Young Abe Johnson rolled up his sleeves, took an ax in both hands, raised it high, and with a grunt, brought the blade down hard. Rough bark snapped away, exposing fresh, smooth ash wood.
Just then, Abe’s dad came alongside to show his son how to skim the wood. His dad had only a third–grade education but, with his big heart, he had carried on a family legacy as survivors of hard times. That heritage dated to the days of his great–grandparents, who had been born into slavery in 1860.
In 1949, as Abe’s friends sat in high school classrooms, he too was taking up the “survivor” mantle—chopping and skimming wood instead of going to school—to help his family through a difficult period. Abe’s brothers Bob and Richard were doing the same that day; the branches the boys skimmed would be split, cut, dried, and polished into baseball bats.
‘Jackie Robinson’ figure
That would not be Abe’s only connection to baseball. One day, Abe’s peers would compare him to legendary slugger Jackie Robinson—not for skill and courage on the baseball diamond but for audacity as a pioneering African–American Salvation Army officer on the mean streets of Cleveland’s Hough district and Harlem.
Abe’s relationship with
the Army began in 1950, when, as a 12–year–old, he moved with his family to Poughkeepsie, N.Y., where they made The Salvation Army their church home.
The white, Canadian–born corps officers (pastors), Major and Mrs. Chesley Young, readily accepted the new family. But the Johnsons encountered racism from some church families. In response, the officers spent many nights on their knees praying for a spirit of reconciliation and tolerance to descend on the congregation. The Johnsons, for their part, were thankful for their pastors’ support and for the encouragement they received from other church families.
All six Johnson children became heavily involved in corps life, and every summer, Abe went to the Army’s Star Lake Camp in New Jersey. One day, he entered the camp’s rustic tabernacle and knelt at the altar, where he heard God call him to become a Salvation Army officer. With tears in his eyes, he accepted; his destiny was sealed.
Abe stands his ground
In 1956, race relations in the United States—and The Salvation Army—were in turmoil. Abe applied to the Eastern Territory’s School for Officer Training (SFOT) but was not accepted. Leaders, concerned about racial unrest, suggested that he go to England for training instead. But Abe stood his ground.
“I want to be trained in my own territory so I can remain in this territory and serve with my people,” he said.
After a year of negotiating, Abe finally entered SFOT in USA East, becoming the first black man in 12 years to do so.
“When he hit those halls, you knew he was around,” remembers Lt. Colonel Susan Gregg, a sessionmate. “He had a spirited personality, which just engulfed everyone.” She says Abe was always quick to give his testimony and enjoyed public speaking.
But the escalating civil rights movement made being a Salvation Army cadet dangerous for a black man, and school staff feared for Johnson’s safety during visits to white corps.
Solidarity at dinner
One day, while traveling through Wilmington, Del., a group of male cadets stopped for dinner. When the restaurant owner saw Johnson, he said, “We don’t serve colored people here.”
Abe says humiliation and rage filled his heart. But then something else happened. The white cadets refused to be served. Abe remembers that his eyes filled with tears as his fellow cadets rose from their seats, one by one, and returned to the bus.
“I wasn’t that hungry anyway,” one cadet said as he adjusted his tunic. Damon Rader, Robert Rhoads, Jess Fisher, Andy Nelson, Charles Smith, Melvin Bridge, Richard Bechtle—and Abe Johnson—ate somewhere else that night.
A Harlem presence
Abe’s first appointment, as
assistant officer at Harlem Temple, immediately put him at the center of historic events. On Sept. 20 of that year, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. sat in a Harlem department store autographing copies of
Stride Toward Freedom, his book about the Montgomery bus boycott. Izola Ware Curry, a black woman, made her way through the crowd to him.
“Are you Martin Luther King?” she asked.
Still writing, King
answered, “Yes.”
Suddenly, the crazed woman stabbed King with a letter opener. In the aftermath of the horrific incident, members of the Harlem Temple Corps took to the streets, teeming with angry people, to help bring a sense of normalcy back to the neighborhood.
A partner in the battle
In 1960, Abe met Salvation Army Lieutenant Louise Hagler, who became his life partner in marriage and ministry. She had found the Army through a Billy Graham crusade and entered training school in 1959.
“From the very start, she was a blessing to cadets and staff because of her sense of humor and beautiful singing voice,” says Betty Blankenship, a sessionmate. Louise would soon have to use her wit and music conservatory training not to entertain but to provide a “balm in Gilead” (Jeremiah 8:22) in hurting communities.
Louise’s younger brother John, who saw his sister tested repeatedly, said that her demeanor as a “lovely, strict, sincere, dedicated, diligent, and committed Christian” never wavered.
The Johnsons constantly challenged themselves to bring together black and white, Caribbean and African American, urban and rural people. But the couple’s motives were not always understood. In Cleveland, some black residents identified the Johnsons as “the enemy” and maliciously shouted the worst epithets at them. Some black religious leaders and politicians accused them of “selling out.”
In 1972, when the Johnsons, now captains, became corps officers of Harlem Temple Corps, they envisioned a new building to better serve the community. Five years later, when the corps occupied a former YMCA, Hugh Knickerbocker, an officer, joined hands with Abe and said, “Let’s go up and claim [build a new building] for the Lord!”
Johnson sought and won the support of Percy Sutton, Manhattan Borough president, and prominent pastors Wyatt T. Walker of Canaan Baptist Church and Calvin Butts of the Abyssinian Baptist Church, among many others. By 1986, with Army leaders’ help and a supportive advisory board, the Johnsons had moved into a 40,000–square–foot building—the largest corps in the United States at the time—at 138th Street and Lenox Avenue.
Harlem ministry
The Johnsons established a thriving street feeding ministry that, at its peak, served approximately 400 people in Harlem each night. In time, many inner–city religious leaders who had rejected the Johnsons called upon them to speak from their pulpits and to serve on political and civic committees. Those leaders began to see The Salvation Army as a positive spiritual and social force in Harlem.
In later years, the Johnsons served as pastors in Brooklyn and Philadelphia and as Inner–City Ministries and Evangelism chaplains for the Salvation Army’s Eastern Pennsylvania & Delaware Division. Along the way, they also added three children to their family—Dorothyanne, Dianne, and Douglas—and Abe, who had finished high school in 1957, pursued further education at New York Bible College, Cleveland Community College, and Griswold Business College.
In 1999, during a New York City Christmas program, Commissioner Joe Noland, the USA Eastern territorial commander at the time, made a surprise announcement. The Majors Johnson would be promoted to lieutenant colonel, an honor seldom bestowed on officers serving in corps or divisional positions.
Abe remembers the excitement of the moment, but he credits the faithfulness of God for the honor by quoting 1 Thessalonians 5:24: “The one who calls you is faithful and He will do it.”
When the Johnsons retired in 2002, it had been 52 years since young Abe had knelt in the Star Lake Camp tabernacle to accept God’s call to become an officer. Commissioners David and Doreen Edwards, retired Western territorial leaders, conducted the ceremony. David said “Abe and Louise Johnson are certainly among those few who can be counted as legends in their own lifetimes.”
At the ceremony, Lt. Colonel Judy LaMarr spoke for herself and her husband, Lt. Colonel William LaMarr, white officers now serving as divisional leaders in Northeast Ohio. She said, “Abe and Louise Johnson have always been our peers. The one thing that I respect the most about them is that they have a true love for souls.”
For his part, Abe Johnson says today that he has remained faithful because of God’s call on his life and a constant vision for what was possible.
“The Lord—not the Army—called me,” he says.
He has a dream
More than 10 years ago, at an African Heritage Leader Development Symposium, Johnson shared his vision for the future.
“I see Salvationists of color supporting each other through the ministry of the Army, regardless of their origin,” he said. “I see the day coming when it will not be unusual to have [people of color as] colonels, commissioners, and international leaders. I also see the day when we as people of color will not have to explain that The Salvation Army is a church, a spiritual movement, living and teaching holiness.
“I further foresee the day when the black church will recognize our Salvation Army officers, both men and women, as ministers of the Gospel, desiring to accept us as part of the vital ministry of any mainline city or town.”
Today, much of that vision has been realized, but there is still more wood to skim.
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