united-theological-seminary

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

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ei-ya, Captain!

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And we did it.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

enable with perpetual light the dullness of our blinded sight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heady stuff.

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

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

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

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beauty is often found in recovery.

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

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

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

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

26. Laundry, Sin, and a Kid Named JAC

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God loves you, and so do I.

25. Summer Stars and Fall Youth Fellowship, 1984

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

—

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

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

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

Great. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

Gee. Thanks for asking. 

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

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

And so it came to be. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sign me up, baby! The rest is history.

24. First Year Winter Break and Spring Placement

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

“Be still,” I told myself. 

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

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

—

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

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

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

“What happened?” I asked.

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

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

Lord, have mercy. 

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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. 

22. Learning Church and The Dancing Lady

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

“Why do we attend church on Sunday?” I innocently inquired. The Sunday part, even I knew that Sunday was the third day after the crucifixion of Jesus when his tomb was found empty and he first appeared alive and resurrected to Mary and the disciples. Every Sunday is resurrection Sunday. But, why church? 

One would think that a preacher’s kid growing up and forced attendance to both Sunday school and church would have provided me a clue. But, nope. As a first year seminarian in the Introduction to Worship class led by Dr. McCabe, I sincerely didn’t know the “why” part of attending church.

Dr. McCabe’s tight lips betrayed a wisp of a smirk. “Mr. Goddard,” he began, pointing his index finger at my nose, “we attend worship to give praise and thanksgiving to God.” 

Boom! Like lightening and an energized light bulb above my head, I was given clarity to a question I long had wondered.

We gather, as a community of likeminded followers of Jesus, to praise God. Praise for God’s handiwork and marvelous creation, from atom to cosmos. Praise for God’s abundant, all encompassing, inexhaustible, unconditional love. Praise for God’s unmerited amazing grace that saved a wretch like me. I wasn’t feeling like a wretch, mind you, but, even I, a first year seminary student was self-aware of my imperfections. 

When we gather to worship God, we return our thanks. We thank God for the gift of scripture, God infused truth, Spirit filled insight and strength, that anchors my foundation of faith. We thank God for the gift of sacraments, initiation through baptism, sustenance for the journey with the body and blood of Christ. We thank God with such fervor that we sing out with hymns of praise, prayers of confession, intercession, and petition, and with silence to contemplate the awesome sauce of God’s plan. 

Praise and thanksgiving is a community effort on Sunday’s, as well as for weddings, and funerals. Praise and thanksgiving became my focus every time I placed the yoke of ordination around my neck, a stole resplendent with colors and symbols of the body of Christ across the centuries, at work to redeem and save the world. Sometimes praise and thanks were channeled to God by my labors of liturgy, sometimes in spite of me. Every moment at the pulpit or behind the altar, I experienced the awesomeness of responsibility, of privilege, of God’s imminence when leading worship. Leading worship is humbling, leading me to become greater disciplined, reflective, discerning.

In my 42nd year of leading worship I take to heart Dr. McCabe’s defining words that changed my life. I could get over Dr. McCabe’s pointy finger, and I did. Thank you, God, for Dr. McCabe and his impact on my life, call, and ministry.

—

The pool. My lane. This morning, I was uninterrupted. 

The water was cool and refreshing. The laps sailed by and in the blink of an eye, I was done. 

The water in which I swam, was the same water that baptized me in a little Evangelical United Brethren church (a predecessor denomination of The United Methodist Church) in Stillwater, New York. I swam in the same water that flowed among Jesus and John when Jesus was baptized in the Jordan River. The same molecules of water floated Moses, drifting him into the Egyptian bullrushes. The water that gave me buoyancy is the same water the Lord created, and found it good.

The water in which I swam is God’s gift of hospitality, of inclusion, welcoming even me into the community of sinners and saints, from time before, until time unending, salvation in the here and now and salvation into the eternal here after. 

We swim together.

—

The Rabbit died. 

My new-to-me yellow Volkswagen that carried me to Dayton to attend seminary wouldn’t shift into any forward gear. Reverse was good, but highly impractical in city traffic. My parents, poor as church mice, had nothing to give but empathy and prayers. Three days later (resurrection perhaps?), a check came in the mail from my older brother, Steve, 13 years my senior, and at that time, an unfamiliar brother who left for college the year I entered kindergarten. Steve wrote me a check to pay for the transmission repair. 

Did I mention God’s grace. Yup. Sustaining. Amazing. Thank you, Steve, if I hadn’t thanked you enough already. Thanks for throwing me a solid.

I arrived at my job as a crisis counselor at Eastway Community Mental health promptly at 6:45 am, giving the new shift an opportunity to be briefed by the overnight crew of any ongoing interventions before the start of the 7:00 am shift. Opening the double door to our lobby, I was greeted by a middle aged woman dancing barefoot on a coffee table, shrieking and laughing, obviously disconnected from reality, experiencing a psychotic episode. Now there is something you don’t see everyday. 

I passed her by, put my lunch in the fridge in the staff lounge, and took my place at my desk, waiting for report. Our desks were arranged in a circle, each with a telephone to receive crisis calls, under expansive skylights that welcomed in the daylight sun and gave sight to the rising moon. In the center of the circle was a rotating file with one dumb terminal, a Wang computer, that we all shared. It was State of the art, back in the day, a link with mental health records in Columbus. 

Dr. Rueth walked in, put his briefcase in his office and sat on a desk in our circle. “Anyone notice Mrs. So-and-so in the lobby?” Why yes, now that you mention it, I did. Dr. Rueth pointed at me and with a gesture invited me to follow him. We went to the waiting room. 

Slowly, gently, quietly, Dr. Rueth talked this psychotic woman off the table, took her by the hand, and led the two of us into his office. When he completed his assessment, Dr. Rueth walked her over to the day program, and brought her a cup of coffee, where she reconnected with reality, smiled, and thanked us. 

Wow. I was truly in the presence of greatness.

Afterwards, I learned that this woman was the wife of a prominent judge, who dominated and brutalized her in their marriage to the point where she would psychologically break from reality. She was a long term survivor of domestic abuse, her abuser protected by an unjust system of power and authority, disguised by the black robe of justice. 

In that time and era, in the absence of hard evidence, there wasn’t much that Dr. Rueth or I could offer her, except for a little bit of dignity, respect, and comfort. Our presence and undivided attention gave this woman a sense of worth and love, a lifeline of hope, as tenuous as it was, in a storm of uncertainty and evil abuse. 

It remains unknown to me how everything turned out, if it even did. She was a long-term client of Dr. Rueth, a woman he valued and treated with dignity and respect, simply because she was a child of God. She mattered. The lesson she taught me would last the rest of my life. 

People matter, much as I like to complain otherwise. Equal rights matters. People are not objects (the focus of objectification), where some are valued more or less than others. Power inequality cannot be dismissed as political wokeness. Life matters, because life is a good gift from God. 

Treat life kindly, beloved. Show respect. Love others, just as you are loved.

21. Suspended

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

My father’s ancient Royal wide carriage manual typewriter was too bulky and heavy to bring to United. An IBM Selectric was way out of my price range. In those prehistoric days a computer or word processor wasn’t even a twinkle in the eye of Alan Turing. So, I bought a brand new Brother electric portable typewriter to head off to Seminary.

I knew the demands on writing were going to be oppressive, but when we were introduced to the Turabian standard during orientation, I knew I was in for a steep learning curve. A math major has a lot of experience in proofs, logic, and computer programming on IBM punch cards, but when it came to the English language, not so much. A good Marriam-Webster became my Brother’s companion. Hundreds of papers later, both were thoroughly worn out after three years. 

Our three week orientation also required every student to take the Graduate Record Exam (GRE) and to sit for a day completing the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory (MMPI), an ancient device used to assess personality types and psychopathology. Apparently, the seminary faculty wanted to screen out mother rapers and father molesters.

I guess we all passed because no one appeared to drop out. There was significant grumbling among the women students who felt the MMPI was unnecessarily invasive when it came to questions about frequency of peeing. They rallied their courage and voice around one female student who was pregnant.

My first day at Eastway Community Mental Health found me in a classroom being taught how to defend myself from bodily injury if assaulted. “Good preparation for a parish minister,” I thought to myself. We were also taught effective methods for de-escalating violent clients and how to call for help by pressing the big red button on the wall in each of our interview rooms. 

It was a privilege to meet Dr. Thomas Rueth, a world leader in crisis management and my department manager. Over the course of the next three years, Dr. Rueth would teach me everything I needed to know. He was quiet, compassionate, and calm. He disciplined his body language and affect in such a disarming way, I was always left in amazement. The Dayton Police Department, Montgomery County Sheriff Department and all nine Dayton City hospital emergency depended on Dr. Rueth, his staff, and his training methods. My first year, I observed. My second year, I led assessments, supervised by Dr. Rueth or one of his experienced supervisors. My third year, I was conducting psychiatric assessments on my own. 

This was heady work. I was responsible to be thorough, to write with clinical precision, and to make recommendations to the staff psychiatrist regarding an appropriate level of care. The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Illness (or DSM-3, as I first learned it) was the driver’s manual for diagnostic impressions. With a word, I could have a person restrained and locked up on a 72 hour hold. God forbid if I abused this responsibility and violate someone’s civil rights. In time, the staff psychiatrists began to trust me and Dr. Rueth gave me a longer leash. 

I had never seen a bicycle chain used as a belt before. The sixteen year old kid who stood up and faced off with me unleashed his belt and, despite using every communication tool in my toolbox Dr. Rueth had taught me, this kid was going to kill me. Not just dead, his chemically altered state meant to beat me bloody, make me suffer, kill me dead, and paint the room with my blood. What a headline that would have made in the Dayton Daily News. 

Remember that big red button?

Yep, I pushed it. As the chain swung and I ducked, the door opened and every male staff member in the building piled in and tackled the kid. He bit, spit, clawed, and writhed. He wet himself, pooped himself, and turned himself into a demon possessed person. Those demon possessed people Jesus exercised? Yeah, I’ve met quite a few of similar people over the years.

It broke my heart to watch the take down as if in slow motion. Dr. M walked in with a syringe. Held in a four point position the kid’s butt was bared and the shot was delivered. Within minutes the fight left this kid’s body, everyone breathed a sigh of relief, and Dr. Rueth pulled me aside to ask if I was okay. 

Me? How about that poor kid laying in a heap of his own mess unconscious on the floor?

No. Dr. Rueth wanted to make sure I was okay. His heartfelt empathy held enough room for both the patient and his staff. A few days later, sensing a teachable moment, we revisited the encounter in the privacy of his office. What I did. What I didn’t do. He didn’t pull any punches. Neither did I; the whole truth was laid bare before him. As our supervisory season came to conclusion, Dr. Rueth told me that there are times and circumstances in which the best intervention isn’t going to be good enough.

That’s okay he said. You did good.

—

I glide down my lane this morning pulling myself forward, kicking as vigorously as possible without running out of breath. My goggles provided me perfect clarity to the bottom of the pool. I was suspended on the surface, I thought to myself. The surface tension and viscosity of water was sufficient to counter the opposition of gravity, the capacity of my lungs and forward velocity giving me just enough buoyancy to keep from sinking.

Suspended is my lap swimming inspiration for today. Suspended; held aloft, held up, a force that counteracts drowning. 

The laps went by like a flash this morning, as I was deep in thought. My life has been suspended by God’s grace, allowing me to swim, find joy, maintain health, discern will, and provide strength. In the absence of God’s grace I’d lose buoyancy, veer of balance, careen out of control.

God’s grace has allowed me to be suspended and supported throughout my life and over 40 years of pastoral ministry, a fact as certain to me as stars are hung in the sky.

—

My next door neighbor recalled during his orientation for medical school that he was told to look left, look right, and know that by the end of the first year one of you isn’t going to make it. Seminary wasn’t quite as bad, but nearly so.

We had students attracted to graduate school who would never make it in the parish, even if their Board of Ministry granted them ordination (most never did). Some students were on an academic trajectory that would take them to a PhD and teaching. Other students transferred out, or transferred in, especially if they needed a degree from United (that was accredited). I was on the three year plan, while others took four years or more. I was determined to vacuum it all in, to experience seminary in its fullest, to learn as much as I could in the time allotted. 

I was reading 500 pages or more a week, writing papers as fast as my Brother could keep up. All the reading and writing was breaking me like a wild pony. I’ve often thought the first year of seminary was meant to de-construct faith and beliefs to the core foundation, jettison off the whey from the curds, the wheat from the chaff.

The second year was meant to build, to fill the mind with the faith and theology of great thinkers, scholars, theologians from the past 4,000 years (You read that right. To know 2,000 year old Jesus, one must know 4,000 year old Abraham).

My final year was focused on developing my own systematic theology, encompassing everything from eschatology to theodicy. 

The last thing I wanted to take was Bible classes. And no, God forbid if I had to take Greek or Hebrew. I had to, and I did. 

Bible classes turned out to be enjoyable. Taught with academic rigor, scriptural literalist and fundamentalist were exposed as frauds and turned out in droves. Ha! Serves them right. Take that, you filthy trout sniffers. Bible thumpers could harm me no more.

We learned critical thinking, methods of criticism, storytelling and oral tradition techniques, and language skills. We sought data from original documents, drew understanding or “sitz im leben”, and were taught to ask the question of God’s deeper truth. Biblical archeology was a thing, and my data driven scientific mind was thrilled. Don’t believe me? Go to https://www.biblicalarchaeology.org/ and prepare to have your mind blown. My enthusiasm for Biblical truth was kindled in seminary and became as flames of the Spirit, experienced as grace, suspending me throughout my parish ministry. 

Suspended. There is that word again. 

Dr. Battdorf slapped the blackboard with his cane. Dr. Boomershine drilled the Gospel into our DNA through rote learning and storytelling until we were blue in the face. Dr. Barr and Dr. Farmer led us into Hebrew scripture that brought grace to law, revealing a loving, personal, interested God in place of the vengeful punishing God of my youth. Biblical studies are hard, but, oh, so rewarding work. I revel in it to this day. The rewards are better sermons, a healthier spiritual life, and a closer walk with God. 

Suspended in an environment of Theological inquiry, discovery, and curiosity, attending and graduating from seminary changed my life dramatically, molding me into a parish pastor. Seminary taught me to swim in God’s ocean of grace, how to serve with love and empathy those entrusted to my care.  Suspended. Thank you God, for hold me above water, suspending me in your grace all of my days. 

20. Orientation

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

Dayton, Ohio is hot in the summer. I arrived in early August, 1983 in my new-to-me yellow Volkswagen Rabbit. My two-room apartment in Fouts Hall was right out of 1930, complete with steam radiators and huge windows painted shut.

Down the hall, I met my first seminary chum, Doyle, who’s dad was a district superintendent from North Dakota, where the wind blows so hard one leg of a chicken is shorter than the other, simply to stand up straight. Doyle was one of the few classmates who was fresh out of college. Most of the others were second career budding preachers, who sold their mortgaged homes and moved their families to Dayton.

Doyle sported a bushy beard and a ponytail that hung to his waist. In other words, we became instant friends. We set out together for supplies and to scout the neighborhood. Kroger’s would become our main go-to. One week worth of groceries cost less than twenty bucks.

The first day of our three-week orientation found us in Breyfogle chapel, eight to a pew. There were about 40 of us, early morning tired, fearful of the great unknown. The Master of Divinity degree is a three-year master’s degree, ninety hours of post graduate reading, writing, discussions, classroom lectures, and practice. Add in a six-hour Clinical Pastoral Education stint (both an MDiv and CPE were required for ordination at that time) and each of us sitting in the pews were wondering if we could cut the mustard.

Home conferences would have their say, too. Just because a candidate for ordination presents themselves with the proper credentials does not mean the Board of Ordained Ministry would approve a recommendation to the elders and full clergy members of conference for ordination. The process was fraught with risks. Discernment sought increasingly large circles of people who would support, or not, an individual’s perceived call to the ordained.

Ordination may be the best union in the world, but it can be the most difficult to have entry granted.

In walked Dr. Kendal Kane McCabe, professor of preaching and worship, son of a bishop, single, perfectly comportmented, dressed in full blown Anglican cassock (black) and surplice (white lace), clerical dress unknown to all but a few. A full clerical collar completed his persona. This should be interesting.

Dr. McCabe passed out copies of the Daily Office. I had been used to my mother reading me the daily devotions from the Upper Room over breakfast cereal when I was young. It was always a relief when the closing prayer did not end with the Lord’s Prayer, drawing out the pain.

The Daily Office was a scripture-based collection of short, small, three times a day worship experiences that we were all expected to practice. The faculty had authored the Daily Office, tailoring the content for us young seminarians. It invited us to contemplate deeper questions of God, call, grace, and love. It was neither painful or drudgery, rather, it would serve as a common talking point during coffee breaks or before class.

Opening worship was led by Dr. McCabe, joined by various seminary professors, and the president. Dr. Schafer played the magnificent pipe organ and I attempted to sing without my voice breaking.

Around me were students from Iowa, Oregon, Kentucky, New York, Pennsylvania and all places in-between. The Eucharist balanced the scripture and sermon. It was without question, high church, complete with sung responses, bells and smells. This was quite a departure from my experience where one groveled at the feet of Jesus seeking undeserved table scraps. Instead of little cut cubes of white bread and Welches grape juice served in shot glasses, the elements were consecrated pita bread and a common chalice; actually, two chalices. One with fermented fruit of the vine, the other, not.

I recall a lot of silence in that opening worship. In between time were filled with large gaps of nothing, separating scripture from sermon, sermon from prayer, prayer from Eucharist, Eucharist from benediction. The magnificent chapel was a space of awe and wonder, reflecting an image of the God from our shared United Methodist experience. Immortal. Indivisible. God only wise. Alpha and Omega.

—

An open lane! Five other lanes were packed with lap swimmers and water walkers. I hurried out of the locker room and stood at the pool’s edge claiming it for my own, when behind me I heard the question, “mind if I join you?”

Crap.

“Yes, please do,” was my polite response. I slipped into the water and began my crawl stroke. Of course, my new lane buddy must have been an Olympic goal Metalist, slicing past me like a rocket shot out of a cannon. The only thing I saw of her was the fading bottom of her kicking feet.

Halfway through my meager attempt at exercise, the lane next to me lost both of its swimmers, becking me to come hither. I slipped over with the smile of freedom on my face. Just as I made the turn I noticed a mountain size of a man standing at the end of my lane.

CRAP!

I eased right as I approached the end. He leaned over and politely asked permission to join me. “Yes, please do,” I repeated, making me question my own honesty. Requesting permission is more about etiquette; to alert the other swimmer to one’s presence, to avoid collision and the potential of broken bones. My new lane buddy was more like an out-of-control washing machine, threatening to swamp me each time we passed.

Needless to say, when I finished, I dragged my sorry excuse of a lap swimmer out the pool and found serenity under a refreshing hot shower.

—

Common Meal was a tradition at United. During orientation it was held daily. During the school year, it was held every Wednesday at noon, following 11 am chapel. Faculty, staff, and students were strongly encouraged to attend. Over food we would grow to know one another, explore the latest lecture or book, talk about papers that were due, or just enjoy each other’s company. Our diversity invited us to challenge our personal beliefs, faith, and culture. Women and ordination, sexuality, doctrine, and the next General Conference (the global gathering of Clergy and lay delegates that speaks definitively for the United Methodist Church) were common topics about the tables.

I so loved sitting at Dr. McCabe’s table for Common Meal. He was an ideal model for a parish pastor, far different from my experience with my father. Being a preacher’s kid (PK for short) meant your father was also your pastor, definitely a conflict of interest, especially when it came to personal questions and confessions.

Dr. McCabe was proper. He spoke with clarity. He stood and sat as if he was schooled in a military academy. He knew his specialty through and through, presented at international conferences, publish widely, and spoke of prominent scholars on a first name basis. He probably knew the Lord’s first name.

At the conclusion of our first Common Meal, we were sorted into Core Groups; a collection of eight diverse students, matched with a professor and with a prominent pastor of one of the large local churches. Dr. Kathleen Farmer, a professor of Old Testament and Don, Brethren pastor, served as our leaders.

Core Groups were required to meet weekly for all three years of our seminary experience. We discussed the classes we were taking, classes we wanted to take, challenges in our student churches or community agencies, shared devotions and prayer, and often didactics (word-for-word renditions of our work experiences).

The curriculum’s expectation was that first year students would work in a social services agency, second year students would serve as a student pastor in a local congregation, and the third year was reserved for time to complete CPE. A Federal work study program allowed each eligible student to work for $5 an hour for up to 20 hours a week at a community agency. That was enough to buy groceries and put gas in the car.

That first week we visited at least three agencies who were willing to take on student interns. My first visit would be sufficient. Eastway Community Mental Health Agency (https://www.eastway.org/) caught my attention. I ended up working for Eastway all three years of seminary, granting me a deeper understanding of the human condition and the previously unknown world of mental health.

Eastway was a large agency, led by a United alumnus, that served people with mental health concerns. It offered short term in patient treatment, drop in centers for individuals with chronic disease, a battered women’s shelter, a crisis center, individual and group counseling, and probably a whole lot of other things I never knew about.

Crisis Services provided intervention, stabilization, and referral 24/7/365, on the phone, on scene, or at one of our offices. We had the contract to conduct psychiatric assessments at all nine city hospitals, Dayton Police Department, and the Montgomery County Sheriff’s department. If it was breaking news at 11 pm, there was probably an Eastway counselor present to talk the person off the ledge. I had been a math major, with a concentration in computer science. What was I doing working in a 24/7 crisis center working with homicidal or suicidal people?

Eastway would change my life in profound ways, giving me the skills and tools to conduct comprehensive clinical psychiatric assessments, deescalate conflict, establish control out of chaos, and respond with newly discovered empathy towards others. I’d learn to become the Quiet in the midst of the Storm.

What was I doing at Eastway? Only God would reveal.