god

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

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

—

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

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

“What’s up, Bill?”

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

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

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

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

“I’ll take it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

12. Casowasco – My Beginning

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

—

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

Come, Lord. Come quickly.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

10. Becoming a Wolverine

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

Don’t know why; all I know is that we had to pack up the house and move to another parsonage. Dad had a change of parishes, starting his third of four years of seminary. Hello! Chemung, here we come. Nestled in New York’s southern tier, Chemung is a small village on a ridge overlooking the Chemung River, which flowed west to east towards the Susquehanna. Annual flooding lends to dikes and dams, in a futile attempt to tame its brown moving effluent.

This would be the third high school in three years. My new identity was a Waverly Wolverine. I wasn’t looking forward to the change. New friends are hard to come by. Good friends are rare. Lifelong friends, linked by youth-filled common experiences and shared values, are like finding diamonds in the rough; diamonds that God planted for me to discover.

First day of school. Assigned homeroom. Mr. Allen took roll call. Everyone looked when my name was called. New guy! I was all alone.

Except.

Except Gary and Chuck reached out to me. They didn’t have to. But they did. They worked at the local hospital and nursing home in the kitchen washing pots and pans. They got me a job, and I fit right in, earning $2.20 an hour. Gary’s aunt ran the local American Legion. We got paid five bucks every Friday night to clean up after Bingo and set up for Saturday’s wedding. I’ve cleaned up enough dirty ashtrays for a lifetime. Sometimes the Legion bartender would put a case of beer on the back steps for us when we finished up. Life was good.

Gary and Chuck had known each other since before Kindergarten. They weren’t jocks, nerds, or potheads. They were middle average, often overlooked, underappreciated, under the radar flying, clean cut type of ordinary nice guys who welcomed me into their inner circle of acceptance.

They were awkward around girls, uncomfortable in their adolescent acne scarred skin, and always looking for a reason to sneak into or out of school. I fit right in. Gary drove a Ford LTD that was herded down the road, and Chuck drove a Ford Pinto, a stick shift on which we all learned. I got my senior license and often sported my dad’s dark green Plymouth Satellite. Gas was under a buck a gallon.

Gary, Chuck, and I hung out together. Worked on completing homework and lab assignments together (usually at Pudgie’s Pizza across the border in Athens, PA). We went to rock-n-roll concerts together. We saw some great bands. The late 1970s were some very good years! We experimented with alcohol together, swapped car stereos into and out of each other’s cars, and talked about dream girls together. All three of us had a poster of Farrah Fawcett on our bedroom wall.

Chuck and Gary were God’s gift to me. It has only taken me a lifetime to recognize the enormous impact this grace has had upon my life. Thank you, Chuck. Thank you, Gary. You guys mean more to me than you know.

Thank you, God, for Chuck and Gary.

…

The pool yesterday morning limbered me up and wore my ass out. Crawl, breast, elementary back. Down and back five times each, for a total of 15 laps. Doesn’t sound like much, but it is just right for me. Discipline is everything. Don’t try to increase time or distance. Faster is a false idol. Further is asking for trouble. Repetition is where the sweet spot it. The nice thing about falling into a rut is that you always know where you are going.

Yesterday, sunlight penetrated the dark grey winter sky and illuminated the lane I was swimming in. What a blessing! To roll my head and breath with each stroke, to bathe my face in the sunlight of God’s grace. Humbling.

…

The day was much like today. It was December, the Christmas time of year. Chuck, Gary, and I would rotate work schedules. However, whenever a tray girl called in sick, which was often, we would call in one other to cover their afterschool shift. We also elbowed our way into cooking on the weekends. The net result was that all three of us were often working the kitchen at the same time.

Saturday inventory was always an opportunity for us to express our creativity. The daytime (older) pots and pans guy frequently stole food out of the walk in. Every evening after sweeping and mopping the whole place, we’d put on some rock and roll music, throw a few pounds of steak into a frying pan with butter, break out the medicinal beer (for patient’s use only) and party on. Completing the monthly inventory sheets was an exercise in creativity. If Frank, our boss, ever caught on to our Tom foolery, he never let on.

Being festive, I wore a red Santa hat in the kitchen and sung Christmas carols. It was great delivering and picking up trays from patients, especially those unfortunates on the psych ward and the nursing home residents. Thoughts and fears brought my imagination to life as I entered and exited the locked units. What happens if someone jumped me? The movies Halloween and the Exorcist had just come out. Cue the slasher music. What if I went into a patient’s room to deliver a food tray and I found them dead? You know; not alive? Singing Christmas carols brought smiles to staff and patients alike. I had a talent to make people happy. Life was good.

I learned one of the nursing home floors wasn’t going to have a staff Christmas party. The direct care staff was bummed. I knew they worked hard, cleaning up the nasty, not making a dime more than minimum wage. They were pretty. I was looking for acceptance. They needed a party and I knew how to make people happy.

Frank kept a few bottles of hard liquor in his desk drawer locked in his office. Undoubtedly, it was a violation of hospital policy and he could be fired if caught. Hey? He was the director of dietary services. Who were we to care?

Gary, Chuck, and I just had a way about learning everything there was to learn about the people and the hospital / nursing home. It didn’t matter if they worked in dietary or laundry or administration, we always got the skinny.

One evening (doesn’t every good tale start out this way?), the three of us were done for the day and locking up. A knock on the kitchen door caused us to stop, look, turn down the volume, and wonder what we were being caught doing this time. A young aide shared her tale of woe. The three of us looked at each other, knew what had to be done, and sprung into action.

We raided Franks desk drawers and liberated his liquor cabinet. We mixed in a splash of eggnog, just enough to color and season the punch. We carefully wheeled the bowl of spiked merriment to the unfortunate staff working a distant floor. “Merry Christmas” we proclaimed, and parked our gift in their lounge.

It didn’t take long before everyone was singing, dancing, and telling us how wonderful we were. A great time was had by all. Thankfully, no one was harmed and the only casualties were those who suffered the hangover consequences the next morning. Frank never said nothing. How could he?   

Life carried on. I had found my place. I had found my home.

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

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

Mark 13:1-10

The Rev. Todd R. Goddard

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

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

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

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

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

| Centering Prayer |

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

We saw “Conclave”,

A drama about the death of a Pope

And the election of his replacement.

I highly recommend it.

The hundred plus Cardinals of the Church gather

From the far points of the globe,

In Rome,

Cloistered in the Sistine Chapel.

They represent diversity,

Culture,

Language,

Race,

Beliefs.

For many of those in the running,

The sky is falling,

The Temple is about to crumble,

The very future of the Church is in peril.  

—

For some of us

For many of us

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

The result of division into partisanship is fear.

If you like it, keep doing it.

There is another way.

Look at our great nation.

Like the grand Temple where Jesus and his disciples met.

Certainly, this great nation will never fall.

Or might it?

Those at either extreme

Appear to be most alarmed,

Fearful that these are the end of times,

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

Anxiety is real, and for some debilitating.

“I can’t breath.”

—

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

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

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

Consider the individual this morning placed on hospice.

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

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

Many of us choose to hunker down,

Fly low, hoping to keep under the radar.

The United Methodist Church hemorrhage near fatal wounds

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

Twenty percent of the churches in our conference,

Over thirty percent worldwide chose to leave,

Leaving us with budgets and programs on life support.

Destruction feels near at hand.

The Temple, like Babel, is

Like a house of cards,

Ready to collapse.

—

Context is the key to understanding.

First, some historical context:

Nobody likes ever rising taxes.

The result was protests and attacks on government officials.

In the decades after the resurrection and ascension of Jesus,

Governor Florus over-played his hand:

He had the Temple plundered and the treasury emptied.

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

Wars the Jews could not win.

Wars our ancestors fought.

Lost before they began.

Desperate.

Hopeless.

To the end.

The Jewish rebels fought back against Roman heavy handed rule,

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

The rebellion was getting out of control.

Nero, the Emperor of Rome, had to act.

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

To restore order and end the revolt.

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

In the Beth Horon pass.

All six-thousand Roman soldiers were slaughtered.

The Jewish victory attained great support throughout the land

And won over the hearts of the people.

Volunteers poured into rebel recruiting stations

Offering to fight Rome.

Passion and patriotism surged with youthful vigor.

Hold on there, dearly impassioned Jews.

Victory was short lived.

Nero wouldn’t be embarrassed again.

The more experienced general, Vespasian,

was handpicked to crush the rebellion in Judaea.

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

Four legions of troops landed in Galilee in 67 AD.

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

Who served as second in command.

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

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

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

All food supplies inside the walls were exhausted.

Time was on the side of Rome.

Jerusalem fell on September 7th in the year 70.

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

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

Rome found its revenge.

Josephus, the famed Jewish historian,

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

The few surviving Jews fled,

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

Among the traumatized, surviving Jews

Were a small band of disciples

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

a mere 38 years earlier.

By the light of the burning Temple,

St. Mark and his band of new Christians,

Began to convert memories to word,

Put pen to paper

and begin a first draft of their Gospel.

(Historical references from:

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

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

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

—

Context is the key to understanding.

Some theological context:

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

Mark and his small band of brothers probably opined.

“Jesus told us,

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

Not one stone.

The thirteenth chapter of Mark

Is called by some scholars

“The Little Apocalypse”

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

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

Is a revelation of cosmic mysteries or the future.

Combined with concerns and expectation of the present age,

We see here in Mark 13

Jesus lifting the veil,

Providing for his disciples and the Early Church

Insight to the end of time with the promise

Of God’s judgment and salvation.

…

What does this mean for us today?

Yes, for the faithful,

The end is always near;

As near as the next breath or heartbeat.

The Temple is pulverized by chest pains or stroke,

Destroyed by death or probate,

Shattered by temptation or evil.

Judgment and salvation are at hand.

Jesus doesn’t simply build a sandcastle on the beach

And foretell of its destruction.

Frankly, any visitor to the beach knows that,

If patient, all tides rise.

All that is made of sand,

Will soon be swept away.

Rather, Jesus takes his disciples,

Peter, James, John, and Andrew

privately to the Mount of Olives

where he teaches them what we are to learn today.

Listen to what Jesus has to say.

First, beware.

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

Beware they do not lead you astray.

They may impersonate Jesus,

Falsely boasting salvation with no hope of making good.

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

Impersonators and liars should be avoided at all costs.

Run-away bravely!

Second, be strong.

Wars and rumors of wars will take place.

Wars. Violent. Deadly.

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

Be strong enough of faith to outlast their insidious impact.

Endurance and strength is what we need.

Seek from the Lord, that you may be found.

Third, watch.

Watch for signs of new birth.

Earthquakes? God is making all things new.

Famines? God is using adversity to communicate to us

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

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

Lastly, be assured.

Expect strife and persecution.

It isn’t pleasant or without pain.

Know full well that suffering is a witness,

A testimony to all nations

That Christ is King and

Jesus is Lord.  

Be the witness!

—

I’ve got good news and bad news.

The bad news:

The end is near.

The good news:

The end is near.

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

The stain of the cross and grave

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

This old, worn out body, will be replaced.

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

What has happened to the United Methodist church is done,

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

Apocalyptic breads danger and fear,

Yet, Jesus brings calm and assurance.

This is God’s kingdom.

These are God’s terms.

We are God’s people.

Beware.

Be strong.

Watch.

Be assured; Christ will come to save you.

Amen.

Sermon from November 10, 2024 “Out of Poverty”

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

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

Mark 12:38-44

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

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

| Prayer |

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

She lost everything.

Her husband.

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

Her independence. No money. No pension. Nothing.

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

Not that it would make any difference.

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

Her two coins wouldn’t make a difference.

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

To be treated with respect in the marketplace,

To be seated in places of honor.

Money is power.

Money is freedom.

To come and go as I please,

To contemplate and decide for myself,

To live wholly independent of others.

Taking from widows is easy money.

Imposing taxes and employing usuary is smart business sense.

That’s what MBAs are made from.

From a position of privilege

I renounce my privilege,

But … not completely. 

Let’s not go overboard.

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

“We are tenured in our privilege.”

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

half afraid things might change,

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

     and your outpouring love

     that works justice and

     that binds us each and all to one another.

So we pray amidst jeering protesters

     and soaring jets.

   Come by here and make new,

     even at some risk to our entitlements.”

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

The third half of faith isn’t

A Weight Watchers portion of apple pie.

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

They appear to be the safest bet.

Yes, most dropped their nets,

Walked out on their families, or

gave it all away to come and follow,

But they aren’t widow-poor;

Neither are they uber rich.

Be careful for what you wish for.

Two such disciples of Jesus

Cynthia and I were privileged to know came

From serving the church in Palmyra.

Otto was a modest bench chemist.

Bernice was a stay-at-home mom,

Raising one son.

They were a family of simple means,

Drove secondhand beaters,

Never spend much on themselves.

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

Before taxes,

Before bills,

Before groceries,

Before everything else.

Because, why?

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

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

They tithed for what dependence upon God did for them.

I buried Otto in 1993 and

Bernice in 1997,

Side by side in the Town of Huron cemetery,

Truly saints of the kingdom.  

Giving transformed their lives

From living in this world,

Filled with elections, politics, and power,

Filled with wars and threats of war,

Filled with anxiety, death, and unexpected disability,

Into living in God’s kingdom,

Fulling embracing the life that God had to offer.

The gift Jesus seeks

Is one that transforms the giver.

Five quick take aways for you to further ponder:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Return to God

That which God has given to you.

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

Q: What does this mean?

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

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

Give up that which would make you hurt.

Give such that it transforms your life.

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

Being transformed from independence

To absolute dependence upon God.

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

your own sacrifice with the sacrifice Christ made for you.

Jesus gave everything for you and for me.

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

Jesus sacrificed everything!

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

We can take what we have

And give it away.

We can allow ourselves to be completely transformed

By God’s grace and love.

9. Discipline Matters: The Education of Todd Goddard

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Discipline.

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

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

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

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

Discipline, the Protestant, German kind.

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

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

Discipline, the married kind.

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

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

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

Discipline, the parish kind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Nuf said.