In a world that thinks of faith in terms of "crisis" and churches in terms of "embattled," the Salvation Army seems as foursquare and unchanging as the crisp Victorian bonnets still worn by its ladies. It is almost as if Norman Rockwell had painted the scenes on the mind. Bright-smiling women, their cheeks pinked only with the flush of zeal, ladling out free dinners in a Skid Row mission. Clear-eyed men in high military collars, tootling on flügelhorns and euphoniums on chilly street corners. A brisk song, a quaint sermon. A bunk for the stumbling drunk. Even that perennial embarrassment, an...
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