When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, "Simon
son of John, do you love me more than these?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord;
you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my sheep." A second
time he said to him, "Simon son of John, do you love me?" He said to him,
"Yes Lord, you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my sheep."
He said to him the third time, "Simon son of John, do you love me?" Peter
felt hurt because he said to him the third time, "Do you love me?" And
he said to him, "Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you."
Jesus said to him, "Feed my sheep. Very truly, I tell you, when you were
younger, you used to fasten your own belt and to go wherever you wished.
But when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else
will fasten a belt around you and take you where you do not wish to go."
Second Reading – Florida Scott Maxwell (age 85)
"The last years may matter most.
I don’t like to write this down, yet it is much in the minds of the old. We wonder how much older we have to become, and what degree of decay we may have to endure. We keep whispering to ourselves, "Is this age yet? How far must I go?" For age can be dreaded more than death. "How many years of vacuity? To what degree of deterioration must I advance?" Some want death now, as release from old age, some say they will accept death willingly, but in a few years. I feel the solemnity of death, and the possibility of some sort of continuity. Death feels like a friend because it will release us from the deterioration of which we cannot see the end. It is waiting for death that wears us down, and the distaste for what we may become.
These thoughts are with us always, and in our hearts we know ignominy as well as dignity. We are people to whom something important is about to happen.
But we also find as we age, we are more alive than seems likely, convenient, or even bearable. Too often our problem is the fervour of life within us. My dear fellow octogenarians, how are we to carry so much life, and what are we to do with it?
When truly old, too frail to use the vigour that pulses in us, and weary, sometimes even scornful of what can seem the pointless activity of mankind, we may sink down to some deeper level and find a new supply of life that amazes us.
All is uncharted and uncertain, we seem to lead the way into the unknown. It can feel as though all our lives we have been caught in absurdly small personalities and circumstances and beliefs. Our accustomed shell cracks here, cracks there, and that tiresomely rigid person we supposed to be ourselves stretches, expands, and with all inhibitions gone, we realize that age is not failure, not disgrace; though mortifying we did not invent it. Age forces us to deal with idleness, emptiness, not being needed, not able to do, helplessness just ahead perhaps. Here we come to a new place of which I knew nothing. We come to where age is boring, further on, go further on, one finds that one has arrived at a larger place still, the place of release. There one says, "Age can seem a debacle, a rout of all one most needs, but that is not the whole truth. What of the part of us, the nameless, boundless part who experienced the rout, the witness who saw so much go, who remains undaunted and knows with clear conviction that there is more to us than age? Part of that which is outside age has been created by age, so there is gain as well as loss. If we have suffered defeat we are somewhere, somehow beyond the battle.
Now that I am sure this freedom is the right garnering of age, I am so busy being old that I dread interruptions. This sense of vigour and spaciousness may cease, and I must enjoy it while it is here.
A long life makes me feel nearer truth."
"I grow old, I grow old, I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled."
So spoke T. S. Eliot in the "Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." The
image is a haunting one; of diminished powers, ridicule and pathos.
To think that this diminishment is now bearing down on those of us who formed the youth culture! The senior minister of this parish, (who was first interviewed by the search committee at the tender age of 32), reached her 50th birthday this summer, and on behalf of the entire Baby Boom population, allow me to apologize for the self-absorption of my generation. We are so fascinated with ourselves, and we exist in such large numbers, that every stage we hit becomes the subject of movies, T.V. shows, anthropological studies and support groups. And we baby boomers are now beginning to show our age.
My summer reading included a book by a New York Times columnist, Bill Guest, called The Big Five Oh (Fearing, Facing and Fighting 50). What an astute observer of my people! He notes our increased irritability. The onset of middle-aged grumpiness can be observed when you:
When Jesus warned his disciples, "When you are old, you shall be carried to where you do not wish to go," he was speaking to every generation that followed. And he was, in some of these last few words he ever spoke to his disciples, trying to speak of something of utmost importance.
There is work to be done now. Important work, essential work. The real challenges of your life are just beginning.
James Hillman, the Jungian psychologist, who I believe is in his early 70’s, has just completed his newest book entitled The Force of Character and the Lasting Life. He has helped me in understanding the particular challenges of old age and aging. He asks, in the most focused and candid manner, "What is to be gained in the journey through old age? What spiritual and personal benefits are bestowed on those with the character and the courage and the good fortune to travel this road?" He also names with unusual force and accuracy, what it is that we fear about getting old. As I list just a few of his observations, allow me to warn you in the immortal words of Bette Davis, "Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night."
Hillman states that "in the United States we hate aging, and hate the old for embodying it." (In ancient times, being old might have meant survival and wisdom, being venerable and respected). It was Shakespeare who, in literature, was one of the first to describe old age as a time of insult and ridicule. And things have not improved since then. Hillman claims that most of our modern ideas of aging are morbid, a disparaging ageism that promises that we will feel depressed, angry and alienated. Old age is portrayed in our culture largely as a time of affliction, handicaps and uselessness; a time of increased pain, sorrow and incapacity; a state of "being stale, worn, agitated and miserable." We are told to fear increased stupidity, forgetfulness and impatience. We are told that we will be "ravaged" by old age, a "victim" of old age: When we focus only on our biological self, our physiology, we can look forward to and see only "dysfunction and decay. slowness and breakdown." And I quote Hillman. "Therefore it is understandable, the fear and the hatred of what is happening in us and to us, the hatred of ourselves, our hearts, our sex, our skin, our bones and our changing souls…When I think of my physiology as my inmost nature, I will be on the watch for my decline from day to day. What keeps me lasting will be those baneful familiars: hypochondria; obsession; anxiety and depression. The scale, the diet, the mirror…..become my fetish companions."
When Hillman decides to paint our worst fear of aging, he does so with a large brush. "Undeniably solitary, poor, nasty, and for too long, we can picture ourselves imprisoned in poverty, set down in a bare nursing home, mad, mute, and smelly, waiting for the end." With that description, is it any wonder that we take vitamins, eat yogurt, go to cosmetic surgeons and do whatever is in our power to keep aging at bay?
If you believe that reaching old age is as bad as Hillman describes it then you could certainly understand some one saying, "Just shoot me in the head" or "put the elderly out of their misery!" But Hillman and many others do not believe this overdrawn, terrible characterization of aging. To the contrary old age, they say, may be the best of times, one of the most important of all developmental stages–a time of tremendous joy and discovery, a privilege, a gift, an opportunity, an adventure!
Hillman asks us to reflect on our positive associations with the word old. "Old friends, Old Master paintings, old gardens, old souls, old texts translated anew by every generation, old favorite comfortable chairs, and old beloved faces." Some people choose not to have cosmetic facial surgery. One woman said, "I want to grow old without face lifts. They take the life out of a face, the character. I want to have the courage to be loyal to the face I’ve made." The woman who said this was Marilyn Monroe.
Hillman traces the word "old" to its Indo-European root, which means "to nourish". What is old is fully nourished, grown up, mature, trustworthy and valuable, containing the deepest sources of human pleasure. The virtues of old age include nobility, mercy, esteem and power. Hillman concludes that old age is a full time job from which you can not retire. Nor would you want to, once you enter into the adventure.
I believe that Hillman, who is quite a bit older than I, gets somewhat carried away with his own convictions. He goes where I am not yet prepared to go; he claims that wrinkles, insomnia, forgetfulness and irritability are character builders which will add depth and insight and toughness to your soul. At least for a while I am content to remain shallow and undeveloped in these areas. But where I believe Hillman is exactly right, is that getting older is a demanding and extraordinarily rewarding time of life. And that all of us, young and old, must work today in order to meet the challenges that will face us in the days and years to come. Old age simply gives us more of who we are now, much more. All of our current fears and weaknesses will become more evident, and all of the strengths and virtues we encourage now will protect and enliven us.
Jesus, is his last instruction to his disciples, offers one of his most remarkable teachings. He addresses Peter, not just as Simon, but as Simon, "son of Jonas", a man who stands in line, from one generation to the next. The question is simple and repeated three times (to Peter’s increasing frustration). "Do you love me?" When Peter says "yes" then Jesus replies immediately, "Feed my sheep. Feed my sheep. Feed my sheep." Take care of all of my children. Nourish them. Provide for one another. Give one another what is lifegiving. Always focus on what is lifegiving and nourishing. Why? Because you will not always be young, caring for yourself and walking where you want to go, and determining how you want to get there. You shall grow old, and then you will need to stretch out your hand and rely on others to give you life–to help you. And you will be carried–where you would not choose to go.
Personally, I would never voluntarily choose old age, with all its attendant diminished physical or mental powers. But at least according to Jesus, the work we do now, the spiritual practices we adopt now, can prepare us for that journey.
My old favorite poet, Rumi, helps me with these questions. He asks God.
What we thought was all loss can open us into new realms of spacious freedom. A few weeks ago a friend and I went on a bike path in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, up the valley of Franconia Notch. After eight miles on the gently upward sloping trail, we reached our goal, a large deserted lake, with at least twelve empty picnic tables. We chose one at random and sat down to have our lunch. Not too many minutes later, we heard someone behind us yell "Hello." We turned to find two women in their late 70’s approaching from a parking lot, hidden behind a hill. They explained as they came towards us that, since we were all alone, they hadn’t wanted to startle us. I thought, "Well, isn’t that thoughtful?" Then they both came directly up to our picnic table, sat down, and each extended her hand in introduction. "Hi, my name is …...!" I was absolutely stunned and awed by their confidence, their direct approach, their apparent complete lack of fear of rejection. They just assumed they would like us and they wanted to chat. I insisted they share some of our copious lunch and they told us that they were both widows who traveled all over the world together and had just returned from Morocco. We talked for 45 minutes. They explained that they didn’t hesitate to approach us because we were cyclists and cyclists are apparently known for their sterling natures world wide. (One of the women had cycled all over Europe with her husband in her 60’s.) My friend and I were pleased to be in the "cyclist club" and did not volunteer that we only rode our bikes three or four times a year, on very undemanding paved bicycle paths. We talked and talked and then the oldest woman picked up my friend’s bicycle helmet and tried it on. Now this was a little much for one of our new friends to do, particularly without asking permission.
It was, indeed, "socially inappropriate." But what magnificent teachers these two women were to me. In my family of origin, I was taught that the worst thing that you could do was to be inappropriate or rude. Sometimes I used to think that robbing a bank would have been more easily forgiven than not addressing someone with the proper deference, title and respect. But what I discovered from these wonderful, fearless and engaging women in their late 70’s was that it’s really not such a big deal to do something inappropriate. Everyone gets over it. But how much harder it is to get over our fear of strangers, our arrogance, our distrust.
They taught me: Go up to the stranger. Sit down. Introduce yourself. Get involved. Find out who you are and who they are before you get carried away. If you have known love, then give love. Now. Before you are carried away.
What does James Hillman have to offer others now that he is an old man? He describes himself as "unpredictable; smiling; snapping; happy, grouchy and grumpy, all seven dwarves"…he continues…"a religious believer might say that this multitude of moods foreshadows another world where all is welcome."
When Carl Jung was well into his eighties, he wrote on the last page of his autobiography:
When Lao-Tzu says "All are clear, I alone am clouded," he is expressing what I now feel in advanced old age…Yet there is so much that fills me: plants, animals, clouds, day and night, and the eternal in man. The more uncertain I have felt about myself, the more there has grown up in me a feeling of kinship with all things."