From Soup to Systems: What Fighting Hunger Means For Democracy

I arrived at Bethlehem’s ArtsQuest Center on a bright September morning, not entirely sure what to expect. New Bethany’s 34th annual Souper Day luncheon had been billed as a celebration of the nonprofit’s 40th anniversary — complete with a panel on food insecurity and of course plenty of soup.

As a columnist focused on civic life, I’ve attended my share of community fundraisers. Still, walking into a room teeming with neighbors, volunteers, and local leaders all united around a common cause gave me a hopeful thrill. Nearly 300 people were finding their seats amid white-clothed tables, ready to share a meal and a mission. The venue buzzed with conversation and the savory aroma of smoked butternut squash bisque and Italian wedding soup (the day’s two show-stealing menu headliners) wafting through the air. No one was turned away at the door — a point of pride for New Bethany reflecting its longstanding open-door ethos. Little did I know that by the end of the event, I would feel both inspired and outraged, as well as deeply re-committed to the fight against hunger in my community.

Souper Day 2025, held Friday, September 12 at ArtsQuest, was more than a fundraiser luncheon; it was a festive yet purposeful atmosphere that felt like a town hall on hunger paired with a celebration of community resilience. New Bethany Inc., the host organization, has spent four decades providing food, housing, and social services to those experiencing poverty and homelessness. This year’s Souper Day was special: it marked New Bethany’s 40th anniversary of service to the Lehigh Valley, a milestone underscoring the region’s ongoing struggle with food insecurity. A sobering statistic was shared before the event: food insecurity still affects over 80,000 Lehigh Valley residents — including 22,000 children. That number hung in my mind as I looked around at the mix of elected officials, business sponsors, longtime volunteers, and people who simply care about their neighbors. It was a vivid reminder that hunger is not a distant problem but a local crisis touching families right here in our backyard.

I watched attendees settle in for lunch from my table on the mezzanine, witnessing old friends embrace and new connections spark as folks bonded over the meal. Amid the clinking of spoons against bowls, conversations began to dive into why we were really there: to confront hunger and kindle hope. “Hope and support” are at the core of New Bethany’s work, and that ethos was on full display. A short video introduced us to a resident named Hannah who thanked everyone for “allowing me the opportunity to begin again,” describing how New Bethany helped her rebuild her life. Her words earned gentle applause and more than a few misty eyes around the room (including my own). New Bethany staff later noted that this has been the nonprofit’s mantra for decades as it serves up “hope alongside a hot meal.” In that moment, I felt those 40 years of hope come to life — made real by people like Hannah who had been given a fresh start.

New Bethany was founded in 1985 during a period of intense economic hardship in Bethlehem. As Executive Director Marc Rittle reminded us, the organization “was born in a time when our nation’s working class was suffering from food and housing insecurity” and locally after the Bethlehem Steel plant’s decline. Back then, local churches opened soup kitchens and shelters to help laid-off steelworkers and their families. “If not for the generosity of the Episcopal Church, [Bethlehem] Steel workers would have remained homeless and low-income families would have wondered where their next meal was coming from,” Rittle said, reflecting on New Bethany’s origin story. Hearing this history gave me chills. It underscored a powerful truth: when traditional systems failed, grassroots community action stepped up — an early lesson in democracy and solidarity that still guides New Bethany’s mission today.

Fast forward 40 years, and New Bethany’s South Side campus has become a lifeline for locals in need. Its drop-in center offers hot breakfast and lunch for about 100 people every day, a choice food pantry, showers, mail services, transitional housing, and other assistance. In 2024 alone, New Bethany served 40,000 hot meals to roughly 1,000 people and provided groceries to thousands more. As I enjoyed my bowl of bisque, I couldn’t help reflecting on how something as humble as a hot meal can spark stability for someone who’s struggling. 

“If you’re going to thrive and take care of other things in your life, you need basic nutrition to do that,” noted Brandy Garofalo, New Bethany’s food access director. It’s a simple truth that landed with weight: food is medicine for a community, and without it, nothing else functions. New Bethany’s commitment to serving homemade, nutritious food — not just calories — is about restoring dignity and health, not merely filling stomachs.

After lunch, our attention turned to the stage where a panel of local experts tackled the root causes of food insecurity. Moderated by Rittle, the discussion featured voices from public health, sustainable agriculture, and New Bethany’s own team. Bethlehem’s health director Kristen Wenrich shared one especially startling data point: according to a 2023 Pennsylvania youth survey, nearly 30% of Bethlehem Area students said they worry about not having enough food at home — up from just 12% in 2021. A hushed murmur spread across the audience as that number sank in. As a parent, that statistic hit me hard. In some local classrooms, roughly one in three children are anxious about hunger. It brought the conversation into sharp focus: childhood hunger isn’t a faraway issue; it’s right here in our schools, affecting children’s ability to learn and thrive.

That local trend mirrors what’s happening both across Pennsylvania and the nation. In 2023, Pennsylvania was ranked the seventh worst state for child food insecurity, with more than 475,000 children — about one in six — facing hunger. Statewide, the total number of food-insecure Pennsylvanians jumped by more than 170,000 last year. Nationally, the USDA reported that 47 million Americans, including 14 million children, experienced food insecurity in 2023 — the highest rate in more than a decade. These figures are staggering. They underscore that what we’re seeing in Bethlehem is part of a broader crisis. Rising costs of living, the lingering economic shocks of the pandemic, and the end of certain relief programs have all contributed to this surge in need. Food insecurity has increased in virtually every demographic, and families who never imagined needing help are now showing up at food pantries. As Wenrich explained, hunger has become a public health emergency.

The event’s panelists delved into why this emergency persists. One theme emerged clearly: systemic challenges from policy choices to economic shifts are driving much of the insecurity. Jeff Frank, a farmer from nearby Liberty Gardens, highlighted how even well-intentioned programs can be undermined by sudden policy changes. He pointed to a federal USDA initiative called the Local Food Purchase Assistance (LFPA) program, which connected local farms with food banks and shelters. This program not only fed underserved communities fresh produce; it also provided a reliable income to small farmers. 

“Almost every other farm of scale that I know was growing food for the program because we knew we would get a decent return on our labor,” Frank said. “And labor is the limiting factor on the farm, every farm.” His frustration was palpable as he explained that this $13 million program was abruptly canceled over the summer. The support that farms and food banks had come to rely on simply vanished. Hearing this, I felt a swell of both anger and admiration — anger that such a beneficial program was cut, and admiration for farmers like Frank who are determined to keep feeding people despite policy setbacks.

Frank’s story illustrates how decisions made far beyond Bethlehem can reverberate through our local community. In this case, a federal budget cut ended a program that nearly 8,000 food banks and communities nationwide relied on for fresh, local food. The USDA announced in March that it would eliminate the program by next summer, claiming that other nutrition programs could fill the gap. On the ground, advocates understand nothing fully replaces the stable markets and healthy food pipeline that the program provided. 

“We can’t make up what the federal government cuts for food banks. We can ask for help, but it doesn’t make it up,” one food bank leader observed bluntly. 

In Pennsylvania, officials have been lamenting the loss of over $18 million that would have flowed to local farms, schools, and pantries through these initiatives. The pain of those cuts is felt in places like the Lehigh Valley, demonstrated by quieter pantry shelves and tighter farm budgets. Yet, it was also clear from Frank’s remarks that the community is not giving up; local farmers and nonprofits are scrambling to find alternative ways to get fresh food to those in need.

There are examples of how smart policy can bolster these grassroots efforts rather than hinder them. For instance, Pennsylvania runs an innovative program called the Agricultural Surplus System (PASS) that buys surplus produce and dairy from local farms and redirects it to food banks. A recent study showed that every dollar of PASS funding generates two dollars of economic activity, benefitting farmers, hungry families, and the community at large. It’s a win-win model that underscores an important point: fighting hunger isn’t just charity — it’s an investment in the health and wealth of our entire economic ecosystems. Unfortunately, programs like PASS cannot fully plug the hole left by federal retreats. The takeaway from the panel was that ending hunger will require both robust civic engagement and systemic change. We need neighbors helping neighbors and policies that support those neighbors in their mission.

While the panelists spoke from the podium, some of the most memorable insights I gathered came from casual conversations with fellow attendees. After the formal program, I wandered over to the coffee station where I met Mary, a retiree from a nearby township who has been volunteering in New Bethany’s pantry for years. Stirring a packet of sugar into her cup, Mary told me she started volunteering after retiring as a schoolteacher. “Too many people are going hungry in this valley, and I couldn’t just sit at home knowing that,” she said matter-of-factly. 

Every Tuesday and Thursday, Mary helps stock shelves and distribute groceries. She described how neighbors often arrive feeling embarrassed to ask for help, but leave with both food and dignity. Her greatest reward, she said, is seeing those same folks smile and greet her by name each week. “It feels like we’re neighbors helping neighbors — just like it should be,” Mary added, a proud smile spreading across her face. In her own quiet way, Mary is practicing democracy at the most local level: she saw a problem in her community and decided to do something about it.

I also struck up a conversation with Jamal, a young man in his twenties who was attending Souper Day for the first time. Jamal grew up in Bethlehem, and admitted he initially came out of curiosity more than anything. “I’ve been reading about rising homelessness and hunger, and I wanted to get involved somehow,” he said. The day’s program had clearly made an impact on him. He was especially moved by New Bethany’s open-door policy. 

“Hearing that no one is turned away here, ever — that really got me,” Jamal said. He told me that learning about the scope of the issue, and seeing so many community members rallying together was eye-opening. “It makes me think, if organizations like this can do so much with community support, what could our government do if we demanded more action?” Jamal wondered, his eyes bright with the spark of civic engagement. That sentiment stuck with me. Here was a young citizen connecting the dots — recognizing that charity alone won’t solve hunger, and that larger-scale change requires public action, too. In Jamal, I saw the next generation stepping up, ready to move from soup to systems.

One of the most poignant encounters I had was with a gentleman named Alan who had been sitting quietly at my table. Over a slice of pie, Alan shared with me that about a decade ago, he ate at New Bethany’s soup kitchen while he himself experienced homeless. “They helped me when I had nowhere else to go,” Alan said softly. He lost his job in a factory closure and spiraled into hard times. New Bethany gave him meals and a place to shower, and connected him with job training. Now, ten years later, Alan is back on his feet, working full-time at a local manufacturing company. He returned to Souper Day this year not as a client, but as a supporter. “I’m here to give back what I can,” he told me, gently holding the donation envelope that sat on our table. “New Bethany gave me hope and a hot meal when I needed it. I want to make sure the next Alan who walks through those doors gets the same chance.” 

That was a full-circle moment that encapsulated what this gathering was all about — the community lifting each other up, one person at a time. Alan’s story is a testament to the idea that when you invest in people, they so often pay it forward. It also highlighted something else: the line between needing help and giving help is thinner than many realize. In a volatile economy, any one of us could face a sudden crisis. What matters is that there’s a safety net of caring neighbors to catch you, and then you, in turn, help strengthen that net for the next person.

By the event’s end, the mood in the room was a mix of celebration and determination. Yes, we applauded New Bethany’s 40 years of service — including the nearly 40,000 hot meals they served last year alone — and we celebrated the many success stories like Hannah’s and Alan’s. The recurring message echoed by speakers and attendees alike was that charity, while crucial, is not enough on its own. As Rittle noted during the panel, food drives and fundraisers can only go so far if we don’t also address the policies and social structures underpinning hunger. 

“We are witnessing widespread acceptance of the criminalization of homelessness,” Rittle remarked, his tone turning sober. He was referring to a troubling trend where, instead of helping people without homes, society is increasingly pushing them out of sight or even penalizing them for being poor. Even as we celebrated inside the ArtsQuest Center, Bethlehem was grappling with a very real example of this: a local railroad company had recently asked city police to remove about 30 people living in tents along its Lehigh River property — an impromptu encampment of those with nowhere else to go. Those individuals have been told they must clear out by winter. That stark reality hung over the day’s celebration. It illustrated Rittle’s point that soup kitchens and shelters shouldn’t have to be society’s last resort, and that we need to push back against the idea that homelessness and hunger are crimes or personal failures rather than systemic issues.

Bethlehem’s Mayor, J. William Reynolds took the microphone near the close of the event to add an official voice of support. Standing in front of this cross-section of his community — nonprofit leaders, faith groups, businesspeople, and concerned citizens — the mayor thanked New Bethany for its work and issued a challenge. “These challenges are getting more and more acute, and this has got to be a call to action for us,” Reynolds urged. The room burst into applause. I found myself clapping a little harder at those words, because they rang absolutely true. 

Hunger and homelessness in the Lehigh Valley and across America have grown more acute in recent years, whether due to rising rents, the fentanyl epidemic, post-pandemic economic shifts, or frayed social services. The mayor’s presence and acknowledgement felt significant — a sign that our local government is paying attention, but translating that attention into action will require all of us to stay engaged. As I often write in my columns, democracy is not just something we vote on every few years; it’s something we do every day. In that room at Souper Day, I saw democracy in action: people of all stripes coming together to tackle problems through volunteering, donating, organizing, and yes – speaking up to demand change. It was a living example of the idea that we the people have the power to improve our community when we work in concert.

Stepping out of the ArtsQuest Center into the warm afternoon sun, I felt buoyed by the sense of solidarity I had witnessed, but also acutely aware of the work ahead. The Lehigh Valley is a generous place; thousands of volunteers like Mary give their time each year, and donors big and small open their wallets. Yet, as generous as our community is, we cannot become complacent. Until no child goes to bed hungry and no one is forced to live in a tent by the river, our job isn’t finished. Souper Day 2025 served up excellent soup, but it’s the shared hope and the urgent call to action that will stay with me. 

I left feeling inspired by New Bethany’s example of holistic care — from soup to systems, as I came to think of it — and by the many individuals ready to transform compassion into civic action. Fighting hunger, I realized, is about far more than food; it’s about dignity, justice, and the very fabric of our democracy. If as a community, we can ladle out compassion as readily as we ladled out that butternut squash bisque, then perhaps we truly can turn the tables on hunger. Souper Day reminded me that the solutions start with us — neighbors uniting to feed, house, and care for one another — and there’s nothing more democratic than that.

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