The Bridge Builder
They called Rev. Kenneth Crossman ’55 the “Bridge Builder.”
He fought from his pulpit with a divine grace against the racism and inequality that ran rampant during the Civil Rights era.
Now Crossman, who died in 2004, is being remembered in a most appropriate way. A rail bridge connecting three Florida communities is being named in his honor.
“It’s been energizing for me to see the overwhelming support from all different people, from all different backgrounds,” says Crossman’s son, John. “I think that we are in a time in U.S. history when there are debates on tearing down monuments or building up walls—but take a bridge and use it to remember somebody who worked so hard to get people to love each other.”
The dedication of the bridge comes as a part of a Florida senate bill that renames 37 different Florida roads, highways and bridges in honor of fallen soldiers, law-enforcement officials, and community leaders.
“Before my dad died, he was part of a group called Bridge Builders in Winter Park and worked in bringing communities in Winter Park together,” John Crossman says. “The bridge connects Winter Park, Maitland, and Eatonville—and that’s just cool.”
Crossman grew up in Toledo, OH, with a great understanding of equality under the tutelage of his father, who ran a dry-cleaning business that employed both whites and African-Americans. That early upbringing around diversity helped establish a core belief system in equality, which would prove to be the cornerstone in Crossman’s life.
After spending a few years as a salesman in South Florida, Rev. Crossman decided to go into the ministry and attended Emory University. From there, he found his calling in preaching sermons that were filled with a love of all people and a call to end racism.
John Crossman recalls a trip he took with his parents as a child to Georgia, during which his father participated in a revival back in the late 1960s to the early 1970s:
“We were at this diner for lunch, and the waitress told us there was this Klan rally that night, so when we went to church my dad just went off and he completely denounced the Klan. Later that night when we were at the hotel room, I looked at my dad and said, ‘Dad I don’t think you should have done that.’ And he was just as calm as could be and said, ‘Don’t worry about it.’”
Only years later did Crossman realize the magnitude of what his father had done. Rev. Crossman hadn’t just denounced the Klan during a peak period for the group; he had done it in Stone Mountain, GA — the Klan’s headquarters.
“He was taking on the Klan in their backyard,” Crossman says. “In the core of his faith, he felt like, ‘This is the right thing, this is the right moment.’”
—Troy Herring, Orangeobserver.com