What these two things have in common is the response to the call of God to abandon everything and enter a new life – and perhaps a dangerous life – of ministry and service.
John, who often adorns Jesus with a nimbus of mysticism, adds precognition to the messianic bag of tricks. There’s Nathanael, standing beneath a fig tree minding his own business, when Philip wanders by, babbling ecstatically about meeting the Messiah, a Nazarene. Nathanael thinks Philip has been tapping the wine skins and cracks wryly that nothing good will come out of Nazareth. But – hey, he has nothing to do besides stand beneath a fig tree – so Nathanael re-laces his sandals and reluctantly follows Philip. Soon, the two encounter Jesus, who shouts out, “Hey, I saw you standing beneath the fig tree when Philip called you.” Nathanael is stunned. That modest act of prestidigitation knocks the wind out of Nathanael. It’s all he needs to sign on for the duration of Jesus’ ministry. Even Jesus is amazed. “You believe because I saw you beneath the fig tree?” he asks. “You will see greater things than this.”
In our day, we have already seen greater things than the gift of second sight. Every time we walk through Times Square, we know someone is watching us on television. But even greater than that is the power to take a wandering, directionless human being like Nathanael and give him a resolute faith and an unwavering moral purpose.
That kind of power amazes us even in this age of cyber miracles.
From what I hear, Martin Luther King, Jr. had that kind of power.
When I started work at the American Baptist Churches offices in Valley Forge, among the fringe benefits were the many colleagues who had known Martin, marched with him, strategized with him, sat on platforms with him, and befriended him. Martin was dually aligned with the Progressive National Baptist Convention, Inc., which was actually formed in 1961 to give him a denominational home, and with the American Baptist Churches USA.
As I listened to stories of Martin, I quickly noticed everyone had a different view of him. If you talk to some of the old ladies at Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta – also dually aligned with the PNBC and ABC – they will happily regale you with unique stories no one else knows. “Let me tell you,” they will say, leaning close to your ear, “Martin’s favorite hymn was, ‘Amazing Grace.’” But don’t write that down. The next old lady will get a far away look in her eye and say, “I remember Martin telling me how much he loved, ‘Be Not Dismayed whate’er Betide, God Will Take Care of You.’” And later, as, you sit down in the old fellowship hall for dinner and ask your hostess if she knew Martin, she’ll reply, “Oh, my yes, and he once confided to me that his favorite hymn was, ‘It is well, It is Well, With My Soul.’” It makes you wonder how many people historians have interviewed when they write their books. The one fact about Martin than I’m sure of, because empty bottles of it are prominently displayed among his personal effects in the MLK museum, is that he liked Aramis cologne.
Reminiscences among my American Baptist colleagues also varied. My first boss, Dr. Frank Sharp, who was head of American Baptist News Service in the seventies, regarded M.L. as “a difficult celebrity,” in part because it was Frank who negotiated with Martin’s staff to get him to last-minute meetings and hastily scheduled press conferences on time, an almost impossible task. Dr. William Scott, ABC executive minister in Buffalo, met Martin shortly after the successful resolution of the Montgomery Bus Boycott in 1955 and wrote in his diary, “He is young and inexperienced and in no way prepared for the leadership that is about to be thrust upon him.”
Dr. William T. McKee, the first African American to head a national American Baptist program board, was responsible for supervising me as director of communications for the ABC, and I would spend hours in Bill’s office as he tried to keep me out of political trouble. Bill, who grew up in Berean Baptist Church in Brooklyn, knew Martin well and often got tears in his eyes when he talked about him. When Bill served on the national staff of the ABC Ministers and Missionaries Benefit Board (MMBB) in New York, he was often in contact with Martin England, a white MMBB staff member in the ABC of the South. Both Bill and England were concerned that Martin Luther King had no life or health insurance, and they both pressed him to sign up for MMBB benefits. According to Bill, Martin kept putting it off but finally agreed to sign the application form in 1963, five years before his death. Bill’s eyes would overflow when he talked about that. “If he hadn’t, his wife and children would have had nothing,” he’d say. I heard the story often.
“I called him Mike,” Bill would say quietly, almost as if no one else was in the room. It was from Bill that I learned that Martin and his father had been named Michael King when they were born, and the elder King changed it to Martin Luther King, in part to satisfy the last request of a dying grandfather. But close friends continued to address the two by their original names. Insiders knew them as Big Mike and Little Mike. This is not a secret, of course, but neither is it widely known.
Martin was assassinated in 1968. My kids, all of whom were born after 1976, tended to think of him as a distant historical figure, lost in the archival dust along with Frederick Douglass and Thomas Jefferson. Even before my hair began to thin out and fade to gray, though, the kids suspected I was old enough to have encountered some of these old-time figures. But they figured they had really underestimated my age when they asked if I had known Martin Luther King, Jr.
“No,” I replied. “But I knew his father.”
But I did know Daddy King. He remained a loyal American Baptist all his life and attended many ABC biennial meetings when I was on the staff. One time I stood behind him in the J-K line at the registration tables and listened to a young African American woman on the other side of the table ask his name.
“Martin Luther King Senior,” he said, carefully accentuating each syllable.
The young woman giggled.
“No,” she said nervously. “I really need to know your name.”
I was standing behind him, looking at the back of his large gray head, so I couldn’t tell if he was smiling or not. But he did make it clear he was not teasing.
“Young lady, I am Martin – Luther – King – Senior. And I am quite sure of it.”
The chastened young woman handed him a registration card, and the great man wandered away.
I was invited by an ABC colleague to have coffee with Daddy King during that meeting, and not long afterwards The American Baptist magazine interviewed him for an anniversary story honoring his son. He sat serenely at his desk and opened letters with a silver knife as he answered questions. His voice was so deep and cavernous that a staff writer and I argued whether to compare it to “pebbles falling on a tin roof,” but we decided that would be disrespectful. We reported that his voice was “deep.”
We probably asked him questions he had heard before. We asked if he was bitter following the murder of his son and the loss of other family members, and he quoted the King James Bible: “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.”
I don’t recall the exact year of the interview, but it was after Daddy King had lost a second son, A.D. King, who died in a swimming pool accident in 1969; and after and his beloved wife, Alberta, playing the organ in Ebenezer in 1974, was shot by a deranged man who had planned to shoot her husband.
The elder King’s quiet grace and determined forgiveness were almost super human and a marvel to those who witnessed it.
If you talk with aging members of Ebenezer Baptist Church today, there is one thing on which they all agree: Martin Luther King, Sr., was the model of love and the harbinger of justice that molded his oldest son into the singular civil rights leader he became.
Baptists who attended the funeral of Martin Luther King, Jr. in Ebenezer Church in April 1968 have many stories to tell: how President Lyndon Johnson sat frowning and drenched in sweat in the middle of the congregation, or how Ralph Abernathy saw Bobby Kennedy in the rear of the church and went to the microphone to invite him to the front.
But many remember a more private moment, when Daddy King saw his son lying in the coffin for the first time. Daddy King began to weep and reached out to his son – some say it was if he was trying to wake him up – and whispered, “He never hated anybody. He never hated anybody.”
Daddy King worshipped at Salem Baptist Church in Atlanta on November 11, 1984. Later that same afternoon he suffered a heart attack and died at 5:41 p.m.
I don’t know what his last words were, but when I heard he died I thought of his four word eulogy for his eldest son: “He never hated anybody.”
What better way to sum up a life? Probably none of us would be comfortable with the opposite assertion, “He loved everybody.” Who among us is capable of that? Even if we have been spared the violent deaths of loved ones, who among us have not experienced insult, bigotry, unfairness, intolerance, xenophobia, sexism, ageism, or discrimination? There are simply persons who cross our paths who are unlovable. And perhaps the hardest commandment of Jesus is to love our enemies. Chances are we cannot, if we are honest, claim that we love everybody.
Daddy and Martin King had what Jesus bestows: the power to live lives of purpose, a power so vivid that it inspires directionless persons to breathe life into their own divine spark, setting them on the path to faith and endowing that faith with an unwavering moral purpose.
Glad to hear Frank Sharp had the same trouble with MLK that I had with Ralph Abernathy. I was trying to get him to a live TV feed from the San Diego Biennial but he kept getting stopped by friends and admirers. The reporter was not amused. But I suspect he really had his priorities straight.
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