April 4, 1968 was the day King was shot. He went outside to have a cigarette on his balcony outside his hotel room in Memphis. Most people didn’t know that King smoked, especially when he was under stress or facing indecision. Many people felt like they knew Martin King and then were surprised. They were surprised a year earlier when he was invited to speak at Riverside Church and he gave a sermon entitled “Beyond Vietnam,” showing his commitment to nonviolence in Vietnam. He lost a lot of money giving that sermon. Many of his most influential supporters pulled their financial support. They thought they knew King, that they knew what he was all about, and they were wrong. For many people King was only about civil rights for African Americans, mainly in the South. But King said plainly “injustice anywhere is a threat to justice anywhere.” He gave himself this challenge, he accepted this calling, and spent the rest of his life trying to live by that simple statement.
He didn’t do it perfectly. In fact many times were very hard for him, and it led to poor decisions.
He struggled with doubt, he struggled with depression, he struggled with being away most of the year from his wife and children, he struggled with staying faithful to his wife, he struggled with being faithful to his God, his understanding of justice and righteousness. He made choices that many told him we’re stupid, that would hurt his reputation, and lessen his power as a public figure. One of those choices was speaking out against the Vietnam war. Other choices that many of his trusted advisers told him to leave alone was his concern with poverty. He saw the impact our American economy was having on living conditions and possibilities of the working class, and he felt he had to do something about that. His advisers told him bluntly – “Martin, you have enough enemies already. You have plenty of people across the U.S. who hate the way you inspire African Americans and challenge whites. The American public can’t take it if you shine a light on global politics, on poverty, and their connection to racism.” And they were right. I heard a story from a guy in New York who went to see Martin speak a few months after he gave his sermon at Riverside Church, and said the amphitheater was half empty. It was packed a year before.
His advisers told King not to go to Memphis. There were garbage workers in Memphis who wanted to unionize and they didn’t know how. They asked King to come and help them. His advisers said this was a poor decision. They said that he should just focus on what the public expected him to be – a spokesman for the civil rights movement. They also told him that he was still getting death threats, and they couldn’t guarantee his protection in Memphis. Martin knew all this as he went out to his balcony on April 4th.
For all his faults and stumbling, King came with a gift. He saw a plan for each individual American, North or South, black or white, poor or rich. And he wrote and spoke with such power that he made people feel like they knew it too. He found a way to articulate people’s deepest longing, and he proclaimed it as gospel – you have worth and dignity. And that worth should be protected by our laws, and guaranteed in our social customs until one day they live simply in the truth of our heart. He believed in the power of love, and for a moment in our history he made millions of Americans believe in it too.
He believed there was a plan of love at work in our modern time, and he had faith that no matter how dismal or bleak circumstances look in the present that the arch of the universe is long, but it bends toward justice. Martin preached hope but he was a pragmatist. He knew it would take great fortitude, great faith, and great power far beyond our individual imagination to see ourselves through that long arch.
He believed it was only love that would see us through. He trusted the universe as a moral universe that would bring about righteousness and justice in due time. That’s not a belief that’s very popular today. Today there is widespread fear and overwhelm that borders consistently at panic. There is a sense that things do not work out according to any real plan of good or evil. There is a sense that those with the most might, the most weapons, the most money, the most privilege will win and everyone else is on the verge of losing everything. And the greatest loss is the truth that Martin preached in every sermon – you have worth and dignity. You are a child of God, and you were meant for these times. This is your destiny, your calling – to show the world your worth.
And he told people how to do this, and he warned them. He told the people it would be a long arch, and that there would be few immediate victories or sense of accomplishment. And he told everyone, reminding himself in the process that each step would involve great risk, but he offered them in one guarantee. They would not be alone in taking that risk. He would be with them, and so would their God. And if you didn’t believe in God you were still welcome to join everyone on this long arch. Martin said he would rather walk with an atheist than encounter a Christian that wanted to lynch him.
I’ve spoken with many people who feel they are not meant for these times – that the troubles we face are too various and too intense. There’s a feeling of being helpless and for some a sense of doom without any relief or solution. It reminded me of the story King writes about in his autobiography during the Montgomery Bus Boycott. A moment where he felt a sense of doom and overwhelm. A time when he felt like he wasn’t meant for these times. He was looking for a way to bow out gracefully. I’m sure he thought about moving away somewhere, perhaps out of the U.S.
Maybe he would teach college or minister at a church where the stakes felt lower. Maybe he could be there for his children, his wife, spend evenings at home with his family. He could have a totally different life if we could just walk away. He had the education, the intelligence, and the connections to make that happen. He thought about all this as he made a cup of coffee at midnight. And he heard a voice that told him – stand up for righteousness, stand up for justice, and I will always be with you. It was a voice that told him in midst of his panic – there is plan for you.
He followed the plan all the way to that Memphis hotel balcony. And shortly after his death, the plan he believed in disintegrated into frustration that led to outrage and rioting. And since then each year, each decade, another generation later, we are still questioning that plan. As a people, we are stuck in the same predicament as Martin – there are threats all around. We don’t feel safe or we don’t feel people we love are safe. We pace in our homes at midnight unable to sleep, not sure if we should run, not sure if we have the courage and fortitude to walk the path we’re on. This is not a panic only reserved for civil rights leaders.
It’s a feeling that comes with being alive and struggling with which path has integrity, and doubting if we have the ability to walk it. We all at one time or another will have this moment at midnight – this moment of tension that feels like it will either make or break us.
Before my first full time ministry I took a road-trip in the summer, and I drove and stopped in Memphis. I stopped at the Lorraine hotel. I parked and walked to the balcony where King was shot. It was the middle of the day, in the middle of the week. A teenager, a young African American girl walked up to the balcony. She was maybe 15 years old. She took a selfie of herself where King last stood, and then she left. Shortly after a man came up to me in muddy clothes asking if I could spare some change for him to get something to eat. He said he was hungry. I didn’t have anything, so he went on his way. And I felt like Martin was on the balcony, looking down at all this happening. I felt like he was looking at me, leaning over, cigarette in hand giving me a serious look and, with an encouraging gesture, asking me “So, what’s the plan?”
