Story of the Month

Salvation Army prepares to ring in a new season

Fund-raising and charity extend across the land

BY JOHN BOUDREAU
Mercury News

Salvation Army bell ringers on Friday will take up their annual posts in America's malls of plenty. The ubiquitous jingling rings in the only season when many people think of the 135-year-old charity. Unless they are donating old couches.

Or their lives fall apart.

The global group that helped more than 33 million people across the land last year has quietly become America's leading recipient of private donations. For the eighth consecutive year, the quasi-military Salvation Army outranked every other charity in the nation in 1999, pulling in $1.4 billion in fundraising, according to the Chronicle of Philanthropy. In fact, it garnered twice as much as the second-largest donation-generating charity, the YMCA of the USA. (The survey doesn't include private foundations such as those set up by Bill Gates or David Packard.)

The holiday bell-and-kettle campaign, in which hundreds of ringers spread out across the Bay Area, accounts for only a fraction of the overall giving to the Army. But the $84 million raised nationwide a year ago provided critical funds for local outposts and priceless public relations for the organization dedicated to cushioning life's blows.

At core an evangelical church, the Salvation Army approaches charity with tent-revival zeal and almost Scrooge-like scrutiny of overhead. It is both old and new world: Salvationists are equipped with cell phones and laptops.
``Soldiers'' wear uniforms, play in brass bands and recite old-fashioned mottoes: ``Heart to God. Hand to man.'' Dallas Cowboys running back Emmitt Smith learned to play football at a Salvation Army youth program in Pensacola, Fla. Julius Erving, basketball's ``Dr. J,'' played his first organized game at a youth center in Hempstead, N.Y.

``It has somehow worked its way into the warp and woof of the American conscience,'' observed Larry Eskridge, associate director of the Institute for the Study of American Evangelicals at Wheaton College near Chicago. ``There has never been any whiff of major scandal. There is a general sense among a lot of people that dumping $10 in a Salvation Army bucket is better than giving $100 to the United States government.''

Management guru Peter Drucker, founder of the Drucker Foundation for Nonprofit Management, has called the Salvation Army ``the most effective organization in the United States.'' About 85 cents on every donated dollar goes to services. Less than 5 percent of income goes toward fundraising, which is the responsibility of each local region. In fact, the Salvation Army does not spend a penny on national advertising.

The Army, though, was not well received after arriving in the United States from England in 1880. The organization, founded by William and Catherine Booth in 1865 as a ministry to London's poor, was considered radical. Women were given equal leadership roles, and its loud evangelism -- soldiers paraded through cities with brass bands and banners -- was deemed intemperate. ``Anyone who joins the Salvation Army may as well kiss their respectability goodbye,'' intoned a New York Times editorial in the 1880s.

Counterculture ``They were counterculture,'' said Diane Winston, author of the 1999 book ``Red Hot and Righteous: The Urban Religion of the Salvation Army.'' ``Christians didn't march down the streets. This is what the circus did. To add insult to injury, they would stand on corners and let the `riffraff' testify.''

Attitudes changed after the World Wars, when the Salvation Army offered free coffee and doughnuts near the front lines. Today, there are 125,000 soldiers and 1.7 million Salvation Army volunteers in the United States.

``It shows our level of commitment to what we feel is a calling of God to a ministry that embraces all of mankind,'' said national commander John Busby, based near Washington, D.C. ``That resonates with the American public.''

At the heart of the U.S. organization are more than 5,000 officers, who are ordained ministers and supervise services from homeless shelters to free meals. They also serve as church pastors, band members, business managers and fundraisers. They are given military ranks based on years of service. There is only one general, who is based in London. Two women have served in that capacity.

Officers abstain from alcohol and tobacco, serve equally with spouses (they must leave the ministry if spouses are not Salvationists) and be as versed in social work as in the Bible.

The Army provides ``quarters,'' a car for each officer and a small ``allowance.'' ``You have no furniture. That makes the Army mobile,'' said Capt. George Rocheleau, Santa Clara County coordinator. ``You hop in a U-Haul. You get there. You have a home and a car. Hopefully, it runs.''

The 43-year-old Salvationist's office is a mishmash of candy boxes, paperwork, a bicycle. He's too busy to clean. With the exuberance of a church youth director, he bounces from room to room and rattles off ``killer'' programs. Saturday, he all but danced when a local car club unexpectedly dropped off 1,000 pounds of turkey. He plays trumpet and guitar at church, then peppers his Santa Clara congregation with jokes before launching into his sermon.

The nutty season This is the start of the ``nutty'' season, when he works seven days a week supervising various holiday programs and the kettle drive, which grossed about $200,000 in Santa Clara County last year. ``Dot-com hours without the dot-com money,'' said Rocheleau, who is having a tough time finding enough people to work the kettles this season.

Rocheleau and his wife, Capt. Dawn Rocheleau, who have three sons, together receive an allowance of $800 every two weeks. (When a child turns 18, $220 is deducted.) In fiscal 1999, national commander Busby was paid was paid $87,470, according to the Chronicle of Philanthropy. By comparison, David Mercer, CEO of the YMCA, had a salary of nearly $300,000.

Each officer receives a ``call'' to join the ministry. ``Well, it's not on the phone,'' Rocheleau said. ``It's a spiritual voice talking to you.'' The son of parents who also were officers, he remembers eating donated bananas as a child.

Accountability is built into the structure, from the bottom up. Each corps is overseen by a local advisory board. The Army has rigorous regulations on how officers spend funds. On Rocheleau's shelf are two thick binders detailing the rules, including how much can be spent on home furnishings: $450 for a coffee table, $1,000 for a couch. Officers must get an OK from headquarters to spend more than $250 for the office.

In recent times, the Army has not been free of controversy. The Department of Labor investigated a complaint in the 1980s that the organization did not pay the minimum wage to people in its rehabilitation programs, which provide room and board, counseling and job training in Army thrift stores. The Army argued that these workers were beneficiaries, not employees. No action was taken.

Two years ago, San Francisco discontinued $3.5 million in city contracts with the Army after the church refused to provide domestic partners benefits. Some viewed the organization as being anti-gay and lesbian. The Army wouldn't accept the stipulation because it would have meant changing its policy for all units around the country, said Lt. Col. Bettie Love, head of San Francisco operations.

To be sure, the Army isn't preachy. ``We believe in choice,'' Love said. ``We never ask what a person's sexual orientation is or what is their religion.''

Army leaders encourage those they help to attend chapel, said Roni Armbruster, a homeless Vietnam veteran and bell ringer staying at an Army shelter in San Jose. ``But they don't force you.''

The organization receives its share of mega-donations. Joan Kroc, widow of McDonald's founder Ray Kroc, gave $80 million to build a San Diego recreation center. Its most heartfelt support comes from those the Army once cared for.

From help to helper Darlene Knickerbocker, a cost accounting manager at Adept Technologies in San Jose, first encountered the Salvation Army as a teenager when her upstate New York town was flooded in the early 1970s. The Army organized temporary shelter and provided food and other assistance. Now Knickerbocker, who wears the dark blue soldier's uniform, regularly attends Sunday ``holiness meetings'' at the Santa Clara chapel.

Frank Johnsen, a 72-year-old retired government worker, travels from his home in Yuba City every year to man holiday kettles in the San Jose area. A divorce once left him broken, emotionally and financially. ``I hit bottom,'' he said. The Army in San Jose provided shelter and support. ``It's the most wonderful organization.''

To volunteer as a bell ringer or for other holiday programs, phone (408) 282-1165 or go to www.salvationarmy.org.
Other Bay Area offices:
In San Mateo, call (650) 368-4643;
San Francisco, (415) 553-3500;
Alameda County, (510) 437-9437.