Being a Pastor in Binghamton

Since moving to Binghamton in June of 2002 I’ve come to think of this as perhaps the best possible place to preach the gospel in North America. It’s hard ground not only because of economic depression, apathy, and statist regulation, but there is also a spiritual darkness over the place and underneath it, driving the apathy.

There are lots of churches here, one or two on just about every corner. But many, if not most of them, are empty or emptying, worn down husks that serve mostly to remind those who pass by of a time when people cared about such things.

A number of “revivals” have swept through Binghamton in centuries past. And died. And there are many faithful Christians here who continue to pray that God might bring another. May he do so. But it seems that most Binghamtonians have gotten just enough religion to not care much for religion.

Past revivals and ethnic Catholicism have congealed into a kind of spiritual inoculation that has infused the collective psyche with a decided incurious complacency. Or, to put it in sentence form: “We know what Christianity is all about and we think it is ‘fine’.”

It’s a conservative place. Most people “respect” the church…like the Godfather “respects” the church…a nod in the general direction of Jesus, attendance at baptisms and funerals, Christmas and Easter. But the gospel? I doubt most Binghamtonians know it well enough to reject it. They know church, perhaps, from their childhood but not Jesus Christ.

This is why, over time (and it’s taken a while) I’ve come to be so thankful to God for sending me here. The dividing line between those who believe and those who do not is, unlike in many southern climes where churchgoing is the social expectation, stark and clear. It is difficult to be a false disciple in a place that does not value discipleship. Why bother to put on the show?

Of course, it happens anyway, but even so in a place like Binghamton, the stark clear reality that human beings, by nature, do not seek God (Rom 3:10) is unavoidable. And, by the same token, the power of God working through his word to break down hard hearts and pierce toughened stubborn hides and softly heal brittle souls, is in few places, more evident. This is tough ground. Ministry here is toilsome and it often seems to produce so little fruit. I feel like a missionary. That’s not bad. Anne has always wanted to go into the mission field. Well, here we are.