I am convinced pastors must be jugglers. Jugglers maintain dexterity and poise while simultaneously keeping several items in constant motion. Bowling pins, balls, knives, and hoops in whatever combination are no problem for the professional juggler. When the opportunity arose to learn juggling at a summer camp, I passed up my afternoon naps just to try. After chasing countless dropped golf balls more miles than I would like to admit, I finally mastered the skill of juggling three golf bells. And my respect for the professional juggler tripled.
My juggling resembled my pastoral prowess. I was able to handle a reasonably limited set of responsibilities without great difficulty, but toss in a fourth or fifth factor, and casualties came raining down like dropped bowling pins. To confound things, I shifted pastoral roles from leading youth in a large metropolitan Church to pastoring a small church in an agricultural market town. It was then that I decided more than ever that pastors must be jugglers.
Rurbia
After moving to Dixon, California, a town of about 5,500 residents whose major claims to fame rest in tomatoes and a now-defunct radio range, I discovered a new word: rurban. Dixon, I learned, is a rurban community. It definitely was not the quaint little backwater rural village I expected, and its geographical and political independence kept it from qualifying as a suburb. Rurban communities like Dixon lie somewhere on the nebulous rural-urban fringe.
Rurban towns are populated increasingly by urban refugees seeking a small-town atmosphere close to the advantages of the city. They are a relatively new phenomenon, brought about by dissatisfaction with both city horrors and suburban blandness, combined with the convenience of major transportation corridors for commuters. Change is endemic in rurbia as an influx of outsiders continues. Neighborhoods change, businesses change, the population sign keeps changing, and the churches change. Natives try to comprehend the disaster while hordes of newcomers spoil their quiet, settled ways.
Into the changing rurban scene in Dixon stepped one juggler/pastor—a newcomer—and the odyssey to understanding began. What I have learned about rurban ministry, especially about juggling natives and newcomers, might be helpful to any person pastoring, or even considering pastoring, anywhere near the rural-urban fringe. What follows comes from my frantic research, my limited experience, and my dropped golf balls.
The Natives Are Friendly
Let's begin with the natives; after all, the town did. These are the people who lived in this place when it existed as a rural village. To them, it still is, only overgrown. When I arrived in Dixon their driving appalled me. Turn signals were never used. "Don't need 'em." I soon learned to anticipate a right-hand turn when the driver in front crossed the center line just prior to an intersection. Another thing that irked me was their tendency to stop in the road and talk from car to car. Conversation is important, and the other drivers can just wait a minute.
I spent two years on the staff of a church in Los Angeles, and only once did I meet a parishioner outside the church. Here, I can't even drive into town on an errand without waving like a politician and chatting with everyone in the parking lot. When I first arrived, I walked into the bank and the manager I had not yet met greeted me by name. My misaddressed mail even ended up at my correct address. The natives are certainly friendly.
Then I went to the church and settled into my office. To me, an office is a refuge, a place to work. The door may be open for the sake of friendliness, but one knocks before entering. Not so! The pastor's in Dixon was first of all the customary way to get to the secretary's office; second, it was a great place to gather and gossip. In the middle of serious study, during marriage counseling, or while I was on the phone, I learned to expect the door to be flung open with a cheery, "Don't want to disturb you, but I just wanted to slip into the office. And by the way, did you know that Arlene is going to Kansas this summer …?"
I had to re-think my time expectations. A major asset for a successful rurban pastor lies in his ability to relate personally with others. The natives demand it. Personal contact, genuine friendliness, and time to just chat rate high. Tile pastor cut from an urbanefficiency mold experiences problems if he does not take great pains to adapt. The busy ones with a full calendar will put off the person who drops by to chat only to find the minister buried in books behind a closed office door. The task-oriented rather than people-oriented pastor will be misunderstood and will feel frustrated. Conversations and interruptions eat up his time. His day has no pace. Until I realized that rurban ministry demands different ministry expectations, I felt like a digital quartz watch among cuckoo clocks.
The town natives feel besieged by the changes in their community. They want their church, at least, to reflect some of the old values which they cherish. I agree. This rurban pastor is learning that rurban ministry is close ministry. People must be allowed to interrupt my day. The other day I found myself stopping in the middle of the road to talk with a friend. The other cars could wait.
Stalking the Mobile Newcomer
Rurban towns are brimming with another variety of citizen—the newcomer. These urban refugees flock to the quality of life they seek in semi-rural America. They lend the town its rurban rather than rural flavor. More urban than rural, more accustomed to change, more uprooted from family ties, and more contemporary in outlook, these people present a contrast to the natives. And yet they seek at least some of the same values.
After I had lived in Dixon a short time, a new housing tract began filling with rurban pilgrims. A family visited the church and showed some interest. I resolved to visit them soon to acquaint them with our ministry. However, the resolve was washed away in sermon preparation, counseling, funerals, and chats in my office-thoroughfare, and soon a few weeks had passed.
On one of those rare Saturday afternoons when my sermon was put to bed early, I decided to call on their new home. They were friendly, but it was obvious that I had missed an opportunity. The wife summed it up with the statement, "We had considered getting started at your church, but Bob joined a slow-pitch team, I am volunteering at the library, and we are gone skiing most week-ends."
I found that Dixon had a steady influx of new people who created great opportunities for evangelism, but the opportunity with each family was brief. Very easily they settled into new patterns, new routines, and a mammoth activity schedule. For some reason they moved to Dixon for other purposes than joining my church. They hardly knocked down the narthex doors seeking admission. If we were to expect newcomers to find their way into our church, we would have to court them.
Our church has existed since day one in Dixon. All the old timers knew who we were and when we met for worship. Because of this, the only sign was a twelve-year-old temporary sign partially hidden behind an overgrown shrub. It looked like we were daring the newcomers to deduce who we were. "If you can figure out what church this is and when we meet, you might possibly be welcome." We remedied that with a new sign in a prominent place; but before that sign went up, some people had to be convinced that not everybody already knew all about us.
We began to cater to the newcomers. Lesson number two for us rurban pastor: Newcomers provide great opportunities for healthy growth, but they must be actively courted soon after their arrival. Rurban ministry proves a constantly challenging ministry.
Us Versus Them
Newcomers do find their way into the churches. Some are invited by alert neighbors and co-workers, some are regular church-goers who take the time to find a new church home, and others are people ready to take some new steps with their new living situation. Church growth people tell us that persons who have recently moved are primed for conversion. Some members of our church worked to harvest the ripe fruit, and before long we found the church growing.
Then a funny thing happened. At the end of a budget year we found ourselves with a $10,000 surplus. Not in anyone's recent memory had that happened at this church. At the congregational meeting a motion carried to give part of it to relief and missions work—but not without some debate. And after the checks were written, no small controversy arose within the congregation. Some persons, mainly Dixon natives, felt the money should have been used solely for local concerns. It was largely the less parochial newcomers who voted through the measure originally. The natives' unspoken assumption was "The money was raised by us, but it was spent by them." The "us versus them" disease runs rampant in rurbia.
When newcomers first start arriving in rural communities, they are usually warmly accepted by the natives, who are delighted that rural depopulation is being reversed. Their fears of a dying town are put to rest. However, as more and more newcomers flood into the community, the natives become uneasy. It appears that the town is not just getting bigger, it is becoming different. For the native, slightly bigger is healthy, but different is anathema. In the churches, which are intensely personal institutions with great emotion invested, this phenomenon spells trouble.
I am fortunate that in my congregation the winds of change have blown fair. The natives and new-comers have, for the most part, treated one another with friendship, charity, and respect; but it has proven wise to facilitate dialogue between the two parties. On one occasion I stirred up a hornets' nest with a sermon about funerals. I noticed a great many of the funerals I performed also involved fraternal organizations. After sharing one service with men dressed as Indians and participating in another service where my previous week's sermon on salvation by grace was undone, I stated my personal preference for Christian services separate from fraternal rites. This newcomer pastor had failed to understand how deeply these organizations were embedded in the heart of the rural natives. I greatly upset them. It was only after a session explaining my sermon and clearing the air the next Sunday that we could again work as friends. It became a near miss rather than a real conflict because we talked it out together.
Rurban ministry is a changing ministry. Lesson number three: Avert "us versus them" conflicts by resolving them openly before they divide people. Conflicts easily happen in a church composed of diverse natives and newcomers, but Christians of good will can resolve the problems when they meet face to face and heart to heart.
The Great Pew Stink
And then we moved the choir pews. The church originally was designed for the choir to be seated behind the pulpit, somewhat shielded by a low curtain. However, a last-minute design change positioned them on the side where their sound is largely lost. The thought has circulated for years that they really should be on the platform behind the pulpit. So, to see how it would sound, we moved the choir pews onto the chancel for a trial period. I may never hear the end of that one. One elderly lady solemnly informed me that she simply could not come back to worship until we moved the choir back to the side. She was genuinely and deeply distressed. Another accused us of worshiping the choir. The next Sunday the choir quietly reassembled on the side, where it sings today.
Such a controversy can arise in any church, but the rurban church is particularly susceptible because of the rampant changes taking place. As growth occurs, as new leaders arrive on the scene, as the balance shifts from natives to newcomers, the congregation becomes a time bomb waiting to explode. Therefore, caution is due at tins point; rurban ministry most often is a costly ministry for the pastor. In a time of church change, people often react against the pastor. From ancient times, when the messenger who brought word of military defeat was put to death, the leader of changing organizations has borne the brunt of criticism, ill will, and hostility.
I saw it happen. Fresh from seminary and full of promise, Brad assumed the pastorate of a small, rurban church. Unknown to him, the church was dominated by a single extended family whose patriarch controlled its affairs. Brad was a sensitive and gifted pastor who excelled at his task. He began a Bible study which attracted many new persons to the church, and he fulfilled his pastoral role in a way no one could fault.
No one, that is, except the congregational kingpin. He distrusted the growing batch of newcomers swelling the church roll and nervously eyed his lesser splash in a bigger puddle. Within eighteen months it came to a showdown, and Brad felt compelled to resign. When Brad left, a sizable group of the younger members also dropped out and formed a new church. The old church continues, the new church is thriving, and Brad sold shoes for a while before returning to seminary to prepare for an academic career. Brad paid the price of change in that church. It can be a bitter pill to swallow.
I have found it important to keep my perspective. I need a reference group to remind me of my blind spots, and I need the support of fellow pastors to hold me together through the rough spots. The rurban town is generally too small and the communication channels too porous for most rurban pastors to find their support from congregational members. Although a cross-section of folks from the congregation keep me on track in my ministry directions, my support comes from out-of-town friends and fellow pastors. Another possibility is for a rurban pastor to be adopted by the staff of a nearby larger church where he can enjoy the staff interaction and support. We are not superpastors. We bleed when we are hurt. We need one another. Since deep-felt, personal needs are often bulldozed along with the developing rurban landscape, rurban ministry becomes too costly for us to wear the mask of the Lone Ranger.
The Land of Opportunity
All is not bleak in rurbia. In fact, in many ways rurbia is the land of opportunity. In a little over three years in Dixon, I have watched the town grow from 5,500 to 8,000. The church has swelled by a third in that same period of time, even without any great efforts for growth. It is exhilarating to live and work in a modestly growing community. New people new options, new services, and new opportunities appear overnight. This makes rurbia an exciting field of ministry. The sky is the limit.
Because of the unique problems and opportunities of rurban ministry, however, let me venture a few observations on the kinds of attitudes best suited for rurban parish ministry. Since the rurban phenomenon only recently arrived on the coattails of other social factors, rurban specialists have not yet appeared. We are on our own in this field. The person well-versed in urban and suburban ministry, or even the expert on rural parish life will find rurbia a different ball game. I have found that my unique pastoral task is to translate the rurban transition for the church, and to move the church forward into its new and expanded role in the community. Therefore, first I must understand rurban characteristics. I dare not approach rurban ministry with the same set of assumptions I bring from other contexts. I must keep up with the changes taking place in rurbia.
Second, I must be the detergent which makes oil and water mix. The natives and newcomers will not naturally gravitate toward one another. I need to stand between the two groups, drawing them into interaction as sensitively as possible. To some extent, I must personally identify with both groups, seeking to understand their feelings and translating them between groups. I know that eventually the natives will lose their church. It will finally become so different from the rural church it once was that the old church will cease to exist. It is inevitable, but it need not be brutal. The rights of the natives need a champion, even when the natives comprise a small minority. On the other hand, I must also work to keep the newcomers from being shut out by the natives. I am peacemaker, bridge-builder, interpreter, advocate.
I like Dixon. And this is the final consideration for prospective rurban pastors. They must like rurbia. It's not hard. For the same reasons that people are streaming to rurbia, I enjoy my surroundings. I appreciate the home-town atmosphere, the nearby open space, the friendly character of the town, the opportunities to be personally involved in town life, the lack .of urban crime and pollution, and the easy pace of life. Rurban ministry, although never a hideout from the sometimes harsh realities of ministry can afford a large measure of satisfaction. The pastor who escapes the native-newcomer scissors, who even dulls their edges a bit, and who savors the unique opportunities in rurbia will thrive. You might say that rurban ministry is a choice ministry.
I am still learning to juggle better, but I like it more and more. Sometimes I now add a flourish for effect but sometimes I still drop the ball. I am not yet able to handle every ball tossed my way, but I am learning to put as many aloft as possible. I have found that the rurban stage is not the place for hotheads or fumblefingers; irenic spirits and informed practitioners perform best. Rurban ministry appears to be the growing stage of the future. Does anyone care to juggle with me?
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