Old Age And Death

Now that I am seventy years old and life is swiftly moving toward its close, I can say without hesitation that discovering the unselfishness of God has transformed the way I feel about both old age and death. Knowing — utterly and securely — that God is , and that God is enough , makes old age a joy in the present and death a delicious prospect for the future.

Without Him, old age — with its diminishing strength and frequent infirmities — could only be dreary and exhausting. But with God, our beautiful, unselfish God, behind it all, old age becomes a gentle resting place. Reaching seventy gives me permission to step aside from the pressures of life, to put down the burden of keeping the world running, and I gladly accept that release.

I did my part to carry the responsibilities of my own generation, and now that it has nearly passed away, I rejoice that the weight of today’s world rests, not on me, but on younger and stronger shoulders — those whom God has called to their own appointed work. I laugh to myself with real pleasure at the thought, and I even enjoy the infirmities of age as they arrive. Each one frees me from some task or duty and allows me the peaceful leisure to watch the younger wrestlers in the world’s arena. I may not always think they wrestle in the best way, judging with my old eyes, but I admire the divine order that assigns to each generation its own work, to be done in its own way. Whether it seems wise or foolish to us, the passing generation must make room for the rising one, and must refrain from interfering.

We older people may offer advice and share the fruits of our experience, but we must hold ourselves completely content when our advice is ignored. If we did this — truly did it — I am convinced the young would gladly seek our counsel far more often. But they hesitate because they fear that asking for advice obliges them to follow it, and that we will feel wounded if they do not. True freedom in seeking guidance can only exist alongside true freedom not to take it.

I am not speaking of children, but of adults in two different generations. And in general, when the older insist that their advice must be followed, they put themselves in the unfortunate position of obstructing the world’s progress. In almost every field today, businesses employ younger and younger workers because older ones tend to settle into ruts and resist being urged out of them. It is striking, in this regard, that by divine command the Israelites retired from public service at the age of fifty —whether in the Tabernacle or the army. “From the age of fifty years they shall cease their service… and serve no more.” If they step ped back at fifty, then at seventy I am surely free to withdraw from the world’s work and enjoy the blissful sense of release from responsibility that belongs to old age.

We often hear about the duty the young owe to the old. But I believe it is far more important for us to consider the duty the old owe to the young. I do not mean that the young owe us nothing; but at seventy, I see clearly that the greater burden lies on our side. We brought the younger generation into the world without consulting them. Therefore we are obligated to pour ourselves out for their good — just as God, who created us, has poured Himself out for ours through the sacrifice of Christ. I cannot see how God could have done less, and I cannot see how we should do less either.

Having discovered the unselfishness of God — as everyone who reaches seventy ought to have done — our attitude toward others should reflect, in our measure, the same unselfishness. Surely this is what Jesus meant when He urged us to love our enemies, bless those who curse us, and do good to those who hate us, so that we might be “children of our Father in Heaven,” who does exactly these things. And Jesus ends with, “Be perfect, therefore, as your Father in Heaven is perfect.” Our perfection is the perfection of unselfish love. The older we are, the more deeply we should understand this and live it.

Everything is safe when guided and controlled by unselfish love. And so my old heart rests quietly. I can lay down my arms with joyful confidence. Since God is in His Heaven, all must ultimately be right with His world, whatever appearances may suggest. I can peacefully wait to understand what now seems mysterious until that glorious day of revelation that draws closer with every hour.

One of my most comforting discoveries is that God can manage His universe by Himself, even without my assistance. Whenever I look at the sun, the moon, or the stars —“the work of His fingers”— I feel the deep satisfaction of knowing they are His responsibility, not mine. Because of this, I can gladly die and leave the whole universe in His care, without the slightest fear that things will fall apart when I depart. God is the housekeeper of His own creation. Just as it would be foolish for me to trouble myself about the housekeeping of my neighbors in Grosvenor Road, it is even more foolish to worry about God’s housekeeping. So with a quiet mind I look forward to death. The thought of leaving this life and entering the larger, grander life beyond is pure joy.

It feels like standing on the threshold of a new country full of unknown wonders — and knowing that nothing and no one can prevent me from going there fills my heart with secret, continual delight.

Often, when some pleasant earthly plan is spoiled, I say to myself with triumph, “Well, there is one thing I will never be disappointed about — and that is dying. No one, not even an enemy, can take that from me.” Whenever I see a funeral, I laugh inwardly at the renewed realization that such a happy future awaits every one of us. I hardly dare write condolence letters anymore, for they almost always turn into letters of congratulation at the blessed escape of another soul from this earthly prison-house.

In the organizations to which I belong, my companions never dare ask me to lead a memorial service, lest I b e tempted to give thanks for the departed person’s release. Even when someone I dearly love dies, I can rejoice. It seems to me nothing but selfishness to let my own loss overshadow their immeasurable gain.

I love Walt Whitman’s incomparable death song, an d I always long to send it to every dying friend: “Joy, shipmate, joy… Our life is closed, our life begins…” This passing life, with all its affairs — once so important — shrinks into insignificance when set beside the life beyond. I am glad to be almost finished with it. Its pull upon me is gone. I, who once craved every new place and every new experience, now care for them no longer. I feel a deep, satisfying sense of being done with this earth. Every place looks the same to me; every experience feels tame compared to what lies ahead.

What that life will be, I can only imagine vaguely. I feel like a butterfly preparing to slip out of its cocoon, longing for the life outside but with no experience to tell me what that life will be like. Yet I believe with all m y heart the Apostle’s words: “Eye has not seen, ear has not heard, nor has it entered into the heart of man, what God has prepared for those who love Him.” What more glorious prospect could the soul desire?

I remember the joy I once felt at the thought of exploring the unknown wonders of Yellowstone Park and the Hoodoo Mountains of Wyoming — a joy heightened precisely because they were unknown and seemed full of possibility. But that joy is nothing compared to what I feel now, looking toward the things God has prepared that have not even entered my imagination.

The one thing I know for certain is this: the prayer of Jesus will be fulfilled — “Father, I will that they whom You have given Me be with Me where I am, that they may behold My glory.” That glory is not blinding light or dazzling gold, but the glory of unselfish love, the greatest glory there is. I have had faint glimpses of it here, and even those glimpses have ravished my heart.

But there I will see Him as He is, in the full splendor of an infinite unselfishness no human mind has ever conceived — and I await that moment with joy.

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