The country road was hilly and winding as I drove to candidate at two rural churches/ The scenery was beautiful, with only an occasional house to break up the pastoral landscape. There were no shopping malls, no closely built housing developments. On this quiet Sunday morning I passed only one other car.
I did however expect to see some indication that I was re-entering civilization before I got to the first church. But there were no gas stations, no stores, no side streets. Suddenly the church appeared. It sat off by itself, surrounded by tall trees and a spacious lawn. Cars were parked around the dirt driveway. The building was quaint and small, very different from any church I had attended.
The service went well, and eventually I accepted the call to pastor this country church and its yoked neighbor five miles away. I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. But I was not overly concerned, since I had a varied church background. I had actively participated in a large multi-staff city church. I had worked in a medium sized small town church. So I thought two small rural churches would not present any problems I had not already encountered.
“Who’s in Charge?”
A year after I arrived, as the honeymoon period drew to a close, the first major conflict arose. The church that owned the manse received some inheritance money, and decided to put it toward renovating the manse. Besides a new kitchen, bathroom, and carpet, the possibility of installing a wood-coal stove in the useless fireplace was discussed. Since the church was responsible for paying the heating bills, it seemed to be a simple and prudent way to cut down on rising fuel costs. The idea was especially attractive because of the abundant supply of wood and coal in the area.
The various improvements were presented well ahead of the congregational meeting, and no one voiced any opposition. At the meeting, each improvement was explained. There was little discussion, just a few questions about the budget figures. The entire list of improvements was unanimously approved.
The next week, however, I received a phone call from a member. Could I please come over and talk? When I arrived, she sat me down and politely explained that some women in the church thought it would be a shame to ruin a carpet with a wood-coal stove. Would I please cancel the stove and prevent any unnecessary commotion?
I was a bit taken back by this request and explained that a congregational vote had been taken, no dissent had been registered, and I had neither the authority nor the desire to alter a congregational decision.
I continued to receive phone calls from other members throughout the week. Each one had heard that Mrs. So-and-So was very upset about the stove. I offered to meet with anyone who wanted to discuss the matter after church the next Sunday. I explained again, to the seven who stayed, that I could not change anything. Proper church channels would have to be used to reverse the decision. Still, they repeated their objections to the stove. When I asked them why they had been silent at the congregational meeting, they replied, “No one likes to get up in front of everyone and make a fuss.”
The phone calls continued after this meeting, and the pressure increased. Finally, the session decided to put the money for the stove into additional kitchen improvements, and a crisis was averted.
The furor over the wood-coal stove initiated me into the way decisions are often made in a small rural church. The majority of members have belonged to the church for most of their lives; consequently they have a strong sense of ownership. Members who do not approve of something feel free to take matters into their own hands. In a larger church, the vocal minority is not as powerful. Three vocal members are less noticeable in a congregation of 200 than in a congregation of 50.
I was familiar from my other church situations with chronic questioners. But I was not prepared for the effect they can have in a small church. In two or three phone calls, the church government can be brought to a standstill. The issue of who controls the church—the dissenters or the pastor and the church board—becomes a tug of war.
The war becomes intensified because rural churches simply cannot afford to lose members. I discovered this when the sessions of both my churches decided, at my suggestion, to use a modern version of the Lord’s Prayer. Many people commented favorably on the change. One member, however, suddenly refused to come to church. He let it be known that he would not return until the traditional version was restored. I received the usual phone calls informing me of the member’s disapproval, urging me to change the prayer. The session then took a preference poll to gauge congregational opinion. Several people told me they preferred the modem version but voted for the traditional version because the member had threatened to leave. The traditional version was reinstated, and the next Sunday the delinquent member was back in church.
At another time I approached the church about trimming the rolls. The idea met great resistance. Mr. Smith might never come to church or contribute in any way, they reasoned, but if the church was in a real pinch he might help out if he were still a member. The limited resources of a yoked church can make otherwise efficient plans of action unthinkable. Even replacing an old church sign was resisted for fear of creating hard feelings in the people who built it thirty years ago.
“That Won’t Work Here.”
When a rural, yoked church looks in the mirror, it sees a church that is always struggling to meet the budget, frequently without a pastor, and perennially worried about declining membership. From this picture crippling feelings of low self-worth can arise, sometimes strangling inherent strengths. At these low points the church fears it will never amount to anything. Consequently, low expectations take the place of dreams and goals. The difficulty of finding and keeping a good minister underscores this fear, and the constant shortage of money gives further evidence. “We barely meet our yearly budget now. How could we ever afford a part-time secretary, or a dependable organist, or a vital youth program?”
After I had been at the two churches for a month, one elder’s relatives came for a visit and attended church. The elder mentioned during the next session meeting that one relative had commented, “That new minister won’t last long here. He’s too good.”
That remark was made by an outsider, but a year later at my ordination, a member presented me with a gift in front of both congregations. “We know you won’t stay here long,” he said, “but when you move on, remember us.” In one way these comments are very flattering to hear, but the attitude behind them hinders my ministry. If the church believes that I will not stay for more than two or three years, then it is a waste of time to start a new program, because I won’t be around to help see it through.
On top of this, I realized I was going through culture shock. Without being overseas, I was reaching across my middle-class suburban boundaries into another culture. Instead of station wagons and sports cars, people drove vans and pickup trucks. Instead of tennis and symphonies, they enjoyed hunting and country music. Instead of businessmen and lawyers, I was dealing with farmers and steelworkers. I was the only jogger in town. I dressed differently, and I talked differently.
These distinctions are not necessarily major stumbling blocks. But they can contribute to the quiet politeness of “You just don’t understand.” Being perceived as an outsider can bog down the process of building trust between the pastor and the people. It can increase resistance to new ideas. It can prevent an open relationship between the church board and the minister.
Another difference I had to cope with was the rate of change. A static rural community does not have the rapid change often experienced in the suburbs or city. The roots of people run deep, interlaced with those of their families, neighbors, and friends. Through marriage, everyone is related to someone, whether as a sister, cousin, or brother-in-law. If you were to make a genealogical chart of a small-town family, you’d end up with a briar patch instead of a tree.
It is common in a rural area to be born, get married, and die in the same town. Many church members have known each other since childhood. They have grown up and grown old together. The tradition and permanence people experience in their personal lives is naturally transferred onto the church. They expect the church to stay the same, just as other parts of their lives have.
I became aware of how deep the roots in a person’s life can be when I went to visit a farmer and his family. As we sat in his living room, he proudly related that the house had been built by his greatgrandfather before the Civil War. This farmer also worked the family farm that had been passed down from generation to generation. I was struck by the contrast with my own life. I had moved three times before graduating from high school and every year for the next ten years. I had experienced change of locale, of friends, of interests. For the farmer, change was much slower, much less obvious, like the growth of the large oak tree in the front yard.
In a transient urban culture, change is accepted, for the most part, as a way of life. In the rural community, change is basically distrusted. It is human to prefer things to stay the same, but in a rural church this tendency is accentuated because things have remained the same. Traditions are the anchors of church life. People depend on them. They know they can count on a community-wide Thanksgiving service. They can trust that at six o’clock on Easter morning there will be a sunrise service.
When I began preaching at the two churches, I emphasized the need each Christian has to grow in Christ. I expected them to come and ask how they could begin to change. Instead, the challenge sank like the proverbial lead balloon. People told me they liked my biblical sermons, and they appreciated my focus on Christ. But their comments baffled me when I did not see any desire for spiritual growth.
In reflecting upon it, I realized that they did not feel the need for inward change when their outward lives had remained so constant. The college students with whom I had worked in the city were confronted with a changing world. They were more apt to respond to the call for spiritual change.
Other topics, such as loneliness, alienation, and lack of purpose, met with little response because they did not address the felt needs of the people in church. The agonizing struggle by members of the rat race to find meaning in life is absent. People in a rural community have a calm acceptance about the purpose of their life.
“Why Don’t They Just Merge?”
A small town means a small church, a church that often cannot afford a full-time pastor. When I tell people I pastor two churches that are five miles apart, their response is usually, “Well, for heaven’s sake, why don’t they just merge?” I confess this is exactly what I thought until I saw how different two rural churches can be. In one sermon, I mentioned the difficulties of being a servant when it came to changing my daughter’s diaper. The first church interrupted me, breaking into laughter. At the next church, I said the same thing and paused, waiting for the laughter. There was hardly a smile to be found. A bit flustered, I continued.
From that point on, I began to understand the uniqueness of each church. One is warm and spontaneous, the other is reserved and formal. One is close-knit, the other is casual. One church is open to new ideas, the other church is convinced any idea will fail. Ministering to these two distinct churches means that I cannot totally meet the needs of either church.
With time to prepare only one sermon, I have to aim somewhere in the middle. I cannot tailor the sermon to the needs and problems of one church. I was not fully aware of this drawback until, one Sunday, I had to preach only at the first church. What a sense of freedom to address the particular strengths and weaknesses of that church!
Preaching is not the only area that is limited in a yoked-church situation. Though one church pays two-thirds of my salary, both churches expect the same amount of concern and time. The churches also try to give me identical treatment. Our first Christmas, one church gave us a dinner and presented us with a cash gift. Two weeks later, after hearing about the gift, the other church handed me a check.
Twice as many meetings and twice as many programs mean less time and decreased effectiveness. Every minister struggles with having enough time. Serving a yoked parish, however, is like having twins. The demands on the pastor’s schedule are doubled. I thought combining the churches for special programs would solve part of this problem—until I tried it. At a combined church picnic, 95 percent of the people were from one church.
The result of an overcrowded schedule is the frustration of doing a little bit of everything, but nothing very well. A yoked ministry works best when one church is much larger than the other. Then, the smaller church does not expect much attention. A minister I know has this kind of situation. At the smaller church he preaches and does nothing else. During the week he is free to concentrate fully on the large church.
What To Do?
• I slowly developed some ways of dealing with these unique problems. I’m learning, for instance, to distinguish between significant and insignificant control issues. Conflicts that do not have deep theological implications, like what color should the new sanctuary carpet be, are not worth fighting over. When I suggested cutting down some unwieldy bushes around the church, one member was adamantly opposed to the idea. Rather than create a conflict over such a trivial matter, I quietly let the suggestion drop.
But on important issues, the pastor needs to be firm if he is going to be a strong leader. When I discussed trimming the church rolls with the session, several members were against the idea. This was in spite of the fact that a sizable number of “active” members had not come to any church activity for five or six years. Because I believe church membership must be taken seriously, I persisted. Eventually the rolls were trimmed.
Distinguishing between what is worth fighting for and what is not conserves emotional strength. And now people know that when I do take a stand, it is not because of a personal whim but because of conviction.
• Counteracting the crippling effects of the rural church’s self-image takes more than the wave of a magic wand. A pat on the back is not enough to change an attitude that has not only been present for twenty years but also reinforced by other people. While looking for a minister, the pulpit committee of one yoked church encountered a church official who suggested they give up the search and close the doors. Simply telling that church once that it does have something to offer is not going to erase the belief that it doesn’t.
Over and over, I tell my churches in sermons, in committee meetings, and in individual conversations that I am glad to be their pastor. I take every opportunity to emphasize the potential of the church. I do not hide my enjoyment of the positive aspects of rural living-the close friendships, the deep loyalty to the church, the down-to-earth people. By taking an active part in family celebrations and community activities, I let them know I don’t feel as if I’ve been sentenced to Siberia.
I’ve tried to build their sense of self-worth by encouraging them to take risks. One church needed to put siding on their building immediately. They were used to spending only the cash they had on hand, partly because of a nagging fear they wouldn’t be able to meet the budget. Since they didn’t have enough to cover the expense of siding, they assumed they would have to let the woodpeckers continue their job of destroying the wood frame.
The presbytery offered a loan, and I urged them to accept it. After several heated debates, they finally agreed. Without much effort, the church paid off the loan within the interest-free year. This was amazing, because the sum represented 60 percent of their normal operating budget. This experience, more than verbal compliments, has begun to convince them they have a strong church.
• Taking community involvement seriously is another key to a successful rural pastorate. In a small town, the pastor who does nothing but church work excludes himself from some excellent opportunities to be with people. My ministry has been enlarged by joining the local emergency squad. One of the benefits of this has been meeting people in the community who don’t go to church. It has also given me a chance to work with church members in a nonreligious situation. I’ve gotten to understand the concerns of the town, which has helped me be accepted by the people as one of them. Our family has also taken advantage of an honorary membership at a nearby sports club. Home visitation cannot build the friendships that result from mingling with people on a casual and informal basis.
As for sharing the gospel, incarnational evangelism has proven more effective than a shotgun approach. People who have lived all their lives in one place are skeptical of someone coming in and “dumping” a message on them. But they do respond to a patient example. To do this, I’ve helped renovate a house, assisted a neighbor in stocking his woodpile, and enlisted another man to go jogging with me. While working together, I can communicate to them by actions, rather than just words, that the Christian faith makes a difference in daily life. One person was taken aback by my offer to help him paint his house. “No minister has ever volunteered to help me work before,” he commented.
The hardest thing for a rural pastor can be changing his expectations for church growth. I had been programmed to expect the rapid numerical and spiritual growth often found in suburban churches. I discovered through painful frustration that an eager response to evangelism and discipleship is not as likely to take place in a rural setting. I am slowly learning to accept the churches and their needs for what they are, instead of what I wish they were.
A swedish ivy grows rapidly; you can see it rise month by month. A rubber plant, on the other hand, grows steadily but much more slowly. Ministering in a slow-growing congregation can be difficult because the fruit of the ministry is not immediately visible.
Tact and Patience
Pastoring a yoked church requires the tact and sensitivity of a diplomat. To avoid jealousy and resentment, I’ve tried to care for both churches in the same way. When I plan a special fellowship dinner at one church, I plan one for the other church. I make sure I spend appropriate amounts of time with both churches and don’t play favorites. This does not mean that everything is identical. But outside of normal church routine, the programs for each church are equivalent.
I wasn’t sure if the churches noticed this, or really cared, until one Sunday I preached a particularly exhortative sermon. Afterwards, a member came up and asked, “Did you preach this sermon at the other church?” I could see the wheels turning in her mind like a sibling who hopes her piece of the cake is the same size as her sister’s.
The rural pastor also needs patience. Don’t give up. Ministering in a different culture to two separate churches is a learning experience. Weeding out the workable programs from the duds can only be done through trial and error. If one program doesn’t work, try another way to accomplish the same thing. A weekly Bible study did not work in my churches. The idea of a midweek Sunday school was discouraged by the session. Now I’m going to the women’s group and leading a bimonthly Bible study. It’s the same idea in a different form—but this one works here.
Finding the right ideas takes time. And the impact of one’s ministry may not be visible for several years. I’ve learned that some impatience is inevitable, but prayer helps me deal with that. In this regard, small-church pastors are no different from anyone else engaged in the work of the Kingdom. We pray for revival, for insight, for God’s will. And we pray that the rural church will continue to reach people for Christ.
Copyright © 2012 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal.Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.
