By Evan Ward
They renamed the street outside Third Baptist Church “Rev. Dr. Amos C. Brown Way” this weekend, but Amos Brown isn’t going anywhere. Not really.
He stood in the pulpit Sunday, sharp as ever, and said it himself: “I’m repositioning, not retiring.”
After nearly 50 years leading one of San Francisco’s oldest Black churches, the 83-year-old civil rights veteran stepped aside as senior pastor. But the lion of the Fillmore isn’t done roaring.
Brown came up through Mississippi in the fire of the movement—mentored by Medgar Evers, trained by Martin Luther King Jr., arrested as a Freedom Rider at 20. He’s sat in jail cells and board rooms, served on San Francisco’s Board of Supervisors, and kept Third Baptist a moral anchor while the neighborhood around it changed zip codes and price tags.
California Governor Gavin Newsom called him “a man of courage.” San Francisco Mayor Daniel Lurie said Brown “put justice on the city’s agenda.” The crowd that packed Third Baptist on Sunday included former Mayor Willie Brown, NAACP leaders, preachers, politicians, and Elder Matthew S. Holland of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Holland, speaking on behalf of the LDS First Presidency, said what a lot of people were thinking: “The world is better because of Dr. Brown.” The unlikely friendship between Brown and LDS Church President Russell M. Nelson made headlines over the years—and history.
Inside his office, Brown keeps the receipts: mugshots from ‘61, photos with Mandela, with King, with presidents, with prophets. He’s been fighting the same fight for 70 years and counting. Segregation, apartheid, police brutality, housing injustice—pick a battle, he’s been in it.
Now, Rev. Dr. Devon Jerome Crawford is taking the pulpit. Crawford’s 33, a Morehouse man like Brown, and came up through the King Center in Atlanta. He calls Brown “a theological giant.” That might be an understatement.
Brown’s not hanging up the collar. He’s staying on as pastor emeritus. He’ll still preach. Still push. Still tell the truth, no matter who doesn’t want to hear it.
“The lion still roars,” said his nephew, Rev. Anthony Trufant.
And if Sunday was any indication, the city’s still listening.
