An All-Too Familiar Story:

How Churches Drift Toward Death—and How to Turn Towards Life

by Bart Denny

I heard a story today that reminded me of too many I have heard before. It saddens me. It bothers me. The church I heard about seems to think they have it nailed, so I’m sure they won’t be seeking my consulting services—or anyone else’s. Not that a consultant’s report would make it beyond a file cabinet—stuffed away, never to be read. While I admit it may take many years—and that bad decisions will likely outlive most of the decision-makers—I remain less than optimistic about the church's future.

There Are Patterns

I’ll be the first to admit: I don’t know everything there is to know about church health, vitality, growth, and renewal. And I praise God that He still does what only He can do. I never want to box in the Holy Spirit. After all, we worship a God who parted the sea, turned water into wine, and reversed a crucifixion with a glorious resurrection.

So no, I would never say that God can’t revive a church or that He must act according to my expectations. There are exceptions—even miraculous ones—to the norm. But I will say this: there are patterns. There are trajectories. There are stories that unfold in ways that are, frankly, predictable.

Several years in pastoral ministry, doctoral research in church revitalization, and countless conversations with leaders across many church traditions have shown me something sobering. Change the church’s name. Change its denomination. Change its zip code. Change its racial or ethnic makeup. And still, the storyline is often eerily familiar.

The details differ, but the direction is the same. Left unaltered, the trajectory leads toward decline and, eventually, death. And sadly, I heard yet another version of that story today: another church comfortably heading towards its own inexorable demise. Rather than give you too many details of the church I heard about today, let me instead start with some observations that ring true both to my experience, research, and what the “experts” have to say.

The Slow Erosion

First, as Thom Rainer notes in Autopsy of a Deceased Church (B&H Books, 2014), it starts with a “slow erosion.” The church has gone from an average attendance of, say, 200 to 70 who faithfully show up on Sundays nowadays. Yes, sometimes there are church splits, some quite drastic. But usually, it takes several years to lose two-thirds of a congregation’s membership. Parishioners move away. Stalwart members who have lived a long, faithful Christian life on earth eventually get promoted to Heaven. But much faster than the elderly pass away, the church’s youth and children’s ministry populations shrink. Kids go off to college—and don’t come back. The twenty-somethings disappear. The church slowly ages. But hey, those young people usually weren’t the church’s best givers, and the budget remains unimpacted. And there are some new people coming—of course, they’re almost always middle-aged (or older) adults transferring from a church that decided to go “off the rails,” and stop singing hymns. And for many long-term members of the church, little has changed. After all, their friends are still there.

First, as Thom Rainer observes in Autopsy of a Deceased Church, it often begins with what he calls a “slow erosion.” The congregation that once averaged 200 in worship now gathers 70 on a typical Sunday. Yes, sometimes decline happens through a dramatic church split. But more often, it unfolds quietly over the years.

Families relocate. Faithful saints who walked with Christ for decades are promoted to glory. Yet far more quickly than funerals accumulate, the youth group thins out. The children’s wing grows quieter. Students leave for college and don’t return. Twenty-somethings drift away. The median age rises.

But the warning signs don’t always feel urgent. The younger crowd, after all, wasn’t carrying the budget. Giving remains steady, at least for now. A few new faces appear—usually middle-aged or older believers transferring from a congregation that “went off the rails” by changing the music or shifting direction. And for many long-time members, life still feels familiar. Their friends are still in the pew. The routines remain intact.

Which is precisely why the erosion goes unnoticed.

Running Out of People or Running Out of Money: Which Comes First?

A church ultimately closes for one of two reasons: it runs out of people, or it runs out of money. In my own experience as a revitalizing pastor, I feared the latter most. I lay awake some nights wondering if we were simply going to go broke.

Providentially, a few factors slowed the financial bleeding. I worked a second job. My military retirement benefits, including healthcare, eased the burden on the church. The buildings were paid off, which helped—though that didn’t make major repairs, like replacing a failing air conditioner, any less painful.

But here’s the unexpected truth: the fear of insolvency became a strange kind of gift.

It forced clarity. It stripped away denial. It created urgency among long-term members who deeply loved their church and refused to watch it quietly fade away. When the possibility of closure became real, conversations changed. Prayers intensified. Sacred cows became less sacred. People who had resisted change for years suddenly became willing to consider it.

Sometimes the threat of going broke is the very thing that wakes a church up.

When the Money Lasts Longer Than the People

What I’ve only really become aware of in the years since I served a going-broke church is that it’s actually possible for a church to run out of people before the money is gone. Some churches have endowments that pay the bills. Facilities are paid for. In some churches that are really on life support, the best givers are all still there. And the way the church runs is exactly how they like it. Finances provide no sense of urgency, so it's easy to put on blinders and ignore all the other glaring signs of ill health. But the financial woes are coming—if the members don’t all age out first.

What I’ve only come to see more clearly in the years since pastoring a nearly broke church is this: it’s entirely possible for a church to run out of people before it runs out of money.

Some congregations have endowments that quietly cover the bills. The facilities are paid off. In churches that are essentially on life support, the strongest givers are often still faithfully present. And the church operates exactly the way they prefer. The music fits their taste. The programs reflect their history. The rhythms feel comfortable.

So there’s no financial alarm bell.

No crisis meeting.

No urgent vote.

Money can anesthetize decline. When the budget is stable, it’s easy to put on blinders and ignore the more sobering indicators: no young families, no new converts, no baptisms, no emerging leaders, no sense of mission beyond maintaining what remains.

But financial stability is not the same thing as health. And the day of reckoning is still coming—either when the money finally runs thin or when the remaining members simply age out, and there’s no one left to carry the story forward.

The Quiet Outsourcing of Evangelism

Financial stability can also mask another, deeper problem: the quiet outsourcing of evangelism.

In some churches, evangelism has been delegated to the “professionals”—the pastor and the missionaries. The congregation proudly notes that it gives 40 percent of its budget to foreign missions. And let me be clear: foreign missions matter. A church with even modest financial stability should support the spread of the gospel to the nations. If a congregation can give generously abroad and still faithfully treat its own neighborhood as a mission field, that is something to celebrate.

But I’ve never seen that balance sustained.

Too often, generous missions giving becomes a substitute for local gospel engagement. The church sends money overseas while ignoring—or worse, quietly resenting—the changing community just outside its own doors. The few new people who do come are not part of evangelistic growth—they are transfer growth, often from another deceased or dying church. As Rick Warren says, pastors and church members are no longer fishers of men; they're keepers of the aquarium. The surrounding neighborhood becomes something to tolerate rather than reach. And, as Mark Clifton argues in Reclaiming Glory (B&H Books, 2023), when a church ceases to see its immediate community as its primary mission field, decline is not accidental. It is inevitable.

Leadership and the Next Generation

And that brings me to leadership.

As Clifton notes, dying churches rarely hand leadership to the next generation. They cling to it. My own doctoral research reached a similar conclusion: reaching, developing, and empowering next-generation leaders is not optional in revitalization. It is essential.

Yet what I’ve seen repeatedly—and what both Clifton and Thom Rainer document—is that pastors often stay too long.

Now, let’s be clear. Long pastoral tenure can be a tremendous blessing. A thirty-year pastorate that began when a shepherd was 35 may still be flourishing at 65. Deep trust. Shared history. Fruit that compounds over decades. That’s beautiful.

But I’ve also seen octogenarians still serving as lead pastor. And usually, it’s not beautiful.

As I approach my sixties, I feel this personally. I don’t have the same energy I did at 30 or 40. Even at 50, there was a certain mental quickness that required less effort. The changes are subtle, but they’re real. So I can only imagine what 70 or 80 might feel like in a role that demands vision, adaptability, conflict navigation, emotional resilience, and constant decision-making.

The church should never discard the wisdom that comes with age and experience. We desperately need seasoned saints. But pastoral ministry is demanding work. When a leader remains in place long after their physical and cognitive vitality have diminished, the result is rarely healthy. It is not good for the aging pastor, and it is not good for the church.

At some point, faithful leadership means preparing the next shepherd—not clinging to the staff.

The Silver Bullet Myth

So, when the pastor finally moves on (or sadly, dies, sometimes literally, in the pulpit), the succession process is, let’s say, less than optimal. The church may go through long periods of interim pastors—often with interims who aren’t much younger than the pastor who preceded them. Many churches decide that what they really need is a young pastor with a young family. Or I should say, that’s what the three or four old guys—“the board” or “the deacons”—who been in charge for years decide to do. The perfect guy will be in his 30s, with three or four children (none of whom have reached the rebellious teen years), and a wife who, hopefully, plays the piano. The Silver Bullet and his family. They will, the thinking goes, attract young people like themselves. And they may indeed attract a few younger families. 

But we’re all like LEGOs. We only have so many “nubs,” and only so many close relationships we can sustain without running out of relational bandwidth. With no one beyond the pastor and his family to connect with in the church, the younger families don’t stick around. Then the young pastor—with varying degrees of wisdom and diplomacy—tries to make some (likely very needed) changes. Things blow up. The three or four old duffers realize this pastor is no Silver Bullet. They become disillusioned with the pastor—and make no effort to hide their displeasure as they show him who's the boss.

And then you find out why the average minister who follows a decades-long pastorate often stays less than two years (I am blessed that I lasted over four years, having led a struggling Florida church to be adopted by a larger, healthier church that is as passionate as I am about revitalization). Often, a succession of short-term pastorates takes place, and the church earns a reputation as a “pastor eater.”

It becomes known as a “pastor eater.”

I’m not “dissing” on the young pastor (though the church that ate him for lunch certainly will). This is a warning about unrealistic expectations.

Small Course Corrections

So what do you do?

The first answer takes me back to my years as a naval officer. If your ship is on a collision course with a shoal, the wisest move is not a last-second, full-rudder panic turn when the rocks are already scraping the hull. The wisest move (and best for the captain’s career) is a small course correction made miles earlier.

A two-degree adjustment out at sea barely feels noticeable on the bridge. But wait too long, and that same correction requires engines back full, alarms sounding, and everyone bracing for impact.

Churches are no different.

Minor drift ignored over the years becomes a major crisis. Small, humble adjustments made early—renewed focus on evangelism, intentional leadership development, honest assessment of health, courageous conversations about change—are far less disruptive than emergency maneuvers when decline is obvious, and options are limited.

In other words: pay attention to the charts. Watch the depth sounder. Listen when trusted voices warn of shallow water ahead.

Don’t wait until you hear the grinding of the keel against the rocks.

Already Aground? Get help!

“Well, Bart, we’re already aground. Is there anything we can do?”

Yes.

Even in extremis, church death is often still a choice.

But let’s be honest: getting off the rocks requires more than a gentle course correction. It demands a radical change of direction—and the humility to call for help.

At that point, you are not merely “revitalizing” your church. You are replanting it.

If you belong to a denomination or ministry network, reach out. Invite outside assessment. Ask for coaching. If you have paid-for facilities that could become a launchpad for a healthy church plant, consider gifting them. If there is a larger, healthier church in your orbit that could adopt you, praise God. Explore it seriously.

But let’s clear away any illusions.

This will not be a merger of equals.

It cannot be.

Replanting requires submission. The struggling congregation must be willing to come under the leadership, governance, and vision of the denomination, the planting team, or the adopting church. If you already knew how to reverse the decline on your own, you wouldn’t be in this position. And, to return to my ship analogy, if you are the captain—at least in the U.S. Navy—and your vessel runs aground, you usually don’t get to be the captain anymore.

That may sound blunt. It is meant to be loving.

Because refusing that humility is, functionally, choosing death.

I pray you choose life—for the sake of the gospel, for the sake of your community, and for the sake of the next generation that deserves a living, breathing witness in your town.

About the Author

Dr. Bart Denny is the lead pastor of Pathway – A Wesleyan Church in Saranac, Michigan, and an adjunct instructor in Christian leadership at Grand Canyon University, College of Theology. A retired U.S. Navy officer who commanded two coastal patrol ships, he holds a Ph.D. in Christian Leadership and has served in pastoral ministry and church revitalization. His doctoral research focused on developing and empowering next-generation leaders in struggling churches. Bart writes to encourage pastors and congregations to pursue gospel-centered health, courageous humility, and long-term faithfulness.