Those of us whose young adult years were influenced by participation in the movement for racial justice watched with mixed feelings the subsequent conclusion of the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr.’s public ministry, his martyrdom in 1968, the development of his story to legendary proportions and, finally, the established annual commemoration of that story.

Idolization and a certain degree of romanticization inevitably inform the memory of those we honor. Many of those who avoided joining the march at the time, some of whom were actually Martin’s critics and opponents, now join hands each January and sing “We Shall Overcome.”

Christian scholars used to distinguish between “the Jesus of history and the Christ of faith.” In a similar way I have spoken and written of “the Martin of history and the King of faith.” Mythic interpretations of his life and work sometimes eclipse our memory of the flesh-and-blood person. Canonizing our heroes can be a way of distancing them outside our own potential to follow their examples.

Martin was first and foremost a Christian minister. Inasmuch as he was an African-American Baptist minister, that means he was primarily a preacher. He was among the very best. He communicated effectively with educated and affluent blacks as well as more humble folk. He also garnered much white support in the late 1950s and early 1960s with his magnificent oratory and his ability to provide dramatic, if sometimes orchestrated, confrontations between marchers and racist authorities.

King rebelled against an uncritical faith or any tendencies in his received African-American tradition toward fundamentalism. He accepted a ministerial calling only when he found it possible to be both faithful and intellectually honest. At Morehouse College in Atlanta, Crozier Theological Seminary in Pennsylvania and Boston University, where he earned a Ph.D. in systematic theology, King matched certain European-American philosophical and theological emphases with an “inner urge ... to serve humanity.” Only then did he commit to ministry.

Martin was not an original or seminal thinker, but he did care about ideas. He was influenced by both the Social Gospel theology of Walter Rauschenbusch and the criticism of that tradition by Reinhold Niebuhr. He developed a kind of realistic idealism. King was catapulted into successful leadership of the Montgomery bus boycott in 1955 in part because he had an idea about a strategy for that crisis. From that event he soon became known as an articulate advocate of Gandhian nonviolent resistance. His preaching was informed and sophisticated.

Martin was a prophet. That is, he was unswerving and uncompromising in speaking truth to power. He had a fierce independence. He did not cultivate favor with politicians, and he resisted any invitation to become dependably partisan. President John Kennedy and his brother, Robert, learned that. So did Lyndon Johnson. If only more black and white ministerial activists would follow his example these days.

But King struggled with personal conflict and was not without flaws. From the Montgomery, Ala., bus boycott on he was increasingly the servant, not to say the slave, of the movement. Overscheduling, sleep deprivation, unending travel and crises were constants. He was often remiss as husband and father. His academic and sexual peccadilloes compromised his influence and his legacy. At times he wanted to escape the burden of leadership in the movement. But, at each point where he had to make a crucial decision, he conquered the fear of death and of failure, doing what he thought love and justice demanded.

It is important to recognize his humanity as well as to celebrate his greatness. Such remembrance can remind us that it is quite possible for each of us to join the march and make a difference.

Leo Sandon is distinguished teaching professor of religion and American studies at Florida State University. E-mail him at lsandongarnet.acns.fsu.edu)