When my dad killed God
My dad, Bill Hamilton, was a beloved divinity school professor. That all changed when God died and we got run out of town.
I grew up on Gregory Hill Road, an unexceptional two blocks of postwar homes in Rochester, New York. In the spring and summer we rode bikes and played baseball. In the fall and winter we raked leaves and shoveled snow. From our street you could look up to the nearby hill to see the Gothic red spires of the tower at the Colgate Rochester Divinity School (now Colgate Rochester Crozer). At Christmas they put a star on the tower, at Easter a cross, and you could hear the bells everywhere in the neighborhood. Many divinity school faculty members and their families lived on Gregory Hill Road, including my mom, five kids, and my dad, theologian William Hamilton.
The divinity school was an important presence in our lives. I remember the echo running down the school halls to Dad’s office, the tuna noodle casserole at the all-school luncheons, the granular soap in the bathrooms, and the spring graduation processional when the faculty walked by in their colorful academic robes. They had a wonderful chapel where Dad performed weddings, and we got great use out of the grassy picnic area at the bottom of the hill.
Everything changed after God died and we got run out of town. Dad, it turns out, killed God.
