The Bells are Ringing

It’s that time of year. It began with the faint ding of my cell phone indicating a text message had arrived. “Waaaayyyy too early for kettles,” wrote my sister from a suburban Buffalo store on the first day of November. She had heard a bell ringing as she walked towards the entrance and she knew it was “that time of year.”

In the 1942 film “For Me and My Gal,” a great question is raised: “Do you hear the bells go ding dong, do you know why they’re ringing?” Gene Kelly answers his own query in the first line of the familiar refrain. “The bells are ringing for me and my gal.” They were wedding bells!   

Unlike Kelly’s answer, the constant ringing we will begin to hear on our weekly trek to the supermarket doesn’t come from wedding bells, nor does their echo signify the end of war as church bells did at the conclusion of the Civil War. No, these ordinary and sometimes annoying bells clang throughout our land to signify that the war isn’t over and an Army continues to do battle in that war.

The Salvation Army’s care for the poor is not a new concept for people of faith. Historically, the Hebrew people declared a Year of Jubilee every fifty years as slaves and prisoners were freed and debts forgiven. In the last century, Catholic social teaching introduced the ‘preferential option for the poor,’ explaining that God gives preference to the poor and powerless, and so should God’s people. And in our century, new approaches to address poverty continue to spring up in faith communities around the world.

Government has also tried to stem the tide of poverty. Early approaches included auctioning off the poor, the development of Poorhouses, and the twentieth century answers, the advent of social security and welfare payments. Even with these adjustments, the poor remained with us, so President Lyndon Johnson declared war on poverty in 1965, to be followed by the welfare reform of the 90s.

Yet despite all these well-meaning interventions, still the bells must ring. Some see it as a quaint custom, like the child’s rhyme. “Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat, please put a penny in the old man’s hat.” Others pass by unaware, engrossed in conversation or checking cell phones for urgent messages. Some respond to the bell with irritation, tired of hearing it, while others hear the bell and remember that lives can be transformed as a community pools together the spare change in its pockets.

This Christmas, local Salvation Army units are kicking off their bell-ringing campaigns with events designed to create excitement in the community, celebrating the hundreds of volunteers and staff who keep the bells ringing between now and December 24^th. The festive Jingle All the Way 5K is this morning, giving the Ashland bells a running start at 8:30 a.m. For those of us who would jiggle rather than jingle if we attempted a 5K run, there’s a pancake breakfast after the race, followed by the annual Red Kettle Bazaar from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m., a great way to get a jump start on Christmas shopping.

In Richland County, the bells will ring at a traditional breakfast gathering at the Mid-Ohio Conference Center on November 19. And for the music lovers among us, the Salvation Army in Wooster will welcome its Ring a Bell, Change a Life campaign with the holiday music of Ashland’s own Kroc Center Big Band on Monday at 6:30 p.m. I’m looking forward to my first taste of Christmas cookies during that event.

I do hope the Kroc Center Big Band plays “My Grown-up Christmas List” on Monday night, because its writer, Linda Thompson-Jenner, communicates better than I can. “As children we believed the grandest sight to see was something lovely wrapped beneath our tree.” Now, as adults, we recognize the rest of the picture, for “heaven only knows that packages and bows can never heal a hurting human soul.” I wish the kettle bells didn’t have to ring this year. But until the war on poverty is truly won, the Salvation Army bells will keep ringing their message of hope.  

A Dark and Silent Night

“It was a dark and stormy night.” These classic words, used by Edward Bulwer-Lytton in his 19^th century novel Paul Clifford, are often called the worst opening lines of literature. He obviously hadn’t read novelist Elmore Leonard’s ten rules for good writing, as rule number one is direct: “Never open a book with weather.”

Yet how else can I say it? It was a dark and silent night as we left Jake’s Steakhouse with a full belly, happy and satisfied. Silent, that is, until I paused to listen to the echo on the wind. What’s that faint disturbance in the air? As my palms began to sweat, my ears recognized the clang of the Salvation Army kettle bell, wafting across the expanse of parking lot and street from its position outside of Buehlers Food Market. The Salvation Army’s Christmas Kettle Campaign has begun!

The notes of those bells have been a familiar companion to me for longer than I want to admit. Mention the now defunct Twin Fair Discount Department Store in the Buffalo, New York area, and my body shivers in its memory of the frigid nights ringing that bell as a teenager. Grand Central Station in mid-town Manhattan was a daily assignment in the late 70’s, an eye-opening exposé of life in the Big Apple for a New Yorker from the other end of the state. I’ve rung that blasted (oh, I mean blessed) bell in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Ohio, and its notes have even invaded my dreams from time to time.

Drama aside, the Salvation Army bell has been an effective fund-raising tool since 1891, when Captain Joseph McFee placed an empty kettle at the Oakland Ferry Landing with a sign reading, “Keep the Pot Boiling.” His goal was to collect funds for Christmas dinner for the poor of San Francisco. More than one hundred years later, donations to the Red Kettle Campaign provide up to 20% of the local unit’s annual operating budget in some locations, supporting low-income families long after the Christmas stockings are packed away.

Over my more than forty years of Salvation Army involvement, I’ve heard the prediction of the demise of the Christmas kettle time and again. When some malls banned the ringing bell, creative workers resorted to flipping a hand sign, “ding, dong,” while others used puppets and ventriloquist dummies to capture the attention of potential donors. Keeping with the changing times, the Salvation Army has experimented with kettles that accept credit cards or display the QR code, and offers an online Red Kettle experience minus the annoying bell and glacial temperatures for the less intrepid among us.

Like other charities, the Salvation Army also uses the mail to request donations. My ninety year old mother has gotten on more than forty of those charitable mailing lists, including the Cold War Patriots, the Smile Train, and Cal Farley’s – all worthy causes to someone, but often overwhelming to a generation who feels obligated to give when asked. I’ve spent about five hours visiting websites this week, requesting her name be removed from their mailings, definitely a more difficult task than making a donation in her name.

I’ve sat at most of the chairs around the charitable giving table, strategizing fund-raising ideas, supporting United Way, counting the coins dropped into the kettle, writing a personal check to a cause I support, evaluating grant requests, and worrying long into the night when the pot is empty. I long for the day when charitable fund-raising is unnecessary because our neighbors no longer need the services of the Salvation Army and other agencies of our community, but that day hasn’t come, and so the bell rings on with its plaintive call: “remember the poor.”

Just as I’ve had to consign my typewriter and eight-track player to the dustbin, the day may come when the Salvation Army bell is heard no more at shopping locations across our country, remembered only as a nostalgic symbol of Christmas past. Other fund-raising gimmicks (oh, I mean tools) will be explored, and the work of charity will continue, but for me, if or when that call to remember is silenced, it will indeed be “a dark and silent night.”

 

 

Someone Has A Dream

The concept of having a dream for the future of our church, whether in the local congregation or on the broader denominational scale, is one that has been claimed for centuries of church history. Most biblical references to dreams are rooted in the actual dream world, a time when the barriers and boundaries of wakened thought are released, and our subconscious thoughts can be accessed, but often contemporary leaders use the “I have a dream” sentence stem to articulate their vision for the future of the church and the world around it.

 

The most famous “I Have a Dream” statement comes from Martin Luther King Jr. who addressed a crowd of 250,000 at the March on Washington for Freedom and Jobs in 1963. History reports that King almost did not speak those words out loud on that day, having been urged by staff members not to use that speech, labeling it “hackneyed and trite.” But as he spoke, gospel singer Mahalia Jackson called out to King, "Tell 'em about the dream, Martin." King proceeded to outline his dream for a country where every valley would be exalted, and every hill and mountain would be made whole, a land where his children would one day be judged not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character. King had a vision of a world radically different from the world he’d experienced, and now, fifty years later, much of that dream has been realized, although we still have miles to go before we sleep.

 

It is in that context that I read the words of Salvation Army international leader, General Andre Cox, as he has articulated his dream, his vision, for the future of the Salvation Army. A posting of this dream on his Facebook page has brought an enthusiastic response from hundreds of people around the world. Here are his words:

 

I dream of a committed, effective and joyful Army, rooted and confident in the word of God and on its knees.

I dream of an Army that truly reflects the mind of Jesus in our commitment to the poor and the marginalised.

I dream of an Army that practices what it preaches from the top leadership down, an Army that is a visible and living example of Kingdom values.

I dream of an Army that values its youth where our young people feel that they have a voice.

I dream of an Army with strong relevant and streamlined administrative structures and a much more effective use of our financial and material resources.

I dream of an Army where all cultures are equally accepted and celebrated through the spiritual ties that bind us all together.

I dream of an Army that shuns the dependency culture.

Reading them this morning, I felt compelled to make some comments on Cox’s words. First, warning is given throughout the scriptures as to the ability of persuasive people to “sell their dreams to those around them,” as was noted in Jeremiah. Therefore, when I hear the phrase, “I have a dream,” I see a yellow flag of caution that reminds me to check my dream or that of another against what I know to be true of God, people, and the world as informed through the teachings of the Bible and the experience of life as a follower of Jesus. Before we jump on this bandwagon or drink any kool-aid, we need to test this dream against what we understand to be the Wesleyan Quadrilateral, that of Scripture (first), tradition, reason and experience. A cursory reading doesn’t reveal any major problems, but I’d like to know more of what Cox means by the term “dependency culture” and how kingdom values are defined.

A second comment is that I would love to see the fourth statement expanded to reflect an Army where people of all ages – and ranks – know that they have a voice. While I recognize the desire to embrace youth (and the importance of that for the Army’s future), there are other marginalized groups within Salvation Army culture who need to know, and not just feel, that they have a voice within the organization. As an example from the setting of King’s famous speech, initial plans for that rally had not included the voice of a woman, even though women were heavily involved in the civil rights movement. Anna Arnold Hedgeman, the only woman on the planning committee, fought for the inclusion of women on that program, and so we now have these experiential words of Josephine Baker: “You know I have always taken the rocky path. I never took the easy one, but as I get older, and as I knew I had the power and the strength, I took that rocky path, and I tried to smooth it out a little."

Articulating a vision is crucial. Selling it to its stakeholders in the world in which we live is a challenge. Yet moving from the dream world to reality is critical. For King, his commitment to his dream ended in his assassination, but was carried forth by those who believed in the power of the dream. For Jorge Mario Bergoglio, his vision is causing much disruption in the Catholic Church, as noted in this week’s Washington Post: “[Pope] Francis is “a remarkable man, no one would deny that,” Royal said. “But I’m not sure if he cares about being accurate. He gets into an [evangelizing] dynamic with people and that seems to be the most important thing. . . . In some ways it makes people very anxious. If you do this, what’s the next thing?””

It remains to be seen how Cox will move from vision to reality, but I have to hope that whatever that movement looks like, he’ll make some people anxious, because that is how change occurs. Sitting at my computer in Ashland, Ohio, I can only hope and pray that he will target these dreams in broad strokes that won’t get buried in committees, but that will change the face of the Salvation Army for the ages, to the glory of God.

Have You Ever Seen a Lassie?

from the archives:
(first published in 2005)

            The Salvation Army in New York City recently celebrated the 125^th anniversary of the opening of the work in that great city.  It was a quite a party, and gave witness to the faithfulness of God in powerful ways.  But it raised again an issue that has troubled me for a number of years:  Why do we continue to refer to the seven brave women who came with Railton as the “seven hallelujah lassies”?  OK, in a pinch it may be a poetic phrase, but this is 2005, and whatever that word may have implied in 1880, my vivid imagination can only draw on my early childhood experience of Lassie, the adorable collie who kept getting lost. 

            These “lassies” are seven women who left their homes, their families, and everything that was familiar to cross the ocean in hopes of spreading the gospel.  They are seven women who have names.  Except that it’s difficult to find them.  Sixty minutes on the Internet could not locate their names.  They are unnamed in Soldier Saint, a biography of George Scott Railton, who accompanied them to New York, nor are they named in Red-Hot and Righteous, Diane Winston’s work on the urban religion of The Salvation Army.  Edward McKinley names one in Marching to Glory, Emma Westbrook, and describes the group as “stalwart women with great heart but little ability”(15).  Ouch! It finally took an e-mail to the archives in London to find them.  So for the record, in recognition of their personhood, the women who came to these shores in 1880 were Alice Coleman, Rachel Evans, Emma Elizabeth Florence Morris, Elizabeth Pearson, Clara Price, Annie Shaw, and Emma Westbrook

            It could be presumed that the lack of naming of these women has been simply a historical oversight, but if so, there have been too many historical oversights in the course of the history of our faith, beginning with the Scriptures.  Jephthah’s daughter (Judges 11), the woman who was a concubine (Judges 19), the woman at the well (John 4), the woman taken in adultery (John 8), the woman with an issue of blood (Matthew 9), and the woman in Simon’s house (Mark 14), are only a few of the many unnamed women in the Bible.

Unnamed women are not confined to the pages of history.  There are unnamed women in our contemporary world as well:  the female babies aborted daily in China simply because of their gender, the women being sold into prostitution and sexual slavery, and yes, the prostitutes on the street corners and the women who have been bumped off the welfare rolls in our own communities. 

            Yet these women do have names.  While they may not have been considered noteworthy enough to be recorded in the Scripture, each woman has a name.  Even women who are forced to abort their daughter give them a name.  And sex slaves, prostitutes, and poor women all have names as well.  As such, their names are known to the God of the universe, the shepherd who cares for his sheep.  As the chorus writer reminds us,

He cannot forget me, though trials beset me,

            Forever his promise shall stand,

            He cannot forget me, though trials beset me,

            My name’s on the palm of his hand.

                        SASB 125

 

            While I may not be able to change the historical records of The Salvation Army, I can remember that George did not come alone to the shores of the US, but was accompanied by Alice, Rachel, Emma, Elizabeth, Clara, Annie and Emma.  I can honor the memory of the unnamed women in the Scriptures by telling their stories.  And I can respect my brothers and sisters enough to speak their names, whether in the pew or the soup-line, as those who are created in the image of God and held close to his heart.  For the gift of a name bestows both identity and regard upon another, and I can choose to live in such a way that the names of God’s children are cherished and preserved.

 

O concubine of Ephraim,

No name is ever wholly forgotten.

Your mother’s lips brushed identity upon being.

A fragile vase, auctioned to the highest bidder,

Stripped naked of dignity.

Yet your name whispers gently.

I know you.

(see Judges 19)

A Red Thread

Summer weekends in my childhood weren't complete without a visit to the cemetery. As my parents carefully tended the gravesites of their parents and other ancestors, my brother and I explored the neighboring monuments, and I'd wonder out loud about the people who were buried beneath those stones. Whenever we cut through the cemetery on our way to Progressive Field to watch the Indians, I'm forever dawdling, wanting to check out the gravestones and wondering about the stories represented by the engraved words. So I felt quite at home when Larry and I, along with our friend Chelse, visited the Ashland Cemetery for the Living History Cemetery Walk, sponsored by the Ashland County Historical Society.

While I don't have any relatives buried in Ashland, I was aware that a Salvation Army officer, Fredrich Holzgrefe, was laid to rest there, thousands of miles from his home in Germany. He died in his mid-thirties in his living quarters at the newly completed Salvation Army. He'd done quite a bit of the work himself on the new Salvation Army barracks, and his bereft congregation and friends made sure he was provided with a peaceful resting place in the local cemetery in 1904.

Little did I know that the first character we would meet at the history walk was also connected to the Salvation Army. What a small world. Emily Hess did a terrific job portraying Mrs. John (Hannah) Newcomb, who served as a Salvation Army officer for twenty years before Hannah and her husband resigned in 1911, apparently due to his ill health. Hannah had graduated from Ashland High School, and after they left Salvation Army work, they spent some time in Sebring, Florida, but by 1916 the family returned to Ashland. I spent some time at the historical society library and at the Salvation Army office, but could find no further mention of any Salvation Army connection for Hannah or her family, but I'll keep digging.

In Hannah's voice, Emily noted that her Salvation Army work and world was much different from the current day Kroc Center here in Ashland, and I thought especially of her comment while talking with Bill Bihlman the next day. Bihlman is a member of the South Bend, Indiana Salvation Army Kroc Center, and he has been on a mission over the past seven weeks to bicycle cross-country on a fund-raising tour for the O'Connor House, a small shelter for pregnant women in Carmel, IN. Because of his connection to the South Bend Kroc Center, he decided to place seven of the Kroc Centers across the nation on his itinerary, including Ashland, Ohio, Hannah Newcomb"s home town. He's been to San Diego, the original Kroc Center, and to Phoenix, Omaha, Quincy, IL, and Dayton, and will visit Tidewater, VA before he completes his tour.

I've  thought a lot about Hannah Hayes Newcomb, Fredrich Holzgrefe and Bill Bihlman this week. The stories of their lives - and mine - come together at a three-way intersection: Ashland, Ohio, the Salvation Army, and a commitment to mission. Fredrich wore out his heart in service to others, Hannah followed her heart to Salvation Army training in New York City at the end of the nineteenth century, and, with heart pounding, Bill leans into the wind daily as he rides for hope across the United States.

Certainly Hannah and Fredrich never heard motivational speaker Steve Maraboli, but they understood his counsel just as Bill does: "Never decide to do nothing just because you can only do little. Do what you can. You would be surprised at what "little" acts have done for our world."

Hannah, Fredrich and I met through the fragment of a story, as preserved in a yellowed newspaper clipping and reenacted on a cemetery walk. Bill and I met as if by chance, when our lives crossed paths one afternoon in the lobby of the Kroc Center. Perhaps as the ancient Chinese belief suggests, there is an invisible red thread that connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. I'm grateful that the red thread of our personal narratives runs through Ashland, Ohio.  

Silver Bells

In Silver Bells, Bing Crosby and Carol Richards crooned of the silver bells that mark the arrival of Christmas in the city. It’s a great song, reminiscent of the days when downtown streets across America were filled with holiday shoppers, long before they began their mass exodus to the malls, the big box stores, and on-line specials.
While I enjoy hearing Silver Bells, one of my first piano selections, the Christmas bells I hear most often tend to be more functional in nature, as they’re found clanging rhythmically in search of funds to fill the Salvation Army kettle. The sound of the bell at the kettle can get annoying, as hour after hour it demands to be heard, and some merchants have forbidden the sound of those bells. Yet they faithfully ring on across the country, as much a part of American Christmas tradition as red-nosed Rudolph and the Christmas-stealing Grinch.

I was seduced by the sound of ringing bells at the age of fifteen, and I've spent forty-plus years in a love/hate relationship with their insistent tones. I've rung this bell in the snow of Western New York, in the shadow of Grand Central Station, and with my toddler at my side in New Jersey. It's followed me to Philadelphia, Cleveland, and Canton, and even turned up in our newest home in Ashland, Ohio, side-by-side with the Amish buggies and cow-tipping teens. I love this bell because it's insistent, forever calling attention to those on the margins. I hate it because it only wants to be held when the weather is cold, windy and wet.

I’ve looked at the kettle bell as a necessary evil, one that generates funding for Salvation Army mission, but I also hear another level of insistence in those bells: don’t forget. Don’t forget the poor, the outcast, the oppressed.  They are among you, rings the bell, your brothers and sisters.  They must not be lost in the shuffle of holiday spending. 

It is Luke who records the first public words of Jesus, heard in Nazareth’s synagogue, as he quotes Isaiah’s prophecy:

The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor” (Luke 4:18).

From the poverty of his birth to the abandonment of his death, Jesus heard the voice of the poor. In communities like mine, they don’t sleep on the steps of city hall, but they live here, struggling from day to day. “Don’t forget,” rings the bell.  “In as much as you have done it unto the least of these . . .”

From Christmas Memories: Reflections of a Smitten Believer

 

Ding Dong Merrily on High

DING DONG MERRILY ON HIGH

 

As young Salvation Army officers-in-training, our first quarter of classes ended around Thanksgiving, just in time for a long-awaited break from the classroom. Within hours, the relief over the “no more pencils, no more books” cheer would be replaced by the ringing of bells, as the more than 60 cadets in our session hit the streets of Manhattan to get indoctrinated into the fine art of Christmas kettling. Yes, I know that spell check doesn’t recognize that as a verb, but in our lexicon it surely is. 

Most of us had ‘stood on kettles’ at some time in the past, as I had done as a teen-ager at the old Twin Fair in Tonawanda, New York. But this was New York City, where we’d spend the next five weeks begging the throngs of people to stop and, as the old ditty reminds us, “put a nickel in the drum, save another drunken bum.” Larry and I drew the early shift, which meant we would awaken long before the sun appeared, to begin our shift at Grand Central Station at 6 a.m. – yes, for those who know me, that was 6 in the morning.

Those were the days when female cadets were expected to stand kettles in full uniform, including a skirt and the requisite bonnet. It took me about two days to figure out that with boots and a cape, I could manage long underwear under my skirt and no one would know the difference. 

We were fortunate that we both played a brass instrument, so were assigned to a quartet, expected to fill the air with carols for eight hours a day, rain or snow, sleet or hail.  Some of our friends didn’t fare as well, working solo on a drafty corner in the Wall Street district, so we were grateful for the music assignment, as it made the day pass more quickly.

After a few days we fell into a routine. We’d arrive early enough to get the ninety-nine cent breakfast at the greasy spoon across the street, pancakes or eggs to fill us up for the day’s adventures. We’d play through the carol book once to catch the rush hour crowd, and then take turns heading into Grand Central to thaw out for a few minutes. Lunch would consist of the sandwiches we’d brought, as we hoarded the meal allowance to purchase Christmas gifts for family. Then back to the street corner, hoping our lips would hold out until our replacements arrived. 

Oh, the stories. As we chatted in the van on the way back to Suffern, the stories would tumble out. Did you see that? Do you know what so-and-so did? We saw it all during those days, as thousands of people passed by us every hour. Our favorite story was the documentary film-maker who thrust the boom mike in our faces and asked, ‘do you eat grits?’ To this day I’ve not eaten them, but chuckle when I see them on the menu.    

I’m not sure if the Salvation Army has a written statement that indicates the reasoning for this particular practice. Certainly it provides some income to the Salvation Army while also increasing the presence of uniformed Salvationists on the streets of New York. There is also the sense of discipline it gives to the young people, but even more so, it provides each cadet with a deep appreciation for the efforts of the thousands of kettle workers that they’ll meet over their years of Salvation Army service.

Those days on the streets of New York didn’t fully prepare us for the year in Hough when we had two kettle workers arrested (one got in a fight on the kettle, another moved someone’s car from in front of the store – without a license), and another murdered by her boyfriend. That was the hardest kettle season, but each year brings its own stories that may one day grace the pages of my believe-it-or-not memoir. While some areas use a temp service to staff the kettles, we’ve not gone that route, preferring to hire (and fire) from our community. Some eliminated themselves easily, by dropping the tweezers into the kettle while trying to extricate a dollar or two from the locked pot, or by cussing out the store manager. In the most infamous act of cussing, the accused worker said, “It wasn’t me. I don’t cuss.” “So how did the manager know your name?” “Oh, that’s easy – my name’s on my %$#* nametag.” Oops!

So has it been worth it? While I haven’t kept an accurate accounting, I’d guess that over our thirty-two Christmas kettle seasons, we’ve been responsible for the kettle workers who’ve collected more than 2 million dollars. We’ve met some amazing people who’ve ministered to thousands through their faithful presence and allowed us to share for a moment in time in their story. Certainly there are less time-consuming ways to raise funds, but Christmas without a Salvation Army kettle just wouldn’t be Christmas. So the Salvation Army rings on, grateful for the bell that calls us to remember the needs of others and provides those with little means the opportunity to contribute to the well-being of all within the community.            

from Christmas Memories: Reflections of a Smitten Believer