He's a sharecropper's son who earned a doctorate, preached Jesus and crusaded for better neighborhoods. Now the Rev. Johnnie Monroe is retiring as pastor of Grace Memorial Presbyterian Church in the Hill District.

Dr. Monroe, 67, will preach his last sermon at Grace today.

"A lot of people in the community see Dr. Monroe as a social justice advocate. But behind all of that has been his zeal to win people to Jesus Christ," said his friend, the Rev. Ronald Peters, director of the Metro-Urban Institute at Pittsburgh Theological Seminary.

His seamless commitment to Jesus and justice was instilled in a one-room Presbyterian schoolhouse with a potbellied stove in Gable, S.C., a legacy of northern Presbyterians who sent missionaries south after the Civil War to educate former slaves. They left a large network of black Presbyterian churches with schools.

From early childhood he wanted to be like his pastors, who saved souls and lives during the deadly reign of Jim Crow. When the local hospital refused to treat black people, they organized a group to build a hospital of their own.

"I saw the pastors as the only people who were free enough to stand up and rally people for what they believed in," he said.

He attended Johnson C. Smith University and seminary in Charlotte, N.C., where he joined lunch counter sit-ins to desegregate restaurants.

Ordained in 1966 and married to his wife, Geri, in 1968, he worked as an ecumenical community organizer in Rochester, N.Y., and a co-pastor in Kansas City, Kan., before starting a street ministry in Philadelphia in 1970. The Temple of the Black Messiah had a Saturday night service with drumming and African dancing.

In 1973 he became pastor of the Thomas M. Thomas Presbyterian Church in Chester, in Delaware County. He was president of the NAACP and ran for school board and city council. But he's remembered for what he did after a fire killed five children near his church.

There was no fire station in the black neighborhood. He led a campaign that got the station, ensured that black workers were hired to build it and saw Chester hire its first black firefighters. The station was later named for him, with a monument that says, "The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord."

"Johnnie Monroe is a legend here," said Chester Fire Chief James Johnson, who is black. "He is a giant."

In 1986 he became Pittsburgh Presbytery's associate executive for evangelism and social witness. He took a regional post with the Presbyterian Church (USA) before returning in 1993 as Grace's pastor.

"I was praying before he came that the search committee would select a Bible-believing, Spirit-filled shepherd. My prayers were answered," said Robert Lavelle, 93, a church elder and founder of Dwelling House Savings & Loan, which makes home loans to low-income people in low-income neighborhoods.

The Rev. Monroe inherited a congregation of 100 and a building in disrepair. His renovation campaign included tinting the stained glass to give biblical figures black hair and dark skin. He began Bible studies for different age groups. United Teens on a Mission has included efforts as practical as helping teens start their own lawn care businesses. The church has tripled to 300.

But he was troubled by the quiescence of many Pittsburgh churches on community issues.

"People in Pittsburgh don't expect much from the church," he said. "Where I come from, the church has always been at the forefront of social issues."

He is a vocal presence at vigils to end street violence. Although Grace crowns the upper Hill, with a billion dollar view of the city, there have been drive-by shootings. In April, bullets sprayed the home of an elderly parishioner, former Wilkinsburg Mayor Robert Pitts.

Dr. Monroe told 50 people who assembled outside the house, "We're going to sing and pray but then when we leave here today we're going to be ready to do some work to bring some change in this city."

But he's been doing that for years. Early in his tenure Grace set up the nonprofit Schenley Heights Development Program. Its after-school tutoring serves more than 100 children daily and was hailed in a 2001 story in Education Week. A summer program serves 135 children, and there are 57 in extended day programs that meet at other sites in Pittsburgh. Twenty children attend Head Start. It has also sponsored a track club.

Activities overflowed from the church to the parsonage to a house donated by a neighbor. Then Dr. Monroe set out to buy a closed church nearby.

Its $155,000 price was daunting, and it required more than $1.5 million to turn it into an education hub with computer labs. But in 2002, with money from the city, presbytery and foundations, it came to pass.

Dr. Monroe "always talks about stepping out on faith and he truly believes that. We bought that building on a wing and a prayer. But it's paid for," said Gregory Morris, a retired educator who joined Grace because of its outreach to youth.

Dr. Monroe visits the children daily, and calls them, "my angels."

The children love him as much as he loves them, said Charlotte Heim, a tutor with the program for 12 years. Photos of Barack Obama mix with phonics charts on the walls of her second-grade room. The largest sign reflects the emphasis on nonviolence: "Anger is only one letter short of DANGER."

Then-city Councilman Sala Udin, a neighbor of the church, found the first grant money. Now president of the Coro Center for Civic Leadership, Mr. Udin had lobbied Dr. Monroe onto the Pittsburgh Citizen Police Review Board in 2000. They remain close friends.

"He's a spiritual adviser, but he doesn't lay it on so thick and uninvited that you don't want to come back. You always leave wishing the meeting wouldn't end so soon," he said.

One of Dr. Monroe's first high-profile causes was the public schools. He had first moved his family here because of the good inner-city schools. But he saw deterioration as staff changed and the board bled from infighting over a budget crisis and school closures.

"I saw a lot of racism, a lot of unequal education," he said.

He spoke up, and in 1996 was named to the search committee for a new district superintendent. In 2000 John Thompson, Pittsburgh's first black superintendant, was hired. But it was a split vote from a polarized board. With the district in gridlock, foundations withheld funding.

Dr. Monroe organized clergy to support Dr. Thompson end infighting. They once delayed the start of a board meeting by holding hands around the board table to pray for a an end to the conflict.

Dr. Thompson left in 2005. Dr. Monroe remains an advocate for public schools, serving on the boards of the Hill District Education Council and A+ Schools.

In 2000 he had become the first president of the Pittsburgh Interfaith Impact Network, which works for causes such as public transportation across all religious lines. But his highest profile was in the struggle over replacing Mellon Arena. Its construction in 1961 contributed to the descent of the lower Hill from a bastion of black culture into a slum. He wanted any new construction to do the reverse.

But in 2006 he fought a proposal from a casino developer to build a new hockey arena and do millions of dollars of redevelopment in the lower Hill.

"Folk who spend money on slot machines are the folk who can least afford to do that," he said.

That pitted him against Councilwoman Tonya Payne, who in 2005 had defeated his friend, Mr. Udin. She saw the casino as a good deal. But, after the casino plan failed, she believes Dr. Monroe's group made unrealistic demands on the group that emerged to build an arena. His group wanted $10 million to revitalize the Hill. Ms. Payne's group had a lead role in negotiations that yielded $3 million.

"I'm still convinced that the community did not get a good deal," Dr. Monroe said.

Ms. Payne admits they're not friends, but expressed respect.

"He's been so visible on so many community issues, education, social justice. He's been vocal and upfront. Among the clergy on the Hill, he is the go-to pastor," she said.

Mr. Morris was proud of his pastor.

"He stood tall. He stood up on gambling, when they wanted to bring casinos to the Hill. It wasn't a popular stand. A lot of people thought he was getting away from what he should be concerned with. But he is always out there fighting for the common people."