The Soup Kitchen That Closed for a Building Campaign

In 2014, a church in Decatur, Georgia, shuttered its Thursday night soup kitchen. The reason was practical — they needed the fellowship hall cleared for a $2.3 million capital campaign kickoff. Glossy brochures replaced folding tables. Donation thermometers stood where bread baskets had been. The building would feature a new worship center with theatrical lighting and stadium seating for twelve hundred.

Margaret Hollis, who had ladled beef stew every Thursday for nine years, stood in the empty kitchen the week they closed it. She knew the names. DeShawn, who always asked for extra crackers. Linda, who came early to help set up because it gave her somewhere to be. A retired electrician named Paul who never talked much but once whispered, "This is the only place anyone looks me in the eye."

The new building opened eighteen months later to a standing-room crowd. But the soup kitchen never reopened. The commercial range was replaced with a coffee bar.

Hosea watched Israel perform the same trade — swapping the raw, inconvenient work of covenant love for the polished choreography of ritual. "I desire mercy, not sacrifice," God declared through His prophet, "and the knowledge of God rather than burnt offerings." The Hebrew word is hesed — stubborn, covenantal kindness that gets its hands dirty. The Almighty was never after better production values. He wanted Margaret's ladle. He wanted DeShawn's name remembered.