united-methodist

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.

32. What Parents and a Parish Teaches

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

Rural Yates County was the perfect place to begin my parish ministry. The people are salt of the earth, hardworking, generous above and beyond expectations. Faith runs deep. I had much to learn. 

Elderly residents of the local nursing home had much to teach me. I took my turn in the cue of pastors from nearby churches providing worship services on Sunday afternoon. Every six or eight weeks was my turn in the barrel. I quickly learned to bring my choir from Dresden. The overly sedated, room full of residents, dozing in Gerry-chairs were largely unresponsive to my skillfully crafted academic sermon of the day. When the choir began to sing one of the familiar gospel songs, everyone would perk up and began to sing. As soon as the song was complete and I began to speak again, everyone fell back asleep. 

I’ll take my humble pie with a slice of cheese, please.

An invitation came in soon after we moved in to join the Lectionary study group of United Methodist pastors that convened once a week in Geneva. Charlie Hess (who won the fishing boat in the Roman Catholic raffle, and refused to honor the Social Principles about gambling by giving it back) was the host pastor.

Sam Davis, smart as a tack, joined us from Seneca Falls. He never met a sugar donut he couldn’t resist, and ended up wearing powdered sugar all over his face and shirt. Gary Hakes hailed from Phelps, the father of one of my fishing camp nippers, and chair of the local chapter of Planned Parenthood. Progressive; my kind of guy. And Steve Parr, a long suffering elder serving a rural parish on the other side of the county, whose wife was the chaplain at the local private college. Steve was frugal, to the point of buying donuts in quantity from the local wholesaler then freezing them in his freezer. Instead of buying donuts from the local donut shoppe, he’d bring in frozen, sugar coated  pucks in a zip locked bag. Gotta love him.

The first morning I attended, I showed up with a stack of academic Biblical reference books and commentaries. Everyone burst out laughing. Sam Davis, a graduate of University of Chicago, was impressed. The next week, I bought the donuts.

The Lectionary study group taught me the value of peer fellowship, support, and humor. Life in the trenches of a Parish Pastor is rough, filled with huge doses of both laughter and tears. We were five white, privileged pastors dressed in Hush Puppies, raising families, juggling demands, and doing the best we could with what we had. With little supervision, we functioned as an accountable discipleship group. Our friendship lasted all lifelong. They are all gone now; I’m the last one standing. I smile with the warm memories of these giants in my life, gently guiding me through the challenges of Ordained Ministry. 

I learned much from the local undertakers.

Bruce owned one funeral home uptown in Penn Yan; Steve owned the other. The competition was friendly. Bruce served on the leadership team of a nearby United Methodist parish and he liked to gripe to me about the conference, Bishop, and denomination. He was also the source of much parish gossip: “I saw so and so at the pharmacy the other day. She was checking out with cart full of lubricating jell and weight loss supplements.”

Five minutes before one funeral, Bruce showed me a letter of complaint he sent to the bishop, claiming his pastor was engaged in inappropriate behavior. “What are you going to do about it,” he asked, the veins bulging from his temples and neck. “Well, nothing,” I replied, “because I have a funeral service to start.” 

Often the best response is a smile and silence. 

—

I couldn’t go to the pool this morning because a new clothing drying was being delivered. The old one stopped working after three years. Two hundred dollars for a repair man to assess the problem, then more to commence repairs, or, for a few dollars more, get a scratch-n-dent floor model replacement. I hate planned obsolescence and American consumerism. 

Two days ago I hit the pool for the first time in two weeks. We had traveled to the far coast to visit family. Cynthia and I took our time out and back, riding the train to take in all the scenery of our great land. Time with my brother and his family was priceless, much more fulfilling now that we are all retired. 

The water was cold and I doubted if I could swim hard for a full fifteen laps. But, I did. My arms and shoulders pulled at the water, pushing it behind, as my brain was lost in thought attempting to process all the conversations I had with family. 

What was the meaning of my (our) father’s early death? Does death have to have meaning? What about my (our) mother, living more than thirty years after dad died? That is a long time to be alone.

Our mother was a strong woman, I thought as I swam. She grew up in an orphanage, became the cutout for Rosy the Riveter, married dad after he returned from the Pacific, raised four children, followed Jesus and lived her life accordingly. When he died, she had to learn to make due on her own, balance a check book, return to driving, living independently. She did so with grace and humility. Mom died after nearly twenty years of Alzheimer’s in a nursing home at the height of COVID. Mom deserved better than me telling her that I loved her over the telephone while she took her final breaths.

My mother had taught me so much. Love. Faith. Grit. Hard work. And apple pies. Rare was the pie she didn’t give away to someone in need or from Dad’s parish or to a neighbor going through tough times. But every now and then, one of her pies were made just for us. 

—

The day was April 15th, a day made memorial by the Internal Revenue Service. In the dark of the early morning, the Plectron fired off the alarm to our volunteer fire department. Barn fire, at the cross roads of City Hill and Ridge. I jumped out of bed, stepped into my coveralls and shoes, and took off for the fire house, across the street and through two back yards. It was always a foot race to see who could get there first, Bill or me, my trusty church lay leader and friend. 

In the pre-dawn light I could see the mushroom cloud of a burning barn as I ran for the pumper. A barn to most of us is the image of rural life, a character from a Norman Rockwell painting, a calendar picture inviting us back to a simpler more wholesome time.

To a farmer, a barn is the center of a small business, generating income, often in competition with mounting expenses. A barn is a milking parlor, a hay mound, a storage space protected from wet elements. It houses valuable farm machinery, is home to cattle, a neighbor to a silo holding grain or chopped corn, and a place for kids to play.

This barn belonged to one of my church families. 

The string of pumpers, tankers, and the rescue truck snaked out of town, uphill in every direction. The water haulers carried a thousand or more gallons of water because only city people had hydrants. I drove the lead pumper, having won the foot race. Next to me was another volunteer, dressing and strapping in to his bunker gear to protect him from flame and heat.

The radio squawk from the chief, another one of my church leaders, now on scene in his personal vehicle, asking for mutual aid from at least ten neighboring fire departments. Barn fires needed a lot of water quickly. I feared this one was already beyond saving. 

I pulled into the farm yard to find the family and our chief frantically getting livestock and machinery out of the infernal. I had never seen a fire so large and frightening. “Oh Lord,” I prayed to myself, “don’t let me goof up.”

Tank-to-Pump lever; pulled. Pump primed. Hose lines laid and charged. Water flowing. Hard suction connected to the pump and pounded tight with a rubber mallet. Portable pond set up. Tankers from other departments arriving, waiting their turn to replenish the pond as fast as my pump would drain it. Sweat dripping in my eyes, tears for the family welling up in my eyes. 

My chief, Charlie, came over and looked me in the eye. “Todd,” he said somberly, “let someone else relieve you from the pumper. The family needs to see you inside the house.”

And so, the other shoe was about to drop. 

Around the dining room table sat Mom and dad, son and daughter, and a deputy sheriff. Eyes were down, the room was silent, the coffee pot announced a fresh pot was brewed. “Pastor Todd,” Mom said when she saw me, “come in and have a cup of coffee.” Mom was also a leader in my parish, a woman of strong faith, accustomed to hard work on the farm. 

The Sheriff asked the father about the farm and possible causes of the fire. Yes, there was electricity to the barn to run the lights and compressor for the milking machine. But he didn’t suspect there was a problem with the power. The night was clear so a lightning strike was doubtful. Dad truly had not a clue as to what may have started the barn fire. 

I sat waiting for divine inspiration. 

“Yesterday afternoon,” the son began speaking barely above a whisper, “my friend and I were playing in the barn. Just fooling around. We didn’t mean nothing. We got some matches and made a little fire. It didn’t get too big and we thought we put it out.”

The silence that followed was deafening. The guilt that descended was overwhelming. “I did it,” the young boy screamed, “but I didn’t mean to do it.” Tears burst the flood gate and he ran bawling to his room. The rest of us sat stunned in silence. 

“What do you want to do?” the deputy asked gently. All of us were thinking of legal actions, loss, and grief. All of us, except for dad. 

“When I was young,” dad began, “about the age of my son today, I, too, accidently burned down my Daddy’s barn. It was an accident. I knew, but no one else did. It’s been my secret these past forty years and it has always weighed heavy on my heart.” 

I thought of Christ on the cross, dying for our redemption. 

“The one person,” I carefully began, “who needs to hear your confession, is your son crying in his room.” 

The pause was pregnant. “You’re right, Pastor.” Dad pushed away from the table. “I gotta do what’s right.” Dad left us in the kitchen and went in to console and confess his sin to his son. 

That was a morning nearly forty years ago. It was a day in the life of this parish pastor where I learned about redemption, the depth of love Christ has for each of us, and the depth of love a father had for his son. 

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.

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

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now we are talking. 

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

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

—

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

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

Avoid temptation, I tell myself. 

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

—

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

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

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

“I need help, man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

That actual occasion had meaning and I knew it. 

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

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

13. Casowasco – Don and Bob

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

Don and Bob’s, now known as Don’s Original, is a hamburger joint in Rochester. Along Ontario’s shore, it has served Seabrease flocks with enough artery clogging fat to keep a cardiac practice printing money like there is no tomorrow. This is not the Don and Bob of today’s memory and reflection of serving on the Casowasco camp staff. Nor is a hometown burger stand about God’s prevenient grace, at least, as far as I can tell.

Don Welles was my boss, the property manager. He was a former dairy farmer from the southern tier, and therefore, an expert in all things construction, land management, McGiver style repair, and Guernsey milk. No one was better at running the John Deere or International tractors, not even by a long shot. Don was married to Beth, who was the food service manager, chief cook, and bottle washer. They had two girls and a dog, lived on site in a house attached to the dinning hall.

Don and Beth followed Court and Margarette Foster, living legends who opened and ran the place since Casowasco was sold by the Case estate to the church in 1948. They transformed the property into a children’s camp and retreat center until Court was tragically shot and killed by the mailman in a hunting accident within a stone’s throw of the hairpin curve. That curve, legend told, was also the location of a fatal sledding accident years ago, and where the morning breakfast driver would stop to stir the eggs before delivery to the Older Elementary camp above, called Mt. Tabor. Haunted hairpin? Who knows.

Four of us college guys on staff showed up in early May the day after the semester came to an end. We cleaned and mowed, repaired everything that broke over the winter … think endless water leaks from a cold winter and miles of plumbing. We got the place in shape before the rest of the staff arrived in Mid-June, followed soon thereafter with nippers (campers) arriving the last week in June.

We were housed in an old trailer with a flea infested chemical toilet and mold encrusted shower for a month and a half. Other than sleep and evening libation, we did not spend much time in that palatial dump. After 5 pm each day we’d water skied if the lake was smooth, or, took out sailboats if the wind was up. Each month we’d burn up 100 gallons of gas skiing until our legs fell off. Our earliest water ski was in March; our latest was in November. If the stars were out, we’d often paddle into the middle of Owasco Lake, lay in the bottom of the canoe, look up and wonder at God’s beautiful cosmos.

Other than a strong back and a willingness to learn, I had no skills. Don had to teach us everything; how to safely run a chainsaw, solder a copper pipe, clear a plugged toilet, patch a roof, and operate a backhoe. His leadership style was old school dairy farmer, wise and strong. He’d tell me what he wanted me to do. If I didn’t know how, he’d tell me, then Don would let me try. If I got it right the first time, great! If I fouled it up, we’d talk about it. He’d show me where I went wrong, then Don would have me try it all over again.

Don was patient and kind. Proper instruction followed by the freedom to try and learn by doing was a lesson well learned. I tried to practice Don’s pedagogy the rest of my life. Thank you, God, for the gift of Don.

—

Today was the second time back to the lap pool after a nasty case of Mononucleosis. For nine weeks, it kicked my butt, drained every ounce of energy out of my body, squeezed the sweat out of me, and kept me in bed or nodding on my recliner. My older brother, a newly retired primary care physician, told me that in his over 40 years of clinical experience, he never had a patient with Mono of “my advanced age.” Wonderful.

The water was fresh and clean. I glided as before, pushing off, inches above the bottom, centering on the tile rushing past my eyes, gently ascending post resurrection from near mortal illness until breaking surface and reaching for my first pull. The quiet was only broken by my thoughts of Casowasco from 1980 to 1984.

—

Bob ran the place. His formal title was Director / Manager, but he was so much more. He was an ordained United Methodist pastor (like my father), married to Ruth. They had middle school aged children, Mark and Kim. They lived in the manager’s house mid-way between the hairpin curve and the waterfront.  Bob knew way more than he let on, rarely got riled, and was wholly committed to building a staff and running the finest children’s church camp possible. Safety first, then faith formation took place in a milieu of grace and love.

Bob had an innocent and harmless humorous side about him, reflective of the culture of the day, but would never be spoken today. On days when he’d host interviews of college women to fill staff slots on the waterfront, kitchen, or craft shop, he’d mention it over his usual breakfast bowl of Cheerios. “Interviews today!” He’d announce. Don took Bob’s cue and the four of us guys nodded and grinned. Time to stain the siding outside the office. Let the parade of women commence! As each emerged from their interview, Bob would follow them out, stand near us watching each get into their car to leave. “Pass the bikini test?” He’d ask. Each of us would stare off and use our imagination to color inside the lines. “Yep, she does.” “Good, because I just offered her a job.”

My second year in engineering school was difficult. I lived in a campus apartment with hard partying fraternity members. We were often short of money for groceries and hunger was real. Bob threw the other guys and I a lifeline. Any weekend I wanted to drive the four hours from Clarkson to Casowasco the light would be on and the welcome mat would be rolled out. In exchange for a weekend of cutting and splitting firewood, Bob would load up my car with groceries from the kitchen and fill my tank full of gas. If it wasn’t for Bob’s fatherly love, I wouldn’t have made it through my second year of college.

A number of years later, I found myself newly married (Cynthia was the camp nurse) and just starting my third year of seminary in Dayton, Ohio. We just returned to the married student housing from a job interview and there was Bob sitting on a bench outside our building. “Bob! What are you doing here?” I asked. “I’m in Dayton for church meetings,” he replied, “when I got the call that your father died.”

Grief. Grieving. You get the picture.

Bob sat with us well into the evening, even as other students started dropping by with condolences and green bean casseroles. Sensing the time was waning, Bob pulled out his checkbook and wrote me a blank check. “You and Cindy need to get home for the funeral,” he said. I was stunned. I was completely overwhelmed by this tangible evidence of God’s amazing grace, the ocean in which I swim every day.

Overwhelming grace. Abundant generosity. This is the lesson I learned that day and have attempted to live the rest of my life.

Life is hard. Make it easier for others. Be the grace God calls us to be. Thank you, God, for the gift of Bob and his lessons about abundance and grace.

Bob retired long ago and moved away. News came from the conference office that he suffered declining health and recently died. Though I hadn’t seen him in years, it was like losing a second father. Rest in peace, friend. God loves you, and so do I.

  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/
  12. Casowasco – My Beginning: https://breakingyokes.org/2025/03/28/12-casowasco-my-beginning/
  13. Casowasco – Don and Bob: https://breakingyokes.org/2025/05/31/13-casowasco-don-and-bob/