As Kansas City’s HIV infection rate rivals Africa’s, some black ministers admit that silence equals death

Prim announces he's going to show everyone how simple it is to get an HIV test. A tester from Good Samaritan comes up with a long cotton swab.

"So we're going to do collection, and you can come up and see me do it and how easy it is," Prim tells the congregation. "I'll tell you, too, I went to Catholic schools, and we never had a choir like this. Amen!"

The choir starts singing, and people line up to walk before the altar and put their offerings in a wicker basket. Prim rolls the swab against his cheek and claps along with the choir.

Three minutes later, he hands the swab back to the tester. "She's going to be in the back, so anyone that wants to get tested tonight, please go and do it," he says. "All of the tests are strictly confidential."

On a chilly but bright Saturday morning in mid-March, Williams is behind the wheel of his car on Swope Parkway, eagerly waiting to see what kind of crowd will show up for his parade.

It's a New Orleans-style funeral procession that Williams hopes will dramatize the loss of loved ones in black churches and homes.

In the front is a carriage drawn by a black horse. Behind that, pallbearers carry two coffins. Williams is behind them. Representatives from almost all of the churches that participated in the Week of Prayer make up the bulk of the procession. Farther back is the Schlagle High School Marching Band, followed by personalities from radio stations, members of the Black Health Care Coalition, fraternity brothers and sorority sisters. With police officers directing traffic, the parade sets off from Swope Parkway Church of Christ, near 56th Street and Swope Parkway, heading south to a block party at 6430 Swope Parkway.

Williams smiles and opens his sunroof. He turns on some gospel music — a song called "We Shall Recover." They aren't very far into the mile-long route before Williams realizes that no one is out on the streets watching.

"In some neighborhoods, you can only make so much noise, but I know they heard it, whether they liked it or not," he'll say later. "In some midtown neighborhoods, the neighbors don't hear a lot of street gatherings unless they're up to no good."

The procession continues down empty streets a while longer, and then Williams sees kids from the back of the parade running across the lawns. Oh, no, don't go to people's houses, he thinks. I don't want people getting hurt.

Before anyone can stop them, the kids knock on the front door of a house. A gray-haired woman in a housedress answers. The kids hand her some prayer beads, and she starts to smile. Then they wave goodbye and go on to the next house.

"They were asking people to protect themselves and people were listening," Williams later explains.

The parade continues, with the kids running ahead. Traffic backs up for blocks behind it while the marching band bangs on its drums and dances.

Since then, Williams says 10 churches have contacted him asking to get involved with next year's Taking It to the Pews Revival, but no one has officially signed on. Angela Williams, Good Samaritan's director of prevention, says she has seen no increase in the number of people coming in to get tested.

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