More Than the Dream

Martin Luther King Jr. and the Cross of Leadership

When we talk about leadership in today’s world, we often talk about influence—how many people follow you, how loud your voice echoes, how visible your platform is. But true leadership is quieter than that. It’s rooted in character, not charisma. It’s forged in trials, not just tweets. And when I think about leadership that has withstood the weight of history, I think about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Dr. King’s name is known around the world. His face is printed on posters and murals, his words etched into stone, his speeches played on repeat every January. But what we often fail to do—what I had to learn myself—is look beyond the dream and understand the man. The daily burden. The internal struggle. The spiritual weight of being called to stand in a fire you didn’t light, but couldn’t walk away from.

It wasn’t until I came across Martin Luther King Jr. on Leadership by Donald T. Phillips that I began to truly understand the depth of Dr. King’s leadership. Not the iconic imagery of the march to Washington or the bus boycotts—but the private, prayer-filled, gut-wrenching moments of decision-making. The quiet behind the courage.

This book didn’t just teach me about King. It taught me about myself. About what it means to bear the responsibility of representing more than just your own name. I’ve read it over and over again. My copy is worn, edges frayed, notes in every margin—reminders not of how to lead perfectly, but how to lead faithfully.

King never asked for the spotlight. He never set out to be a symbol. In fact, much of his early hesitation stemmed from the weight of what leadership would demand from his personal life, his family, his peace of mind. He once said, “I’m tired of marching. I’m tired of going to jail. Living every day under the threat of death... I’ve been beaten physically and emotionally and mentally.” These aren’t the words of a man chasing glory. These are the confessions of a man who understood that leadership wasn’t a title—it was a cross.

Dr. King’s leadership was a product of both calling and crisis. He led not because he wanted to, but because the cost of not leading would have been far greater. He believed that silence in the face of injustice was itself a form of violence. “Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter,” he said. That line has stayed with me, especially in moments when standing up meant standing alone.

What this book makes clear—and what history often forgets—is that King wrestled constantly with doubt. He carried stress that would have crippled most. He was under surveillance by the FBI, attacked in the media, and even questioned by some within his own movement. And still, he showed up. Not as a perfect man, but as a man unwilling to trade comfort for complacency.

Phillips’ book paints a picture of a deeply spiritual leader. A man grounded in the church, guided by his faith, and moved by a moral compass that never wavered—even when his own hands trembled. He wasn’t just a strategist or a speaker. He was a shepherd, walking into spaces where no roadmap existed and creating one through presence, conviction, and grace.

This resonates with me personally. Having walked through my own fire, having carried the weight of leadership in environments where hope was a scarce resource, I understand that leadership is not about being celebrated. It’s about staying committed. And Dr. King modeled that with a kind of dignity that still humbles me today.

One of the chapters in Phillips’ book explores how King leaned on a small inner circle—mentors, clergy, trusted friends—not to boost his ego, but to remind him of his purpose. Leadership isn’t done in isolation. It requires community, counsel, and correction. King didn’t pretend to have all the answers. He just made sure he never stopped asking the right questions.

There’s also a part of the book that speaks to the sheer strategy behind his decisions. King didn’t just operate from the heart—he studied history, law, theology, and communication. He thought deeply about timing, tone, and message. His ability to mobilize people, to craft messages that cut through division and fear, wasn’t accidental. It was intentional, disciplined, and rooted in service.

But perhaps what inspires me most is that King never let fear speak louder than his faith. Even when he was jailed, threatened, and slandered, he kept walking. Not because he didn’t feel the fear—but because he knew the work was worth more than his comfort. That’s a kind of courage we need to talk about more—the quiet kind, the sacrificial kind.

He once said, “The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.” That quote lives in my bones now. It reminds me that leadership isn’t about visibility. It’s about vision. It’s about showing up when the cameras are off, when the path is unclear, and when your voice is shaking—but you speak anyway.

If you’ve ever been called to lead—whether in your family, your church, your community, or your cause—I urge you to spend time with this book. Not just to honor Dr. King, but to understand the depth of what he carried. He wasn’t just a man with a dream. He was a man with a cross, a calling, and a discipline that demanded everything.

In a world of temporary fame and fleeting attention, Dr. King’s life reminds us that leadership is not about being the loudest in the room. It’s about being the most anchored. And it’s that kind of leadership that shapes nations, generations, and hearts.

I pray for humbleness in our leaders today.

— Troy Rienstra