When this church lost its minister, these ordinary churchgoers stepped up to save it

Each Sunday morning, the grand ceilings of Freshwater United Church fill with hymns.

The elegant clapboard church, built nearly a century ago for a congregation of hundreds, now sees only about 20 turn out each weekend in this largely retiree community.

It appears, at a glance, as another story of fading churchgoing in rural Newfoundland and Labrador in the 21st century..

But that glance is deceiving. 

At the front of this week’s crowd, a diminutive woman steps to the mic and delivers a not-so-ordinary sermon: she namechecks David Bowie, jokes about her age, and delves into finding meaning in her life.

A not-so-ordinary sermon, because she’s a not-so-ordinary minister. Actually, she’s not a minister at all.

“I started doing some services and agreed to do one, and then it turned into more than one,” said Jennifer Adams with a laugh. The retired teacher is one of five lay ministers of the church — ordinary members of the congregation who rotate through Sundays, as a way, they say, of keeping their church alive.

Many churches have no ministers

A few years ago, Freshwater United confronted a challenge plaguing many churches: their part-time minister was leaving. Even if they could find a replacement — 35 per cent of United churches in the province are without ministers due to staff shortages, estimates its governing body — Freshwater could scarcely afford to pay their salary. 

LISTEN | Amid a minister shortage, these ordinary people answered the call:

“We were all wondering what was going to happen. We knew we couldn’t afford a minister. But we definitely didn’t want to see our church go down,” said Lynne Priddle, a retired civil servant who has attended Freshwater United her entire life.

Priddle and the others decided on a communal experiment: forgo a minister entirely and run the place themselves.

“The response to it was so good, that we just kept doing it, and we decided we really didn’t need or want a minister,” said lay minister Andrew Peacock.

No sermons

The lay ministers can’t dole out communion or perform baptisms, but they can perform the other duties of regular service and conduct funerals. The only thing stopping them from weddings is getting the required licence from the government.

They also don’t do sermons, preferring to call their thoughts “times of reflection.”

“We don’t use the word ‘sermon’ because, I don’t know, from being a teacher, the word ‘sermon’ is more like a lecture,” said David Reitkoetter, another lay minister.

“We don’t preach. Not a chance of preaching,” said fellow lay minister David Moriarty. “It’s life lessons. If you want to talk about a topic that’s near and dear to your heart, go ahead.”

Moriarty, who served three tours of Afghanistan during his 38 years with the Canadian military, say he often tells stories about his own experiences.

“I’ve talked about hope. I have talked about loss, my own personal losses, friends. I lost friends in the war. I’ve talked about starting over.”

Personal reflections aside, the service structure doesn’t feel particularly radical. But they say the lack of a minister has made a difference.

“The most obvious thing is our attendance has gone up. We have two to three times as many people as we had when there was a a minister here,” said Peacock.

“The other thing is that people understand that they have a responsibility for the church now. When you have a minister, it’s easy to sit back and say, ‘He or she is running things. I really don’t need to worry about this and that.’ And now if we don’t do it, it doesn’t get done.”

Minister shortages

Freshwater United has a supervising minister to act as a guide and support when they need it. But as for what the larger United Church thinks of all this, the congregation thinks things seem to be fine so far.

“I think the head office in St. John’s sometimes doesn’t know how to take us, because we don’t follow a structure, we don’t follow a hierarchy,” said Reitkoetter, who admits his church overall has a history of being “liberal in our approach.”

“As far as I know right now, they’re in agreement to a degree with it,” said Moriarty.

At the head office of First Dawn Eastern Edge Regional Council, the body of the United Church that oversees Newfoundland and Labrador, staff try to keep tabs on their leaderless churches, but there are a lot of them — about 28 of their 88 charges don’t have ministers.

“Congregations will phone in at least once a week, if not more — various congregations who are in the search process. And you can hear the tiredness in their voices.… It’s not something for every congregation,” said Heather Sandford, the province’s regional minister.

Freshwater is an anomaly, having actively chosen to go without a minister. Choice or not, Sandford said she and the United Church realize the shortage of leadership is spurring a need for change.

“We do have a future directions team that, along with pastor relations, are trying to think outside the box when it comes to ministry,” she said.

“No more can we look at, you know, our recent past and and say,’That’s what we need to do,’ because life has changed and society has changed, and for a lot of people the traditional church is not as relevant, but it’s still important.”

In an era of deep societal divisions, Sandford said, the church’s message of love and tolerance is needed. How to get that out, however, remains a challenge. The COVID-19 pandemic revealed online ministry as an option, as is downsizing from expensive churches to renting community spaces.

Sandford said it’s not just a Newfoundland and Labrador problem or conversation.

“We borrow and talk across the country.… What works in Saskatchewan may not work here, but there might be some similarities that can help us face what we have,” she said.

“And it’s nice to know that it’s not just here, and but all across Canada and that we’re in it together.”

Rising to the occasion

The lay ministers in Freshwater hope their model will be added to that brainstorming list.

“It breaks my heart when I see all these churches closing,” said Priddle. “Why can’t they do what we’re doing, right? It only takes two or three in the community to offer their services.”

Priddle and her quintet of colleagues do have the asset of a lifetime of public speaking during their careers. But Peacock, a retired veterinarian and writer, said that’s beside the point.

“One of the things that I think intimidates a lot of churches [is people thinking] ‘oh, that’s fine for you. You’ve got five people who could preach.’ If you asked us the day that we started this, ‘How many people have you got who can preach here?’ the answer would have been between zero and one,” he said.

“People rise to the occasion.”

The congregation still faces a challenge, however: there’s not a child — or hardly even someone not silver-haired — among them. The lay ministers say theirs may not be a long-term solution but it’s working for now, and they’ll be able to see through the centennial celebration of the church in 2026.

And each Sunday, they ring the bells of Freshwater United — a sound that echoes through the community and out across its limitless view of the North Atlantic. 

“Ring that bell every chance you get, to let people know that the church is still open, this church is still here,” said Moriarty.

“I’m hoping well beyond my time on this planet, that there’s still the church in Freshwater, and I know with the group of people we’ve got now, it will be.”

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