“The Forerunner: Pastor Dean and the Little Rock Nine”
A Prophetic Tale of Faith and Fire
Little Rock, Arkansas – September 1957
The sun had not yet broken over the skyline of Little Rock, but already the air felt heavy. Clouds pressed low, not with rain, but with the weight of injustice, the kind that doesn't fall from the sky but rises from the hearts of angry men. Crowds had begun to gather in front of Central High School. Faces twisted in rage. Shouts broke the morning calm. But amidst it all, a figure walked silently down the sidewalk, carrying a presence not of this world.
It was Pastor Dean, the preacher from the wilderness—the one folks whispered about. Some said he came from the north, others said he was just passing through. But the truth was far deeper. He was sent by the Lord.
Draped in his long purple robe, its hem sweeping the ground like royalty, he looked like a prophet from old—his eyes set, his spirit strong. He carried no weapons, only a wooden cross strapped to his back and a Bible worn with love and tears. The robe billowed as he walked, a bold declaration against the atmosphere of hatred: God's servant had arrived.
The Vision and the Call
Two nights before, the Lord had awakened him in a dream. A burning schoolhouse. Children walking through flames. And a voice—gentle, yet firm—saying,
“Dean, go before them. Make the way straight. Pave the path with My name. Let no harm come near them, for I will walk with you.”
He had seen visions before. On dusty roads. In quiet fields. During the war, even. But this one burned in his bones. He knew he could not stay silent. This was not just a moment of civil change—it was a divine showdown between light and darkness, freedom and fear, Heaven and Hell.
The Front Lines of Injustice
As the crowd thickened that morning, Pastor Dean stepped into the center of the chaos—not with shouts or chants, but with knees to the ground and hands to the sky. Some mocked him. Others stared in confusion. But the boldness in his spirit wouldn’t let him stop. The purple robe glowed in the rising sun as if heaven itself had draped it on him.
With eyes closed, he began to pray aloud:
“Father, this is Your ground. These are Your children. No demon, no hatred, no force of man shall keep them from what You’ve destined. I call upon the host of heaven—stand guard at the gates. I bind the spirit of racism, of violence, of confusion. I loose peace, justice, and protection in the mighty name of Jesus Christ!”
The moment his words hit the air, a strange stillness came over the mob. Not silence—but hesitation. Some felt their voices catch. Others shifted uncomfortably. The spiritual atmosphere had changed. The forerunner had arrived.
The Arrival of the Nine
And then they came.
Nine brave African-American students, dressed in their best Sunday clothes, eyes straight ahead, feet trembling yet steady. The nation would one day call them heroes—but today, they were just children trying to walk through a storm.
They saw him—this strange preacher in purple, kneeling in the dust. Some thought he was a protester. Others thought maybe an angel. But when Elizabeth Eckford passed by, Pastor Dean rose slowly, lifted his cross, and said:
“You’re not alone. The Lord goes before you. You walk today because Heaven already walked yesterday.”
She didn’t say a word, but her eyes filled with tears. Something broke in her spirit—not fear, but peace. A peace she didn’t understand, but knew was real.
The Supernatural Encounter
As the Nine approached the school steps, a man from the mob lunged forward, rage on his face. But before he could take a step, he tripped over nothing, falling face-first into the dirt. The crowd gasped. Another tried to scream a slur—but no sound came out. Pastor Dean didn’t move. He simply extended his hand toward them and declared:
“No weapon formed against them shall prosper! Every tongue that rises in judgment, the Lord shall condemn!”
A gentle wind blew through the street—cool, refreshing, like a breeze from another world. The robe fluttered behind him like a banner. The Nine kept walking. Angels unseen stood beside them. And Pastor Dean followed behind, cross in one hand, the Word in the other.
After the Walk
The students made it to the doors. The military had been ordered to escort them inside—but long before the soldiers arrived, the army of the Lord had already done the work.
That night, Dean didn’t sleep. He stayed near the school. He walked its grounds in the dark, praying over the classrooms, the halls, and every desk those children would sit at. He anointed the steps with oil, leaving behind fingerprints of faith.
Jesus spoke to him again, this time not in a dream, but in the still of his heart:
“Because you obeyed, generations will walk freer. Your robe may grow old, but your obedience is eternal.”
The Legacy of the Purple Robe
Years later, when Pastor Dean had grown older, some of those students returned to see him. Now men and women, educators, leaders, and voices for the voiceless, they told him how they remembered that morning—not just the hatred, but his robe, his words, his peace.
“I thought you were an angel,” one said.
Dean just smiled.
“No, child. I’m just a preacher who follows the One who is.”
Closing Words
To this day, if you ever find yourself in Little Rock and the wind catches just right, some say you can still feel it—that presence, that peace.
And if you look closely enough at old photographs, you might catch a glimpse of a man in a purple robe, not standing in the spotlight, but just behind the Nine—the forerunner, who paved the way through the power of Jesus Christ
