faith

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.

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

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

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

Do you have the right stuff?

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a free for all!

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

Parishioners scratched their heads in wonder. 

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

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

Who was I to bust her bubble?

—

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

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

What was I to do?

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

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

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

I learned to stop and catch my breath.

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

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

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

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

It was a different time and a different era.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can’t make this stuff up.

—

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

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

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

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

Life in the Finger Lakes has been good.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was really hard saying goodbye.

Those lights and sirens.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

28. Graduation, Ordination, and Moving to Our First Parish

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

My three years of seminary were coming to a close. My Brother electric typewriter was plum worn out. My Merriam-Webster was stained, worn, and key pages were dogged. The binding was broken in numerous places. Classes were passed, oral and written exams were completed. All that remained was crossing the stage and receiving my Master of Divinity degree, dressed in a black academic robe and scarlet red Master’s hood. Hard. Long. Intense. I’m guessing we graduated two thirds of those who started. 

I was tired of reading “church stuff.” So, off I went to the Dayton Public Library and borrowed three Stephen King novels. Hibachi grills sprouted like daisies on campus with graduate families celebrating with picnics and social gatherings. Frisbees flew and snot nosed kids were ramming around the seminary campus. Life was good.

Graduation brought forth the question, “what’s next?” For some of us, it was back to our home conferences Board of Ordained Ministry (BOM) for written and oral examinations for recommendation, or not, for ordination as Deacon and Probationary Member of conference. My written packet was about 40 pages of double spaced content, six copies, mailed off in early January. Each of us had to travel to our respective conferences to sit for two days of oral exams. Being the tightest union imaginable, BOM didn’t want to let in any slackers. 

Those of us from Central New York sat for our exams at the Liverpool United Methodist Church (a suburb of Syracuse, NY). Those who passed, and not all of us would, were invited to the Bishop’s retreat at Casowasco, where Bishop Stith would spend three days with the proposed class of ordinands, lay down the law for all clergy members under appointment, and conference staff could provide an orientation for employment.

But, to get there, each of us had to get through oral exams. 

At that time BOM was composed of forty, or so, Elders, divided into interview teams of three or four. Members of the Board had read all of our written material; many marked them up in bright red pen. Interviews were categorized by topic and candidates would rotate like musical chairs. Eight hours of interview per day, with breaks for coffee and lunch. Afterwards, BOM members would meet, compare notes, and vote to recommend, or not, each candidate. It was exhausting, emotionally draining, and fraught with danger. 

Waiting for results was really hard. I just wanted to throw up. A number of my group were asked to come back next year. Thankfully, I passed and my bags were packed for Casowasco. 

Other than a few casual encounters with the Bishop, I really hadn’t met Bishop Stith. He was a big, lanky African American with a gentle countenance. Laid bare were his marching orders: No arrests, no infidelity, no stealing from parish funds. Discipline words and behavior. Dress professionally. You represent Christ and His holy Church. Act like it!

Because parish pastors are largely unsupervised day-to-day, we were required during our probationary period to keep a daily account of our time spent on parish activities, with reports to our local church Parish Pastor Committee and the BOM. We were, after all, probationers for a minimum of two years before becoming eligible for full ordination as Elders and full conference membership. The golden ticket.

Ei-ya, Captain!

Sage advice came from the Conference Council Director, Vernon Lee, and the Conference Treasurer, Roger Strait. They taught us the essentials no one had bothered to teach us in seminary; How to complete monthly expense reports, enroll in health insurance, and invest in the pension fund. “Save all you can,” Roger explained, “even to the point where it hurts.” We were also encouraged to opt in to Social Security, for participation is voluntary with clergy. I did. Now in retirement, I’m blessed more than I ever could have imagined forty years ago.

The Bishop had his flaws, as his behavior and service were negatively impacted years to come. Yet, he led the ordination retreat with grace and love. Roger and Vernon were two of the best, mentors for this green behind the ears candidate for ordination. I loved them all, and responded with enthusiasm. God gave me their friendship and wisdom. The least I could do was serve with integrity and honor.

—

The pool this morning was intimidating. My previous swim was all freestyle, no sluffing off or dogging it with a few laps of breast stroke. Half an hour of all out “get me some.” Could I do it again 48 hours later?

Half an hour of laps wouldn’t  even constitute a warm up for a high school swim team. SEAL training do this in their sleep. Who was I?

Retired. 64 years old. Nothing more than a wind bag full of excuses, I tell myself. 

So, I dug in, hit it with all my might. Each lap brought back memories of the associated grade in school. Lap six, sixth grade. You get the hint. Twelve grades and three years of college. Boom! Shut the door. No more laps until Monday, when, I’d start it all over again.

Again, I watched the soapy water swirl the filthy drain as I stood exhausted in the hot shower.

—

The Conference employs, we like to say in the United Methodist tradition, while the Bishop deploys. I was about to place myself in the bull fighting ring of appointments. Where were Cynthia and I going?

Loose ends in Dayton were tied up. Cynthia completed a year in the neo-natal ICU at Miami Valley Hospital. The U-Haul was packed and the apartment was swept clean. Even the Stephen King novels were returned to the library, read cover to cover. 

Being new and lowest on the seniority list, my appointment didn’t come through until the first of June. Big churches, tall steeple, and highest salaried pastors went in January. Everyone else in-between, in a complex Daisy chain succession of moves, were appointed and choreographed by the Bishop’s office. God bless their souls. 

Dresden and Milo Center was our destiny, located on the West side of Seneca Lake, in rural Yates County. The nearest civilization was the village of Penn Yan (Up town) and the City of Geneva (the city). Rural. Blue collar. My kind of people. The hills overlooking Seneca and Keuka Lakes were covered in dairy farms, vineyards, and back country roads. Salt of the earth people, descendants from the Revolutionary War soldiers given land grants following the conflict (much to the consternation of the Iroquois nation who were native to the land). 

The district superintendent, Jim Spear, the representative of the Bishop’s office met us in Geneva and drove both Cynthia and I to meet with the Pastor Parish Relations Committee (PPRC) of both churches. They were pleased as punch to meet us. Both Cynthia and I were all smiles. 

Yes, Geneva had a hospital with Labor and Delivery, so Cynthia would be employed in her call to nursing. God called her to become an OB/GYN nurse of the highest order, just as sure as God called me to serve as a parish pastor.

The parish paid $11k per year, so we could afford a car, pay off our student loans (amounting to over $21k), and buy a few groceries. Around the PPRC table were representatives of the parish; Wrinkles spoke of wisdom, calloused hands spoke of hard work, loving eyes revealed faith, deep and strong, like Seneca Lake, the largest and deepest of the Finger Lakes.  

Time to take a tour of the parsonage. Nervous glances around the table betrayed anxiety with the departing pastor and spouse. His efforts flamed out amidst scandal and pain. He was headed off to a life of a failed marriage, selling office products. The parsonage was left in disrepair and smelling like cats. As Jim drove us back home, tears were in Cynthia’s eyes. “Yep. There’s work to be done in Dresden and Milo Center. But that is just what you’re going to do,” he told us. 

And we did it.

—

Conference was held the third week in June in Hamilton, NY at  Colgate University. About 600 clergy and laity representing 300 local churches gathered for the annual event to celebrate our shared ministries, retirements, passages, election of new clergy candidates, and ordination. 

Cynthia and I stored all our earthly possessions in a parishioner’s garage in Dresden and stayed at her family’s cottage at Bradley Brook, just 8 miles away from sessions at Colgate. The day of my ordination I had to clear a clogged toilet, a portent of things to come? No, but funny and memorable, none-the-less.

In the super-secret clergy session, the Board of Ordained Ministry presented each of us candidates, one at a time to the clergy members. One stood alone on stage, facing the music. Questions? Anybody?

I don’t know how the other candidates fared, but I had numerous pastors stand and gush about what a good guy I was and affirmed my call. Cleared of my dad’s legacy, I stood on my own two feet. Once elected, the Bishop asked us as a group the traditional Wesleyan questions … “Will you …” “Are you so in debt to embarrass yourself?” (Always got a laugh) “Will you follow Christ? Preach the Gospel? Celebrate the Sacraments? Serve the people in your trust?” 

“Yes.” “Yes.” And “to the best of my ability.” You get the picture. 

Ordination was the final event of the three day conference. It was a worship service where all the bells and whistles were brought out and the finest liturgical wares were on display. Not only was Bishop Stith presiding, two prior Bishops were assisting, Bishop Ward, and Bishop Yeakel.

During Holy Communion, Bishop Stith rich baritone voice led the singing of the Epiclesis, to the tune of Tallis’ Canon. The congregation, many hundreds strong would respond:

1. Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire, And lighten with celestial fire,

thou the anointing Spirit art, who dost thy sacraments impart.

2. Thy blessed unction from above is comfort, life, and fire of love;

enable with perpetual light the dullness of our blinded sight.

3. Remember Saints who’ve passed this way, for us to follow every day;

May we keep true their faithful life, justice, forgiveness,  love, and light.

4. Anoint and cheer our soiled face with the abundance of thy grace;

keep far our foes; give peace at home; where thou art guide, no ill can come.

5. Teach us to know the Father, Son, and Thee, of both to be but one,

that through the ages allalong this may become our endless song.

6. Prepare Thy table for yourfeast Thy kingdom come, to all, the least.

Our bread and wine return to you Our gifts of praise, thanksgiving, too.

7. Flames of Thy Spirit forge us new, and blow a fresh Good News from you.

Praise to the Father, Christ the Son, and to Thy Spirit, three in one.

I was deeply moved. Singing this at the communion table would become my practice the next 39 years.

The time had come. Each candidate was called forward by their full name, knelt before the altar and all three Bishops placed their hand on our head, as they read the ancient liturgy. Their three hands were heavy, and I felt held down, as if to impart on me the ancient reverence of St. Peter. “Take Thou Authority …” Bishop Stith commanded.

The ordained pastor’s authority comes from the “Thou,” from God, as imparted through apostolic succession. They Keys to the Church, to lock and unlock heaven and hell, are passed to successive generations of the ordained. The Bishop’s public affirmation of the pastor’s call and ordination means that the channel of God’s grace is made through the hierarchy of the Church (The Body of Christ), made abundantly available to the sinners and saints in the pews.

Heady stuff.

With authority comes responsibility. The call is much greater than doing a job. Seminary was much more than learning a trade. Membership in the annual conference and the privilege of serving under Episcopal appointment was more than joining the best union in the world. In my experience, ordination became a wellspring of God’s grace, a channel of God’s redeeming love and acceptance, the gift of spiritual transformation and welcome into God’s heavenly kingdom. I had been called and affirmed as one of many stewards of Christ Holy Church.

Take a breath, Todd. Come Monday morning, he trash still needed to be put out to the curb.

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

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beauty is often found in recovery.

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

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

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

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

26. Laundry, Sin, and a Kid Named JAC

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God loves you, and so do I.

25. Summer Stars and Fall Youth Fellowship, 1984

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

—

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

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

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

Great. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

Gee. Thanks for asking. 

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

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

And so it came to be. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sign me up, baby! The rest is history.

24. First Year Winter Break and Spring Placement

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

Pass / Fail is a beautiful thing. I passed all my courses in the Fall and was set to begin Spring classes mid-January. The seminary would be a ghost town over break so it was time to return home for a few weeks.

Rick Stackpole and I had been friends over a number of years. He was the waterfront director at Casowasco when I was on staff. It was his underwear that we bagged in zip locks, filled with beer, and froze in the staff house freezer. What ever I gave, Rick returned in kind. Our practical jokes were the stuff of legend. We both were from central New York, he was from Bath and I was from Elmira, in the southern Tier. He was, and is, wicked smart. He was drawn in by his first term professor of Christian Education, Don Rogers, and felt like he was right at home. Both Rick and I were on the ordination track with the Board of Ministry. We shared the same District Board, based out of Elmira, and we were both scheduled for our annual interviews.

The District committee tracks candidates progress through a process that includes mentoring, supervision by the candidate’s local church, educational progress, psychological testing, and half a dozen other boxes that have to be  checked. They represent an ever widening circle of discernment to confirm a candidates call to ministry. During the third year of seminary, they pass the candidate off to the Conference Board of Ordained Ministry for possible membership in the conference and ordination. All in all, it was for me an eight year process. 

Rick and I carpooled and headed home over Christmas break. Night driving was preferable, so we set off from Dayton, Ohio headed to Elmira well into the evening. We drove into a wicked blizzard. Snow on the interstate between Columbus and Cleveland was piling up fast. No moon, it was as dark as the inside of a cave. It seemed like we were the only car on the road. I was just nodding to sleep when Rick yelled in terror. The car spun in circles, at least a 720, headed off road, and we ended up buried deep into a snow drift. 

Just great. Neither of us had any money. AAA was for rich people. And our luck ran out. We were going to be a day late and a dollar short. What are we going to do?

We keep the engine running and the lights on as we considered our options. After about a half hour we heard a tap on the window. An Ohio State Trooper had seen our tracks and lights in the snow drift, came to a stop, and hiked down to investigate. “You boys okay?” He asked. 

I don’t know about Rick but I was near tears in despair. He must have seen the look of fear and uncertainty in our eyes because he said, “Let’s see what we can do.” The trooper was massive, all muscle, built like a bull dog. I got out. Rick stayed behind the wheel. We pushed. Rick spun the tires. We rocked the car. Slowly, but surely, the car made its way back to the road, foot by foot. Both the trooper and I were drenched in sweat … poor guy. 

“Thank you,” I said as we were both bent over at the waist trying to catch our breath. “What do I owe you?” I naively asked. “What? What are you talking about?” The trooper replied. “This is what I do,” he said. “It’s all part of the job.” 

His job, his call to ministry, was to help young, idiot seminarians out of a snow bank, and get them safely back on their way home.

“Thank you, sir.” I said. Thank you, O Lord, for sending Rick and me a kind hearted, strong as an ox, Ohio State trooper. 

—

Laps are usually a time to quiet my mind, to meditate without interruption, to listen to the still soft voice of the Holy Spirit leading me in harmony with God’s will. Not this morning.

The pool was cool and I had a lane all to myself. I should have been content. Instead, my mind raced from topic to topic, issue to issue, from opportunity to threat that life was sending my way. 

“Be still,” I told myself. 

Drain the thoughts like pulling the plug in a water filled basin, I thought to myself. “Be quiet,” and observe the anxieties circle in vortex as the water is drained away. 

Ten laps of freestyle, I counted, along with another five of breaststroke. In the blink of the eye, I was standing under a hot shower washing the chlorine off my body. The water felt good, oh, so good.

—

The woman seated across the table looked pleasant enough. Roy C., a full time counselor in our Crisis Unit sat in the corner, observing, taking notes, looking at every aspect of my assessment. I was doing my best to appear non-threatening, kind, and respectful. The clinical phrase we used was “establishing a non-anxious presence.” Like a branding iron, pastors everywhere work their non-anxious presence.

“What brings you in today?” I asked quite innocently. 

“I had to wash my mother of her sins,” she replied. Her thick mental health record had tipped me off to a lifetime of physical, psychological, and sexual abuse at the hand of her mother. She showed no sign of fear, anxiety, or guilt. Not a care in the world.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I stabbed my mother with a butchers knife,” the woman smiled. My eyes widened. She proceeded to tell me that she then used the knife to dismember the corpse, cube the muscle, dump it all into the washing machine, added detergent, and set it on spin. “She’s all clean now,” she smiled at me. 

A danger to self or others, with the means and intent, was sufficient clinical criteria for admission to our locked psychiatric unit. Dayton Police handcuffed her and transported her to our unit located at the Dayton State Psychiatric Hospital. The crime was never mentioned on the news. I assume she was remanded by a judge to a forensic psychiatric facility, but I don’t know. I never heard from her again. 

Lord, have mercy. 

—

As spring term of our first year drew to a close, we were to be assigned to a student church for our middle year. I decided I wanted to stay on with Eastway Community Mental Health because I loved working with people in crisis and those with chronic mental health diseases. I was good at it and it was rewarding. I was young, needed little sleep, and it paid five bucks an hour. 

Regardless, I had to work in a parish setting twenty hours a week, supervised by a senior pastor, in addition to being a full time student, reading, writing, and attending class. Student churches treated seminary students like a new change of clothes. One would leave, another would take their place. The work was always leading the youth fellowship group, assisting in worship, and, rarely, filling the pulpit. 

I was assigned to the St. James United Methodist Church in Miamisburg, Ohio. It was a suburban community about ten miles south of the city of Dayton. The church was large, compared from my experience of United Methodist churches in central New York. Attendance was about 300, divided between two services on Sunday. I could give them all day Saturday and Sunday, but that was about it. 

The secretary smiled and pointed my way to the pastor’s office. My knock was timid. What was I expecting? I had no clue.

“Welcome to Miamisburg,” the short Italian gentleman stood from behind his desk, came around, and shook my hand. He appeared to genuinely want me to feel right at home. Hospitality on the half shell. “I’m Nunzio Donald Catronie,” he enunciated every syllable with a natural Italian accent. “But you can call me, Don.” 

I knew I was right where God wanted me to be. 

Don was a tenured elder in the West Ohio Conference. He was confident in his own skin. He’d seen it, done it, wrote the book on pastoral ministry. He was an exceptional mentor my second and third year of seminary. 

Don loved restoring old Toyota Celica and Civics in his garage, eagerly participated in youth events I arranged, and added many tools to my pastoral toolbox that would serve me well. One, was to always write out prayers in advance, otherwise “you end up saying the same old thing the same old way every time you pray. People deserve better,” he’d say. 

Two, when it came to setting the fee for doing a wedding, don’t fall into the same trap he had done in his early years serving the parish. “Never ask the groom, ‘how much is she worth to you?'” he reported. The first, and last time he did this, the groom pulled out his wallet and gave him a one dollar bill for his services. 

Don was such a blessing to me. He and his wife often welcomed me for lunch after Sunday services. He introduced me around town, with other Clergy, down at City Hall, the Rotary Club, and with families throughout the parish. The people of the Miamisburg United Methodist Church were kind and loving, gifting me with blessings and experiences that would serve me well. 

It was a Miamisburg city police officer by the name of S.K. Willey that would end up changing my life.