The Last Sermon

September 15, 2008
The Last Sermon

I arrived at the church 15 minutes late. This was a bad omen for the rest of the afternoon—or so I thought. I had gotten lost, very lost, but I was not without direction. The young attendant seated behind the counter of a gas station on Route 66 had done his best to help guide this out-of-towner, but it was the silver-haired woman walking her two golden retrievers on north Searle Road who offered the best directions.

"You're just turned around," she said, offering a reassuring smile. "Just head the other direction on this road for a few minutes and you'll run right into it."

I sped up the winding road and, just beyond a final bend, noticed a white steeple. Established in 1778, First Congregational Church of Huntington, Massachusetts, is buttressed against a natural backdrop of clustered trees. Nearby, a red farmhouse with white trim stands at the foot of a field of wild grasses.

I parked my rented Hyundai Sonata on the side of the road, took a last swig of coffee, and tossed my map in the back seat. As I walked toward the front of the church and passed one of its large windows, I could hear the congregation singing. I opened a large wooden door at the entrance and walked in.

The auditorium is modest in both size and decor. I counted about 14 pews in total. As the audience sang its joyful noise, I found an open spot in the back row and opened a hymnal to page 31, "All Things Bright and Beautiful."

The church walls are mostly white with gray trim. There is a large white cross behind the pulpit, but overall the chapel is minimally adorned. A back door was open, and a warm breeze rustled the branches and leaves on the trees outside.

I had woken up just before dawn that morning and had driven over three hours from Boston to see the woman at the pulpit. I wanted to wish her a happy 80th birthday and to tell her good luck in her upcoming retirement.

Barbara Paulson was ordained at First Congregational Church on August 1, 1988, fresh off a master of divinity degree from Harvard Divinity School. Twenty years later, she was celebrating her birthday by delivering a final sermon to her congregation.

Months earlier, Amy Porter told me about her mother's story when we met at a career fair in Andover Hall. Porter was on campus to speak to HDS students about Church World Service, an organization that helps provide relief to communities affected by disasters or other hardships, and for which she is associate regional director for New England.

The service Paulson led on that late summer day was informal, but it was not without schedule or structure. She took time to recognize the teachers seated in the congregation. For more than 15 years, Paulson served as an English teacher in Teaneck, New Jersey, and later went on to be a principal for several years.

The offertory hymn, selected by Paulson and performed on trumpet by Mark and Geoffrey Cunningham, two of her grandsons, was Duke Ellington's "Come Sunday." One lyric seemed especially fitting:

Lord, dear Lord above, God almighty, God of love, Please look down and see my people through.

At one point during her short sermon, Paulson began to fight back tears. She clamped her eyes tight and stomped the floor before composing herself and continuing the lesson. She spoke of following one's call, and of facing life—and death—with courage.

"We must love, not hate, even those who hurt us," she said. "I know this is a tough prescription, but this medicine will make us well."

After the service, I walked down to the basement of the old church, where a lunch had been prepared and a line of parishioners was quickly forming. I was standing off to the side when a woman approached me.

"I don't believe I know you," she said, as she extended her hand.

I introduced myself and told her my reason for being in church that morning.

"How wonderful," she said. "Well, you should jump in line and get something to eat."

So I did. I made myself a plate of deviled eggs, green olives, vegetable quiche, some kind of pastry with eggplant, banana pudding, and coffee. There were three long tables surrounded by metal folding chairs. I took a seat next to a couple who explained that they were married in the church almost exactly 40 years earlier.

Paulson mingled and chatted with churchgoers before sitting down in an empty seat next to me.

"I drove from Boston this morning to see you," I told her. "I'm from Harvard Divinity School."

"Really?" she said. "Well, thank you!"

She picked at her plate of food and sipped her punch, introducing me to each person who approached her. One by one they wished her happy birthday and thanked her for her two decades of service, leadership, prayers, and friendship. Church members called her "a great leader" and "inspiring."

After lunch, Paulson invited me back to her home for a celebration with family and close friends. I got in my car and followed grandson Mark Cunningham along winding roads and across hilly terrain. We pulled up to the Paulson homestead, and he escorted me to the large house, through a side door, and into the open kitchen.

"Make yourself at home," someone said.

The house was already buzzing with people preparing food, laughing and talking, and getting organized for the afternoon.

I looked around the house and noticed what seemed to be countless novelty owls, made of ceramic, glass, fabric, and wood. Mark told me that he has counted over 300 owls in his grandmother's home.

"The wise teacher," as he put it.

I soon found myself sitting next to Paulson on the living room couch. As people peeled vegetables and prepared lunch in the kitchen, I helped Paulson unwrap her birthday presents, which included a bag, a decanter, a necklace with cross, and two books, including The Professor and the Madman and The Road, a Cormack McCarthy novel that she'd already read.

"Have you read it?" she asked me.

"I haven't."

"Here you go." She slid the book over to me.

"That's your birthday present," I said.

"Well, I've read it already."

Several minutes later we began to filter slowly outside to the lawn and the patio. I stood up to follow, leaving the book on the coffee table next to her other presents.

I later asked Paulson about her time at HDS, of which she has fond memories. She loved taking courses across the University and across disciplines. She recalled Peter Gomes and what she called his ability to take a tiny passage of scripture and speak "for an hour on it."

After a career teaching, she was pulled toward ministry and applied to theological graduate schools.

"I didn't think Harvard Divinity School would take me," she said. "I was 56 years old. I applied to other divinity schools, but Harvard was my first choice."

I told her of HDS's increasing focus on ministry.

"Ministry," she said, "is a calling—not a profession."

"The School has two fairly new assistant professors of ministry—Susan Abraham and Matthew Boulton," I explained.

I told her that the Office of Ministry Studies continues to grow in staff. She smiled and seemed excited to hear the news.

I went on to tell her about the new renovation of Rockefeller Hall, including the addition of the new landscaped quadrangle. She told me that, as a student, she lived in Rockefeller for a year and a half.

"It's possible you work on the same floor I once lived," she said.

I took a walk around the backyard and stood under an apple tree. Amy Porter, Paulson's daughter, told me that they used apples from this same tree in apple pies they had recently made. We stood for a moment in silence and stared across the beautiful vista that stretched toward the horizon.

"I'm still so surprised you came," she said.

We walked over to the side of the house and took a seat on the gravel patio. Friends and neighbors began showing up to greet Paulson and to wish her happy birthday.

"How does it feel to be retired?" a man named Leroy asked Paulson.

She leaned back in her lawn chair.

"I'll have to let you know."

—by Jonathan Beasley