Martin Luther King Jr. is remembered as our prince of peace, of

The words of Morgan Freeman—“Martin Luther King Jr. is remembered as our prince of peace, of civil rights. We owe him something major that will keep his memory alive.”—are not spoken lightly, but with the gravity of one who recognizes the debt of generations. In these words, Freeman calls us not to passive remembrance, but to active duty. For King is not merely a figure of history, a name carved in stone; he is a prince of peace, a herald of justice, whose legacy demands not silence, but living continuation.

To call him prince of peace is to clothe him in the garments of the ancients, for princes are leaders, protectors, and bearers of destiny. King led not with sword or shield, but with love, with the unyielding conviction that peace is mightier than violence. His marches, his sermons, his sacrifices were acts of royalty—not in the sense of worldly crowns, but in the sense of spiritual kingship. He ruled not over land, but over hearts, drawing out courage, hope, and dignity from a people long oppressed.

Freeman also names him the prince of civil rights. For King did not pursue peace in the abstract; he pursued justice in the concrete, where laws and systems crushed human beings. He stood against segregation, against the denial of freedom, against the humiliation of millions. His power was not in wealth or armies, but in the moral force of truth. When he declared, “I have a dream,” it was not a private vision but a call to awaken the conscience of a nation. Thus, his crown was not placed upon his head by kings, but by the people whose dignity he restored.

Yet Freeman warns us: we owe him something. For remembrance without action is a hollow ritual. Monuments and holidays are not enough. To keep King’s memory alive, we must continue his mission, carrying forward the torch of peace and civil rights into our own time. Just as his generation faced the battles of segregation and disenfranchisement, so too must we face the injustices of our own age—inequality, prejudice, and division. To honor King is not to recite his words, but to live them.

History itself teaches us this duty. When the prophets of Israel fell, their people were commanded not merely to mourn, but to walk in the law they left behind. When Socrates drank the hemlock, his students kept his philosophy alive by embodying his search for truth. When Gandhi was cut down by violence, his followers knew that his memory would endure only if they lived by nonviolence. So too with King: his voice may have been silenced, but the echo becomes our responsibility. His memory will endure only if we build upon his work.

The lesson for us is clear: memory without action is betrayal. If we claim to honor King, we must be makers of peace in our own circles, defenders of dignity in our own communities, and seekers of justice in our own time. Each act of reconciliation, each stand against prejudice, each effort to lift the poor and the marginalized is a brick laid upon the foundation King built. To do less is to let his memory fade into the mists of history.

Practically, this means engaging in the daily work of justice: treating others with respect regardless of difference, listening to the voices of the unheard, teaching the young the value of equality, and standing firm against hatred in all its disguises. It means examining our own hearts, rooting out prejudice, and daring to believe—as King did—that peace and love are stronger than violence and fear.

So let Freeman’s words stir our souls: “We owe him something major that will keep his memory alive.” What we owe King is not empty reverence, but living deeds. To honor him is to become peacemakers, to become builders of justice, to become carriers of hope. If we take up this charge, then King remains not only in the pages of history, but in the living breath of our actions. And thus his reign as prince of peace shall endure, not in memory alone, but in the very fabric of the world he dreamed.