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)
Easter Sunday, 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 addressing 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, a section of our state with a long and sordid history of race relations. I’ve long since forgotten the sermon but will never forget a phone call I received that afternoon.
Mrs. Glenn Powell called. (Yes, her first name was Glenn.) She owned a beauty shop which I had quickly learned was gossip central for our town. 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.
“The reason I asked,” she said, “is I guess you noticed I walked out on your sermon this morning.” I had to admit that I had not noticed. Margaret used to say you could dynamite the back of the building while I was preaching and I would not notice.
She went on. “We get enough of the bad news all week. When we come to church, we expect some peace and quiet.”
I have no memory of how I responded to that strange statement. But she stayed in the church and life went forward.