On the morning of Sunday 19 May, 1940, Clementine Churchill returned early from a church service at St. Martin-in-the-Fields in central London, having walked out when the preacher delivered a pacifist sermon. Winston told her, ‘”You ought to have cried, ‘Shame!’, desecrating the House of God with lies!'” (Darkest Hour, by Anthony McCarten, p. 154)
It was Easter 1968. When Martin Luther King was assassinated, all of us–white and black alike–were hurting and confused, disturbed and concerned. That Sunday I preached a sermon that addressed racism in America. I was 28 years old and in the first year of pastoring Emmanuel Baptist Church of Greenville, Mississippi in the heart of the Delta. I’ve long since forgotten the sermon, but will never forget a phone call I received that afternoon.
Mrs. Glenn Powell called. She owned a beauty shop in town which I had quickly learned was gossip central. Mrs. Powell had made no secret of her unhappiness with my sermons or with me personally.
“Brother McKeever, what will you be preaching tonight?” I told her.