The Seminarian

by Patrick Parr

  Hoopes remembers her mother with love as she describes her educational style: “In her teaching she quietly shared her faith by example, and in interpreting the music of faithful Christians such as Bach, pointing out examples of ‘text painting’ and other compositional devices which held symbols of deep meaning.”53

  Hoopes adds, “I remember her telling me that in the little town where she was raised, there were no black people. She never met a person of African descent until they moved to Philadelphia around 1937.” One might expect a person from such a sheltered background to feel a bit of uncertainty over directing ML, Marcus Wood, and other black students in her choir. But Hoopes is certain her mother had no such issues: “We were taught to respect every person equally, and . . . she held no prejudice in racial (or any other) areas.”

  With a kind and considerate instructor in a discipline he knew well, the class would have given ML a break from his trio of intense professors. But he earned only a C+ in Church Music despite making a good impression on Grooters, which her daughter believes was due to erratic attendance. Apparently ML needed another respite from Crozer’s scholarly climate—a reminder not just of his musical past but of his life along Auburn Avenue more broadly. Thankfully, he found one, in the form of a powerful and enthusiastic preacher whose home was a forty-minute walk from Crozer.54

  The Gospel of Barbour: “King in Particular Would Challenge Him.”

  “The Negro Church has lost influence like ALL CHURCHES, in this money-mad, liquor-drinking gadget-crazy age. But, it still stands as the Hope and Inspiration of a struggling people. And for that position it must thank the Negro Preacher.”

  —Rev. J. Pius Barbour55

  Rev. J. Pius Barbour, pastor of Calvary Baptist Church and first black graduate of Crozer Theological Seminary. Courtesy of Calvary Baptist Church, Chester, PA

  Often when we find ourselves outside our comfort zone, we gravitate back toward the familiar. For ML at Crozer, that elusive link back to his own culture was the man who had led him to Crozer in the first place: Rev. J. Pius Barbour. Whenever ML found himself overwhelmed by this new world—the high-mindedness of Robert Keighton and E. E. Aubrey, or the threatening eyes of Lucius Hall—he knew he could always head over to Rev. Barbour’s home in Chester and reconnect with the world he knew best.

  “He was like a father to all of us,” Horace Whitaker said of Barbour, “and all of us made use of his home and his church. And we gathered rather frequently around his dinner table. . . . He was a very supportive person.”56

  As Rev. Barbour himself recalled, ML “was in and out of my house just like one of my sons.” It was normally on the weekends when he would stop by. For instance, one Saturday in his first few months at Crozer, ML entered Barbour’s home and smelled a nice home-cooked meal of steak with brown sauce waiting for him at the table. “He could eat more than any little man you ever saw in your life,” Barbour’s wife, Olee, said. As he ate, usually with Rev. Barbour, Olee, and their three children, he’d push away the stifling stress of Crozer and feel at home for a few hours. In October 1948 he wrote home to his mother that Barbour was “full of fun, and he has one of the best minds of anybody I have ever met.”57

  Following dinner, ML would practice his latest sermon in the mirror as Barbour looked on, feeding him words and phrases that carried with them a symphony of sound, such as “the paralysis of analysis,” or reeling off the exotic names of Greek philosophers in order to support an idea: Well, as Euripides demonstrated . . . These were the kinds of tips ML could appreciate and absorb immediately. Whereas Keighton emphasized dignity and sophistication, Barbour helped ML retain his black roots by focusing on authority and impact.58

  And, perhaps most important, there were debates. Barbour could have allowed his young seminarian guests to simply come over for dinner, practice their sermons, and chew the fat. Instead, he insisted on challenging the young men with revolutionary ideas and opinions. Rev. Barbour’s grandson saw firsthand what a powerful impact these sessions had on the young men: “He was a pioneer in his time. He would combine politics, economics and theology. He would put you on the spot, and five minutes later you would realize you had grown in some way. He challenged you to a deeper faith, and he challenged you into action.”59

  He and ML “used to argue about violence and nonviolence right in my parlor,” Barbour remembered.60 At times, such debates got greatly heated. “It was an enriching experience,” said Whitaker. “King in particular would challenge him, and they would have quite the debate. And I think this was where he likely sharpened his philosophical views in many ways. He had an opportunity to let [his ideas] flow freely, to test them out.”61 ML appreciated that Barbour would never allow him an easy way out of a conversation. He’d continue to play devil’s advocate as long as there was still ground to cover.

  In particular, these exchanges helped ML test and toughen his nonviolent views, as Barbour often took the side of the issue that was for violence. Other Crozer students remembered listening to one debate between King and Barbour about the nonviolent approach used by Mahatma Gandhi (who’d been assassinated the previous January) and whether it could work in America. With his booming voice, Barbour verbally jabbed ML for hours about how America was different from India, how its moral conscience was steeped in hate, and that by taking a nonviolent approach black people would stand defenseless and weak. Who in this country would listen to that? 62

  But ML offered a rational, level-headed response: It’s a matter of arithmetic. It did not make any sense for those in the minority to resort to violence. Fewer people and fewer resources would blunt the impact of any display of force, and risk precious lives in a futile cause. As ML tried to articulate to Barbour, for a minority to improve its status, it must value every life and confront the problem from the perspective of a unified whole that encompasses minority and majority alike. Only then, ML believed, could the majority be turned.63

  Rev. Barbour’s daughter, Almanina, who was around twenty-three at the time, remembered even decades later how electric these conversations had been. ML “was so full of life. I had never known anybody that alive. And . . . he was as turned on about religious ideas and philosophy as people are about prize fights. And the discussions that he and my father would have were just absolutely enthralling. I would just sit and listen.”64

  King, meanwhile, must have been fascinated by Rev. Barbour’s lifestyle. In addition to being a husband and father, Barbour was involved in local politics, which helped augment a preacher’s salary that never exceeded $6,000 per year. His main political role was as a sort of racial middleman for the city of Chester. Although this was the free North, there was still a mammoth disconnect between white and black residents and officials. Barbour acted as a bridge, reaching local white audiences with commentary in the Chester Times newspaper while crafting passionate sermons for his largely black congregation at Calvary Baptist Church.65

  And, many a time, Barbour relinquished his pulpit for the week and handed it over to an ambitious young preacher from Crozer looking to log a few hours in front of a live congregation. ML would soon be one of those beneficiaries. The congregation didn’t mind, but at times it was painfully obvious that a seminarian was fighting upstream to deliver a message. A longtime Calvary churchgoer would nudge a friend’s shoulder and mutter, “He’s got those students preaching on us.”66

  Rev. Barbour also attempted to provide another service to the young seminarian. As soon as ML arrived at Crozer, the reverend all but advertised ML’s bachelor status to the Calvary Baptist congregation. In a letter to his mother, ML wrote, “Since Barbor [sic] told the members of his church that my family was rich, the girls are running me down.” Not that he needed the help. “Do you know the girl I used to date at Spelman (Gloria Royster)[?]” he asked his mother. “She is in school at Temple and I have been to see her twice. Also I met a fine chick in Phila who has gone wild over the old boy.” He hastened to add, “Of course, I dont [sic] ever think about them [since] I
am to[o] busy studying.”67

  ML was certainly concerned with academic advancement—particularly since his GPA after term 1 was a modest 2.61—but what continued to preoccupy him was his social standing on campus. Although Rev. Barbour or a former Spelman flame could provide relief from the white-dominated Crozer community, eventually ML needed to return to Old Main, where social events and mingling proved a daunting challenge:

  I remember once at an outing how worried I was when I found they were serving watermelon. I didn’t want to be seen eating it because of the association in many peoples’ minds between Negroes and watermelon. It was silly, I know, but it shows how white prejudice can affect a Negro.68

  Charles Turney was a young white man who got to know ML during these early days of solitude. Turney would soon leave for college, but for now he worked as a dishwasher in the Old Main kitchen. He remembered ML trying his best to figure out this strange new interracial culture he’d become a part of. “[During those months], Martin was very much a young, lonely man. He gravitated to those who were simply accepting, and that was what my family was like.”69 Turney was the nephew of Hannah Moitz, Crozer’s cook and dietician. Called “Miss Hannah” by students and faculty, Mrs. Moitz was indeed a welcoming soul. Students would walk downstairs and into Miss Hannah’s kitchen, hoping for some of her Dutch beef porridge, and she often opened her home on campus to the seminarians. ML volunteered to wash dishes in her kitchen, joining Charles Turney at the sink in the back room.

  It was in Miss Hannah’s kitchen that ML first noticed a young white woman with brown hair who ventured past the counters and steel pots and pans. She was Betty Moitz, Miss Hannah’s twenty-year-old daughter. For the time being, ML’s racial anxieties made him reluctant to approach her, but that was about to change. With his gregarious friend Walter McCall slated to join him for Crozer’s second term, King would soon break free from his temporary loneliness.

  2

  Breaking Free

  Term 2, November 30, 1948–

  February 16, 1949

  The Mike and Mac Show: “We Played Pool Until Sometimes Three O’clock in the Morning”

  “I used to tell Mike . . . he who would do great things must also tighten his hide such that when the criticisms are leveled against him he would never fear them.”

  —Walter McCall1

  In September 1944, fifteen-year-old Morehouse freshman Martin Luther King Jr. needed a haircut. He’d heard about a fellow student who cut hair in the basement of the college’s Graves Hall. The barber, named Walter McCall, was a twenty-one-year-old army veteran. ML heard that he was cutting hair for a dime, so he went to him and gave it a try.

  After the cut, McCall asked for the dime. ML explained that he didn’t have a coin on him but that he’d pay him later. This idea of an IOU system did not sit well with McCall. You and I both know you have a dime, he insisted. “Man. I haven’t got it now,” ML replied. “So there’s nothing you can do about it, unless you want to go to the grass.” The phrase “go to the grass” was new to McCall, but he knew what it meant: King believed he could take him in a fight.2 McCall tackled his customer and they wrestled on the floor—a vet fighting a teenager. The pushing and shoving eventually made its way outside onto the lawn, their bout intense enough to attract other students. For those who saw the fight, many expected the older soldier to easily beat up on the smaller, less experienced ML. But for one of the few times in ML’s young life, he fought back, and he earned the vet’s respect.

  From that point on, the two young men were friends. “I always called him ‘Mike’ and he called me ‘Mac,’” said McCall years later. They bonded despite being opposites in almost every way. ML was cautious and reserved, living comfortably in Sweet Auburn as the son of a successful preacher. McCall was bolder and louder, and always struggling to make ends meet. Born August 3, 1923, in Conway, South Carolina, he’d mainly lived in his home state but had bounced around cities such as Detroit, Wilmington, and Philadelphia. In a way, each friend had what the other wanted: Mac envied ML’s financial situation and parental support, while ML longed for Mac’s hard-earned life experience and his knack for livening up any social encounter.3

  Walter McCall in 1952. Courtesy of Fort Valley State University Archives

  McCall served as a constant reminder to his friend that there was more to experience than classes and church. During their years at Morehouse, they held secret dance parties at ML’s home while Daddy and Mama King were out. “One night I remember so well—boy, we had a good time going,” said McCall. “The old man [Daddy King] . . . stood at the door to listen to the music and he peeped through the keyhole and we didn’t know it. All of a sudden he burst into the house and there we were just swinging away into the night.”

  The friends also shared a serious interest in social reform. Though their early ambitions to fight for justice by becoming lawyers declined over the years, the fierce discussions about how to best effect social change continued. “We used to sit up oh way into the morning discussing the social issues of the day,” Mac recalled. “Particularly, we discussed very seriously at many times the role of leadership in liberating the Negro.”

  Such pursuits ultimately led both men to Crozer Theological Seminary, though without ML’s financial resources, Mac took a while longer to get there. He worked for three months in the Camden, New Jersey, public school system to save up enough money to pay the tuition, missing the first term of junior year.

  When McCall entered Crozer after the Thanksgiving holiday, he took note of how ML’s seminary experience had already changed him. “He began to take his studies more seriously; he began to take preaching more seriously,” McCall remembered. “He began to take what glorious opportunities that his father and mother provided for him more seriously. . . . He would sometimes, if necessary, stay up all night to make certain that he got an idea or pursued an idea to his satisfaction.”4

  Mac remained cognizant of how his friend’s “glorious opportunities” contrasted with his own day-to-day financial struggles. Not only was ML drawing a regular allowance from his parents, but Daddy King’s reputation up and down the East Coast would mean that potential preaching engagements for his son were just a phone call away.5 Mac, on the other hand, brought the tools of his trade with him to campus and began cutting hair in his small dorm room next to ML’s. “Mac’s Barbershop” featured a constant dialogue with other students about his current predicament: Honestly? Mac often confessed, I’m broke, got arthritis . . . I’m as poor as Job’s turkey . . . I have to work in spite of my ailments. Mac’s perpetual grumbling that first year earned him the nickname “Job.”6

  Once during their first year, Horace Whitaker later recalled, Mac came back late at night, shouting “The Lord is good to His children!” down the hallway. At first, Whit and others were confused. Had Mac lost it? Nope, he’d found a job. At least temporarily.7

  Though their economic differences caused some tension, ML and Mac were inseparable, and Mac’s presence in Old Main transformed ML’s social life. In the first term, ML had been reluctant to put himself into social situations on campus, but soon he and Mac were holding court in the recreation room below the chapel. “We played pool until sometimes three o’clock in the morning,” Mac said. They would turn the ceiling into a cloud of cigarette smoke as they played, getting to know the other students who joined in the game. The pair would also play cards until late at night, Mac’s choice of background music—like Johnny Mercer’s “Ac-cent-tchu-ate the Positive”—helping to alleviate ML’s stress.8

  The two friends had their own special brand of repartee that left a memorable impression on their fellow seminarians. Lloyd Burrus, a Shaw University graduate from Norfolk, Virginia, who was two years ahead of them at Crozer, experienced this “Mike and Mac show” firsthand. In late November 1948, ML’s mother came up from Atlanta to check in on him. After seeing ML’s shaky term 1 grade report, she told her son that “Buck Benny will stop by to see you later.’”

&nb
sp; Burrus had been listening from afar, but the name “Buck Benny” was new to him, so he went over to dig a bit deeper: Hey . . . who’s Buck Benny?

  Next to ML was, of course, McCall, who nearly dropped his jaw at the thought that someone didn’t know the Buck Benny. Mac couldn’t let this one go, and even though the question was directed at ML, Mac had to give Burrus a hard time. “Preacher, you are a senior in one of the country’s top divinity schools. Do you mean to tell me that you do not know Buck Benny?”

  ML stepped forward. This was their shtick: Mac let loose, and ML calibrated. “Remember, Mac,” ML said calmly. “Burrus attended little Shaw University. How is he to know that America’s itinerant pastor and the president of Morehouse College, ‘Dr. Benjamin Mays’ is known and admired by his students as Buck Benny?”9

  Yes, how could Burrus have known such a thing?

  The Mike and Mac show most definitely had a center of gravity: women. Ever since their days as self-proclaimed “wreckers” at Morehouse College, ML and Mac used their juxtaposed personalities to the benefit of nabbing dates. Quiet yet sophisticated? Talk to ML. Bombastic yet slightly offbeat? Mac could be your kind of man. And with Mac by his side, never judging, ML found it easier to be bold. So when the two briefly worked together washing dishes in the Old Main kitchen, his friend’s presence encouraged him to pursue a possibility he’d previously been too timid to explore . . .