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.