Reflections on a King

This weekend's celebration of the life of Martin Luther King, Jr. is bringing back a memory for me that is at least ten years old. Sometime in the mid 1990s I found myself in Memphis, Tennessee. A church had asked me there to speak on some now long-forgotten topic. In an effort to be good hosts, church members inquired about what I'd like to do while I was in town.

"I'd love to go to the Lorraine Motel," I responded.

An absolute, stunned silence filled the church office. I suppose they expected me to say something like "Eat some ribs" or "Go to Graceland."

"Why in thunderation would you want to go there?" someone finally asked.

I remember being a bit shaken at the realization that I must have violated some sort of social norm with my request, though I did have the presence of mind to stand my ground and say that I really admired Dr. King for his courage and that I understood that the motel was now a memorial to his life and to the struggle for Civil Rights for African-Americans.

I was assured that such a visit was out of the question.

Then, later in the afternoon, one of the ministers pulled me aside.

"I'll be glad to take you to the motel," he said. "But please don't tell anyone that we went."

The next morning he picked me up and we made our way over. I don't remember much about the exhibits. But I do remember the fact that they had been set up in such a way that visitors ended up in the room that Dr. King occupied on the very last day of his life. It was made to look exactly as it must have looked just moments after he was assassinated in 1968.

I looked out across the parking lot to where his assassin pulled the trigger.

As I recall, the song, "Precious Lord, Take My Hand" was piped into the room. I listened to the powerful words--"Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me on, let me stand. I am tired. I am weak. I am worn. Through the storm, through the night, lead me on to the light. Take my hand, precious Lord, lead me home."

My eyes filled with tears--at what had been gained and what had been lost. And at the fact that thirty years after his death, a church would wonder why I wanted to celebrate the life of such a man. As I looked at my minister friend beside me, I noticed that he was also crying.

"That was really powerful," he said as we walked back to the car.

I nodded my head--and I let the words of the song lift up over me into the clouds--"Through the storm, through the night, lead us on to the light."

Take our hands, precious Lord. Lead us home.