my older brother, Steve, 13 years my senior, and at that time, an unfamiliar brother who left for college the year I entered kindergarten. Steve wrote me a check to pay for the transmission repair. 

Did I mention God’s grace. Yup. Sustaining. Amazing. Thank you, Steve, if I hadn’t thanked you enough already. Thanks for throwing me a solid.

I arrived at my job as a crisis counselor at Eastway Community Mental health promptly at 6:45 am, giving the new shift an opportunity to be briefed by the overnight crew of any ongoing interventions before the start of the 7:00 am shift. Opening the double door to our lobby, I was greeted by a middle aged woman dancing barefoot on a coffee table, shrieking and laughing, obviously disconnected from reality, experiencing a psychotic episode. Now there is something you don’t see everyday. 

I passed her by, put my lunch in the fridge in the staff lounge, and took my place at my desk, waiting for report. Our desks were arranged in a circle, each with a telephone to receive crisis calls, under expansive skylights that welcomed in the daylight sun and gave sight to the rising moon. In the center of the circle was a rotating file with one dumb terminal, a Wang computer, that we all shared. It was State of the art, back in the day, a link with mental health records in Columbus. 

Dr. Rueth walked in, put his briefcase in his office and sat on a desk in our circle. “Anyone notice Mrs. So-and-so in the lobby?” Why yes, now that you mention it, I did. Dr. Rueth pointed at me and with a gesture invited me to follow him. We went to the waiting room. 

Slowly, gently, quietly, Dr. Rueth talked this psychotic woman off the table, took her by the hand, and led the two of us into his office. When he completed his assessment, Dr. Rueth walked her over to the day program, and brought her a cup of coffee, where she reconnected with reality, smiled, and thanked us. 

Wow. I was truly in the presence of greatness.

Afterwards, I learned that this woman was the wife of a prominent judge, who dominated and brutalized her in their marriage to the point where she would psychologically break from reality. She was a long term survivor of domestic abuse, her abuser protected by an unjust system of power and authority, disguised by the black robe of justice. 

In that time and era, in the absence of hard evidence, there wasn’t much that Dr. Rueth or I could offer her, except for a little bit of dignity, respect, and comfort. Our presence and undivided attention gave this woman a sense of worth and love, a lifeline of hope, as tenuous as it was, in a storm of uncertainty and evil abuse. 

It remains unknown to me how everything turned out, if it even did. She was a long-term client of Dr. Rueth, a woman he valued and treated with dignity and respect, simply because she was a child of God. She mattered. The lesson she taught me would last the rest of my life. 

People matter, much as I like to complain otherwise. Equal rights matters. People are not objects (the focus of objectification), where some are valued more or less than others. Power inequality cannot be dismissed as political wokeness. Life matters, because life is a good gift from God. 

Treat life kindly, beloved. Show respect. Love others, just as you are loved.

21. Suspended

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

My father’s ancient Royal wide carriage manual typewriter was too bulky and heavy to bring to United. An IBM Selectric was way out of my price range. In those prehistoric days a computer or word processor wasn’t even a twinkle in the eye of Alan Turing. So, I bought a brand new Brother electric portable typewriter to head off to Seminary.

I knew the demands on writing were going to be oppressive, but when we were introduced to the Turabian standard during orientation, I knew I was in for a steep learning curve. A math major has a lot of experience in proofs, logic, and computer programming on IBM punch cards, but when it came to the English language, not so much. A good Marriam-Webster became my Brother’s companion. Hundreds of papers later, both were thoroughly worn out after three years. 

Our three week orientation also required every student to take the Graduate Record Exam (GRE) and to sit for a day completing the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory (MMPI), an ancient device used to assess personality types and psychopathology. Apparently, the seminary faculty wanted to screen out mother rapers and father molesters.

I guess we all passed because no one appeared to drop out. There was significant grumbling among the women students who felt the MMPI was unnecessarily invasive when it came to questions about frequency of peeing. They rallied their courage and voice around one female student who was pregnant.

My first day at Eastway Community Mental Health found me in a classroom being taught how to defend myself from bodily injury if assaulted. “Good preparation for a parish minister,” I thought to myself. We were also taught effective methods for de-escalating violent clients and how to call for help by pressing the big red button on the wall in each of our interview rooms. 

It was a privilege to meet Dr. Thomas Rueth, a world leader in crisis management and my department manager. Over the course of the next three years, Dr. Rueth would teach me everything I needed to know. He was quiet, compassionate, and calm. He disciplined his body language and affect in such a disarming way, I was always left in amazement. The Dayton Police Department, Montgomery County Sheriff Department and all nine Dayton City hospital emergency depended on Dr. Rueth, his staff, and his training methods. My first year, I observed. My second year, I led assessments, supervised by Dr. Rueth or one of his experienced supervisors. My third year, I was conducting psychiatric assessments on my own. 

This was heady work. I was responsible to be thorough, to write with clinical precision, and to make recommendations to the staff psychiatrist regarding an appropriate level of care. The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Illness (or DSM-3, as I first learned it) was the driver’s manual for diagnostic impressions. With a word, I could have a person restrained and locked up on a 72 hour hold. God forbid if I abused this responsibility and violate someone’s civil rights. In time, the staff psychiatrists began to trust me and Dr. Rueth gave me a longer leash. 

I had never seen a bicycle chain used as a belt before. The sixteen year old kid who stood up and faced off with me unleashed his belt and, despite using every communication tool in my toolbox Dr. Rueth had taught me, this kid was going to kill me. Not just dead, his chemically altered state meant to beat me bloody, make me suffer, kill me dead, and paint the room with my blood. What a headline that would have made in the Dayton Daily News. 

Remember that big red button?

Yep, I pushed it. As the chain swung and I ducked, the door opened and every male staff member in the building piled in and tackled the kid. He bit, spit, clawed, and writhed. He wet himself, pooped himself, and turned himself into a demon possessed person. Those demon possessed people Jesus exercised? Yeah, I’ve met quite a few of similar people over the years.

It broke my heart to watch the take down as if in slow motion. Dr. M walked in with a syringe. Held in a four point position the kid’s butt was bared and the shot was delivered. Within minutes the fight left this kid’s body, everyone breathed a sigh of relief, and Dr. Rueth pulled me aside to ask if I was okay. 

Me? How about that poor kid laying in a heap of his own mess unconscious on the floor?

No. Dr. Rueth wanted to make sure I was okay. His heartfelt empathy held enough room for both the patient and his staff. A few days later, sensing a teachable moment, we revisited the encounter in the privacy of his office. What I did. What I didn’t do. He didn’t pull any punches. Neither did I; the whole truth was laid bare before him. As our supervisory season came to conclusion, Dr. Rueth told me that there are times and circumstances in which the best intervention isn’t going to be good enough.

That’s okay he said. You did good.

—

I glide down my lane this morning pulling myself forward, kicking as vigorously as possible without running out of breath. My goggles provided me perfect clarity to the bottom of the pool. I was suspended on the surface, I thought to myself. The surface tension and viscosity of water was sufficient to counter the opposition of gravity, the capacity of my lungs and forward velocity giving me just enough buoyancy to keep from sinking.

Suspended is my lap swimming inspiration for today. Suspended; held aloft, held up, a force that counteracts drowning. 

The laps went by like a flash this morning, as I was deep in thought. My life has been suspended by God’s grace, allowing me to swim, find joy, maintain health, discern will, and provide strength. In the absence of God’s grace I’d lose buoyancy, veer of balance, careen out of control.

God’s grace has allowed me to be suspended and supported throughout my life and over 40 years of pastoral ministry, a fact as certain to me as stars are hung in the sky.

—

My next door neighbor recalled during his orientation for medical school that he was told to look left, look right, and know that by the end of the first year one of you isn’t going to make it. Seminary wasn’t quite as bad, but nearly so.

We had students attracted to graduate school who would never make it in the parish, even if their Board of Ministry granted them ordination (most never did). Some students were on an academic trajectory that would take them to a PhD and teaching. Other students transferred out, or transferred in, especially if they needed a degree from United (that was accredited). I was on the three year plan, while others took four years or more. I was determined to vacuum it all in, to experience seminary in its fullest, to learn as much as I could in the time allotted. 

I was reading 500 pages or more a week, writing papers as fast as my Brother could keep up. All the reading and writing was breaking me like a wild pony. I’ve often thought the first year of seminary was meant to de-construct faith and beliefs to the core foundation, jettison off the whey from the curds, the wheat from the chaff.

The second year was meant to build, to fill the mind with the faith and theology of great thinkers, scholars, theologians from the past 4,000 years (You read that right. To know 2,000 year old Jesus, one must know 4,000 year old Abraham).

My final year was focused on developing my own systematic theology, encompassing everything from eschatology to theodicy. 

The last thing I wanted to take was Bible classes. And no, God forbid if I had to take Greek or Hebrew. I had to, and I did. 

Bible classes turned out to be enjoyable. Taught with academic rigor, scriptural literalist and fundamentalist were exposed as frauds and turned out in droves. Ha! Serves them right. Take that, you filthy trout sniffers. Bible thumpers could harm me no more.

We learned critical thinking, methods of criticism, storytelling and oral tradition techniques, and language skills. We sought data from original documents, drew understanding or “sitz im leben”, and were taught to ask the question of God’s deeper truth. Biblical archeology was a thing, and my data driven scientific mind was thrilled. Don’t believe me? Go to https://www.biblicalarchaeology.org/ and prepare to have your mind blown. My enthusiasm for Biblical truth was kindled in seminary and became as flames of the Spirit, experienced as grace, suspending me throughout my parish ministry. 

Suspended. There is that word again. 

Dr. Battdorf slapped the blackboard with his cane. Dr. Boomershine drilled the Gospel into our DNA through rote learning and storytelling until we were blue in the face. Dr. Barr and Dr. Farmer led us into Hebrew scripture that brought grace to law, revealing a loving, personal, interested God in place of the vengeful punishing God of my youth. Biblical studies are hard, but, oh, so rewarding work. I revel in it to this day. The rewards are better sermons, a healthier spiritual life, and a closer walk with God. 

Suspended in an environment of Theological inquiry, discovery, and curiosity, attending and graduating from seminary changed my life dramatically, molding me into a parish pastor. Seminary taught me to swim in God’s ocean of grace, how to serve with love and empathy those entrusted to my care.  Suspended. Thank you God, for hold me above water, suspending me in your grace all of my days. 

20. Orientation

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

Dayton, Ohio is hot in the summer. I arrived in early August, 1983 in my new-to-me yellow Volkswagen Rabbit. My two-room apartment in Fouts Hall was right out of 1930, complete with steam radiators and huge windows painted shut.

Down the hall, I met my first seminary chum, Doyle, who’s dad was a district superintendent from North Dakota, where the wind blows so hard one leg of a chicken is shorter than the other, simply to stand up straight. Doyle was one of the few classmates who was fresh out of college. Most of the others were second career budding preachers, who sold their mortgaged homes and moved their families to Dayton.

Doyle sported a bushy beard and a ponytail that hung to his waist. In other words, we became instant friends. We set out together for supplies and to scout the neighborhood. Kroger’s would become our main go-to. One week worth of groceries cost less than twenty bucks.

The first day of our three-week orientation found us in Breyfogle chapel, eight to a pew. There were about 40 of us, early morning tired, fearful of the great unknown. The Master of Divinity degree is a three-year master’s degree, ninety hours of post graduate reading, writing, discussions, classroom lectures, and practice. Add in a six-hour Clinical Pastoral Education stint (both an MDiv and CPE were required for ordination at that time) and each of us sitting in the pews were wondering if we could cut the mustard.

Home conferences would have their say, too. Just because a candidate for ordination presents themselves with the proper credentials does not mean the Board of Ordained Ministry would approve a recommendation to the elders and full clergy members of conference for ordination. The process was fraught with risks. Discernment sought increasingly large circles of people who would support, or not, an individual’s perceived call to the ordained.

Ordination may be the best union in the world, but it can be the most difficult to have entry granted.

In walked Dr. Kendal Kane McCabe, professor of preaching and worship, son of a bishop, single, perfectly comportmented, dressed in full blown Anglican cassock (black) and surplice (white lace), clerical dress unknown to all but a few. A full clerical collar completed his persona. This should be interesting.

Dr. McCabe passed out copies of the Daily Office. I had been used to my mother reading me the daily devotions from the Upper Room over breakfast cereal when I was young. It was always a relief when the closing prayer did not end with the Lord’s Prayer, drawing out the pain.

The Daily Office was a scripture-based collection of short, small, three times a day worship experiences that we were all expected to practice. The faculty had authored the Daily Office, tailoring the content for us young seminarians. It invited us to contemplate deeper questions of God, call, grace, and love. It was neither painful or drudgery, rather, it would serve as a common talking point during coffee breaks or before class.

Opening worship was led by Dr. McCabe, joined by various seminary professors, and the president. Dr. Schafer played the magnificent pipe organ and I attempted to sing without my voice breaking.

Around me were students from Iowa, Oregon, Kentucky, New York, Pennsylvania and all places in-between. The Eucharist balanced the scripture and sermon. It was without question, high church, complete with sung responses, bells and smells. This was quite a departure from my experience where one groveled at the feet of Jesus seeking undeserved table scraps. Instead of little cut cubes of white bread and Welches grape juice served in shot glasses, the elements were consecrated pita bread and a common chalice; actually, two chalices. One with fermented fruit of the vine, the other, not.

I recall a lot of silence in that opening worship. In between time were filled with large gaps of nothing, separating scripture from sermon, sermon from prayer, prayer from Eucharist, Eucharist from benediction. The magnificent chapel was a space of awe and wonder, reflecting an image of the God from our shared United Methodist experience. Immortal. Indivisible. God only wise. Alpha and Omega.

—

An open lane! Five other lanes were packed with lap swimmers and water walkers. I hurried out of the locker room and stood at the pool’s edge claiming it for my own, when behind me I heard the question, “mind if I join you?”

Crap.

“Yes, please do,” was my polite response. I slipped into the water and began my crawl stroke. Of course, my new lane buddy must have been an Olympic goal Metalist, slicing past me like a rocket shot out of a cannon. The only thing I saw of her was the fading bottom of her kicking feet.

Halfway through my meager attempt at exercise, the lane next to me lost both of its swimmers, becking me to come hither. I slipped over with the smile of freedom on my face. Just as I made the turn I noticed a mountain size of a man standing at the end of my lane.

CRAP!

I eased right as I approached the end. He leaned over and politely asked permission to join me. “Yes, please do,” I repeated, making me question my own honesty. Requesting permission is more about etiquette; to alert the other swimmer to one’s presence, to avoid collision and the potential of broken bones. My new lane buddy was more like an out-of-control washing machine, threatening to swamp me each time we passed.

Needless to say, when I finished, I dragged my sorry excuse of a lap swimmer out the pool and found serenity under a refreshing hot shower.

—

Common Meal was a tradition at United. During orientation it was held daily. During the school year, it was held every Wednesday at noon, following 11 am chapel. Faculty, staff, and students were strongly encouraged to attend. Over food we would grow to know one another, explore the latest lecture or book, talk about papers that were due, or just enjoy each other’s company. Our diversity invited us to challenge our personal beliefs, faith, and culture. Women and ordination, sexuality, doctrine, and the next General Conference (the global gathering of Clergy and lay delegates that speaks definitively for the United Methodist Church) were common topics about the tables.

I so loved sitting at Dr. McCabe’s table for Common Meal. He was an ideal model for a parish pastor, far different from my experience with my father. Being a preacher’s kid (PK for short) meant your father was also your pastor, definitely a conflict of interest, especially when it came to personal questions and confessions.

Dr. McCabe was proper. He spoke with clarity. He stood and sat as if he was schooled in a military academy. He knew his specialty through and through, presented at international conferences, publish widely, and spoke of prominent scholars on a first name basis. He probably knew the Lord’s first name.

At the conclusion of our first Common Meal, we were sorted into Core Groups; a collection of eight diverse students, matched with a professor and with a prominent pastor of one of the large local churches. Dr. Kathleen Farmer, a professor of Old Testament and Don, Brethren pastor, served as our leaders.

Core Groups were required to meet weekly for all three years of our seminary experience. We discussed the classes we were taking, classes we wanted to take, challenges in our student churches or community agencies, shared devotions and prayer, and often didactics (word-for-word renditions of our work experiences).

The curriculum’s expectation was that first year students would work in a social services agency, second year students would serve as a student pastor in a local congregation, and the third year was reserved for time to complete CPE. A Federal work study program allowed each eligible student to work for $5 an hour for up to 20 hours a week at a community agency. That was enough to buy groceries and put gas in the car.

That first week we visited at least three agencies who were willing to take on student interns. My first visit would be sufficient. Eastway Community Mental Health Agency (https://www.eastway.org/) caught my attention. I ended up working for Eastway all three years of seminary, granting me a deeper understanding of the human condition and the previously unknown world of mental health.

Eastway was a large agency, led by a United alumnus, that served people with mental health concerns. It offered short term in patient treatment, drop in centers for individuals with chronic disease, a battered women’s shelter, a crisis center, individual and group counseling, and probably a whole lot of other things I never knew about.

Crisis Services provided intervention, stabilization, and referral 24/7/365, on the phone, on scene, or at one of our offices. We had the contract to conduct psychiatric assessments at all nine city hospitals, Dayton Police Department, and the Montgomery County Sheriff’s department. If it was breaking news at 11 pm, there was probably an Eastway counselor present to talk the person off the ledge. I had been a math major, with a concentration in computer science. What was I doing working in a 24/7 crisis center working with homicidal or suicidal people?

Eastway would change my life in profound ways, giving me the skills and tools to conduct comprehensive clinical psychiatric assessments, deescalate conflict, establish control out of chaos, and respond with newly discovered empathy towards others. I’d learn to become the Quiet in the midst of the Storm.

What was I doing at Eastway? Only God would reveal.

19. God’s Call to Ordained Ministry & Pine Valley

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

Reflecting back, I was not developmentally prepared to leave home and go away to college for my first two years at Clarkson. I was undisciplined and exploited my newfound freedoms in behavior that I’m not proud of. Hungover one Sunday afternoon, I met up with Bill, the college chaplain assigned by the United Methodist Church to North country colleges, to visit a local church Youth Fellowship gathering. Bill grabbed a hold of my shirt, pulled me close, and looked into my bloodshot eyes. “What does God want you to do with your life?”

There was a question I had never considered. God’s will for my life. Hum. 

The winter of my sophomore year, the Clarkson hockey team traveled to Boston to play in the ECAC tournament at the Garden. I loaded up a car load of fraternity brothers and made the road trip to support our team. I dumped the others off at their hotel and I met up with Phyllis, a graduate music student at Boston University, and a fellow Casowasco summer staff member. I slept on her apartment floor and Phyllis gave me the grand tour between games. 

Late one night we were locked away on the observation deck of the Hancock Tower watching airliners take off and land across the bay when Bill’s question kept returning to my thoughts. What is God’s will for my life? Engineering? Two kids and a boat in the driveway, earning a big salary at a large company? Or, was it something else?

Phyllis gave me a tour of BU, ending at Marsh Chapel, the cornerstone of the School of Theology. She introduced me to professors and students she had come to know during her time there. Serene. Peaceful. Powerful was the space. We exited the chapel and before us was a sculpture dedicated to BU’s most popular graduate, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. On the pedestal were his words to “I have a dream.” 

The sun was just right. My heart was strangely warmed. I knew God was calling me to do what my father had done: serve as a pastoral shepherd of local churches. 

—

My laps this morning flew by. I replaced a 101 year old regular lap swimmer. “Did you warm up the lane for me?” I asked. “Yep,” he smiled, “and I made sure all the water in the lane remained wet.” God bless his soul.

One, one. One, two. One, three. Two, one. Two, two. Two, three, I counted as each lap passed me by. The cool water hydrated my dried out skin, giving me a break from the omnipresent summer heat and humidity. 

Push. Glide. Stroke. Breathe. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Swimming laps is a beautiful thing, especially in retrospect when they are completed.

—

I was 19 years old, had transferred from Clarkson to Elmira College, and moved back home to settle myself down. The commute for my Junior year would be from Chemung, NY where my father served the Chemung and Willawanna parish. A major in Mathematics would ensure my transferred credits would be translated into a bachelor’s degree in four years and a ticket to graduate school. Math and computer science, back in the age of programing with IBM punch cards in BASIC or FORTRAN on a computer main frame the size of a house, would be my home.

That fall the phone rang. It was the District Superintendent, Bill Swales, calling. “I’ll go get my dad,” I replied. Bill knew me well from Casowasco and my solar panel hot water engineering days. “No, I want to talk to you.”

“What’s up, Bill?”

“I heard you were thinking about going into ordained ministry,” he said. He didn’t question my call, judge my youthful lack of maturity, or my utterly lack of knowledge.

“Yeah,” I replied. “Well, kind of. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Well I have a church for you,” Bill offered. WHAT? Does he even know that I’m a 19 years old kid without a clue, my subconscious screamed. “What would I preach about?” I innocently asked.

“Well, you’ve got a Bible, don’t you?” Bill replied. Besides, your dad could help you along. “Plus, it pays $55 a Sunday, right out of the offering plate.”

“I’ll take it!”

Oh, boy. I’d have to put up or shut up. 

Pine Valley was about a 20 minute drive from home and a full hour from Casowasco. My first vehicle was a Datsun pickup truck, rusted to the rims, hand painted with a brush by the previous owner with green latex paint. Holes in the floor boards ensured a shower when it was raining. It was impossible to put the stick into reverse without opening the passenger door. Flies gathered on the inside of the windshield and died on the dashboard. It was the perfect vehicle for a pastor. 

The people of Pine Valley were so gracious and kind. They knew that their role as a part of the larger United Methodist Church was to give prospective pastors a start with a taste of ministry, or, to help ease into retirement those who were ready to go. I was a member of the former category. 

My first funeral was for a patriarch, a retired contractor with a large family. Dad gave me the Book of Worship. The undertaker told me when to enter, where to stand, and when to leave. Just read from the book, I thought to myself. How hard could that be? Another pastor entered and sat in the last row, a kind gesture of support. 

Note to self: when leading a funeral, print the deceased name on a sticky note and post it in the Book of Worship. The second lesson I heard from Ted’s funeral was to write in the title “The Lord’s Prayer” so I wouldn’t forget it. Sounds silly, but for a newbie, these little tips lasted me 41 years in the parish. 

From November 1981 until June 1983 I commuted to Pine Valley every Sunday morning to lead worship and preach. It fit my summer schedule working at Casowasco and my routine the rest of the year when school was in session. My first sermon was “On Christ the Solid Rock I Stand.” The rest is history. 

Kind. Gracious. Faithful. These were the people of Pine Valley who affirmed my call to Ordained Ministry, who encouraged me to continue down the path towards seminary. These salt-of-the-earth people would be found in every small church I served. They were God’s gift to me, mentors, cheerleaders, even financial supporters. Each, beloved. 

By the time I graduated in 1983 and was headed to United Theological Seminary, I had saved enough to trade in that Datsun for a used VW Rabbit. With a car loaded to the gills, I set course for Dayton, Ohio and three years of the unknown, leaving tears and gratitude behind.

18. Casowasco – 2040

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

It is wonderful to recall fond memories of my youth, call to ministry, and deeply felt connections to Casowasco. But, I ask, what of Casowasco’s future? What can Casowasco become by the year 2040, a mere fifteen years from now?

Two conditions that must be honored are related to the property being sold to The United Methodist Church in 1948, namely, the site carry on the “Case” name (i.e. Casowasco), and, that the land be use in ministering to youth and children. These conditions must be honored. Our word matters.

In earlier years, stable leadership and the popularity of summer church camp proved widely successful. Former campers and staff have enriched local churches with exceptional lay members and clergy. In recent years, the popularity of summer church camping waned, leadership frequently changed, and Casowasco oversite lacked mission, vision, and accountability. Today, Casowasco sits empty, the property is heavily capitalized and in need of repair. Consultants have been employed by the church to lead discussions and to create a plan for the future.

One consideration that should not be given the light of day is selling the property. This would harm the integrity of the Upper New York Conference, alienate prior campers and staff, and violate our word to Gertrude Case, her family, and estate. Legacy needs preserved. Cremains need to be honored. Furthermore, the potential for real estate development is high. This would lead to an environmental disaster to the woods, watershed, and lake.

A vision forward is needed.

For a vision to be transformed into mission and evaluative goals, the first priority for the next 15 years is to create a solid foundation upon which Casowasco may be resurrected. To this end,

  1. The stewardship of Casowasco should be transferred to an independent not-for-profit corporation, while the ownership of the property must remain with the annual conference.
  2. A solid financial footing must be established by a capital fund drive by the annual conference to stabilize and eventually to improve the property, facilitate donor development, and to pursue investment and grant opportunities.
  3. An effective not-for-profit board should be exclusively United Methodist, employ capable, stable leadership, establish a long-range plan, and be held accountable for the achievement of measurable and realistic goals.
  4. The long-range plan should stabilize the property, enact sound economic principles for the buildings and grounds, and make plans for future site development.
  5. The long-range plan should grow the financial foundation, support an aggressive development effort, and be flexible to a changing market for camping and retreat ministries. Casowasco can become financially sustainable, especially when the potential for fund raising is unleashed. Prior campers and staff will be generous in their support, provided the necessary policies have been put in place to ensure fidelity and trust.
  6. The long-range plan should include for the gradual implementation of site use.

What might the Casowasco experience be like in the year 2040? I can imagine three opportunities for the future of Casowasco

  1. Children and Youth Ministries
  2. Lay and Clergy Development
  3. A Finger Lakes Education and Cultural Experience

Children ministries should be maintained on a deliberately modest scale, anchored to one lodge or site, should be themed, and should be limited to a limited number of weeks throughout the summer. Perhaps one lodge should survive and become the sole host for children’s seasonal camping.

Youth ministries should anchor district and conference councils of youth ministries, provide short term camping experiences over educational breaks, and, possibly serve as an educational incubator for innovative local church Christian education initiatives. Think: training and running an effective vacation Bible school by hosting a Bible school academy every spring. Think: youth retreats, training efforts for youth mission trips, youth trip camps.

Lay development. Casowasco should be dedicated to training, empowering, and deploying effective lay leaders in our churches. Casowasco could host efforts to license and credential lay ministers and local pastors. Think: Mission academy, to develop the mission potential of local churches; Stewardship school, to develop effective stewardship programs; and Justice Institute, to develop and deploy effective justice ministries throughout the conference, impacting the entire world.

Clergy Development. Casowasco can become a leader in clergy support and professional development, as well as nurturing physical, emotional, and spiritual health. Think: Preaching Academy, where pastors can hone their homiletical skills; New Pastor Start Up school, to orient new pastors to serving in our conference; Clinical Pastoral Education; spiritual guidance and retreats; and Board of Ministry meetings, retreats, and interviews. Consider partnering with The Upper Room, evangelism and discipleship ministries, local seminaries and universities.

A Finger Lakes Education and Cultural Experience. Casowasco can be transformed into an educational center of excellence, teaching visitors about the geology, flora, and fauna of the Finger Lakes, ecology and environmental history, history of native Americans and colonials, the Burned Over District of religious fanaticism, women’s suffrage, industrialism, and the Great Gatsby Era, as reflected by the Case family history. Think Elderhostel, Ted Talks, corporate leadership retreats. Think retreats that support sobriety, serenity, and spirituality. The only limit is our imagination.

These thoughts are not an attempt to derail the process of discernment that is taking place. Listening is essential. United Methodist across New York and beyond have much to teach us. Intentional, gentle policies and procedures must be put in place that honors the legacy of Casowasco, rebuilds trust, and affirms a future that only God knows, even as we faithfully attempt to discern God’s will moving forward.

I’m praying the Casowasco discernment process bears fruit, worthy of the Lord. God dreamt big; in six days the earth was created, and the Lord took an additional day for rest. I’m praying for the day that Casowasco will return to bearing fruit, worthy of the Kingdom. Decades of decline must end. The tomb is empty; Christ is risen, and so, too, should the Church. Parishes need to be resurrected and placed on a growth trajectory. Casowasco can be that springboard of new life, grace, peace, and hope for the future.

12. Casowasco – My Beginning

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

God had been moving quietly, subtly, deliberately in my life, beginning with my conception, periodically during my childhood, throughout my public school years. I didn’t see it then, but I see it now. My call to Ordained Ministry began before my call was discerned, characteristic prevenient grace that is rooted deep in the heart of the United Methodist experience. The fingerprints of God’s prevenient grace is written all over the first chapters of my life and development. Did you perceive it as you read through my story?

  1. Where I’ve Been – Embracing Change: https://breakingyokes.org/2024/07/30/where-ive-been-embracing-change/
  2. From Whence I Came – Tears of a Birthing Mother: https://breakingyokes.org/2024/08/05/2-from-whence-i-came-tears-of-a-birthing-mother/
  3. Epiclesis: https://breakingyokes.org/2024/08/10/3-epiclesis/
  4. A Smidge of Grey: https://breakingyokes.org/2024/08/14/4-a-smidge-of-grey/
  5. Discipline, Honor, Integrity and Herb Larson: https://breakingyokes.org/2024/08/23/5-discipline-honor-integrity-and-herb-larson/
  6. Dairy Farmers, Bus Drivers, and Don Jordan: https://breakingyokes.org/2024/08/31/6-dairy-farmers-bus-drivers-and-don-jordan/
  7. Advent in August: https://breakingyokes.org/2024/09/07/7-advent-in-august/
  8. Addison and Vernon Lee: https://breakingyokes.org/2024/09/25/8-addison-and-vernon-lee/
  9. Discipline Matters: The Education of Todd Goddard: https://breakingyokes.org/2024/10/07/9-discipline-matters-the-education-of-todd-goddard/
  10. Becoming a Wolverine: https://breakingyokes.org/2024/12/17/10-becoming-a-wolverine/
  11. The Smell of Hoppes: https://breakingyokes.org/2025/03/11/11-the-smell-of-hoppes/

My experience and perception of discernment is both personal and communal. God called me, pinging me like sonar. Even as a child, my spiritual antenna received the signal loud and clear. However, it took years for me to piece together the evidence that God’s hand was working in and through others at key moments in my life. It took a long time for me to get to an “aha” moment of recognition.

My call to ordained ministry wasn’t random. It wasn’t from out of the blue. Neither was it from a mentally delusional individual. God pumped the dime into the payphone and dialed my number. Over time, God worked through others, a community of disciples, to question me, encourage me, guide me to make choices that were consistent with a disciplined life of an ordained pastor. At first, it was informal. Friends and family. In time, others in the Church dropped hints. At the end of the process, it was the formality of Church polity; confirmation from the local church, the District Committee on Ordained Ministry, the Conference Board of Ordained Ministry, peer elders, and finally, the resident Bishop. My call took place over the first 26 years of my life.

—

I couldn’t bring myself to the pool this morning. My weekly self-injection 36 hours ago leaves me nauseous and without an appetite. Tomorrow morning I will swim. Reach. Pull. Kick. Push. Glide. Breathe. Uninterrupted silence, space for prayer, meditation, reflection.

Come, Lord. Come quickly.

—

Casowasco is a property on the shore of Owasco Lake, one of New York’s beautiful Finger Lakes. It is the former summer estate of Theodore Case and his family, an inventor who ran with the likes of George Eastman and Thomas Edison. Case on Owasco is 73 acres of woods, one mile of shoreline, and since 1948, it has served as a host for children and youth ministries operated by the United Methodist Church, as directed in the family’s bequest.

Summer, 1979. I graduated high school and prepared to attend Clarkson as an engineering student. Science and math came naturally to me. I took off two weeks from work to join my dad volunteering at a work camp at Casowasco. Bill Swales was the director. He was my dad’s District Superintendent. He knew of my interests. He was charged with building a solar hot water system for the Highlands, the camping area on the West end of the property. Bill needed a lifeline and he phoned a friend. I answered the call.

Over the course of two weeks I led the team clearing land (think chain saws, shovels, and heavy equipment), building the plumbing (think copper pipes, tin solder, valves, and couplings), and erecting a gravity system to provide hot water. It takes some serious planning and construction to safely locate a 500-gallon water tank eight feet above the floor and enable it to be annually winterized.

The buildout worked like a charm. The property manager, a pastor and Japanese scholar by the name of Bob Stoppert, took notice. He remembered my name. Mid freshman year Bob gave me a call and invited me to join his 1980 summer staff.

Confidence. Fleeting in adolescence, confidence is panned for like specks of gold. As it is discovered, developed, and amassed, it becomes a solid foundation for a fruitful life. Where is confidence found? In a phone call. Words of appreciation. Recognition of a strong work ethic. A twinkle in the eye; evidence of God’s greater will being lived out on stage and in the spotlight called youth.

What little confidence I gained in those two weeks at Casowasco would be shaken with a difficult freshman year at college. Everyone was way smarter than me. Alcohol and marijuana were as destructive to me as an unexploded time bomb. Fraternity life was a distraction and grades suffered. Developmentally, I wasn’t ready. It would take me an additional four years before I was truly prepared to grow up and move out to live independently. The summer of 1980 couldn’t come fast enough.

Move in day was as early in May as college let out. Maintenance staff were needed early to get the property ready for the first week of nippers, er, campers, as we called them. I went straight to Casowasco to open the next chapter in my call to ministry and life’s unfolding book.

Sermon for November 17, 2024 – “From Fear to Hope”

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

Mark 13:1-10

The Rev. Todd R. Goddard

Mark 13:1-10 (http://bible.oremus.org/?ql=409206313)

As he came out of the temple, one of his disciples said to him, “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” Then Jesus asked him, “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”

When he was sitting on the Mount of Olives opposite the temple, Peter, James, John, and Andrew asked him privately, “Tell us, when will this be, and what will be the sign that all these things are about to be accomplished?”

Then Jesus began to say to them, “Beware that no one leads you astray. Many will come in my name and say, ‘I am he!’ and they will lead many astray. When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed; this must take place, but the end is still to come. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. This is but the beginning of the birthpangs.

“As for yourselves, beware; for they will hand you over to councils; and you will be beaten in synagogues; and you will stand before governors and kings because of me, as a testimony to them. And the good news must first be proclaimed to all nations.

| Centering Prayer |

Cynthia and I went to the rare movie this past week.

We saw “Conclave”,

A drama about the death of a Pope

And the election of his replacement.

I highly recommend it.

The hundred plus Cardinals of the Church gather

From the far points of the globe,

In Rome,

Cloistered in the Sistine Chapel.

They represent diversity,

Culture,

Language,

Race,

Beliefs.

For many of those in the running,

The sky is falling,

The Temple is about to crumble,

The very future of the Church is in peril.  

—

For some of us

For many of us

This might feel like we are living in the end times.

The result of division into partisanship is fear.

If you like it, keep doing it.

There is another way.

Look at our great nation.

Like the grand Temple where Jesus and his disciples met.

Certainly, this great nation will never fall.

Or might it?

Those at either extreme

Appear to be most alarmed,

Fearful that these are the end of times,

That the only future is one that hurts, harms, or kills.

Anxiety is real, and for some debilitating.

“I can’t breath.”

—

Those at the left or right are not alone in trembling before a doomed edifice.

Consider the black, male driver of a car pulled over by the police.

Consider the closeted gay man, knowing he is one breath away from destruction, family, career, calling.

Consider the individual this morning placed on hospice.

Consider the student who failed their final exam in their major.

Yes, the end is at hand, and is well neigh.

Many of us choose to hunker down,

Fly low, hoping to keep under the radar.

The United Methodist Church hemorrhage near fatal wounds

And now lies weak, sick, and in intensive care.

Twenty percent of the churches in our conference,

Over thirty percent worldwide chose to leave,

Leaving us with budgets and programs on life support.

Destruction feels near at hand.

The Temple, like Babel, is

Like a house of cards,

Ready to collapse.

—

Context is the key to understanding.

First, some historical context:

Nobody likes ever rising taxes.

The result was protests and attacks on government officials.

In the decades after the resurrection and ascension of Jesus,

Governor Florus over-played his hand:

He had the Temple plundered and the treasury emptied.

This was the spark for the first of three wars between the Jews and Rome.

Wars the Jews could not win.

Wars our ancestors fought.

Lost before they began.

Desperate.

Hopeless.

To the end.

The Jewish rebels fought back against Roman heavy handed rule,

Leading the pro-Roman king, Agrippa, government officials, and soldiers to flee Jerusalem for their lives.

The rebellion was getting out of control.

Nero, the Emperor of Rome, had to act.

First, he sent Gallus to bring his legions of troops from Syria

To restore order and end the revolt.

6,000 troops were caught by Jewish rebels west of Jerusalem

In the Beth Horon pass.

All six-thousand Roman soldiers were slaughtered.

The Jewish victory attained great support throughout the land

And won over the hearts of the people.

Volunteers poured into rebel recruiting stations

Offering to fight Rome.

Passion and patriotism surged with youthful vigor.

Hold on there, dearly impassioned Jews.

Victory was short lived.

Nero wouldn’t be embarrassed again.

The more experienced general, Vespasian,

was handpicked to crush the rebellion in Judaea.

Avoiding a direct attack on the heavily reinforced City of Jerusalem,

Four legions of troops landed in Galilee in 67 AD.

For three years, the legions advanced, led by Vespasian’s son, Titus,

Who served as second in command.

Rebel strongholds were eradicated, the fields were salted, and the population was punished.

February, 70 AD found the Roman legions knocking at the gates of the City of Jerusalem.

The Jewish rebels held out against the siege for 7 months.

All food supplies inside the walls were exhausted.

Time was on the side of Rome.

Jerusalem fell on September 7th in the year 70.

The Temple was destroyed, timbers burned, every stone above the foundation was thrown down and smashed.

The fire was so hot you can see the burn stains on the rubble to this day.

Rome found its revenge.

Josephus, the famed Jewish historian,

claims 1.1 million people were killed during the siege, and 97,000 prisoners were taken into Roman slavery.

The few surviving Jews fled,

Diaspora-ed under cover of night to the four corners of the world.

Among the traumatized, surviving Jews

Were a small band of disciples

Who, as luck would have it, witnessed Christ’s ascension

a mere 38 years earlier.

By the light of the burning Temple,

St. Mark and his band of new Christians,

Began to convert memories to word,

Put pen to paper

and begin a first draft of their Gospel.

(Historical references from:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/First_Jewish%E2%80%93Roman_War

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siege_of_Jerusalem_(70_CE)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gospel_of_Mark )

—

Context is the key to understanding.

Some theological context:

“Remember when Jesus made his final visit to the Temple?”

Mark and his small band of brothers probably opined.

“Jesus told us,

‘Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.’” (13:2)

Not one stone.

The thirteenth chapter of Mark

Is called by some scholars

“The Little Apocalypse”

Written in the form and style of Jewish writers of old.

Apocalypse, as found in the book of Daniel, Isaiah 35, Jeremiah 33, and Ezekiel,

Is a revelation of cosmic mysteries or the future.

Combined with concerns and expectation of the present age,

We see here in Mark 13

Jesus lifting the veil,

Providing for his disciples and the Early Church

Insight to the end of time with the promise

Of God’s judgment and salvation.

…

What does this mean for us today?

Yes, for the faithful,

The end is always near;

As near as the next breath or heartbeat.

The Temple is pulverized by chest pains or stroke,

Destroyed by death or probate,

Shattered by temptation or evil.

Judgment and salvation are at hand.

Jesus doesn’t simply build a sandcastle on the beach

And foretell of its destruction.

Frankly, any visitor to the beach knows that,

If patient, all tides rise.

All that is made of sand,

Will soon be swept away.

Rather, Jesus takes his disciples,

Peter, James, John, and Andrew

privately to the Mount of Olives

where he teaches them what we are to learn today.

Listen to what Jesus has to say.

First, beware.

There will be those who try to take advantage of the fear, anxiety, hysteria.

Beware they do not lead you astray.

They may impersonate Jesus,

Falsely boasting salvation with no hope of making good.

They will lie, planting false rumors, and spin out of thin air wacked out conspiracy theories.

Impersonators and liars should be avoided at all costs.

Run-away bravely!

Second, be strong.

Wars and rumors of wars will take place.

Wars. Violent. Deadly.

They tear out the heart and soul of community, whose destruction continues from generation to generation.

Be strong enough of faith to outlast their insidious impact.

Endurance and strength is what we need.

Seek from the Lord, that you may be found.

Third, watch.

Watch for signs of new birth.

Earthquakes? God is making all things new.

Famines? God is using adversity to communicate to us

That the end of these former days is upon us, and

The beginning of God’s new creation is about to break forth.

Lastly, be assured.

Expect strife and persecution.

It isn’t pleasant or without pain.

Know full well that suffering is a witness,

A testimony to all nations

That Christ is King and

Jesus is Lord.  

Be the witness!

—

I’ve got good news and bad news.

The bad news:

The end is near.

The good news:

The end is near.

We are teetering on the edge of God’s new creation.

The stain of the cross and grave

Are soon replaced by the presence and promise of the resurrected Lord.

This old, worn out body, will be replaced.

Hatred, racism, antisemitism, structural discrimination will soon pass away.

What has happened to the United Methodist church is done,

What is emerging is something that God is making brand new.

Apocalyptic breads danger and fear,

Yet, Jesus brings calm and assurance.

This is God’s kingdom.

These are God’s terms.

We are God’s people.

Beware.

Be strong.

Watch.

Be assured; Christ will come to save you.

Amen.

Sermon from November 10, 2024 “Out of Poverty”

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

(I’m taking a pause writing my memoirs, because I’ve been called to fill in for a colleague on medical leave, for the foreseeable future, I’ll be posting my Sunday sermons. Thanks for following my blog Breaking (present tense) Yokes (plural), dot, org.)

Mark 12:38-44

As he taught, he said, ‘Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the market-places, and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honor at banquets! They devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.’

He sat down opposite the treasury, and watched the crowd putting money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums. A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny. Then he called his disciples and said to them, ‘Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.’

| Prayer |

Lord, please don’t let Jesus paint me into a corner and force me to identify myself with this poor widow.

She lost everything.

Her husband.

Her house was devoured by the legal power of organized religion.

Her independence. No money. No pension. Nothing.

Her last two small copper coins, she brought to give.

Not that it would make any difference.

In forty years, the large stones and magnificence of the Temple would become a smoking crater.

Her two coins wouldn’t make a difference.

Lord, please don’t allow my hubris and privilege identify me with the scribes, who walk around in long robes,

To be treated with respect in the marketplace,

To be seated in places of honor.

Money is power.

Money is freedom.

To come and go as I please,

To contemplate and decide for myself,

To live wholly independent of others.

Taking from widows is easy money.

Imposing taxes and employing usuary is smart business sense.

That’s what MBAs are made from.

From a position of privilege

I renounce my privilege,

But … not completely. 

Let’s not go overboard.

As Walter Brueggemann said in his book, Prayers for a Privileged People,

“We are tenured in our privilege.”

“We are half ready to join the choir of hope,

half afraid things might change,

     and in a third half of our faith turning to you,

     and your outpouring love

     that works justice and

     that binds us each and all to one another.

So we pray amidst jeering protesters

     and soaring jets.

   Come by here and make new,

     even at some risk to our entitlements.”

(Prayers for a Privileged People, Abingdon, 2008, p.21-22)

The third half of faith isn’t

A Weight Watchers portion of apple pie.

So, Lord, allow me to identify with the disciples of Jesus.

They appear to be the safest bet.

Yes, most dropped their nets,

Walked out on their families, or

gave it all away to come and follow,

But they aren’t widow-poor;

Neither are they uber rich.

Be careful for what you wish for.

Two such disciples of Jesus

Cynthia and I were privileged to know came

From serving the church in Palmyra.

Otto was a modest bench chemist.

Bernice was a stay-at-home mom,

Raising one son.

They were a family of simple means,

Drove secondhand beaters,

Never spend much on themselves.

Cynthia recalled Bernice telling how their church tithe was paid first,

Before taxes,

Before bills,

Before groceries,

Before everything else.

Because, why?

Bernice and Otto had learned to be wholly dependent upon God’s grace and love.

They tithed, not for what they could do for the church.

They tithed for what dependence upon God did for them.

I buried Otto in 1993 and

Bernice in 1997,

Side by side in the Town of Huron cemetery,

Truly saints of the kingdom.  

Giving transformed their lives

From living in this world,

Filled with elections, politics, and power,

Filled with wars and threats of war,

Filled with anxiety, death, and unexpected disability,

Into living in God’s kingdom,

Fulling embracing the life that God had to offer.

The gift Jesus seeks

Is one that transforms the giver.

Five quick take aways for you to further ponder:

1. First, honor and wealth gained at the expense of the poor results in condemnation.

“How might this impact me today?” you may ask.

Perhaps we need to be a bit more knowledgeable and responsible in the use of our money… and

make sure it isn’t used at the expense or detriment of another.

2. Secondly, Jesus is telling us that giving is not an option.

If you are going to follow Jesus, you must give your money.

Like it or not, it’s that straight forward.

Return to God

That which God has given to you.

3. Thirdly, Jesus tells us that giving to God must be sacrificial.

Q: What does this mean?

A: If it doesn’t hurt, you haven’t given enough.

It’s not enough to give out of your abundance.

Give up that which would make you hurt.

Give such that it transforms your life.

4. Fourthly, Jesus tells us that giving to God means

Being transformed from independence

To absolute dependence upon God.

5. I would lastly add, joy comes when you can relate

your own sacrifice with the sacrifice Christ made for you.

Jesus gave everything for you and for me.

He gave up his dignity, his life, his very being for our behalf.

Jesus sacrificed everything!

So what do we do in return? What can we do?

We can take what we have

And give it away.

We can allow ourselves to be completely transformed

By God’s grace and love.

9. Discipline Matters: The Education of Todd Goddard

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

It was an old, familiar story. Something happened in dad’s parish and next thing I knew, the U-Haul was taking us to a new village. Great. Nothing like starting my sophomore year of high school with strangers. I was the thirty-second kid in my class, in a school district that had K-12 in one building.

Dad decided to turn a three-year Master’s degree into a four year adventure, still commuting to Drew Seminary in northern New Jersey. My eldest brother was married with children, my older sister had married the mayor’s son, and my next oldest brother was off to college. Monday through Friday, mom and I were on our own.

I took a paper route, delivering the Olean daily, earning five cents a copy. Unfortunately, this was a record-breaking winter, and the Lake Erie snows piled so deep the national guard needed to be flown in with their rotary plows. There was a young, newly-out-of-college apartment dweller on my route who led me to think about the opposite sex. She never even hinted that I was alive, yet, something awoke in my imagination every Friday when I collected my paper route money.

The local grocery store had a rack full of girly magazines (that’s what we called them in those days). My friends and I would hang around, pretending to browse the periodicals, when, in fact I was scanning the full anatomy of the female body. The store manager had better things to do than chase away horny adolescents. Oh. My. Goodness. It was hard to believe what I was seeing; impossible for my brain to process the changes and surges in my body.

Our inept regent’s biology teacher told us way too many details about the birth of his two children. Besides Ron G-ski nearly slicing off his finger in our blood typing lab, biology remained a riddle, and a mediocre exam score.

A cheerleader at school, the daughter of the local insurance agent, became pregnant. Word on the street was she had sex with her boyfriend standing up in the alley behind Main Street. She may have been cute, but just the thought of that less-than immaculate conception turned my stomach. It was as if she became invisible at school, frequently absent, then she disappeared altogether. Sadly, I don’t even remember her name.

The pool this morning went by like a flash. My laps were completed before I realized I started. Push. Glide like a manta ray. Use the position of hands and fingers above the head to come to perfect alignment in that majestic three-dimensional space. Slowly, exhale; if done with discipline, only one breath is necessary to cross over to the other side. Ever so slightly, make adjustments to apply momentum, reduce depth, and gracefully surface pulling the first stroke on the fly. Focus. Eyes down. Skim an inch or less above the bottom. Fly. Twelve tiles wide is the width of the lane marker, one of six parallel lines running the length of the pool floor. Twelve to a dozen. Twelve steps. Twelve disciples of Jesus.

Discipline.

Besides my introductory lecture about the birds and the bees (see post 5 about dad telling me about tadpoles swimming upstream), dad only taught me one other truth about sex, sexuality, and the disciplined spiritual journey.

KYPIYP he told me one morning over breakfast in the kitchen of the Little Valley parsonage. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, looking up over my cereal bowl.

“That’s what the chief petty officer would tell us sailors before going on shore leave. You know. KYPIYP. Keep your pecker in your pants.” Deadly, highly communicable diseases would make your male anatomy shrivel up and fall off if you didn’t KYPIYP.

“Oh,” I said and sighed, thinking about the young woman on my paper route. Although my primordial DNA was attempting to tell me otherwise, as clear as rain, dad said no. It made sense, actually. Even as a tenth-grade kid I began to understand the consistency of our morally conservative upbringing.  

Discipline, the Protestant, German kind.

My soon-to-be-minted doctor older brother taught me two other values about sexuality that left a life-long impact on my values and ethics. First, virginity was a gift that can only be given once. Make certain the person who is chosen to receive it is worthy of your gift. In other words, don’t throw it away in the back alley behind the pizza shop.

Secondly, if you are going to have sex, be prepared to raise a child. Unplanned pregnancies happen. In tenth grade, I was struggling with maintaining personal hygiene and an A-minus average, let alone trying how to be a parent and father. Nope. Not going to happen. Not because I didn’t want it to, but because it was the right thing, the disciplined thing, to do. I was not going to make anyone an unwed parent or any raise any child as a deeply flawed, immature father.

Discipline, the married kind.

Marriage is created with a vow between two individuals. A promise is made to God. A promise is made to another. A promise is made before two families and in front of multiple friends and witnesses. Monogamy matters. My word matters. Perhaps yours should, too.

Individuals of our desire are not objects to be conquered. Objectification rips the soul out of the individual and seeds an environment ripe for violence, negating the fullness of God’s near perfect creation. It would be like slapping God in the face. Danger, Will Robinson.

I’d like to think I’ve led a morally perfect existence, but like the peanut farmer former president, I, too, have looked and lusted. It has only been the grace of God that pulled me back and slapped me upside the head. Wake up! I did, painful as it was. I’ve learned and I have grown. I don’t ever have to relive that experience ever again.

Discipline, the parish kind.

Seminary and parish ministry brought with it lots of different advice about how to lead a disciplined life of faith. Professional workshops taught about power imbalances, the inability for a parishioner to grant consent, the necessity to establish and keep strict boundaries to keep oneself and the parish safe.

Never meet in private. Be certain every door has a window and there is always someone else in the building. Better yet, meet in public at the local coffee shop or diner. Keep parents close and involved in children and youth activities. Become certified in Safe Sanctuaries and encourage parish engagement in developing and deploying safe practices.

“Never fish from your own dock,” one colleague once told me. “What the hell?” I thought to myself. He was a married man with six children. Why would he say that to me? I have no idea. If I was a single pastor, that would have made sense.

Better advice was “think of the people in your parish as blood family, sisters and brothers.” The thought of incest is so revolting to me it would be next to impossible to think of a parishioner as the focus of my sexual desire. I wouldn’t look at my sister that way, why would it be okay to look that way at someone else? Made sense.

Over the course of my life and ministry, I came to believe that preference doesn’t matter if one believed and practiced the fact that love comes from God. Not me; but that doesn’t mean that God does not or did not intend it for you. Who am I to judge?

An undisciplined sexual life is inconsistent with parish ministry. Period.

I’m not preaching or telling anyone what to do. I’m simply sharing how God’s grace has been planted and has grown in my life. Each disciple of Jesus must walk their own valley, creating the reputation they are prepared to live with.

‘Nuf said.