If you knew my brother Henry, it wouldn’t surprise you to learn that not only did he write his own obituary, but he also designed the entire memorial service that was held last Saturday, including music, and he wrote the sermon. He asked that the sermon be given by his original pastor in Chattanooga, Joe Martin, who has since moved on to a church in Charlotte, NC. He gave the pastor permission to ad lib or edit as appropriate. Part of what Joe added was this:

“I presume that it is no surprise that the scientist/poet/architect/inventor/salsa chef/engineer/choir member/philosopher/Renaissance Man, Henry Paris, was the most theologically educated Presbyterian Elder with whom I ever worked well before he entered seminary. I really enjoyed all of the deep philosophical and literary discussions we had when staying here overnight with Family Promise; the long phone calls from the gulf coast to discuss the nature, health, and calling of the Presbyterian Church; and sitting around one of Terry’s meals, the longer debates on politics or culture or anything else in the world—that I never won. I wonder how God is faring in those debates right now. Probably just fine. But I bet you that Henry is giving the Apostle Paul a run for his money. A fair definition of ‘eternity’ might be waiting for Henry or Paul to let the other one finally have the last word.”

Henry got a BS and Master’s in physics and a PhD in chemical engineering from Georgia Tech. Then he did a two-year post-doc at Carnegie-Mellon University in Pittsburgh. After that he worked at various labs around the country before finally ending up at a manufacturing company in Chattanooga. And then, as Joe put it:

“When a preacher preaches a sermon, he or she hopes something will happen—that the words will matter. They usually do not have the desired impact in my experience. I remember one I preached here in which I recounted the dramatic life-changing spiritual experience I had on a Presbytery mission trip to the Mississippi Gulf Coast 6 weeks after hurricane Katrina. I was so moved by my experience that I was very close to leaving Chattanooga to move down there, but I was not bold enough to change my life that much. I at least wanted to energize the great folks at Northside (Presbyterian Church) to mobilize in mission with my descriptions of the disaster and stories about all the people down there making extraordinary commitments to help. It may have been the only sermon I ever have preached that made a real difference in the world because Henry went on the next mission trip there and then at age 60 he made a career change to work there with PDA (Presbyterian Disaster Assistance) fulltime.”

After Henry left Mississippi, he entered Union Presbyterian Seminary in Virginia. In 2012 he walked arm-in-arm with Joe to become an ordained minister while Joe got his doctorate from the same school.

When Henry came back to Chattanooga, he became a supply minister for a church in Soddy Daisy, TN, and then the minister for a very small church in Spring City, TN. I am proud to say that the small congregation was a part of a church that had split over issues around sexual orientation, and that it was the right part of that splintering. Henry also was director of homeless outreach for another church in Chattanooga.

I have spent most of my life following Henry, never quite catching up. He got his PhD first. His record in scientific achievement was something I could never match. He did work that he could not report in the open literature, but for which other scientists who did it later actually received a Nobel prize. He was always a better runner than me, too. In the end, he went where I could never choose to go. He was a Christian and I am an atheist. He lived up to the teachings of Jesus as stated in the New Testament. He fed the hungry, he gave water to the thirsty, he gave clothing to the naked, he helped take care of the sick, and he welcomed strangers. But I believe he would have done these things even if he didn’t believe in any god. He was a much better person than I am, and I cannot reconcile his life with his death.

They say there are five stages of grief, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I have never really quite believed that, but I think I can now understand what “they” mean by denial, or at least what they should have meant. I do not deny that Henry died, but I can’t internalize it. I understand in an intellectual way, but when I approach the fact of his death, I just can’t get there emotionally.

Anger? No. No anger. There is no one and nothing to be angry at. You can’t be angry at cancer. It’s not fair to be angry at the doctors, and I am certainly not angry at Henry. Bargaining? Ridiculous. Depression? Maybe. Acceptance? Some day.

I had asked Henry to write his biography before he died so that his sons and any grandchildren he might have can know something about him, but he didn’t have time. Not long before he died I told him that since he didn’t, I would have to. He managed to say, “That’s your problem.” At that stage of his illness, I think that was all he could manage to say.

So, as the sole survivor of this Paris family, I have to write Henry’s biography. I don’t remember things as well as he would, but now there’s no one to dispute anything I write.

Henry’s plan for the memorial service had two hymns and a song by Bob Marley. Of course Henry wanted a song by Bob Marley played at his memorial service. It was “No Woman No Cry.”

“Mingle with the good people we meet …

Good friends we have, Oh,

Good friends we have lost along the way…

In this great future you can’t forget your past.

So dry your tears, I say …

No woman, no cry …

A little darlin’, don’t shed no tears.”

I’ll try, Henry.