Celebrating Uncle Bill
My great-uncle Bill Collister suffered a hemorrhagic stroke in his sleep over Easter weekend, and after a short stay in the hospital, he died. I traveled to Montgomery this past week to attend his funeral. I know funeral is the normal term for such an event, but during the service a number of those who spoke took care to emphasize that our gathering was better described as a celebration of life. By the close of the day, I had to agree.
The service began with a rather long, quiet pause. A pianist had been playing softly prior to the service, but she had long since stopped. At first, I didn’t notice. I had arrived just before the service began, and I was gazing downward at the program and gathering my thoughts. Minutes passed, and eventually I noticed that the sanctuary was silent and still.
I looked up to see why no one was speaking, and quickly understood. Earlier in the week I had learned from Bill’s obituary that he served in the Air Weather Service during the Korean War. His casket had been draped with an American flag, and now two airmen were methodically folding it into the familiar, tightly wrapped triangle that is presented to the families of veterans. They gave the folded flag to my great-aunt Ann, and quietly thanked her for Bill’s service. I was moved by the formality and solemnness of the ceremony. Bill had devoted a few years of his life to the service of our country, and in return we had all spent a few moments in silence to reflect on it.
My father, Larry Wimberly, next approached the podium. He began by acknowledging the beauty and importance of the presentation of the flag. He spoke briefly and fondly of Bill, and then prayed to open the service. Dad is a Baptist minister, and he was my pastor for the first half of my life. When he prays aloud, the soothing tone and measured cadence of his voice take me back to my earliest memories of corporate worship. I feel at home whenever I hear it. The service was off to a good start.
My cousin, Mike Watson, spoke next. Mike is a bishop in the Methodist church, and his words were warm, polished and funny. Our family is large, and he made some effort to explain how we are all related to each other. As usual, there was some friendly joking about the longstanding denominational rift in the family. Some of us are Baptists, and others are Methodists. As vocational ministers from the two traditions, Dad and Mike tend to draw extra attention to the fact. The service was held in the Baptist church Bill attended, so Mike made much of that. Bill had joined our extended family long ago by marrying Ann Watson, my great-aunt, so Mike observed that like a good Baptist, Bill had immersed himself in the Watson family. Mike’s words drew smiles and laughter, but of course, none of us really cares who is a Methodist and who is a Baptist. We’re all one family.
Mike concluded his remarks, and then a man I didn’t know stood up and began to sing. He was a black man with a kind face, and I noted his name in the program: Michael Jones. Mr. Jones seemed so comfortable, and sang so beautifully, that I wondered if he might be a paid, professional soloist. I reflected on the history of Montgomery, the first Capital of the Confederacy. This same Montgomery had been the destination of the historic Selma marches, and the home of Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King. In Montgomery, blacks and whites once did not worship together. They did not even drink from the same water fountains. But here Mr. Jones stood, leading us all in worship on a Thursday afternoon. I smiled to myself. Montgomery, I thought, you’ve come a long way.
Another man I did not know approached the podium next. I noted his name in the program as well: Pastor Young Lee. He was Asian, and I could tell that English was his second language. I strained to understand some of what he said, but still, my heart was warmed by all of it. His face was bright and joyful, and at times he seemed moved almost to tears. Pastor Lee spoke passionately about Bill. He told us that Bill had once given his twin sons tickets to the state fair. Bill had brought his family turkey at Thanksgiving, and chocolate at Christmas. He alluded to Bill’s military service, and specifically that he had served in the Korean war. He said, I served too, in the Gulf War. We are veterans! He spoke even more passionately about the gospel, and the hope that is ours in Christ.
As the day went on, I learned more about Pastor Lee. He is Korean, and he leads the Korean church that meets in their church building alongside the English-speaking congregation. He had come to know Bill after he began joining their Korean fellowship for their worship services. Bill had even learned enough basic Korean to participate. Ann later told me that Bill and Pastor Lee had been so close that she felt he should be a part of the service. She had invited him to speak having no idea what he might share. It moved me to think of the friendship forged by these two men who might once have opposed one another in war. And with that, words from scripture echoed loudly in my mind:
There is neither Jew nor Greek.1
My uncle, Garry Wimberly, took the podium next. He began by expressing his disdain for public speaking, and then proceeded to relate a string of delightful and hilarious memories of our uncle Bill. Bill was a strong, tough man who loved to roughhouse, as Garry affirmed. He fondly described his first memories of Bill at the tender age of six: We thought he was the king of the sea. He was the fastest swimmer we had ever seen. He was also the uncle that would throw us up and swing us around, and pinch our ears and bend our thumbs back, and we loved it all. Ann used to say, ‘Bill, don’t do that. It’s gonna hurt ’em!’ And we said, ‘No, it’s ok.’
Garry told many stories of Bill that we could all relate to. He concluded his remarks, and then Mr. Jones stood up to sing again. But this time, before singing, he began to speak. It seemed unplanned and unscripted to me, as though he could not resist adding his own memories of Bill to those Garry had just shared. I learned that Mr. Jones was not merely a soloist, but also a member of the church Bill attended. He participated in Bill’s service not only because of his talent, but also because he was Bill’s friend. He took a folded piece of paper from a music stand and waved it in the air. Every week, he told us, Bill would print out all the comic strips from the newspaper and fold them up just like this. He gave them to me in an envelope each Sunday. It was my weekly supply of humor.
Bill missed Easter Sunday because of his stroke, and when Mr. Jones learned what had happened, he printed out the comics from the past week and took them to Bill in the hospital, folded neatly in an envelope just as Bill had done for him. Montgomery had come far indeed, and words from scripture again filled my mind:
There is neither slave nor free.2
The service went on, and my thoughts turned to my great-aunt Ann and her marriage to Bill. They were married for sixty-four years, and raised two wonderful children, Keith and Sharon. When I was a little child, they would often visit us in the summer, and I adored them both. I reflected on the beautiful dynamics of a Christian marriage, in which both partners submit to one another out of reverence for Christ, and the ugly way such a marriage is often mischaracterized.3 Bill was quite strong, as Garry had attested, but to suggest that he dominated Ann would amuse anyone who ever knew them. To say that he supported Ann’s work outside the home would be something of an understatement.
I don’t know of a stronger, more successful woman than Ann. She was born the baby daughter of a poor farmer in rural Alabama, and never attended college. Instead, she took a job as the receptionist for a local radio station, and eventually became president of the company. After an illustrious career spanning six decades, she was recognized as a trailblazer for women working in male-dominated roles and inducted into the ABA Hall of Fame in 2014.4 She continues her work in broadcasting to this day. I looked at Ann, seated there in the front row listening as others told their stories of Bill’s kindness, humor, faith and generosity. One minister mentioned that Bill prepared breakfast for Ann each morning. And again I heard the words of scripture in my mind:
There is no male and female.5
The service concluded, and our family proceeded to the graveside ceremony. Mr. Jones and his wife joined us there, and again he sang beautifully. As we all caught up afterwards, I made my way over to him to tell him how much I had enjoyed his singing and appreciated the things he had shared during the service. He asked me how I was related to Bill. Some nearby cousins and I attempted to explain a few branches of our elaborate family tree. We first had to review some details with each other, to make sure we understood it all ourselves, but Mr. Jones seemed genuinely interested. Once we had it all sorted out, he commented, Your family seems a lot like mine - so big and loving and interconnected. Like my great-aunt Ann, he also had many siblings who had remained close through the years.
A bit later, Bishop Mike raised his voice to call attention to himself and to Mr. Jones, who now stood beside him. With his arm around the gifted singer, he proudly exclaimed, I’ve discovered the truth about Michael! We all fell silent and turned to look. After a pregnant pause Mike concluded, He was raised Methodist! This brought roars of laughter, and a few more jabs from the Baptists. But of course, none of us really cared whether Mr. Jones was a Baptist or a Methodist. We simply regarded him as a member of our family.
He had already said as much himself, when he spoke of Bill during the service. The blessed part about all of this, he had said, is that we will see him again. So, today, we don’t have to grieve as those who have no hope. We will see him at that great family reunion again. So be blessed. None of us wondered what he meant when he said it. We knew exactly which family he was referring to. It’s a family that isn’t reckoned as a man thinks, but instead, as God thinks, for our great God sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the LORD looks on the heart.6
The family Mr. Jones spoke of shares a bond that is stronger than any marriage or kinship, and deeper than any shade of skin. It is big and loving and interconnected indeed. For as Paul has said, if you are Christ's, then you are Abraham’s offspring, heirs according to promise.7 This means, he writes elsewhere, that it is not the children of the flesh who are the children of God, but the children of the promise are counted as offspring.8
My great-uncle Bill rests in that promise. Mr. Jones rests in it, and I do as well. Today, we may all drink from the same fountain indeed. But better still, it is a fountain of living water. It has been freely offered to us by the Lord Jesus himself. Whoever drinks of the water that I will give him, he has promised, will never be thirsty again. The water that I will give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.9
There is so much anger and strife in our world today, and of course, these aren’t new. So many would still draw up lines to divide us, pitting race against race, color against color, nation against nation, man against woman. But on a sunny day in Montgomery, Alabama, none of that seemed to matter at all. I could find no enmity between an American and a Korean, or a black man and a white man, or a husband and a wife. There was only joy, and warm fellowship, and love. I felt thankful that I had made the trip, but even more thankful for the One who leads us all into perfect unity. It is in him alone that we may declare:
There is neither Jew nor Greek,
there is neither slave nor free,
there is no male and female,
for you are all one in Christ Jesus.10
My uncle Bill’s funeral was a celebration indeed. It was, of course, a celebration of Bill’s life. But even more so, we gathered to celebrate the Author of life, who makes all things new.11, 12
In light of that, the tears I shed there were mostly tears of joy.