Theology at St. Georges

Mary (not her actual name) came in late to the community meal, dressed in a brown coat, neon pink scarf, dark glasses and caramel colored wig. Her voice, "yes please", was as gentle and high-pitched as a young girl. With a giggle, the 60 year old took a seat at one of the long tables and began her meal.

Everyone was in a good mood. At least twenty folks from our church came to feed the crowd of fourty. That's about twice the amount of help we usually have, and a little less than half the amount of folks we serve. The manager told us that the low numbers were likely due to the oncoming snowstorm. People who are financially on the edge tend to hunker down when bad weather threatens rather than risk going out in the sometimes dangerous streets.

Mary came to the window of the kitchen to ask about "seconds", a meal she could take home. As our volunteers were preparing her a plate, she and I had the opportunity to chat.

"You're from a church?" she said.

"Yes" I answered.

"I love how you have the children here to help. That's something my church would always do." She smiled broadly.

"Oh really? What church do you go to, Mary?" I wanted her to tell me that she had a spiritual home, that she is a part of a church family. She seemed too sweet, too gentle, too nice, to be on her own.

"It's a church down south, in Tennessee." She replied. "At my church, we say all the time that 'Jesus loves me'."

"We say that at my church too! Jesus loves you, in the same way that he loves me, and everyone in this room" We were getting somewhere, finding our theological common ground.

"No, I mean even when we do the wrong thing. Jesus loves us, even when we mess up. Why don't people in the churches up here understand that?" She said.

By now my chin was nearly to the floor. Here is a human being, one of God's precious children, who doesn't know that there are churches in her area that would welcome her with open arms.

"I think we do, Mary. It's just that who we are as people gets in the way. We each have our flaws, our cross to bear, is what I'm saying. I wish that people could just remember that Jesus loves us, in spite of the mistakes we make all the time."

Just then, her meal was ready and Mary began to leave. "Well, God bless you, and thanks for the food."

The church that I serve is about a 25 minute drive from Bridgeport. Mary may have a car or transportation, I don't know. As an urban person who is food insecure, it is highly unlikely that she could make her way to our church on a Sunday morning. And then there is the very real possibility that she suffers from undiagnosed or untreated scizophrenia or bipolar disorder as so many people who live on the streets often do.

As a economically disadvantaged, middle aged, possibly mentally disabled, African American woman, would Mary be welcome in our predominantly Euro American, middle-class, well educated church? Would the people in the pews pass the peace with her? Would she hear from them "Jesus Loves YOU"?

I believe (and hope, and pray) that if Mary came through those big blue doors, she would be welcomed with open arms. If she came back, became a part of things, served in the kitchen at Strawberry Festival, Mary would likely change us too. She would remind us that Jesus loves us right back.