A Methodist ‘Croaker’ Surveys the State of the Christian Faith

How is it going these days for Christian faith, both in America and in the world? In the first of a series of articles, I share personal experiences that grow out of my 69 years as a Methodist pastor. A tip-off to where we are headed: beginning with rural Indiana Methodism and conclude with Pentecostalism.

I admit, I am a Methodist “croaker,” a term once used to refer to old Methodist preachers who would complain about modern times compared to the “good ole” days. A fellow preacher once challenged me by asking, “when was that?” as he had been around for a while and was unfamiliar with the phrase. I explained: back in revivalist Peter Cartwright’s time, around the 1830s and 40s.

I use the phrase today as a Methodist elder for more than 69 years. Though the church I attend disaffiliated from the United Methodist Church (but chose to relate to an independent megachurch rather than join the Global Methodist Church) I have retained UMC credentials. Despite disaffiliation, significant evangelical presence remains within United Methodism. This is especially true for UMC congregations outside of the United States.

Carried into a Methodist church one-week old, I love Methodism (and United Methodism). I grew up in a Methodist church in an Indiana country-seat town where the church carried a certain prestige. It was indeed “mainline.” Business leaders and professionals attended there. My mother, who grew up a Mennonite fundamentalist, was unhappy as a Methodist, particularly because of Sunday school materials in which lessons featured robins and friendly post mail carriers more than stories of Jesus. I remember debating the Virgin Birth in my youth group. So I was aware of theological differences. But I still loved my Methodist church.

Taylor University, a formerly Methodist-related evangelical college that I attended, almost single-handedly influenced the theological tone of the North Indiana Conference. One study in the 1960s indicated that 50 percent of conference clergy at the time either attended Taylor or had ties there.

I remember arguments, discussions, disagreements in colleges, in seminary and in our conference about theological matters, not only about doctrine but also about social and political issues. A study revealed that, politically, two-thirds of the members of our annual conference identified as Republican and about 30 percent as Democrat. But for all of our disagreements I do not remember rancor or anger or lost tempers such as we have today.

My reputation was established early: at age 23 a superintendent, wanting to find a theological fit, appointed me to a circuit where my church members (or at least some of them) disdained television, dancing and film, where revival services were scheduled for two weeks, and altar calls could last five minutes. I sensed great support from my district superintendent (DS) there as well as from other pastors and laypersons both in my churches and other close-by churches. I connected early in my ministry with the camping program conducted primarily on a district level. One day I received a phone call from my DS who said he wanted to talk with me and he would drive (50 miles one way) that very day (was I in some kind of trouble?) He wanted me to direct our district camp for junior high school students. He impressed upon me the position’s importance, and I directed for 14 years, recruiting 30 volunteer counselors for each camp (it was so well respected that recruitment was not difficult). Our Camp Adventure grounds were designed for 180 campers each week and they were always at capacity for each of the nine summer camps.

We had tremendous freedom in those days. For our camps, at least for those more evangelical among us, this meant a lot of evangelism and Jesus talk. “Decision Night” was the high point of the week, both for senior and junior high students. For those of us who identified as evangelical, this meant the experience felt like a revival. But, even among the non-evangelicals, campers were brought to Christian faith on decision night.

From my “croaker” perspective, mergers caused the set-backs. The urge to merge and consolidate was already taking place in the schools. The arguments for consolidation appealed to efficiency, professionalism, and centralized control. When I was serving in Ashley, Indiana, a nearby rural school of six grades, run successfully for years by the township trustee (not an educational professional), six teachers and a secretary were part of a consolidation. Consolidation leaders decreed that the rural school could not operate without a principal, so one was hired. To do what? Collect a salary and continue what was already being accomplished before consolidation.

In the 1960s, Indiana was divided into five Methodist-related annual conferences, three Methodist and two Evangelical United Brethren (EUB). An argument was made that merger would make us more effective. The first merger was between the Methodist North and Northwest conferences. The agreement declared that a new day had arrived and it was like we were starting all over. That is to say, we would not assume that the ongoing traditions of either conference would prevail. But what about our camping program? The North Indiana senior high “institutes” were enrolling 3,000 youth a summer (six districts averaging 500 per district). The Northwest Conference had a senior high program with a total (at least for the year that I checked) of 275 for the entire conference. Their program was conference not district directed. With the merger, the North program was criticized for not truly camping. It was an “institute” with lectures (or preaching) and classes. Changes were made. We went to a “keynoter” instead of a preacher and to response groups rather than classes.

Our junior high program was planned by directors recruited by district superintendents. One day following the merger, when our directors were together, a person showed up at the meeting and informed us (the first we knew about it) that he was the head of the new conference committee to oversee junior high camping. Instead of districts and directors organizing the program the conference committee would.

The program began to unravel. Still, our district life flourished. I remember mission saturation weeks, lay witness missions, family life conferences, Christmas parties, summer picnics for parsonage families, set-up days, district and subdistrict youth rallies with up to 500 in attendance. Eventually, this would fade.

Change and chaos were on the way. I was appointed to Calvary Church, Elkhart, in 1967. The community had not one but two ministerial associations, a regular, mainline-dominated group, and an “evangelical” group.  Since I considered myself an “evangelical” serving a mainline church, I decided to join both groups.

The evangelical group was really a fundamentalist-separatist type group. At the same time the regular group could hardly be characterized as liberal. It was made up of Missionary Church pastors, Mennonites, Methodists and other mainline groups. The regular group, with a concern for the city, contacted the Billy Graham Association and procured the services of Canadian-American evangelist Leighton Ford to hold a city-wide evangelistic crusade. Alas! The “evangelical” group, not wanting to be associated with groups that  they considered liberal, not only refused to cooperate in the crusade but in some instances boycotted the meetings.  Out of 17 Baptist-connected churches in town, only two (Black churches) involved themselves in the crusade.

This was a great disappointment for me and was a clue of what was ahead for Christian faith in America: mistrust, rancor, and division.

The political and social and religious turmoil of the 1960s must be seen in the context of the growing mistrust and suspicion of the social and establishment institutionalism of the times (think Woodstock, hippies and race riots). But, interestingly, while this was happening the Elkhart-South Bend area of Indiana was becoming a hot-house for the Jesus Movement, for “Christian hippies,” and most especially for the Roman Catholic charismatic movement.

Doug, a former youth member of the church, was dramatically converted out of the hippie culture of California and came back home to Indiana. He shared his story and soon the church youth group began to identify with the Jesus People. This was to the extent that the mother of one teen-ager complained to me that her daughter was getting far too religious.

Instead of parents sharing faith with children the children were sharing faith with parents.

Add to this the Catholic charismatic revival. When the reports got out about Catholics speaking in tongues, some of our people traveled to Christ the King Catholic Church in South Bend to check it out. They soon were so involved I worried I would lose members to Catholicism. One day I got a phone call from an attorney in South Bend who shared that a couple (connected to my church) had contacted him about guiding them through a divorce. He shared that he thought if we worked together we could lead the couple to Christ and the marriage could be saved. My first comment was, “Are you a Catholic charismatic?” He was. Later developments put us in contact with Kevin Ranaghan and the group to which future U.S. Supreme Court Associate Justice Amy Coney Barett related to.

Unfortunately, it was about this time that mainline denominations began a serious decline. The Methodist-EUB merger, at least from the perspective of an “old croaker,” presented not new hope but new problems. I was supportive of the merger, hoping that more conservative Brethren might influence the Methodists, especially in areas like Sunday school literature. That never happened, and the EUBs were swallowed up by more liberal Methodists.

Still, the Lord had not (and has not) abandoned His people (more on this in articles to come).

Riley B. Case is a retired United Methodist clergy member of the Indiana Conference.