In the glow of summer’s setting sun, I can sit on my front step and could, if not for the slight incline in the street, see the full length of the town. The road is lined with more than a dozen unpretentious homes, some that are well kept, others not as much. To my left is the gas station; behind that is the fire department, a local diner that doubles as the meeting place for the farmers on any given morning, and the post office we walk to daily. To my right is a hospital, founded by the community doctor and sustained through several decades by dedicated men and women.

Across from that is the football field and district high school. The highest structure that adorns the evening sky is the weatherworn water tower upon which you can almost make out the letters that spell “Winchester.” The town is not built to impress, but in the words of Granville Hicks as he described his own setting, it is “comfortable and homelike—not dignified, not impressive, certainly not beautiful, but not unattractive.” This is a snapshot of the small town I am glad to call home.

Against first impressions, however, it is not Mayberry. The idyllic small town is being reconfigured as it slowly erodes into the landscape of increasing suburbanism, globalization, and agricultural mechanization. Rural communities are facing unprecedented concerns about their future sustainability. And, as they do, so does the rural church. In the last quarter of a century, countless churches with longstanding histories and legacies have had to close their doors. Those that remain face uncertainty if the Lord of the harvest tarries.

Nevertheless, the impetus for the continuation of the rural church is nothing less than the gospel of Jesus Christ. Our perseverance is motivated by the King’s directive to go to the “highways and hedges and compel people to come in.” I do not intend this article to be persuasive in nature. As much as I wish I could convince citydwellers to make the exodus from urban centers and strengthen what is growing weak, the nature of this article, if it is to be helpful at all, will be an honest description of what I perceive, after a year and a half of gospel ministry, to be some of the unique challenges facing small town ministry. While rural America has been the subject of sociological research, there is an almost embarrassing lack of reflection from the church on rural ministry. Maybe this will be one step in remedying this neglected topic.

Attitude of the Church

Perhaps the greatest challenge to rural ministry is the attitude of the broader church. For some time urban ministry has been in vogue. Excitable young men and women are being transplanted to densely populated areas with a vision for the city; denominational institutions and ministries strategize and prioritize the metropolitan; how-to-manuals of planting and growing churches have a nearly exclusive view to urban and suburban soil; and the practical ministry courses of seminaries are suited more to the needs and context of the city.

In contrast to this, few seem to value a place and vision for the rural church. In my own experience I have commonly encountered those who were taken aback by a decision to minister in a rural area, almost responding with a degree of sympathy. It seems fair to say the broader church expects very little from rural congregations. Our young people seldom consider rural America a mission field, men in the pastorate have a tendency to treat the rural church as a steppingstone to real and purposeful ministry, and, in denominations where pastoral calls are appointed, the best and brightest are usually reserved for the city.

One must wonder what factors led to this. Surely they are diverse, and to reason from effect to cause is beyond my scope. Suffice to say, as American essayist Wendell Berry opined, “The message that country people get from their churches, then, is the same message they get from ‘the economy’: that, as country people, they do not matter much and do not deserve much consideration.” It led Berry to conclude that in the mind of the modern church “the soul of the plowboy ain’t worth as much as the soul of the delivery boy.” But the Great Commission still propels us into all of creation to preach the gospel—even the flyover zone.

Community-Centric

Shortly before moving to Winchester I received a kind correspondence from someone in the community—not a member of the church—welcoming me and my family to the area. Something he said left a lasting impression on the way I view ministry. He said, “The Presbyterian pastor has often become the community pastor.”

In rural areas there is a strong and inescapable sense of commitment to the community. Historian Lewis Atherton wrote that many Midwest small towns were created around complex personal and group relationships giving the whole a sense of togetherness. Even though our society is becoming increasingly individualized, still there is a sense of community in the small town. We exist in a close-knit web of participation. You know your neighbor in a number of significant ways. Those we call friends and family, the people we interact with on committees, boards, organizations, and social events, may be the local mechanic, banker, hardware store manager, real estate agent, dentist, post office employee, funeral director, accountant, waitress, school district superintendent, or the teachers and staff of the local school.

This is the sphere in which the small town church is called to do ministry. Unlike some of our urban counterparts, we do not have the latitude to define the parameters of our demographic. We must work within the community around us. Even as we strive to maintain our confessional Presbyterian identity being faithful to the marks of the church, we must, at the same time, be in sync with the rhythms of the community. If we do not want a damaged witness, we must show ourselves to be a vital and contributing factor to the whole. To put this simply, our interaction with the community can never be mere theory that operates on a trial-and-error basis; it is our day-to-day living.

Visibility

Prior to graduating seminary, I interned at a church in Indianapolis. Every year they spend a worthwhile evening knocking on doors and introducing themselves to their neighbors. I was struck, when I did this, by the number of people who, though they lived only a few blocks away, were not familiar with the church—either its building or people. Many urban churches, lost in the numbers and overshadowed by high-rises, struggle to overcome invisibility. That is not a shared challenge for the rural church.

Our church building sits on the north end of town along one of six roads that lead into Winchester—three of which are still gravel. It is directly across the street from the gas station and bank, and is in close proximity to other local establishments. It is not at the center of the community, but its visibility is undeniable. I do not think there is a person in town who does not know where the Presbyterian church is.

Of course, the church is not a building; it is people. One can have a visible building and still have an invisible membership. But the nature of a small town makes that difficult as well. Through participating in the school district, selling real estate, doing construction, volunteering for the fire department, coaching, working with hospice, helping at food pantries, sitting on the school or hospital board, and engaging in state politics, we have men, women, and children who are very visible in the community.

We are grateful for this stewardship of visibility. After all, as Christians we are salt and light. But it also has its own challenges for our ministry. One of the first people I invited to church said to me, “Yep, I know when you meet and where you are, and there is a reason I am not there.” As a congregation we are beyond mere introductions with our neighbors. In interacting with those around us we must learn how to transform our visibility into intentional witness, and to do so among a community who are not ignorant of our church but often have good or bad reasons for not being a part of our body.

History

Stenciled on our stained glass windows are the names and years of the pastors who served the congregation. This line of men testifies to the Lord’s faithfulness over almost a century and a half of gospel ministry. Like many rural churches, ours is one with a long history. Much of that history is good. The local newspaper in the early part of the 20th Century bears witness that, “[with] earnest devotion to religious profession [they are] a worthy example for other denominations,” a congregation that “cannot be surpassed in generosity and kindness,” and one who was “on the firing lines in the great fight the King’s army is waging against sin.”

It would not be honest or believable to say we have a spotless history. No church does. However, longevity comes in an areas like ours. Small towns do not experience the same degree of transition and flux as the city. In 5, 10, 0r 15 years the demographics of neighborhoods and communities in urban areas can change drastically. In Winchester, neighbors remember the who, what, and where that has shaped our present.

The challenge that introduces to the ministry is that we cannot bide our time until the wrinkles of our history are not remembered, nor can we hit the reset button with each new generation. In a real sense we inherit our past and that past defines us in the community—including the hurt, offense, and frustration that may have been passed down.


More could be said, but despite these and other challenges I have a great hope for the rural church. Our incentive for ministry is not what is new, novel, or popular, nor is the building up of the church to be driven by the economy or societal trends. What motivates the grand mission of the church—in the city or in the country—is the Lamb who is worthy to receive the reward of His suffering. As long as He has a people to call to Himself, let us go into all creation and preach the gospel. The fields are ripe for the harvest; let us pray for laborers.


—Kyle Borg

Kyle Borg is pastor at Winchester, Kan., RPC. He and his wife, Rachel, have four children: Evelyn, Judah, Aletta, and Mabel. Kyle enjoys reading, fishing, board games, and times with family and friends.