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I am a rural pastor

Lutheran, The, Oct 2004 by Gibbs, Randall

This is my calling. I will stay where I am planted, a tree in the desert.

Worship is over, and I turn off the ceiling fans. I can almost smell the chicken baking in the oven. Shutting off the air conditioner, I walk across the alley to the parsonage to enjoy the meal.

As a rural pastor, I do what all clergy do. Once Sunday dinner is consumed, next week's worship looms large on the horizon. People of word and sacrament have called me to administer these among them. It's a task I take seriously.

Rural life has an ebb and flow-of nature and its seasons, of planting and harvesting, spring and fall. It's reflected in next week's worship rolling around again, ordering our life together as God's people in this place.

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What I do in my calling this week may be different than my colleagues in other ministries, but not significantly-except in miles traveled and hours spent in the car. My parish is large, not in numbers but in geographical boundaries.

I'm part of a new ministry called Prairie Faith. Six congregations on the Kansas prairie have joined to share ministry with one another. I'm lucky: Another pastor and an intern work with me. It keeps already long windshield time from becoming overwhelming.

Such a ministry is necessary today. I've served two small rural congregations-about 10 years at St. Peter Lutheran, an open country church near Byron, Neb.; and nearly 15 years at Bethlehem Lutheran, WaKeeney, Kan. I've just finished a year under call to Prairie Faith, of which Bethlehem is a member.

Rural communities, once the church's strength, are much smaller now, thus our congregations have fewer members. Jobs are few. Young people go where there is work. Communities and congregations are grayer now, like their pastor.

But the people here, those I see in the hospital and the families of those I have buried, are familiar with this life. They clearly see the importance of next Sunday's worship in ordering days and weeks. Most take it as seriously as I do.

Why I stay

I'm a rural pastor. Many, including other Lutheran pastors, ask: "Why do you stay there?" It's an excellent question, one rural people deal with daily. It's our home. It's where we live, love and serve our Lord. We choose this lifestyle and its values-and choose to pass this life on to our children.

"But what is there to do there?" I hear. "There is nothing out there." For many it seems like a wilderness, like living in a desert. Yet there is an abundance of life in the desert. You only need to be still and keep your eyes open.

I think of the desert fathers and mothers, less about their ascetic spirituality than that they stayed out there so far away from civilization. It's not that I'm not tempted to leave. St. Mark's By The Mall offers a better compensation package. The fear that my next paycheck will be in chickens and fresh garden produce lurks, clucking in my ear.

"You couldn't pay me enough to do that job," I sometimes hear. And it's true, they can't. But I stay. Many of us do. Visions of sugarplums may dance in our heads, but we remain. Demons assault us and the political system ignores us, but we stay.

Like everyone else we get ill, and we have to go farther and farther to get treatment. As time goes on we face death or the nursing home, but we do it with our families so far away that loneliness and isolation can be fierce. The economy isn't in our favor either. The church doesn't want to talk about pension equalization for those who serve here and may want to remain after they retire. But this, too, is the way of it, the context in which I do ministry.

God has called me here, and I love to serve God in this place, among these people. There is something wonderful about singing a favorite song-and meaning it: "These are the ones we will serve, these are the ones we will love; all these are neighbors to us and you" (With One Voice, 765).

So after dinner I take time to plan before I'm off to the nursing homes and a few hospital calls. I'll get a few things done in the office tomorrow. The rest of the week will be spent driving to a nearby town for text study and a Wednesday full of Bible study groups. There are nursing home services and worship to plan. The car needs service again.

I'll visit the woman who lost her husband a few weeks ago and the man who lost his wife this week. They live at opposite ends of the parish. With four weddings this month at various churches, I have planning meetings to schedule. Family events, study, office work, prayer and phone calls fill the spaces. But first... a short nap.

Deep roots

I love parish ministry in a rural setting. It's my calling. I'll stay where I'm planted. A tree in the desert is a blessing and a source of life. I hope to be such a blessing to my parishioners as I point to the source of their life and salvation, Jesus our Lord.

A tree that is continually transplanted will bear little fruit. It takes time to root deeply. I've served this community for 15 years. I'm still a newcomer to many. To others I'm a part of the family. I may be the first or the last one they call in time of need. Either way, I often ponder what I'm doing here. At times I believe my parishioners are thinking (and no doubt saying), "This tree has borne no fruit. Cut it down; it's taking up space." When I think this, I remember the desert fathers who said that wanting to leave is the best reason to stay.

I am a rural pastor

Lutheran, The, Oct 2004 by Gibbs, Randall

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