Gerald McCray was a licensed United Methodist minister before he was legally old enough to buy a lottery ticket. At 17, he had known for years already that he wanted to be a missionary. After his graduation from Emory Theological School in 1958, he was given the choice of an appointment in Cuba, Hawaii, or Alaska. He chose to head north.
He served as the pastor of the Nome Methodist Church for four years, during which time he doubled the size of his mostly Eskimo congregation. World Outlook Magazine wrote an article about his work, and One Great Hour of Sharing donated $25,000 to help build a new building large enough to adequately serve the growing congregation.
During this time, McCray held meditations on KICY radio once a month. They were translated into the native language by a local and relayed to remote villages, even as far as Siberia.
He also built personal relationships with the locals. Once he was even invited to go along on a walrus hunt. A friend, Tommy Tomongonuck, borrowed an oomiak (an open boat of skins stretched over a wooden frame), and off they went. Twenty-four hours later, McCray had killed an oogruck and a walrus.
McCray loved his work. “I found gold in the heart of the people,” he said. But in 1962 he was appointed to work at Bowling Green United Methodist Church in Florida, where he stayed for four years.
In 1965, he packed his belongings into a trailer, and he, his wife, and his two children drove to Portland to help integrate Woodland UMC. When he started working there, 15 African Americans were on the Sunday school rosters. When he left four years later, there were over forty. Much of this increase was due to the Gray Y program that he started for the local youth. Every Wednesday, 20 boys came to play basketball—and kept coming the whole four years he was there. “My boys won the first conference championship in Portland,” McCray said proudly. About two-thirds of these young men were African American. Several went on to get basketball scholarships to colleges in Oregon and California, one of whom was Ricky Lee, who led the Oregon State team to nationals.
But when the Bishop informed him that he needed a coordinator at Chemawa Indian School in Salem, he agreed to go. Formerly known as the “Bureau of Indian Affairs School,” it was renamed long ago after 15 children died in an epidemic. They were buried in an orchard on school property, and a native chief was called on to bless the land. He closed his blessing with the word chemawa—the place where the children play. The school has carried that name ever since.
But that era was history by the time McCray arrived to fill the joint position as pastor of Leslie Methodist Church and chaplain at Chemawa. While the nearly 1,000 students enrolled came from all over the country, the vast majority of them were from Alaska. In addition to being their spiritual leader, McCray offered them a chance to engage in sports. He had experience teaching sports through the YMCA (a side job he had held while in seminary), and he put that experience to work creating basketball teams (one for girls, two for boys). The students thrived and eventually won the tournament at Warm Springs—twice.
He also facilitated a choir composed of over 50 Inuit students, who travelled and sang for churches and women’s society meetings around the state. They would alternate between English and their native Eskimo language. “They just loved to sing,” said McCray.
At one point, McCray expressed his need for a bus. A friend in Mississippi just happened to have one–and was willing to give it to him if he was willing to fly over and drive it back to Oregon. McCray did exactly that, and thus became the owner of a 54-passenger bus, which greatly facilitated getting the students to their various performances and competition, as well as allowing McCray to drive them into town for Sunday School each week.
But eventually that era in his life came to an end, as well. After 12 years at Chemawa, he took over the pastorate of a church on the Indian mission at Williamson River, north of Klamath Falls. He would preach in the morning at Williamson UMC (which celebrated their 100th anniversary during his six-year tenure with them), enjoy a potluck with the congregation, and then drive 30 miles to preach at the mid-afternoon service at Beatty UMC. Another weekly potluck with that congregation would fuel him for the drive back home.
For his final appointment, he became the pastor of Sheridan UMC, where he stayed until he retired about a decade ago. After retirement, he got remarried to a wonderful lady named Helen Mifflin. He moved to McMinnville to be a part of her congregation—McMinnville United Methodist Church–and has been there ever since. When Pastor Steve Ross asked him if he would consider being the visitation minister, he agreed. Over the years, he has brought comfort and joy to many who are sick or shut-in.
“I enjoy the people,” he said recently. “I’ve always loved people. Every church I’ve ever served, I loved the people, but it’s easy to love these people.”
Now that he is retiring from his “retirement job,” he is looking forward to some much earned relaxation in the company of the people he has served so well.
