King of Wrath

I was born in Atlanta, Georgia, in 1929, into a world sharply divided by color and circumstance, yet within my home I found a refuge infused with faith and discipline. My father, Martin Luther King Sr., served as pastor of Ebenezer Baptist Church, and from him I learned that the pulpit was not merely a place of worship, but a platform for truth and justice. My mother, Alberta Williams King, taught me tenderness and respect, reminding me that our Christian faith must always be expressed through love. Those early years were full of discovery. The rhythms of church life, the fervor of Sunday meetings, and my father's booming sermons often revolved around the idea that dignity was not bestowed by society—it was inherent because we were children of God.

But outside our sanctuary, I saw the brokenness of the world. Segregation showed itself in countless humiliations: separate schools, buses, restaurants—all designed to remind Black children that they were considered lesser. My parents never allowed bitterness to take root; they taught resistance through self-respect. I still remember the moment my father refused to move to the back of the bus despite the driver’s demand. That quiet defiance spoke louder than any speech. It was in those formative years that the seed of protest took hold within me—not in anger, but in conviction that injustice needed to be confronted with love and courage.

When I entered Morehouse College, the world began to open in ways I had not imagined. Under the guidance of mentors like Benjamin Mays, I encountered the moral urgency of using intellect in the service of humanity. Mays challenged us to see religion not as escape, but as engagement—the social gospel that demanded faith in action. After Morehouse came Crozer Theological Seminary in Pennsylvania, where I studied the great thinkers of the ages: Plato, Aristotle, Niebuhr, and Gandhi. It was here that my philosophy of nonviolence began to take coherent shape. Gandhi’s ideas particularly struck me as a revolutionary force capable of confronting oppression without perpetuating hate.

At Boston University, I pursued the link between spirit and reason, between belief and activism. I realized that theology could never remain in books or pulpits—it had to walk in the streets. In those years I met Coretta Scott, whose grace and unwavering conviction complemented mine. Together, we envisioned a shared calling that would blend art, intelligence, and faith into a life devoted to justice. These years refined me intellectually and spiritually. Education was not an escape from struggle; it was preparation for the moral leadership history would demand.

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