The Rural Voice, 1992-03, Page 23community and the school is the
heart. The general store and black-
smith shops were the social centres,"
said John Brown who, for 75 years,
has clung to his small Presbyterian
church at the tiny riverbank hamlet of
Motherwell in Perth County. He has
performed practically every duty in
the church except to preach. He wit-
nessed the congregation divide — in
1925 when the United Church was
formed — and then come back to-
gether years later, just to be able to
financially support a building in
which to meet.
The church minutes were like the
law of the community, recalled John,
who now rents out his 350 acres on a
share crop basis. For example, "The
church said you weren't supposed to
race your horses to see who had the
best horse." And there were many
other rules to obey in order to keep an
upstanding position in the church and
thereby the community. Banishment
from the church was something to be
feared, and confessing of sins was ex-
pected lest they found you out.
A lot of people walked to church
in those days, so there was a need to
have one close by, John continued.
"It was where you went to meet your
neighbours, your friends and your
relatives."
Not surprisingly, it was often the
place a young man could meet his
future wife. "Usually, you married
the girl next door or from just across
the river," said John, who has remain-
ed a bachelor all his life.
Because they were the first public
buildings people were willing to pay
for after their own homes were erect-
ed, churches served as community
centres. It was a place for comrade-
ship at church socials, stimulation at
debating parties or just plain fun
watching some of the "outstanding
entertainment of the day" who often
turned out to be next-door neighbours
or their children.
Most importantly, it was a place to
be with God and gather strength for
the tasks in the week ahead.
Sports were not as popular on
Sundays then as they are now, John
commented. The availability of day-
long sports programming on televi-
sion, combined with better transporta-
tion to take part in sporting events,
has changed that aspect.
Automobiles have also made it
possible for people to attend church
outside their community. This has al-
lowed the combining of churches, as
the expanse of empty rows between
the minister standing at the front and
the congregation seated at the back of
many church auditoriums has widen-
ed. John is the only one of his seven
brothers and sisters still attending the
church just three miles from the home
farm he operates alone.
"Rural kids are all trained to leave
the farm now," said John, and leaving
rural churches behind is a by-product
of this trend.
With the emergence of general
farm organizations and commodity
photo by Daniel Holm
groups to deal with volatile farm is-
sues, the church has become increas-
ingly restricted to spiritual matters.
And while young people may still
return there to get married, they more
often than not find their mates some- .
where other than at church.
Pillars of the community are now
serving as presidents and directors on
corn, dairy, wheat or hog boards or
the Ontario Federation of Agriculture
and Christian Farmers' Federation.
"There are many more group
meetings for farmers to go to now,"
said Neil Lackey, minister at the
United Church in Milverton, adding
that farmers just might be tired of
seeing one another again by the time
Sunday rolls around. There is cer-
tainly less need for the hour-long
summit meeting on the church steps
following the service.
Churches are realizing they must
be more assertive if they arc to take
part in the make -over of rural On-
tario. Both the Catholic and United
Churches have formed organizations
to release statements on what direc-
tion they feel agriculture should take
in southwestern Ontario; the former
through the Catholic Rural Life Con-
ference (CRLC) formed in 1981 and
the latter through the Rural Life Com-
mittee formed in 1984. At the risk of
mixing religion with politics, they
have issued statements supporting
marketing boards, preservation of
farmland and the family farm.
"To be human is to be political in
some way," said Rev. Lackey who, in
1987, arranged meetings through the
church for farmers to deal with the
economic crisis in agriculture. This
led to a series of "concession meet-
ings" held in the kitchens of farm-
houses in the area surrounding Mil-
verton, a community of 1,500 where
Rev. Lackey has been pastor since
1983.
More recently, the church has
been involved with community revi-
talization after the closing of a furni-
ture plant — the village's largest em-
ployer and source of off -farm income
for many local families.
"The church is [moving] from the
centre to where the people are," re-
marked Rev. Lackey.
He thinks this trend might help
solve the tremendous financial burden
felt by shrinking congregations strug-
gling to maintain huge church struc-
tures. People will meet in small
groups in their homes, bringing the
church full circle to how worship was
conducted in pioneer communities
before they could afford a church.
These days, suggested Rev. Lac-
key, "there is not the same commit-
ment to the church," because it is not
a convenient thing to do. Rural com-
munities were built on a "we society"
but that has changed to a "me socie-
ty." Farmers have become more in-
dependent and at the same time more
MARCH 1992 19