Ain’t God Alright?: Remembering my Uncle Eddie. Part 2: The Pastor, The Paradox, The Person

 

Uncle Eddie was a man of divine contradictions — a Southern Baptist pastor who greeted people with “Namaste,” a preacher who opened his church doors to the Nation of Islam, a father who carried both faith and fracture in the same breath. In this part of his story, I remember the minister, the husband, and the man who taught me that holiness and humanity can absolutely coexist.

He was a spiritually anointed visionary who followed in the footsteps of his father. Papa was a gifted preacher in his own right. Uncle Eddie took this gift to another level – he had a televised mega-church before there was even a name for it.

He became the pastor of Macedonia the year before I was born and finally agreed to retire after 50 years. I often challenged him during those last few years leading up to his retirement because he was seemingly determined to die in the pulpit preaching. I can remember two strokes that occurred in the midst of separate sermons. When we’d talk afterward, he said, “It wasn’t that serious, it was just a TIA.” I was so scared, yet I also knew that being the pastor of Macedonia was his life. He pastored that same church for 50 years, leading a congregation with unwavering commitment. He was a unicorn. I often teased him that God definitely broke the mold when He created him – he led a congregation to paying off a more-than-million-dollar mortgage in less than two years.

 

And for all his strength, for all his faith, he knew loss, too. He and Aunt Ver went their separate ways after a very nasty divorce, further complicated by the societal expectations of a pastor and first lady. Yet, with grace – please remember… we can’t skip steps. Also, human relationships can be extremely complicated – long story short – there was a huge rupture in his relationships with all five of his children. Everything about their connections was tested, almost to the brink of destruction (a reality that would happen several times over the years). Later he and Auntie Martha married and I was livid … In retrospect because I was holding on to other people’s perspectives and opinions of what should be, yet wasn’t. As a result, there were several years where the tension between us was palpable. His new wife’s name was stubbornly and unforgivingly Ms. Martha. I was adamant about the fact that Aunt Ver was the only wife of his that I would ever call “Aunt.” Even through this … he patiently loved me. He made it clear that he didn’t approve of my adult temper tantrum … yet he loved me through it.

Alvy coded and came back … upon his return to this realm he shared his near-death experience and the two of them healed their relationship before he transitioned for good about a year later.

The story was very similar with Sug. For the longest time she refused to tell me what happened during the six minutes when she coded. All I knew was that the unimaginable had happened. She was dead for six minutes with no oxygen to her brain and returned a little slower than before yet able to walk, talk, and think clearly.

Eventually, a few days after Aunt Ver’s funeral we talked and she shared that she remembers laying in the bed knowing that she was in the hospital. On the left side of the bed were her Maternal Grandfather Elijah, Grandma Mattie, and Alvy. I won’t share the specifics but what she said to me was that what she knew for sure was that none of the hurt, unforgiveness, or resentments she’d been carrying for so long mattered. None of it. The only thing that matters is love. Upon her return her relationship with Uncle Eddie and subsequently Auntie Martha healed. A couple of weeks after she shared the experience with me she transitioned for good with all of us around her.

The suffocating presence of grief. The weight of responsibility. The burden of being superhuman to so many – yet disappointingly fallible to those who longed for and needed him most, his children – was always a very complicated reality.

As powerful as he was, life, as it often does, came with deep complexities. The church was seemingly always his priority. His focus. His calling. And that meant most times, the people closest to him felt the distance and disconnection.

He was a living contradiction. A Baptist minister who greeted everyone with “Namaste,” a Buddhist greeting that means the divinity in me honors the divinity in you.

A Southern Baptist pastor who welcomed brothers from the Nation of Islam every Sunday as security and soul brothers connected in spirit. He even told me that if they’d believed in Jesus, he just may have become a member.  Even as I continued my own spiritual journey of discovery and growth- I never had to hide or be ashamed of my journey. Questions, reflections, and revelations were always welcome.  He challenged me, bothe radically and tenderly-and I know I challenged him!  That’s probably where that whole “Namaste movement” came from.

He was an anointed teacher, a man of God who believed in meeting people where they were, not where the world said they should be. And above all else, he was my person. The one I called at four in the morning. The one who baptized me. The one who stepped in when my father and I were estranged and continually reminded me of the man he knew him to be – and in so doing, allowed me to leave the door open enough to let him back in when my boys were two and three. He was the one who walked me through my hardest moments – including my father’s (his friend’s) passing. Even at 51 he introduced me as Nikki Poo in public – a nickname I rolled my eyes at, a name that used to embarrass me, until it was gone. Now, I long to hear it just one more time.

He held space for everyone — the saints, the skeptics, and the searching — and somehow, he always found a way to meet each of us right where we were. But what happens when the one who’s always there … isn’t?