united-methodist

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/