The Night Jesus Spoke to Martin Luther King, Jr.

(Parsonage, Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, Montgomery, Alabama. Photo by Gregory Rodriguez)

Montgomery, Alabama

Of the many heroic deeds performed in the name of civil rights in America, perhaps none is more consequential than the epiphany experienced in this house at 309 S Jackson Street in January of 1956. It was here, in the parsonage of the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in Montgomery Alabama, where Martin Luther King, Jr., spent, in the estimation of biographer David J. Garrow, “the most important night of his life.”

King wrote about that night in his 1958 book Stride for Freedom: The Montgomery Story. The bus boycott—of which King was a reluctant leader—was more than a month old. Montgomery’s white leadership had begun to push back hard.  King, who was only 27 years old, had just been arrested for the first time, and the obscene and threatening phone calls he was receiving at home were beginning to their toll on his confidence as well as on his mental health. Ready to give up, he began to devise ways he could step away without looking like a coward.

King then began to consider how blessed and comfortable his life had been thus far. He thought of his wife, his two-month-old daughter, and his “marvelous” mother and father.  “I was about to conclude that life had been wrapped up for me in a Christmas package,” he wrote.  

But then it occurred to him that the religion he had experienced as a fortunate young man would not help him through this moment. “Now of course, I was religious,” he recalled. “I grew up in the church. I’m the son of a preacher . . . my grandfather was a preacher, my great grandfather was a preacher, my only brother was a preacher, my daddy’s brother is a preacher, so I didn’t have much choice, I guess.  But I had grown up in the church . . . but it was a kind of inherited religion and I had never felt an experience with God in the way that you must, and have it, if you’re walking the lonely paths of this life.”

Around midnight of January 27, 1956, King picked up a phone call that shook him to his core. An angry voice said, “Listen, n*****, we are tired of you and your mess now. And if you aren’t out of this town in three days, we’re going to blow your brains out and blow up your house.”

It was in the wake of that call that religion became “real” to him, when he knew that he “had to know God for [himself].”  And then he bowed over his cup of coffee. “I prayed a prayer, and I prayed out loud that night. I said, ‘Lord, I’m down here trying to do what’s right. I think I’m right. I think the cause that we represent is right. But Lord, I must confess that I’m weak now. I’m faltering. I’m losing my courage. And I can’t let the people see me like this because if they see me weak and losing my courage, they will begin to get weak.”

It was then, King recalled, that he heard the voice of Jesus telling him to continue the fight.  “He promised never to leave me, never to leave me alone. No never alone. No never alone. He promised never to leave me, never to leave me alone.”

For the remainder of his life, he would look back on that night whenever the obstacles before him seemed too big to handle. 

Faith in Translation

I’m one those annoying people who likes to ask strangers questions that I would never answer myself. If approached with anything more than the most superficial inquiry, I’ll avoid and evade and say something dumb like, “Hey, asking questions is my job!”

But on the 7th day of my recent 12-day, 200-mile Camino de Santiago, a passing pilgrim asked me a somewhat intimate question, and much to my surprise, I answered.

***

I was walking down an incline through a shaded fern forest, just about to reach a clearing, when a curly-haired man in his thirties started to pass me on the trail. “Buen camino,” he said, as is the custom on the Way of St. James. “Buen camino, peregrino,” I responded as we started to chat. He was a drug addiction counselor in eastern Germany. Born in Kazakhstan to a Russian father and a Kazakh mother, he migrated to Germany at a young age and seemed to now live between many worlds and worldviews.

“Why are you walking the Camino?” he asked me point blank in fluent English.  “To deepen my faith,” I responded. “In what?” he asked. I paused, then answered that faith doesn’t need an object, direct or indirect. He asked me to explain what having faith meant then and tried to find the right word in German so he’d understand better. It wasn’t glauben, which is “to believe.” Perhaps it was best translated as vertrauen, which is “to trust.” Used as a noun, Vertrauen also means confidence, which seems to get closer to what I was looking for. 

 ***. 

Simone Weil called prayer “absolutely unmixed attention.” Czeslaw Milosz described it as an aerial bridge that he would continue walking over even if there were no other side to reach. Prayer is a mental act that helps one look forward in an unpredictable world. Anthropologist T.M. Luhrmann says that prayer focuses the mind on hope, thereby externalizing it, something, I guess, like planting a flag on the moon. The mere act can calm the mind and soothe one’s fears. To have faith, then, is to insist, against all evidence, that the world is a safe and good place. It is, essentially, to trust.

Luhrmann calls this affirmative orientation toward life and the world a “faith frame,” a way of seeing the world as more coherent and benevolent than one’s experiences may otherwise suggest. Because sustaining such a view of the world is not easy, stories, rituals, and certain behaviors can help keep us focused. The trappings of religion, she suggests, are tools that help people “superimpose their faith frame upon an everyday frame.”

***

I’m happy I answered the mysterious Kazakh’s question, because our brief exchange helped me clarify what religion means to me.  I’ve never understood why so many Americans seem to think religion is primarily a system of ethics or morality or even a set of beliefs.  While these can certainly be aspects of religious practice, they are by no means its essence. If anything, they can be tools to help lead one to faith, which, again, is ultimately what religion is about.

To deepen my faith means committing myself more to the activities—like setting off on a medieval pilgrimage– rituals and stories that help me trust in the world.

And where does the supernatural come in? Well, I suppose that one only comes to terms with life—in all its joy and sadness—when one begins to ponder what lies beyond this life. But that is a conversation for another day.

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