By Rabbi Ben Kamin
ENICNINTAS, California — On April 3, 1968, 45 years ago, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. preached the fear of death out of himself. Most people recall the oration as “The Mountaintop” speech; it came less than 24 hours before King’s assassination outside Room 306 at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis.
It rained and thundered hard in Memphis on April 3. King had dispatched Ralph Abernathy, Andrew Young, and others to the Mason Temple Church of God in Christ, where a rally was planned in support of striking sanitation workers. King was utterly exhausted, also glum on April 3—he had returned to Memphis specifically because a march a few days earlier had deteriorated into violence and looting and the death (at the hands of police) of one teenager.
His enemies nationwide were dancing in acrimonious jubilation, claiming he was ineffectual and superfluous—even a coward. He had to be whisked away in a passing car for his own safety.
So he committed Abernathy to go and speak on his behalf, not anticipating much of a crowd anyway in view of the inclement weather and tornado warnings. The fact was that MLK did not care for small crowds; he was lifted by the spirit of a rallying congregation and he knew no bounds of splendid intimacy with a mass of kindred spirits. But now, he slid under the covers, embracing the musty lonesomeness of Room 306.
The phone rang; it was Ralph. In spite of the weather, the old tabernacle, though hardly full, was nonetheless brimming with supporters, chanting and exuberant and beseeching, all looking for Dr. King. Abernathy told King: “You’d better come over here. They want you, Martin.”
“All right, then.”
Abernathy and the crew breathed out sighs of relief even as the winds howled ominously against the rafters and thunderbolts crashed into the ceilings of the massive Pentecostal center built in 1941. MLK regrouped quickly in Room 306, threw off his exhaustion, and was driven away in just several minutes.
Now, on this night of angry clouds, here was Martin again, dragging his way up the hill, just to fill up the hearts of the little people that nobody else really ever noticed. He had come to Memphis to help the black garbage workers earn union recognition, gloves and uniforms, and a ten-cent raise.
When King entered, he appeared weary but placid. Some knew that he was fighting a losing battle with insomnia and struggling with sleeping pills. He fought off migraine headaches. Everyone was as worried about him as they were thrilled to see him. Two hours later, after he completed an entirely extemporized preachment that fortuitously has been captured for posterity on film and You Tube hits, they saw the utter transformation of a man who, before their eyes, released his demons into the clearing night storm.
When people recall the speech, they generally think of its shockingly prophetic last two moments: “I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight that we as a people will get to the Promised Land!”
It was, in fact, a sweeping, profoundly reflective and elegiac review of his life, the freedom campaigns, and Dr. King’s brazen taunting of his lurking assassin at the end (“I’m happy tonight…I’m not fearing any man!”) that consumed the better part of ninety minutes that unforgettable night.
Martin Luther King, Jr. feared death, expected to be murdered, and had no illusions about ever growing old.
But something happened to his soul that night of April 3, 1968 at the Mason Temple—where he had not planned to be. Roused from the depths of despair to some kind of spiritual compact, he became his own oracle, turned his life and its journey into a personal scripture (while not in the least bit neglecting the needs and hopes and concerns of the Memphis sanitation workers) and then came to rest squarely on his own emotional Golgotha.
As he finished, he practically fell into the arms of his pulpit colleagues—he was sweating profusely, drained emotionally, and profoundly calm. Everyone around him recalled that the next day, April 4, King was uncommonly high-spirited, serene, and playful.
He was shot dead at 6:01 PM while asking for a favorite hymn to be sung later that night. He was 39 years old.
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Rabbi Kamin, a freelance writer based in Encinitas, who authored books on Martin Luther King’s life and death. He may be contacted via ben.kamin@sdjewishworld.com