"Reverend Jones"

JUST GETTING STARTED

On June 24, 1944, four weeks after our graduation from the Nyack Missionary Training Institute, Wanda and I were finally married. The ceremony, held at Fairchild Chapel on the Oberlin College campus, was wonderful. Wanda was breathtakingly gorgeous in her dazzling white dress. As she walked down the aisle toward me, I offered a quiet prayer of thanks to God.

   I looked at Wanda that special day and recalled all the incredible ways the Lord had worked to bring us together — and to ground our relationship in His purposes. All the tears, all the fears and uncertainties, all the long periods of waiting and praying had been God's way of preparing us for this day and all the exciting days to come. I had no idea what adventures would follow once we officially began our ministry together in Harlem, but I was joyously looking forward to the journey.

   The next morning, Wanda and I began a practice that

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would become our daily habit for the next five decades. I opened my Bible to Jeremiah 33:3 and read aloud: "Call unto me, and I will answer thee, and shew thee great and mighty things, which thou knowest not" (KJV). That passage would become our life verse. Next, we both prayed for our day — and our new life together. I'm so happy we set the tone for our marriage that day. From then on, we would begin each day in eager anticipation of God's blessings, lessons, and surprises. There would be many.

   Our brief honeymoon began with a boat trip across Lake Erie to Ann Arbor, Michigan, where we relaxed for the weekend in a nice hotel. While we were in Ann Arbor, a friend named John Wesley Wright heard we were in town and invited me to preach at his church on Sunday morning. Young preachers, of course, rarely turn down speaking opportunities, so Wanda and I spent our first Sunday as husband and wife at the First African Methodist Episcopal Church in Ann Arbor.

   Wright was an outstanding preacher who led a huge congregation accustomed to blockbuster sermons each week. So the pressure was on for me to deliver a message that would hold the people's attention and not bring shame and disgrace to my new bride or myself.

   That Sunday morning, Wanda and I were dressed in our finest attire. This, after all, was our introduction to the world as a ministry couple. I was proud of my beautiful wife. With her by my side, I felt as though I could conquer any challenge the Lord brought our way.

   Reverend Wright introduced me to his congregation. I sat in a pew behind the pulpit. From my vantage point up front, I could see the bright faces of all the churchgoers. I was particularly

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drawn to the serious but friendly demeanor of all the deacons and church trustees seated in the front pews; each man was immaculately dressed in his black suit, white shirt and tie.

   "I met this young man and his new wife at Mount Zion Baptist Church in Oberlin, Ohio, a long time ago," Reverend Wright announced. "And when I heard he was coming here, I wanted him to preach in our church. So please welcome Reverend Howard Jones." The congregation applauded as I settled into the pulpit. (Of course, the title "Reverend" was not technically correct just yet. I would soon receive a license through the C&MA to pastor the church in Harlem; however, I would not be officially ordained as a Christian minister until September 1946. But I liked the sound of that title and was happy to wear it.)

   As I opened my Bible and began preaching, I noticed a gigantic pitcher of water on the right side of the pulpit counter. After a few minutes of gabbing, I began to loosen up and found a nice preaching rhythm. The Holy Spirit was moving, the congregation was shouting, and man, I was feeling good in the Lord!

   "Preach!" the church yelled, urging me on. And suddenly, caught up in the moment, I swung my right hand through the air to emphasize some dramatic point and accidentally connected with the big pitcher of water. As the pitcher went sailing off the pulpit toward the congregation, its contents went raining into the first row. I could see the moment transpiring as if it were in slow motion. That morning, all the deacons and trustees in their fine black suits were baptized a second time.

   I apologized profusely, but those deacons weren't the only ones

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who felt all wet. Instead of finishing my sermon, I really wanted to go find a seat behind a woman with a big hat and hide. After a stunned silence, the congregation exploded in laughter. I saw Wanda covering her face and couldn't determine whether she was laughing or cringing. Either way, it was not my best moment. It was a tough spot for a young preacher.

   Thankfully, Reverend Wright stood up and put his arm around me. "It's all right, brother," he told me. Then he addressed the church, "I just want to tell you that this young man is on his honeymoon this week, so you've got to pardon his excess energy." The congregation laughed again, and I was able to continue my message with at least a bit of dignity restored. However, to this day I'm always leery of objects sitting on the pulpit while I'm preaching.

NEW YORK STATE OF MIND

   With the honeymoon over, Wanda and I hopped on a train and headed back to New York — and to our new life as the first couple of a new church. Since our church in Harlem could pay me only three dollars a week as starting salary, our first home was a cozy little room in Miss Woolward's fourth-floor apartment in the Bronx where we weren't required to pay rent or buy food.

   Miss Woolward was a single woman from St. Kitts in the Caribbean who worked long hours as a seamstress, so she assured us it would be a good living arrangement for us. I remember the day we moved in: Wanda and I didn't have much, but it was a challenge lugging our stuff — my large wooden desk and the trunk that contained everything else

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we possessed (wedding gifts, a little Sears radio, and my theology books) — up those four narrow flights of stairs.

   Even more challenging was adjusting to the new city noises that echoed into our little room; the elevated subway train, which ran right outside our front window, was the primary culprit. This was especially frustrating in the early morning hours, when I would do my sermon and Sunday school preparation for the week. It took time to grow accustomed to the racket, but soon Wanda and I were as thick-skinned and resilient as any longtime city dwellers.

   With our housing covered, I focused my energies on getting the church on its feet. Our first meeting place was in Harlem on 115th Street and Park Avenue. We met in the upstairs apartment over the local Spanish-speaking C&MA church. In addition to Miss Woolward and Mrs. Borchart (the founders), there were about sixteen others. We fixed up the facilities and called it Bethany Chapel. Slowly word spread about the new Christian and Missionary Alliance congregation, and each week it seemed a new person joined our little church-plant experiment.

   Many Sunday evenings I'd be preaching to the group and some of the teenagers from the neighborhood would climb the steps and park themselves in the hallway outside our premises to shoot craps. As I preached, I could hear them out there chitchatting: "Yeah," they'd say, "here's a seven coming up." And then the dice would hit the church door. After a while of listening to this, I'd say to the folks, "Hold on a minute," then I'd go outside, chase those boys down the steps and away from our door, and then try to resume my message without appearing too flustered.

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SOLDIERS FOR CHRIST

   Soon, I felt God opening my eyes to an incredible mission opportunity that was knocking at our door. Every day I saw young people who needed hope in a hopeless world. And because their parents weren't offering it, they desperately needed the church. I decided to make our little church a refuge for these youths who needed to know someone cared about them. We prayed regularly for ways to reach young people.

   As I built relationships with other black pastors and youth leaders across the New York area, God inspired an idea in me that gradually took on a life of its own. I would start an interdenominational, interracial youth ministry that could attract hundreds of young people with music, activities, and the Good News of Jesus Christ.

   God eventually led me to two other black ministers, Ralph Greenridge and Lester Holden, and together we started a series of Saturday night youth rallies called Soldiers for Christ. I was beginning to develop a reputation as an up-and-coming minister in New York, so the rallies attracted a lot of interest.

   In those days at the close of World War II, it wasn't unusual to see people on the street corners preaching for one cause or another. We adopted this method to get the word out about Soldiers for Christ. I would take a handful of young people from our church and we would hit the streets. The kids would sing and share their testimonies to draw a crowd, and then I would deliver brief gospel messages that would conclude with an invitation to come out to the various churches where we would hold the Soldiers for Christ rallies.

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   In time we were drawing hundreds of youths to churches throughout Harlem, Manhattan, Brooklyn, and the Bronx. We rejoiced as each week droves of young people of different races packed the sanctuaries, and by the end of the evenings, many flocked forward to accept Christ into their hearts. It was a resounding confirmation of our ministry in New York.

Chapter Nine  ||  Table of Contents