Of Alabama Baptists,

Once a year, in charity,

Received a delegation

From my school

Of preacher boys;

I was one.

At a

Parking-lot rally-point,

The shepherds—

Most part-time, machinists

Or farmers, with

Leather-handed grips—

Stood in conference

In their circle of trucks,

Would draft the day’s

Apprentice,

Abduct him to appear

Before a congregation

Further—even further—

In the hills.

At least once or twice

Came with us

Preacher-boys from

Kenya, Nigeria, Ghana or

Tanzania,

Who spoke of

Jesus like a lover. These!

Being Black,

Met with boycott.

There were, of course,

No scenes, just

Muttered nos and

Out-thrust jaws. The

Shepherds

Said their people—I

Learned only by rumor—

Would not accept

This thing.

We preacher boys

Complained—but later,

To our school.

I left in ‘95, heard

That a friend

Who came to

Run the program

Drew a line,

Laid down a rule:

Take all or none.

It worked.

*****

At least three, four

Times a year

I wonder how—

Even at sixteen—

I let myself be

Driven off to preach,

Silent beside the

Shepherd, leaving

Behind two, three

Servants of God

From Africa,

Heavy with a Word,

No white man

Willing to receive it.

May 2025

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