The Spirit of Home

I saw the room where Martin Luther King Jr. was born. It was on the top floor of a house built by German immigrants at the turn of the century. It was reminiscent of my grandmother’s house in Rochester with its hollow, wooden,  porch; high ceilings; and faded wall paper. I walked in, following the charismatic tour guide (whose name happened to be Bruce Lee), to find that it felt like my grandmother’s house, as well. It was a sanctuary: cozy, warm, and welcoming. Though it was now a national landmark, the house was still owned by the King family and that’s why I believe it felt like a home.

   You must be close to someone in order to let them into your home. You may only enter by invitation. So one may be led to claim that the house had lost its sanctitude, once opened to the public. But I beg to differ. This house had always been an open place. When hotels were segregated, it served as lodging for black travelers, coming through Atlanta. The house was large and spacious, so Martin Luther King Sr. felt obliged to share. But he did not just rent out rooms; strangers were welcome to stay for free, in the place where his children were born. It all happened there, on the top floor, because nobody could feel secure, sleeping in their car or giving birth in a segregated hospital that didn’t care about the health of black children. 

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   It’s funny. Just a few hours later when I met Rev. Andrew Young, I was told that “to whom much has been given, much is required.” What one has and how much it is worth is relative. But it was true that the Kings had more than many other families in their community. Apparently, Rev. King Sr. shared Rev. Young’s sentiment. I thought it was such a coincidence...and a coincidence, according to Rev. Young, was God acting in anonymity.

   Yet another coincidence was that, even earlier this morning, I was at a MLK memorial service in the Ebenezer Baptist Church. And God was there too. Now, God and I have not always been on the same page. I used to go to church when I was little; I also used to sneak books and candy into the pews. I never really appreciated or acknowledged God. And then, as I learned about organizations such as the KKK and the Westboro Baptist Church, Christianity became synonymous with bigotry and terror. But when I walked into Ebenezer today, I was welcomed. It was another sanctuary, just like the birth home of Martin Luther King Jr. 

And as the preacher gave his sermon, I had my own epiphany...

   I had always known that the church was a place of meeting for African Americans; it was a safe space, where they could celebrate like anyone else. By that I mean that black people in the church could live, if for only a moment, outside the confines of oppression. And God was there to keep them safe. God held them accountable, too; He was a motivational factor in that people like Dr. King sought equality, in efforts to serve the Lord. Everyone who contributed to the civil rights movement knew that the cause was bigger than they were; and I believe that their faith gave them perspective. They were humbled by being agents of God, so much so that they could give their lives to a cause without hesitation. 

-Kendall