‘A congregation of misfits’ BY BRIAN VOERDING - IN THE SOUTHWEST JOURNAL - JANUARY 14, 2008 When Southwest's Joyce United Methodist Church tried to rebuild its stature in the community, members soon discovered that the rebuilding had to start from within CARAG — Following a Sunday service a year ago, the 30-some active members of Joyce United Methodist Church gathered for an annual meeting in the church’s main room. The meeting was typically a quiet, necessary affair, a place for regular churchgoers to talk finances and get reports from church officers on what the coming year held, and then devour a potluck lunch while catching up on one another’s lives. Pastor Bill Morton discussed the budget. A few congregation members talked about planned renovations and the upcoming strategic planning to set long-term goals for the church. Susan Marsh, a longtime congregation member, gave a brief report on the work of inner-city Methodist churches to strengthen fading attendance. She finished her report and paused. And then she announced: “I think it’s time we become a reconciling congregation.”“ Oh, no,” Morton thought. “Here we go again. We’re not ready for this.” Morton caught Marsh’s eye. She held his gaze. And before he could say a word, another hand shot up. “Second.” Morton thought about the gays and lesbians in the room — Oh, they’re going to be hurt again — but he had no choice. These meetings, after all, were run democratically. The congregation would have it no other way. He scanned the room. “Any discussion?” he asked. ———————————— Bill Morton came to Joyce in 2000, soon after the congregation’s latest vote on becoming reconciling — that is, fully accepting gays and lesbians despite the United Methodist General Conference’s stance that homosexuality is incompatible with Christian teaching. There were a lot of “yes” votes that time, more than at previous votes in the ’90s. But there were still even more “no” votes, and the controversy had left congregation members divided and raw. And that wasn’t the church’s only struggle. It had been hemorrhaging members over the years. Its struggle wasn’t unique — inner-city churches across the country had seen similar declines as folks moved out to the suburbs and embraced both cul-de-sacs and large parking lots attached to their places of worship. Still, the loss carried an undercurrent of persistent concern, a nagging “What if …?”.What if one more person left? What if the money disappeared? What if the conference decided to shut down the church?“ A lot of the older members saw the church crashing,” Marsh recalled. “They were used to the days when they had 500 people at church on Sunday. Now, I don’t think we have 500 people in a month of Sundays.” When Morton arrived, the congregation had been whittled down to several dozen colorful characters. Homeless people, current and former addicts, single moms and dads, 20-somethings wary of organized religion, retired couples who had hardly known another church, people from all walks of life bound together by geography and their own curious circumstances.They watched as fewer and fewer people returned to services, and often felt powerless to stop the slide. They weren’t sure where to begin. They had tried to expand into the community, offering services and events, but no matter how expansive the service or how large the event, it never translated into more bodies in the pews.“ It was obvious they were depressed,” Morton said. “Like, well, maybe we can survive for a few more years.”Morton didn’t know where to begin, either, but he knew he had to start somewhere. ———————————— Sometime around 2004, a newspaper article describing the UMC’s stance on homosexuality arrived in the church mailbox, sentences scratched out and slurs written in the margins. At first, Morton thought about tossing the article away and not telling anyone. Then he decided to take it with him to the pulpit on Sunday. He hadn’t brought up the issue of becoming a reconciling congregation, sensing that some members were still fighting and others were just beginning to resolve their differences. And he wouldn’t discuss it here. He only had one sentence in mind, and he said it powerfully, with no room for interpretation: Everyone is welcome here. Then he repeated it another way: The grace of God is extended to everybody. Members didn’t react audibly, but Morton felt the change. Small and invisible but present nevertheless, much like the grace he had in mind. Later that year, Morton, while mulling over ideas for a sermon, was thinking about all the ways his members were different, all the unique struggles they faced. Suddenly, a phrase popped into his head.It sounded ridiculous at first and he tried to forget it, but it kept returning. So he said it out loud a few times. It sounded better each time he said it. And so, just like the newspaper article, he took the phrase to the pulpit that Sunday and opened his sermon with it. “What would you say to someone who came up to you and said Joyce Church is a congregation of misfits?” With an instant fluidity, as if they had prepared years for it, the congregation that sat silently through so many Sundays shouted out as one: “Yes!”“ Amen!” For the first time, members had permission — from both the church and each other — to heal. “We were able to see each other; we were able to relate to each other again,” Morton said. “We were able to say OK, they’re a misfit, I’m a misfit and God loves misfits.” ———————————— Silence. Morton scanned the room again. “Any discussion?” he said. More silence.Morton spoke, tentatively: “All in favor, raise your hand.” Every person in the room, moving almost as if in unison, raised one hand skyward. ———————————— Ten months later, Morton stood at the pulpit on a Sunday morning before 40 or 50 attendees scattered in the seats. The congregation was about to begin strategic planning, a kind of planning that hadn’t been done for years. It would govern the church’s future, from finances to outreach and more. Renovations continued on the church’s exterior. The boulevard gardens that members had planted and carefully tended over the summer had begun to die, but they would return in the spring, along with the conversations with random passersby they encouraged, conversations that had tied the church to its neighborhood in ways members had never before seen. New members were digging in, planning events and celebrations, and welcoming friends to the congregation; and old members were doing the same. Nothing felt like work, the way it once did. Every member now understood that a church could be vital, whether it had 50 or 500 members. Morton had spent the whole week working on his sermon, a reflection on everything that had happened since January. It was a conversation of sorts with the congregation, something had become more and more common on Sunday mornings. “What is it that threatens to take us captive?” Morton asked. He got a few answers: Material pursuits. Hate. Indifference. Fear. He pressed on to his deeper questions: What frees one from captivity? And how can it be discovered?“ Right now, God loves you,” he said. He said it frequently in his sermons, as most pastors do, but here his intonation was rich and deliberate. He knew the people listening sometimes needed to not only hear it more than others, but truly believe in it.“Right now. God cares about you. God loves you.” He continued: “When you were filled with all of the fullness of God, did you not let go of all the things you had been living? When you were filled with all the fullness of life, did you not just let them go?” He stopped and scanned the room, smiling broadly. “You don’t need them anymore. For now you have found everything you have hoped for.” Contributing writer Brian Voerding lives in Whittier. Election Year Bible Thumping By Susan Marsh, in the Twin Cities Daily Planet  January 10, 2008 Religion is a matter which lies solely between man and his God, that he owes account to none other for his faith or his worship…’ Thomas Jefferson letter to Danbury Baptist Association, CT., Jan. 1, 1802 As a Christian and a citizen of the United States, I’ve been getting a little edgy these last several elections where we are calling our candidates to answer to us as to how they answer to God. I am always reminded of James Madison’s famous quote about the separation of church and state: “The purpose of separation of church and state is to keep forever from these shores the ceaseless strife that has soaked the soil of Europe with blood for centuries.” Here we are in a war where religious sectarian violence is based on not much more difference than that between Lutherans and Catholics, and we are concerned with whether our leaders pass our own religious tests. It also brings to mind that Richard Nixon was a Quaker; though my Quaker friends have said that no meeting would claim him. Yet, if we were to question leaders’ moral and ethical stances on the basis of his faith, how would we ever doubt a Quaker? I am also leery of religious leaders even wanting to be President. We call on our President to do some very un-God like acts, like launch war, sign letters of execution, decide who gets aid and who doesn’t. How can they possibly reconcile those actions with being a religious individual? If we are going to be determined to hold leaders to a standard of religiosity, and that of a Christian religiosity at that, I would rather ask them about what it means to be a Christian. Not the vapid “Do you pray?” that we heard earlier this fall. I would put to them this Bible verse: Matthew 25:34: .For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.. and ask how they would fulfill their promise to God. Jesus didn’t hang around the rich and powerful. He hung out with the lost, the left out and the needy. He spent a good deal of time making the rich and powerful nervous. About the only thing making the rich and powerful nervous today is whether or not they’ll get to keep their tax cuts.

A small woman with a big heart keeps Southwest food shelf going strong

Jean McGrath's efficiency and strength help Joyce food shelf serve a wider range of people in need

From shoveling the walk, to unloading heavy boxes of food, senior citizen Jean McGrath is known among workers and volunteers at the Joyce Emergency Food Shelf, 3041 Fremont Ave. S., for pushing the limits to help those in need. "Most people that age wouldn't think of doing (physical labor,)" said Carah, a volunteer (who preferred her last name be withheld.)

However, McGrath, longtime director of the food shelf, is known for her dedication and exhibiting energy and strength that belies her petite stature. Like McGrath, the small food shelf exceeds expectations, too.

Cramped into the side of a house owned by Joyce United Methodist Church, 1219 W. 31st St., just across the street, the food shelf helps approximately 1,500 people in Southwest each month, many families and elderly residents.

Church members started the food shelf 30 years ago in response to inquiries from people needing food, and McGrath has been key in keeping it alive for the past 20 years. She said although the quarters are tight, they have a pretty efficient operation.

Two decades of service

McGrath, an Armatage resident, said she first learned of the food shelf 20 years ago when she spied a notice in a church bulletin just days before Christmas, seeking volunteer holiday help. When she arrived at the food shelf, she said the scene made it abundantly clear that food shelf workers need more than temporary assistance. McGrath said food blanketed the floor, forcing helpers to carefully seek out spots to step.

The former Northwest Airlines reservations agent turned stay-at-home mom dedicated her winter months to organizing the food shelf. By February, she was asked to come on staff, where she's been ever since.

McGrath said working full-time at the food shelf isn't always easy. "It's a challenge to get funds and food," she said.

When asked why she's stayed on running the shelf for the past 20 years, she said she gets great satisfaction out of helping people. She said she's had elderly clients come in and tell her they wouldn't have made it though the month without the food shelf's help. "After hearing some of their stories, I feel very fortunate," she said.

Bill Morton, pastor of Joyce church, said McGrath's service has been invaluable and helped the food shelf to pretty much run itself. "It's one of the most efficient food shelves in the Twin Cities," he said.

Help for all who ask

McGrath said the food shelf serves many individual clients, but also many families and elderly residents from nearby buildings like Horn Terrace Towers, on 31st Street and Blaisdell Avenue South. The food shelf does have boundaries that stay within Southwest; however, it's not a strict policy.

"If somebody comes in need of food, we give them food. We're not in the business of turning people away," McGrath said.

She said unlike some food shelves, Joyce has no financial restrictions on who can and can't receive help. McGrath said some suppliers ask them to keep records, but that's it.

Morton said he doesn't get to spend much time working at the food shelf, but will occasionally visit with the people who use it and has found his encounters sometimes very surprising, challenging his expectations of people living in poverty. "Some of them are very smart people," he said. "I've gotten into sharp theological discussions," he said.

A food shelf employee, Katie (who also requested her last name be withheld), said most of the time their clients are nice and grateful, but sometimes there are lemons. However, she said, McGrath has a way of making everyone feel comfortable. "Jean's got a gentle character," she said. "People don't feel judged when they come here."

McGrath said people visit the food shelf for a variety of reasons, and sometimes they just want someone to talk to. She said their clients span a range of personal and financial problems. Often, said McGrath, money is too tight when securing a new apartment -- paying a first month's rent and a damage deposit. She said this is why the beginning and end of the month are usually the busiest for the food shelf. Over the past few years, as many public assistance programs have been reduced or cut, emergency food shelf usage has increased, according to Second Harvest food bank.

How the food shelf works

McGrath developed a streamlined system consisting of order forms, clothes pins and yarn to allow staff to get food orders and volunteers to fill them in an orderly fashion.

During food shelf hours, clients enter a waiting room and take an order form, where they can check what types of food they need. This keeps things they won't use in stock for others.

The food shelf offers everything from milk, meats, flour and canned fruits, to specific items for ethnic cooking, such as canned coconut milk.

Through the years, the food shelf has also adjusted to clients' needs. For example, she said, the Humane Society now donates pet food because her staff discovered that some clients were using their donated food, such as tuna fish, to feed their animals.

Major food shelf suppliers include Second Harvest food bank, the Emergency Food Shelf Network (EFSN) -- of which Joyce is a member -- and the federal government. All except the EFSN charge minimal fees for food and delivery.

Morton said throughout the years, the food shelf budget has grown to exceed that of the church, at $100,000. McGrath said the food shelf is supplemented by Joyce church and generous donations from groups like the Uptown Rotary Club, one of their greatest supporters.

In addition to financial donations, businesses and companies donate food and time. Upon my visit, volunteers were busy sorting bags of pastries and baked goods from Wuollet's Bakery. Every Thursday, the Uptown Rotary Club runs the food shelf, and once a month in the summer, the Lyn-Lake Lions Club helps with a produce event.

The modest McGrath said it's community efforts such as these that keep the food shelf going.