Just weeks before she left us to head her own congregation down in Ames, Iowa our Social Justice minister Kelly Clement had one last request. One of the four churches cooking up and serving Sunday Night Suppers for downtown folks struggling with food insecurity was struggling themselves to pay for 125 meals now catered rather than cooked. Could we, the makers of FUS regular mini-meals, be persuaded to help. I said “no”–the first time.
After the pandemic the wonderful cooks and bottle-washers of FUS were just getting back on their feet volunteering putting together whatever we could, with whomever we could, as our attendance numbers creeped from 30 intrepid souls into the 100 person range. The struggling folks at St. Mark’s Cathedral, known for a decade of cooking up Chicken and Rice on Second Sundays, would have to wait.
But now things were getting desperate, and Kelly was about to leave. And we’d added at least one younger, dynamic volunteer– Dara to our crew.
So I met with Pastor Seth over at Plymouth Congregational where the St. Mark’s meal had moved during the pandemic, and asked him: How does this work? What do we do? Are there any special needs I need to keep in mind if I cook this thing? Thinking of the vegan, gluten-free, pork, is-there-dairy- type concerns I faced at FUS. His answer– “The only time people complain is if it’s difficult to chew.” My education had begun.
“If you come too, I think we could pull this off.” I said to Dara, aware that we could likely cut St. Mark’s catering costs in half using mostly volunteer labor. Dara nodded. (Then gave me a long, fascinating story about food and service at her church growing up. You’ll have to get it directly from her.)
Seth insisted I come for the Third Sunday Dinner when Plymouth itself was in charge. It was “important to experience the meal from our friends and neighbor’s point of view.” Then Katie from Align (who helps organize all the meals) would introduce me to the dozen exhausted volunteers from St. Marks holding down the fort.
“Are you a rich person or a poor person?” A young woman’s voice floated up to my left ear as I trudged up the concrete steps to Plymouth Church on a cold, dark night.
Wearing two-hundred dollar shoes on my feet and a rabbit fur hat on my head I figured she was mocking me, but she smiled gently, adjusted her headphones, and slid past security through the lighted doorway. “ Was I a rich person or a poor person? I thought.
Blowing my cover as an impartial observer I immediately confessed to the couple stationed at the Personal Care table that I was there on assignment and didn’t need any shampoo. “Are you a rich person or a poor person?” said a voice inside my head.
“Dine-in or take-out” said a kindly man handing out well-worn laminated tickets and I became “Dine-in #23.” “No waiting tonight– go right on down. Just follow the trail of volunteers.” — “Are you a rich person or a poor person?” she’d said.
It was a bit lonely thumping down the thick red-velvet steps by myself, but I wasn’t alone in my aloneness. Some people slung backpacks over their shoulders, some hauled heavy, overflowing Aldi bags, a few wheeled wire carts, and headed for the creaky-looking elevator. I shoved a pair of fingerless winter gloves into the pockets of my old down vest. “Are you a rich person or a poor person?”
Following a trail of cheerful volunteers I rounded a corner and was comforted by the sight of a mother and her young daughter serving up salads at the end of the short buffet line. What is it about children that makes everything better?
Spaghetti and green beans in the warming wells tonight. Desserts lie plated, and tempting, on a table beyond. A dozen round tables begin to fill slowly and with lots of space between guests. “I’m going to take this home and add some meat to it!” says a friendly, festive man a few years older than me as I sit down across from him, my spaghetti, green beans and cake now silhouetted by a flowery paper placemat, and centered between a metal knife and fork. “Are you a rich person or a poor person?” I wonder.
“Seconds!” is called and Pastor Seth prowls the room with paper grocery bags prepacked and ready to take back to apartments, rooms, tents or bridge underpasses. Sometimes a dinner bag gets popped into the hands of a friend who’s been smoking and waiting just outside the door.
It’s 6:00 p.m. sharp and Security folks who’ve had a long, long working Sunday encourage us toward the exits and we follow their nudging; quickly, quietly and as ordinarily as possible.
I notice the girl with the headphones trot down the concrete steps of Plymouth Church toward the intersection of Nicolet and Franklin. She nods at me and I can still imagine the sound of her voice floating up to my left ear– unmocking. “Are you a rich person or a poor person?” And I answer “yes.”
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