The endurance of rural congregations

The
little rural church I serve, along with two other retired clergy, has
two dozen members, if you carefully count everyone whether there or
not.  No one is young.  The church growth gang (now called church
transformation) calls it a declining and dying congregation.  The thing
is, it's been there for over a hundred years and has never had more than
a couple dozen members.  People come, people go, people die, people
come.  Now and then it has tolerated clergy attempting to be full time,
but, for the most part, it has got along fine with a long line of supply
clergy.

Right
now they have the services of three experienced, well respected pastors
who provide both continuity and variety.  A skeptical colleague
wondered out loud about how long they will last when we are gone.  My
guess is at least another hundred years.  Fifty years before I came on
the scene they were served by a local professor who was also an
Episcopal priest.  Others have included clergy skilled in mission work,
new clergy trying out their wings, another professor, and even a high
church priest who may have been the only one who knew what to do with a
maniple. 

That's
all be beside the point.  Small rural congregations don't really depend
on seminary educated clergy.  It's nice to have them, but not a
necessity.  They don't even depend on a flow of new families with young
children.  They do depend on the economic viability of the towns they
are in.  Dying towns beget dying congregations.  But if a town can
sustain itself, an otherwise healthy, small rural congregation will just
keep on going.  It has more to do with the spirit of the place and the
Spirit that fills it than with experts on church growth and
transformation.

What
might be the nature of that Spirit filled spirit?  From what I can
tell, it is the genuine love and care between members, and for the
community, that transcend the petty irritants of small town life in
which there are no secrets.  It's the joy of worshiping whether with or
without music.  It's the making of parish decisions, sometimes with more
than a little contention, right in the midst of a Sunday morning
service.  It's the embrace of whomever comes in the door, no matter who
they are, with a naive lack of awareness that their embrace may be more
than a stranger desires or can stand.  It's the genuine concern for
others in the community who are suffering or in need.

It
requires one more thing. It requires an openness to a subtle indwelling
of the Holy Spirit. By subtle presence I mean an atmosphere of the
Spirit's presence, unseen and unheard, yet there.  I don't think you can
make that happen whether by loud proclamation or through sophisticated
consulting. 
A small rural congregation without that subtle presence may indeed be
declining and dying, and we have all seen that happen.  One with that
subtle presence will probably continue from generation to generation as
long as there are generations to be had. 

Originally posted at Country Parson.