Staying Sharp in a Small Town - Christianity Today

Two years ago we moved from the Chicago suburbs to northern Minnesota—a major cultural adjustment.

Driving through town recently, I approached a four-way stop. The cross-traffic sat passively, watching me slow down and come to a complete stop before starting out. As I waited I complained to my son, "Can you believe it? They sit and wait when they could have gone, and now I have to wait for them."

"Well, Dad," Nathan said coolly, "this isn't Chicago, you know."

He was right. In a small town, sometimes you have to wait. Accepting a different pace of life here has been a significant part of maintaining my ministry edge.

When I lived in metropolitan areas, I found numerous opportunities for sharpening ministry skills. I had my pick of seminars, seminaries, consultants, libraries, large churches, and creative colleagues. Progressive business people and entrepreneurs stretched and challenged me with their big ideas.

Now, I'm back in a small town, and I sometimes feel like I'm losing my edge. It's not the size of the town that dulls me, it's how I respond to my setting. But I've discovered I can grow intellectually and spiritually even in a climate that pressures me to reduce my vision to suit the lowest common denominator. This means countering two prevailing attitudes.

"We know best."

Small-town pride is legendary. We cheer for our school teams. We stand together against out-of-towners.

However, local pride can stifle fresh input. Recently, after our church building committee had examined the options, I felt it was time to recruit someone to stretch our thinking. The idea of bringing in a consultant, however, raised resistance.

"Three years ago we spent $16,000 to bring in a fundraising expert," said one deacon. "It was a waste of time and money. He didn't do anything we couldn't have done ourselves. We don't need so-called experts from the outside! We know our situation better than they do."

Many value stability and foundations far more than change and progress. When I encounter such fears, I'm forced to slow down. I acknowledge the church's history. Then I can begin resuscitating the discussions with courage and faith, gradually moving the group toward consensus. The extra effort is essential. My goal: to show that bankruptcy of ideas—not budget—is the more dangerous condition.

"Good enough is good enough."

This attitude will dull my edge unless I resist it. When members are satisfied with less than their best, I can't afford to let my standards slip.

It's fine to be "laid back," but I've caught myself becoming too easily satisfied, justifying a weak effort as "good enough."

That frightens me.

And that motivates me to work on my edge again. Often I'll give pep talks to our leaders or teachers: "Excellence is our goal in all we do. We must offer our best." They think I'm challenging them, but the truth is I'm working on myself.

Demanding excellence can raise eyebrows. Some believe they're already doing their best. Others suspect anything that smacks of professionalism—"quenching the Spirit," they say. "Make it good, do it well, but don't get carried away."

One children's worker told my wife one day, "I can't practice for the children's drama this week, but I'll come 15 minutes early on Sunday." That's good enough, he implied. I hope we can move him to raise his standards.

Honing the edge

Here's how I'm trying to counter the tendency to accept half-hearted, mediocre efforts.

Cut with the grain, not against it.

I stay sharper longer when I work with people, not against them. To do that, I have to understand their culture and mindset.

Last Christmas I borrowed an innovative idea from a friend in Detroit, building a series of messages off themes in three holiday classics—It's a Wonderful Life, Miracle on 34th Street, and A Christmas Carol. I wanted to show video clips to start each sermon. My wife, Sharon, reminded me that northern Minnesota is not Detroit. "If you show movie clips three weeks in a row," she cautioned, "they'll be too upset to hear your message."

I took her advice and backed off.

I didn't feel as creative simply retelling the film themes. But I have to remember the culture I'm in and cut with the cultural grain instead of against it.

Leave hatchet jobs to lumberjacks.

It doesn't take a scalpel to cut butter. Likewise I can go too far in trying to stay sharp. In a small town especially, I must guard against a sharper image damaging my relationships and my effectiveness.

Years ago when I first started preaching, I would quote from the Greek text. I wasn't aware that I was trying to impress anybody, but that was often how it was interpreted in a rural setting. If I develop a superior attitude toward the people I serve, I forfeit my right to be heard. The key is to affirm the effectiveness I see.

Jim, one of our deacons, doesn't apologize for his folksy style. He's a lumberjack, but a modern one. Swede saws and axes are not the primary tools of his trade anymore. Jim owns a machine that pinches trees off at the base, strips off their branches, and stacks them, all in one operation. It's worth $250,000—and he bought it used!

When I joke with him about letting me take a turn at the wheel, he only laughs. We both know he's the expert. I think it's because I have respect for him that he's always affirmed me in my role as pastor.

When I appreciate people like Jim for their skills and expertise, I gain their confidence. That earns me the right to be heard in my area of expertise.

Sharpen slowly, cut carefully.

A church-growth consultant once told me about two approaches to changing people's thinking: "You can change things like a hurricane," he said. "It's fast, but with lots of collateral damage. Or you can influence like a prevailing wind. It's not as dramatic, but things hold together better."

Once, in an attempt to revitalize the adult teaching in our small Sunday school, I pushed for a change in format and focus. After all, the class configuration hadn't been adjusted in nearly 25 years.

"Our 'Adults' class is really for seniors and our 'Young Adults' includes people who are nearly 60," I argued. "Let's create a new class for young couples in their twenties."

My determined lobbying accomplished nothing. The two adult teachers felt threatened by my suggestions, which soon withered. A year later, however, God began to stir some people toward practical Bible study on topics of interest to young couples. I saw the Spirit do the work. The classes moved easily toward a fresh restructuring.

I try to remember that when I'm tempted to force my goals, to move ahead of God. I'm not being sharp when I do that, I'm just being stubborn.

Attitudes are different in a small town, but I can stay sharp in ministry—and help the church maintain its cutting edge—when I respect our small-town culture and allow God to bring the people along at their own pace.

Richard Doebler is senior pastor of the Cloquet Gospel Tabernacle 1400 Washington Ave. Cloquet MN 55720 cgtab@juno.com