Al Maury pulled the old beat-up Volkswagen bus into the bank parking lot on Decatur Street and killed the engine. As the six seminary students bailed out, he opened the rear door and took out a microphone-on-a-stand and flipped a switch, turning on the transmitter. “McKeever, you’re preaching tonight!”
Oh my. A baptism by fire. Thrown into the deep water without a life preserver.
We were preaching on the streets of New Orleans’ fabled French Quarter.
The very thought struck terror into my heart. And yet, I had volunteered for it.
The year was 1964 and I was a new student at New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary. All first-year students were required to participate in one “field mission” ministry. Each Tuesday, the student body gathered in Frost Chapel for a report and testimony time. Choices for these ministries included helping start-up churches, hospital and nursing home ministry, the New Orleans Seamen’s Service, neighborhood mission centers, after-school tutoring, and such. Determined to rise above my fears of cold-turkey witnessing, I had chosen the scariest thing on the list.
Street preaching.
Yikes.