East of Eden: The Last Sermon

East of Eden: The Last Sermon

I. Bedside – Gospel

She sat by his bedside—

hospice light low, steady,

the quiet sliced only

by distant wheels and machines.

Psalms folded tight in her fingers.\

He, the old priest,

skin thin as brittle parchment,

eyes flickering like candle flames.

They read Psalm 23—

verse by quiet verse—

soft as a prayer.\

“I trained in Oxford,

ordained in Durham,

used to preach fire,

used to preach hell,” he said.

“But it’s the tears I remember.

The woman in the fourth pew—

sobbing,

her son gone—

and I left the pulpit.

Kneeling beside her,

I had no words.”

She nodded,

words stuck in her throat—

some things can’t be preached,

too sharp for sermons,

too raw for tidy theology.

She said, newly ordained,

black shirt crisp,

“First sermon tomorrow.

Nervous.”

He said,

“Preach Christ—

not the polished idea,

but Christ with muddy feet,

scarred hands,

the smell of fish and grief.”

Then added,

“As Francis said—be the gospel.

Don’t use words.”

She’d learned it wasn’t

quite like that,

an urban legend,

yet maybe,

after all,

it was.

He sang,

low and off-key—

a Wesley hymn,

“Happy if with my latest breath

I can but gasp his name,

preach him to all,

and cry in death—

behold,

behold the Lamb.”

She thought—

ministry is awkward,

and holy

a place where hope and fragility

sit side by side.

The IV clicked.

Outside,

spring fought winter’s hold.

II. A Pot of Tea – Change

A week later,

tea between them,

her hands wrapped ‘round the cup,

his hands fragile as dry leaves.

“I was ordained when belief was solid,

when churches filled pews,

and Billy Graham packed stadiums—

we didn’t know what to do

with all those people coming.”

She looked up:

“Now, maybe twenty at best.

I’m the youngest by miles.

But there’s a church downtown—

full, vibrant.”

Since moving into the vicarage

she’d sneak down Sunday evenings—

blend in,

hands lifted.

“The cathedral?”

“No—an HTB church.”

“What’s that?”

“Alpha courses, guitars,

and vicars without collars.”

“Not my scene,

but God bless them.

Don’t think you’re second-class.

You have a collar and a call.

God will lead you.”

She said,

“I’m learning to keep the faith,

to say the office each day,

to be ready to shift—

to change,

to face suffering,

and still follow.”

He nodded slow,

“Good.

The Church’s not a museum—

it’s bruised flesh,

still breathing.”

III. Garden – The Last Anointing

In the garden,

before his passing

daffodils bowed under cold spring sun.

She wheeled him out,

the nurse stepping back,

a tear carving a quiet line.

She took the oil—

cold, thick—

pressed it to his worn hands—

hands that fed and blessed,

carried pain,

prayed through nights.

She shared a poem,

reading from her phone:

‘East of Eden

we walk bruised and broken,

bearing scars like the first garden—

exiled, but not without hope.’

He closed his eyes—

a breath like prayer.

Then, shaking,

he reached to bless her—

ancient words steady,

carrying years and grace:

‘The Lord bless you and keep you;

The Lord make His face to shine upon you,

and be gracious unto you;

The Lord lift up His countenance upon you,

and give you peace.”

She held his hand—

steady,

real,

no gloss,

just holy.

Her parents remembered him—

the old priest who married them.

Ten years ago,

she’d asked him,

nudged by a whisper,

“So, what’s it like to be a vicar?”

And he’d said,

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The nurse wiped a tear—

a thin place,

where heaven touched earth,

where blessing passed

between broken hands

and willing hearts.

- Rev’d Jon Swales