In a vote for “Senior Superlatives” among his 36 classmates at Concordia Prep, Paul Marshall won in several categories. The yearbook staff, however, limited the Superlative distinction to one per student, and Paul chose to be recognized for his wit, which was boundless. He was also the editor-in-chief of The Prepster, our student paper, because he was the best writer. He was the best musician, playing the organ in our twice-daily chapel services, and sousaphone in the school band. He even taught sophomore biology when the teacher was sick for a few weeks.

Once in a science class, a teacher asked Paul to describe a natural law. His response was, “Matter can be neither created nor destroyed. It can only be eaten.”

Concordia Prep was a Lutheran seminary for high school boys and an academic correctional facility for lousy students like me. In his autobiography, AJ Ontko said I would have been voted Least Likely to Achieve, had that been an option. Yet, after an academically and socially miserable year as a sophomore, Paul recruited me to be his roommate for the following year, and we stayed together until we graduated. During that whole time, my life improved in every way, thanks in large measure to Paul.

Take music. Paul taught me volumes about Bach, Purcell, Händel, and other composers, such as Peter Schickele (P.D.Q. Bach) and Tom Lehrer. He tutored through performance, which involved runs by train to New York City. One especially memorable trip involved Clarke & Purcell’s Trumpet Voluntary, performed on the massive pipe trumpets in the Cathedral of St. John the Devine. (A sample.)

Paul also taught me to believe in myself. From a post a couple of months back:

I remember a day when a bunch of us were hanging in our dorm room, talking about SAT scores. Mine was the lowest of the bunch. (If you must know, the total was 1001: a 482 in verbal and a 519 in math. Those numbers will remain burned in my brain until I die.) Others, including Paul, had scores that verged on perfection—or so I recall. (Whatever, they were all better than mine.). But Paul defended me from potential accusations of relative stupidity by saying this: “But David has insight.” (I wasn’t Doc yet.) Then he gave examples, which I’ve forgotten. By saying I had insight, Paul kindly and forever removed another obstacle from my path forward in life. From that moment on, insight became my stock in trade. Is it measurable? Thankfully, no.

After high school, Paul went on to distinguished careers as a liturgical historian, a parish pastor, a professor at the Yale Divinity School, Bishop of the Episcopal Church’s Bethlehem Diocese in Pennsylvania, and an activist for progressive causes (notably in his church). Among other things. Our contacts through all of that were infrequent but always interesting and fun.

Of no importance but some interest is a moment we shared walking on a New York street at night with our young sons. One of the boys, looking at the moon, asked if was full. In unison and without thinking, Paul and I both replied, “No, it’s empty.”

In a likewise manner, we agreed to speak at each others’ funerals. Alas, we both missed that chance. Paul died of cancer on October 21, and his funeral was last Friday when I was in France.

Here is the Church’s obituary. Paul was 77, four days older than me.

My joke about mortality is that I know I’m in line for the exit, but I let others cut in. I wish Paul hadn’t.

Requiescat in pace, old friend. And forgive me for putting off our next meeting.