The jubilee celebrations of the March on Washington affirm the iconic stature of the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. Americans may debate whether, and when, the dream that King so eloquently affirmed will be fulfilled. But there can be no doubt that his speech, delivered from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial just months after his Letter from a Birmingham Jail enunciated the necessity of non-violent direct action to protest unjust segregation laws, sealed his place in history.

My own memory of King predates his international renown as the defender of human rights for “all of God’s children.” In February 1957, midway during my senior year at Oberlin College and shortly after the Montgomery bus boycott that propelled him to national prominence, King came to speak. In the socially conscious school that had been the first to admit female and Negro (as they were still known) students, he packed Finney Chapel.

I was sufficiently inspired that, later the same day, I went to hear King speak in a local church. It was overflowing with Negroes from Oberlin, Elyria, and other nearby towns. They came dressed in their Sunday finest to honor King. Unlike the politely restrained students that morning, who had confined our approval to applause, they punctuated his words with frequent “Amens” and other enthusiastic interruptions. It was, for them, a religious service and King responded to their fervor with the passionate moral eloquence that was uniquely his.

As my roommate and I planned our post-graduation cross-country rite of passage to adulthood, we made a point of stopping in Montgomery, Alabama. We would time our visit to attend the Sunday morning service at the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, where King was pastor and had helped to organize the Montgomery boycott from his basement office.

With some trepidation, anticipating that we were likely to be the only whites in attendance (as we were), we sat in a pew near the rear of the church. After fifteen minutes or so a church elder approached us and politely asked who we were and why we were there. We told him; he smiled and welcomed us.

Shortly before the service concluded, the same gentleman reappeared and told us that Dr. King would be “pleased” to meet with us in his office after the worshippers departed. We were ushered downstairs and greeted warmly by King, who, at age 28, was only six years older than we were.

There we sat, three of us, talking – mostly at his initiative – about Oberlin, our experiences there, and the warmth of his welcome just a few months earlier. If he sensed our uneasiness in his presence, which I thought must be palpable, he gave no sign of it. Nothing profound was said.

What remains enduring 56 years later was the passionate eloquence and gentle kindness of a man who was still five years away from shaking the world with his moral fervor, and only one year past the moment when, with understandable apprehension and hesitation, he had reluctantly become the leader of the Montgomery boycott — and the civil rights movement. That he had taken time to meet two unknown visitors spoke volumes about him.

After 15 minutes of conversation, he invited us to remain with him outside the church to await the arrival of his wife, who would drive him home for dinner. As we stood together on the church steps, a car filled with young white men approached; slowing down, they shouted insults at us and sped away. When Mrs. King arrived, we shook hands with her husband and watched them drive away. Then we resumed our own journey, heading for Mississippi and another lesson in the history of race relations in the United States.

Mr. Auerbach is professor emeritus of history at Wellesley College.