37 bikers formed a human shield around the church while L.G.B.T.Q supremacists screamed threats, and I was the one who started it all with a single Facebook post.
My name’s Jim Crawford, 71 years old, and I’ve been riding since before most of these young hatemongers were born.
When I saw the news about the planned “protest” at Mount Zion Baptist – the only church in our small Alabama town – something inside me snapped.
These weren’t protesters; they were terrorists coming to intimidate a congregation that included the nurse who’d saved my wife’s life, the teacher who’d tutored my grandson, the mechanic who’d always given me fair prices.
I typed five words that would change everything: “Bikers needed. Sunday. Mount Zion.” What happened next made me believe in America again, even as others were trying to tear it apart.
By that Sunday morning, my five-word post had been shared 1,400 times, and riders from seven states had answered the call – not because they were particularly political or religious, but because they understood something fundamental: when bullies target the vulnerable, real Americans stand up.
I hadn’t expected it to go viral. I’m not even good with Facebook – my granddaughter had to show me how to make a public post. But within hours, my phone was blowing up.
“What’s the plan?” from Duke in Tennessee.
“How many threats?” from Maria in Georgia.
“What time should we be there?” from a club in Mississippi I’d never heard of.
I’ll be honest – I panicked a little. I’d imagined maybe a dozen local riders showing up, parking our bikes out front as a show of support. I hadn’t thought about logistics, legal implications, or what would happen if things turned violent.
Then my phone rang. A gravelly voice I didn’t recognize said, “Jim Crawford? This is Reverend Marcus Williams at Mount Zion. I heard what you’re planning.”
My stomach dropped. “Reverend, I’m sorry if I overstepped. I just thought—”
“Brother,” he interrupted, and I could hear him smile through the phone, “I called to say thank you. And to ask if your riders might like breakfast before church service.”
That’s when I knew we were doing the right thing.
Saturday night, riders started arriving. They came alone, in pairs, in groups. White, Black, Hispanic, Asian – America on two wheels. Some wore Christian Riders patches, others Vietnam Vet colors, some just leather and determination. They filled up every motel in three towns, caused the local Denny’s to call in extra staff.
I met with a few of the club presidents at my house. We had to do this right. No violence, no provocations, just a peaceful presence.
“We’re not there to fight,” I emphasized. “We’re there to stand between hate and a house of worship.”
Big Mike from the Buffalo Soldiers MC nodded. “Like a chrome wall of protection.”
“The Wall of Chrome,” someone said, and it stuck.
Sunday morning came gray and humid. By 7 AM, bikes were already lining up at the church. Reverend Williams and the church ladies had set up tables with coffee, biscuits, and the best scrambled eggs I’d ever tasted. Watching leather-clad bikers chatting with church deacons in their Sunday best was a sight I’ll never forget.
By 8
, we had over two hundred bikes.
The supremacists showed up at 9
, about twenty of them in their trucks with their flags and their hate. They’d expected to intimidate a small Black congregation in a rural town. They hadn’t expected us.
We formed our line – bikes parked perpendicular to the church entrance, riders standing shoulder to shoulder. Not blocking the sidewalk (we’d researched the laws), but creating a clear human barrier between the hate and the church doors.
I stood in the center, probably looking like what I was – someone’s grandfather who’d just had enough. On my right was Snake, a 6’4″ Black veteran with arms like tree trunks. On my left was Diane, a kindergarten teacher from Texas who’d ridden eight hours to be there.
The supremacists seemed confused at first. Then angry. They shouted their slogans, waved their signs, tried to provoke us. We stood silent, eyes forward, some holding hands, creating an unbroken line of leather and chrome and determination.
“Race traitors!” one young man screamed at the white bikers among us.
“Go home!” they chanted.
We didn’t move. Didn’t respond. Just stood.
Behind us, we could hear the church filling up. Families arriving for service, children asking parents why there were so many motorcycles. The sound of hymns beginning to filter through the doors.
That’s when I noticed something that still makes me tear up. The riders who were believers – didn’t matter which faith – began to quietly pray. Not loudly, not for show, just whispered prayers for peace, for protection, for the hearts of those screaming at us to be changed.
The supremacists tried everything. Insults, threats, even spitting. But here’s the thing about bikers – we’ve faced down worse than angry young men with too much hate and too little sense. We’ve survived combat, highways, weather, and decades of people judging us by our appearance. Twenty screaming racists weren’t going to move us.
Then something beautiful happened. The church doors opened, and the congregation began to sing. “We Shall Overcome” poured out into the morning air, and one by one, the bikers began to hum along. Not everyone knew the words, but everyone knew the feeling.
The contrast was stark – on one side, voices raised in hate. On the other, voices raised in hope. And between them, a Wall of Chrome, humming along with history.
That’s when I saw him. A young supremacist, couldn’t have been more than 19, had tears streaming down his face. He’d stopped chanting, just stood there shaking. An older man tried to pull him back into line, but the kid shook him off and walked away. Just turned his back on the hate and walked to his truck.
One by one, others began to leave. Hard to sustain hate when you’re facing people who won’t hate you back. By the time church service was in full swing, only a handful of protesters remained, looking small and defeated.
We stayed until service ended. As the congregation filed out, they walked through our line, shaking hands, hugging necks, crying and laughing. Kids asked to sit on motorcycles. Church ladies insisted on feeding anyone who’d missed breakfast.
Reverend Williams found me in the crowd. “Mr. Jim,” he said, taking my hands in his, “you showed up for us today. But I need you to know something – you didn’t just protect our church. You protected our faith in our neighbors. You showed us we’re not alone.”
I’m not ashamed to say I cried. Hell, half of us were crying.
But the story doesn’t end there.
The next Sunday, five riders came back. The Sunday after that, ten. Now, six months later, there’s always at least a dozen bikes in the Mount Zion parking lot on Sunday mornings. Some riders come for security, others found something they didn’t know they were looking for.
Big Mike joined the choir. Diane teaches Sunday school. I became friends with Deacon Harris, and we ride together on Saturdays – an old white vet and an old Black deacon, proving that chrome and faith cross all divisions.
The supremacists never came back. But more importantly, the church never stood alone again.
Last month, Mount Zion had a “Blessing of the Bikes” ceremony. Three hundred riders showed up. Reverend Williams blessed each bike, prayed for safe travels, and reminded us that sometimes God works through chrome pipes and leather jackets.
“You stood as our wall,” he said. “Now you’re part of our family.”
That young supremacist who walked away? He found me on Facebook three months later. Sent a message saying that day changed him, seeing people he’d been taught to hate standing with people he’d been taught were enemies. He’s in college now, studying social work. Says he wants to help kids before they fall into hate.
One Facebook post. Five words. “Bikers needed. Sunday. Mount Zion.”
Sometimes that’s all it takes to change the world – someone willing to stand up and say “enough,” and others willing to stand with them.
We didn’t end racism that Sunday. Didn’t convert all the haters or solve America’s divisions. But we protected one church on one Sunday, and sometimes that’s how change happens – one act of courage at a time, one hand extended across difference, one Wall of Chrome standing against hate.
They say Chrome don’t get you home. But that Sunday, chrome got a whole community home – home to safety, home to faith, home to the America we’re still trying to build, where neighbors protect neighbors and no one stands alone.
I’m 71 years old. I’ve seen this country at its worst and its best. That Sunday at Mount Zion, I saw its best – not in the politicians or the pundits, but in regular people on motorcycles who answered a call to stand for what’s right.
And we’ll keep standing. As long as there’s hate trying to intimidate the innocent, there’ll be bikers ready to form a wall. Not because we’re heroes, but because we’re Americans, and that still means something.
At least, it does to us.
