A Shepherd Watches Over His Flock

In the quiet, sprawling fields of Arkansas, where the sun casts long shadows over fertile soil and the air carries whispers of old hymns, Reverend Dale McDonald tends to the souls of his community much like a farmer nurtures his crops. The three humble churches he pastors—Allen Temple, Carter Chapel, and Mount Gillian, all of the African Methodist Episcopal denomination—are scattered across Phillips County, each a sanctuary of hope amidst the rolling landscapes and weathered towns. 

“The African Methodist Episcopal (A.M.E.) Church is a Christian denomination that proudly asserts that it is unashamedly Christian and unapologetically Black,” according to Yale Divinity School. “It was founded in 1787 when a group of Black worshipers, led by Richard Allen and Absalom Jones, exited St. George’s Methodist Episcopal Church in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, as an act of protest against segregation in the house of God.”

To Rev. McDonald, the churches he serves are more than mere buildings; they are his companions, his confidantes—the closest he has to a wife.

It was a Saturday night and I found myself hankering for some good ol’ gospel preaching, hymn singing and roof rasing. The closest A.M.E. church my personal AI assistant could find me was Allen Temple, West Helena, AR. It would be a mere four-hour-plus drive for me to make it in time for Sunday morning service. I fretted... it would mean pushing Josie about as hard as I dared to get us there on time. Moreover, I’d have to venture onto the Interstate—that vile collection of soulless ribbon concrete and turnpikes. But time is a cruel taskmaster; we had no other choice.

To Rev. McDonald, the churches he serves are more than mere buildings;
they are his companions, his confidantes—the closest he has to a wife.

Although we rolled out on Interstate 40 with enough time to make it before service started, we were unsuccessful in our attempt. A stop for gas ate up precious time. Then there was Josie’s top speed; I dared not push her faster than 60mph for fear she would overheat. Usually I rode the groove between 55 and 60, which meant cars and semis of all sorts whipped past us on the 75mph speed limit interstate. 

When we finally rolled up on Allen Temple, I could tell we were too late simply by the small smattering of cars in the parking lot. Undeterred, I climbed out of Josie and approached the front door. I leaned in and listened hard for any sounds of preaching or singing. Nothing. So I just opened the door and walked right in. At the front of the church was the pastor, I assumed, who was wearing robes, and three elderly black women and a few kids running around. 

When I stepped in the sanctuary, all conversation immediately stopped and eyes were riveted on me; even the kids paused to gwak. I could hear their thoughts: “Child, whatcha doing here? Are you lost?” I just kept smiling, there was a hitch in my step, but I kept walking forward.

I introduced myself and asked for the pastor. He rose, a big bull of a man with a welcoming face and easy spirit. He reached out to shake my hand, and as he did, my hand disappeared into his like a first frost melting into a fallow field. Such was my introduction to Rev. McDonald. I explained to him and the ladies about the Tour. I didn’t even finish speaking when they all pointed to a woman sitting in the second pew, entertaining the kids. “That’s who you want, right there, uh-hum. She’s in everything, gives everything, and does everything.” She was a retired school teacher, they said. 

The woman never lifted her eyes for a second. I stepped closer to her and asked, “Do you mind if we talk for a while?” She vigorously shook her head. “No. No way I’m talking, not gonna do it, no way, no how.” I sunk. She sounded like the perfect person to write about. But she would have none of it. 

I turned on my heel back to the other women and the preacher. After what seemed like a quick huddle in whispered tones, they reported back. “Pastor’s the one you want,” they said in unison,  “Um-hum, he’s the one.” 

The pastor seemed a bit flummoxed. I asked him if he’d be willing to spend some time with me, and he agreed. 

Born into a world where scarcity was an uninvited but constant guest, Rev. McDonald was one of six children in a household that knew the weight of hard times. "I come from six brothers and sisters," he recalls. "It was not easy, you know. Situations come up all the time—bills and things—but it was never a time where I never had nothing to eat or anything like that." The walls of their home might have been thin, and the rooms crowded, but they were rich in the currency of love and resilience.

Born into a world where scarcity was an uninvited
but constant guest, Rev. McDonald was one of six
children in a household that knew the weight of hard times.

At the heart of this resilience stood his grandmother, the matriarch—a sturdy oak in a field of saplings. It was her steadfast faith and quiet strength that kept the family from scattering like leaves in the wind. She ensured that young Dale was in church every Sunday, instilling in him the seeds of faith that would one day grow into his calling.

At the tender age of twelve, a stirring began in his soul—a whisper in the quiet moments between dusk and dawn. "I had a calling probably when I was about 12 years old," he said. Inspired, no doubt, he said, by his mother, who was also a pastor. But the weight of this divine invitation was something he wasn't ready to bear. "I did not pursue the ministry until I was like 28. It was something on me that I couldn't hide from, and oh, I tried. You know, like boys would be boys."

And indeed, he immersed himself in the exuberance of youth. "I was a talkative school kid, I was a class clown, I was an athlete," he says with a hint of nostalgia. "I smoked marijuana, I drank, I... hey, I had, you know, dealt with girls. I did the regular guy stuff." He sought to drown out the calling with laughter and rebellion, hoping it would fade like a forgotten dream. Yet, despite his attempts to outrun his destiny, there was one place he could never avoid. "Church was one thing I just could not miss. You were in the pew on Sunday," he says, grandma saw to that. "Yes, I was. I was always there."

Years rolled by like tumbleweeds across a dusty road. At twenty-eight, the calling he had long tried to evade became an insistent presence he could no longer ignore. "The calling and anointing just stayed on me until I just couldn't shake it no more," Rev. McDonald said. Summoning his courage, he approached his pastor. "I had to go tell my pastor," he said. "He told me, 'Yeah, I knew it from the day I met you, you know, that you had something over you.'"

And so began his journey into the ministry—
a path he had resisted but was destined to walk.

And so began his journey into the ministry—a path he had resisted but was destined to walk. Today, with over a decade of service, Rev. McDonald pours his heart into his congregations. "I love to serve God's people," he says. "Whatever—nursing homes, home visits—I love to pray for them as they're sick and shut-in. I go also to... when people die in their family, I have to go comfort them, no matter where they're at. I'm just doing God's calling."

His commitment stretches him paper thin, going beyond the walls of his churches. Every Sunday, he embarks on a 90-mile journey from Pine Bluff to Phillips County, a testament to his dedication. "I've been doing this since about 2018," he says. The three churches he leads meet on alternating Sundays, their doors open wide to welcome the weary and hopeful alike. Though the pews may not always be full, his devotion never wavers. "That's my wife, kind of like that," he says about his congregations. "I've got to keep all of them happy."

As Yale Divinity School explains it:  “The broad mission of the A.M.E. Church means that ministers must be prepared to fulfill a myriad of roles. W.E.B. DuBois writes about the many roles of the preacher in his magnum opus, “The Souls of Black Folk.” He writes, ‘The Preacher is the most unique personality developed by the Negro on American soil. A leader, a politician, an orator, a ‘boss,’ an intriguer, an idealist—[he is] all [of] these… “

When he's not shepherding his flocks, Rev. McDonald dedicates himself to the at-risk youth in his community. "I work at a high school," he explains. "I deal with... they are at risk of dropping out. So I work with the alternative students." These students are on the precipice of being lost by the educational system, and he serves as their last port in the storm. "I am there to be the bridge for them to be that successful student so they can see that they have their diploma, their high school diploma."

To these young souls, he is more than a teacher; he's a mentor, a confidant, a lifeline. "I show them love," he says simply. "I don't, you know, treat them like failures. They just messed up a lot of times." His own past lends him empathy. 

The demands of his ministry are heavy, and the
expectations from the church hierarchy weigh on him.

Life, however, is not without its trials. The demands of his ministry are heavy, and the expectations from the church hierarchy weigh on him. "Meeting the demands of your supervisors," he sighs. "As churches and population are declining everywhere... they still demand a lot out of you." Financial pressures add to the strain as the collection plate seems to grow lighter and lighter. 

Yet, he shoulders these burdens with grace, never letting the strain show in his sermons or his interactions. His personal life remains a quiet sanctuary. Unmarried, he channels his love and energy into his churches and his students. "I'm not married," he states. "I'm aspiring to be married. I'm waiting for my wife. God got her somewhere."

Family remains a cornerstone of his existence. His parents, though long divorced, maintain a cordial relationship, often united through his grandmother. "They've been divorced since 1994," he mentions. "But they're still friends. They work together." He cares deeply for them as they age. "My father, who is recently... is an amputee now, so I deal with him. I deal with my mother, who is ailing." His grandmother, now 91, continues to inspire him. "She's still fussing, you know, bossing everybody around."

There are moments when the weight of his responsibilities presses heavily upon him. "As a pastor, you can't say what you want to say," he says. "You can't do what you want to do. You got to move different. We are different." The constant scrutiny can be a burden. "People are always waiting for you to, you know, mess up," he says. Yet, he remains steadfast, understanding the importance of his role. "You're the example," he says, there’s no other choice.

Despite the challenges, regrets are few. His servant's heart guides him through the hardships, illuminating the path for others. "I give people my time, and that's all I can do," he says humbly. "I give them my resources, and I share knowledge with the young people that I come in contact with."

Rev. McDonald's story is one of reluctant surrender and unwavering devotion. He is a man who ran from his calling only to find that it was the very thing that would lead him home. Like the crops that push through the stubborn soil of Arkansas, he has grown where he was planted. His grandmother's strength runs in his veins, her faith echoes in his sermons, and her love mirrors in his own servant's heart.

In the quiet moments, when the sky blushes with the setting sun and the fields whisper their ancient songs, Rev. McDonald stands firm—a humble shepherd in a land that still believes in miracles. He measures success not by wealth or acclaim but by the number of lives he touches—the seeds he plants in hearts that might one day blossom into gardens of hope. "I just teach these young people life skills, man," he says with a gentle conviction. "Reach one, teach one."

And so, in the tapestry of his life, woven with threads of faith, sacrifice, and love, Rev. Dale McDonald continues his journey. He embraces his calling with the same fervor he once used to flee from it, finding solace and purpose in serving others. His story is not just his own but a reflection of the enduring human spirit—a testament to the power of faith to transform lives and communities alike.