More Than Miracles. Ben Volman

and Good Will to the Jews, described what was happening in the February 1930 issue:

      Every day we were interrupted at breakfast, dinner and supper by men looking for work. It was impossible for us to refuse a bite to those hungry men when they approached us when we, ourselves, were eating.¹

      Before long, it was obvious that the growing number of homeless drifters lining up at the Mission door were harbingers of a growing crisis.

      The 1929 collapse of North American stock markets unleashed a devastating economic disaster that lasted for the better part of a decade. Not even the trials and triumphs of World War II could erase its impact on a generation. At first, the federal government assured Canadians that a healthy economy and stable banks would spare them from the worst effects of a global downturn. That optimism faded quickly.

      As the difficult years arrived, Canadian exports fell by a discouraging 50 percent from 1929 to 1933. During the boom of the 1920s many Ontario factory owners had gone into debt to expand capacity. With the American economy shrinking and foreign markets drying up, businesses and industries all across Canada were forced to close or restructure, laying off large numbers of workers. Banks and governments reacted with severe restrictions on credit, and commerce began grinding to a halt.

      One in three Canadians lived on family farms. With limited credit, many farmers couldn’t maintain their operations, harvest their crops or replace livestock. Those who failed to meet their debts were driven off the land. With no markets for their resources, the mining and logging industries began to shut down, with devastating effects on northern communities. “Main Street” in most small towns became a row of empty storefronts with yellowing newsprint in the windows. Larger cities were hardly doing better and were overrun by the unemployed seeking any opportunity for work.

      Throughout the 1930s, hard-working individuals and families remained vulnerable, while Canadian governments seemed ineffective or even hostile to the growing ranks of those who were homeless and unemployed. Ontario tried to follow the lead modelled by President Roosevelt’s “New Deal,” mounting large-scale public works projects—many provincial major highways were first paved in this era—but there were still not enough jobs. The federal government offered no social assistance programs, no publically funded health care. Barely a decade before, many of the itinerant men riding the rails or hitching down the roads had been fighting in Europe, risking their lives for king and country; they were bitterly disappointed. Fearful of widespread social unrest, governments responded by setting up large work camps.

      Toronto became a destination of hope for thousands seeking any kind of work or public aid. These were the waves of itinerant, displaced and homeless men and women who eventually came knocking at the door of the Scott Institute and every other downtown mission or charity. The Zeidmans could have kept them at arm’s length or ignored the problem. They already had plans to move from the apartment in the old Elizabeth St. facility. Morris’s official ministry responsibilities put no expectations on him, certainly not more than he and Annie were doing.

      But after years of ministry in the heart of the city, they were determined to stem the tide of suffering. Their vision expanded to include everyone who came to them in need. A number of Morris’s American ministry colleagues had opened up their own soup kitchens—feeding transients and the poor in major U.S. cities. The Institute also had a poor fund, but as Morris later wrote, “the meager sum at our disposal was less than a drop of water in the sea.”²

      By summer’s end, the city’s growing numbers of transients were a public concern, and winter threatened to make the situation worse. Early in October 1930, Morris dropped by the offices of the Toronto Evening Telegram (later the Toronto Telegram, until it closed in 1971). A chat with the editor-in-chief was interrupted by a phone call. The downtown Zeller’s department store had 130 gallons of leftover turkey giblets after Thanksgiving. Did they know someone who would take it off their hands? That became Morris’s first in-kind donation, large enough to launch a soup kitchen.³

      A few weeks later, Morris sparked a lively debate at the local presbytery when he proposed the use of the Elizabeth St. facility to assist the growing numbers of hungry men. The next day (Tuesday, November 4, 1930), the Toronto Star carried a small headline on the front page: “Toronto Presbytery Allows Soup Kitchen.” But there was one small caveat. The presbytery had no money for the program, and Morris couldn’t expect any increase to his budget. Funds had to be raised separately, and he’d have to take that responsibility. This was the motion recorded in the notes of their regular meeting, November 3, 1930:

      That, at the request of Mr. Zeidman, we, as a Presbytery, authorize Mr. Zeidman to organize a soup kitchen in connection with the Scott Institute, for the relief of those suffering from hunger and poverty; and that he receive authority to collect money for that purpose.⁴

      None of this delayed his plans. Morris launched the new ministry that Friday (November 7), giving his program a cheery moniker—the “Royal York Soup Kitchen”—and laying out 170 meals. Within three months of daily operations, the figure more than tripled; the Institute was providing food for 600 men daily. By that time, the ministry had already supplied 25,000 pieces of clothing to 8,000 men. On New Year’s Day 1931, they hosted 955 guests, the meal supplemented with chicken provided by no less a personage than the lieutenant governor of Ontario. The ministry got lots of press exposure and attracted strong volunteer support. It continued until late spring.

      A year later, Morris went back to his colleagues at the presbytery for permission to reopen the Institute for relief work. He generously credited “the Toronto Presbytery and the persistent urging of the general public” for encouraging him to resume. The next day, November 3, 1931, the Telegram reported that the work had received the necessary approval and that Morris had already been passing out restaurant tickets (1,137 of them) to those in need. He told reporters that he was willing to lay out his own money if he couldn’t raise sufficient funds.⁵

      As the Depression wore on, the first week of November annually marked the Mission’s public opening for food and clothing distribution to homeless men, tirelessly feeding and assisting anyone who needed help until late April or early May. Men could come in off the street and be fed or clothed or find assistance. During the summer, the focus turned to the “Fresh Air” camping programs that brought inner city families—mostly mothers and children—out to the countryside. The mission’s regular ministry services to Jewish people and Morris’s ongoing personal ministry continued throughout the summer and into the fall.

      The Zeidmans’ vision and strength of character were nothing less than heroic. In addition to the exhausting daily schedule to sustain the ministry of serving meals and meeting individual needs, they also had to keep casting the widest possible net for financial support. Morris began regular Sunday afternoon radio broadcasts and an unending round of personal engagements at churches, clubs, fundraisers and community events.

      Their determination needs to be seen against the backdrop of an era when government relief was minimal and average people felt overwhelmed. Morris and Annie had no great church at their disposal and no guaranteed funding. They were by no means the only charity doing this kind of work, but the public were impressed that the Zeidmans acted by faith, committing to feed and clothe hundreds of needy citizens when average people could hardly spare an extra dollar.

      Their steadfast faith seemed capable of moving mountains and overcoming the impossible while others struggled to cope. Within a few years, the reputation of the Scott Institute and Morris Zeidman had spread across the city. Hundreds of touching letters (including amounts both small and large) came to Morris from across the country, entrusting funds to his personal care. People knew that their donation to “the Scott” would go directly to people in need. Every financial gift was carefully entered into the “Soup Kitchen Fund,” which was fully separate from the Institute’s regular budget. Morris regretted that the general board of missions, which received his reports with enthusiasm, never approved his requests for recognition as a home missionary program.

      None of this changed his unique identity as an inner-city Jewish worker for the Messiah, a Hebrew Christian minister helping everyone in need. It was an unlikely profile for someone so widely known for community