A Devotion from Verne Becker

Saved by the Bell

On a Saturday morning in December, I look down from the window of my high-rise apartment

in Printers’ Row, a quasi-renaissance neighborhood in the South Loop of Chicago. The

temperature outside is zero. Vapors rise from every nook and cranny of the cityscape. The El

train creaks and squeals more than usual as it slowly passes on its steel trestle. Pedestrians

swaddled in heavy overcoats and scarves lean into the biting wind as they scurry for the

warmth of their cars or condos.

To the left, I notice a few men on State Street who are not hurrying anywhere: they are

merely standing on the corner, hands in pockets, some without hats, enduring the cold. They

are homeless. What do they do on days like today?

All I know is that I’d rather be anywhere today than on Chicago’s frigid streets. But that is

exactly where I am headed. I have volunteered to do something I never thought I’d do: stand

outside and ring the bell for the Salvation Army. I’m scheduled for five hours—11 to 4. The big

chill.

My first image of the Salvation Army comes from when I was six. Outside the entrance to

Sears, during the Christmas season, stood a man wearing a uniform. He looked something like a

policeman, but he rang a bell while people walked up and put money into a red bucket. Mom

told me the money was to help people who didn’t have enough food to eat or clothes to wear. I

had never met anyone like that, but I nevertheless enjoyed putting a quarter into the kettle.

As a teenager during the late sixties and early seventies, I, along with millions of other

young Americans, developed a strong distaste for all things military—even things that sounded

military. I had no idea who the holiday bell-ringers really were, but I certainly didn’t want to

give my support to anyone whose name ended in army.

But over the years I have picked up scattered bits of information about the Salvation Army.

Adolescent suspicion has been replaced by adult respect.

I learned that the Salvation Army is a Christian organization—a denomination, in

fact—which, unlike (for example) the YMCA in this country, had never abandoned its evangelical

roots. William Booth founded the group as an evangelistic street ministry in England in 1865.

Fifteen years later, George Scott Railton invaded Battery Park in New York City with six

“Hallelujah Lassies,” organized street meetings, and opened a storefront outreach in Brooklyn.

The first kettles appeared in San Francisco in 1891, when Army Captain Joseph McFee raised

funds to provide Christmas dinners for the families of shipwrecked seamen.

The Army’s unique mix of evangelism and social programs continued throughout this

century, with evangelism remaining paramount. The Army still conducts weekly services

(complete with invitations to receive Christ) at its community centers all over the country.

While community centers act like churches, their distinctive mission is to meet the physical and

spiritual needs of the poor and downtrodden.

My corner is just outside the main entrance to Marshall Field’s department store at State and

Washington Streets. All around the store, shivering shoppers cluster in front of the famous

Christmas windows, looking at lavish scenes in which mechanical figurines of elves, Santas,

children, animals, and Dickensian characters gesture and dance. Right next to the empty stand

that marks my spot is a Salvation Army window, with Santa ringing a bell and children putting

money in the red kettle. A perfect location.

A thin man in his fifties walks up and tells me he’s the supervisor for the Loop ringers. “You

must be from the accounting firm,” he says.

I explain that I merely called in and volunteered to ring, and was told to go to this corner.

“That’s funny,” he says. “A big firm signed up to handle kettles today, and not a one of them

has shown up.”

“How many ringers do you have altogether?”

On a typical day during the holiday season, he explains, 16 people work the Chicago Loop

streets. Nine of them are paid a minimum wage by the Salvation Army; usually they come from

one of the Army’s social-service programs or rehabilitation centers. The other seven, the Army

hopes, are covered by volunteers—such as the ones who didn’t show up today. I notice that the

kettles for paid workers are locked to the stands, while volunteers can remove and carry their

own.

When the supervisor leaves to check on the other kettles, I realize my time has come: I take a

deep breath and start ringing. For some reason, I feel embarrassed. Maybe it’s because I’ve

often felt funny when I passed a bell-ringer, thinking he was a street beggar or a member of a

strange religious sect.

While I fret about my self-image and how I “come off” in public, a little girl of three or four

walks up and drops some change in the kettle. The girl’s mother looks at me with a smile and

says, “It was her idea.”

The surge of feeling I experience surprises me. When the next few contributors walk up, I

find I can’t speak: They too are children. Perhaps children have the fewest inhibitions to

overcome about giving. They don’t cross-examine their motives. They don’t really care how

they appear to others, or worry about their social graces. But at this moment I am struck by

their free and gracious spirit.

In a matter of minutes, I not only feel relaxed, but I actually begin to enjoy myself. I ring my

bell to various cadences, alternating between ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding, and the more

complex shave-and-a-haircut rhythm: ding-dinga-ding-ding, a-ding-ding. All the while throngs of

vapor-breathing shoppers pass by, toting their children wrapped up like packages. Many of

them—young and old, rich and poor—pause for a moment to drop a few coins or stuff a few

bills into my bucket. Everyone is friendly, especially the children, and their warmth more than

compensates for the bitter temperature.

I notice that many kids take the initiative to nudge their parents and say, “Can I put some

money in?” Other times the parents pull out some change and hand it to the child to put in. I

cannot help believing those parents are teaching their kids something positive about the value

of giving.

Before long I am greeting people and joking with the children. Many of them are so tightly

bound in coats and scarves that they look like mini-mummies: I see nothing but two little blue

eyes.

“Hi in there!” I say. Some of them are shy, but many laugh and look right at me, unlike most

of the adults.

One little girl of about seven walks up and asks, “Why are you standing here?”

“Well, I’m collecting money to give to people who can’t afford to have a nice Christmas, so

they can have a nice Christmas, too.”

“You mean poor people?”

“That’s right—poor people.”

“OK,” she says, apparently satisfied, and puts in some change. “Here. Merry Christmas.”

As the shadows lengthen on the street, I glance at my watch and can hardly believe it’s

already 3:30. I’m having such a good time that I don’t want to stop. And so many people are

giving that I think, If I stay here 15 more minutes, that could mean another 15 or 20 dollars. But

I decide to quit, since the kettle drop-off location will be closing soon.

Just before I leave, a tightly bundled boy of nine or ten walks up with a tattered plastic

grocery bag. “Do you have any use for these?” he says, holding the bag open. Inside I see a

teddy bear and a coloring book.

“You mean you want to give them to me?” I say, flustered. I don’t see the kid’s parents

anywhere. And the supervisor hadn’t told me how to handle anything but money. I consider

telling him thanks, but I can’t accept anything that won’t fit in the slot.

But then I think for a moment. “Thank you very much,” I say at last. “I’m sure I can find

someone who would love these gifts. I’d be happy to take them.” The little boy smiles and

strolls away.

I am the last one to arrive back at the office to drop everything off. The paid ringers sit on

folding chairs around the perimeter of the room and smoke. The supervisor thanks me, sticks

my kettle in a safe, and locks it. When I hand him the bear and the coloring book, he says,

“Sure, we can use those—no problem.” Then everyone stands to leave.

Listening to the conversations in the elevator, I realize that these men aren’t going home to

luxury high-rise dwellings. One of them says something about being an alcoholic. Another says

he hopes the landlord had turned the heat back on in his building. It occurs to me that it is

these people, and others in similar situations, that the money in my kettle goes to help.

As I head south on State Street, back to my cushy apartment, I once again pass those

familiar homeless faces in my neighborhood. Perhaps the money I collected will help some of

them, too. But then I think, Get serious, Verne—just how much of a difference are you going to

make in these people’s lives with a few hours of bell-ringing?

Maybe none, at least not directly. But I have to believe that the bell-ringing of thousands of

others like me all across the country will indeed make some kind of difference. Today I realize

even a small step in the direction of helping those who really need help is better than no step at

all.

In my four-and-a-half hours of ringing, I probably raised $150. But something else is raised,

too: my own faith in human nature. After watching so many people, rich and poor, old and

young, joyfully giving even the smallest amount of change to help the needy, I can’t help but

think that in spite of all the materialism, decadence, and selfishness in the world, there remains

in all of us at least a fragment of the image of a giving God. And it is that fragment that the

Salvation Army appeals to, and nurtures, at Christmas and throughout the year.