A few months ago, I received one of those letters folks like me who live in the public eye dread. It came couched in terms of “constructive criticism”, but was quite the opposite. The author attempted to deconstruct everything about me, including my motives for leading worship, writing music, and specifically my joy in public worship.
Usually when people did this in the past (because there’s something about joy that always ticks bitter people off), I batted it away with King David’s response to similar criticism: “I will be even more undignified than this!” In fact, 2 Samuel 6:22 should really be my “life verse” with as many times as I’ve turned to it.
But this time, something was different. The critic’s arguments were the same old thing, nothing new, but they were getting to me. Maybe it’s from a weariness about fighting the same wars over and over again, just in a new place. Or worse, maybe my age now was making me weary of “being weary”. Whatever the case, I’ve noticed it took something from me that I never let myself lose before.
What I lost was my joy – I let it steal my joy of worship. Which ironically was the very thing that makes my critics mad in the first place. And when your whole personality is grounded in your sense of whimsy and wonder, losing the ability to laugh is life-altering.
I’ve noticed that holding onto your joy gets tougher as you age. Cynicism is always waiting to pounce, to tell you “I’ve seen all this before”. You roll your eyes at the enthusiasm of the young, telling yourself “they’ll grow out of it”. Which is exactly what my critic told me, oddly enough at my age. They predicted that just a few more years and I would join them in embracing benign resignation over a rowdy revival.
The scary part is it almost worked this time. Funny how the years can wear you down and make you susceptible to a lie you were too smart for when you were younger. We think we get wiser as we age, but some of us have only gotten weary and mistook that for wisdom. We get arrogant about our experience, believing as my critic did that the years have enlightened them.
But sometimes the years merely erode our resistance to spiritual atrophy. Passage of time helps us forget those days we were hidden in the cleft of the rock and the presence of the Almighty passed by. We tell ourselves we’ve seen it all, but really we have actually just forgotten the wonders we have seen. We are “at ease in Zion” with our unbreakable hearts of stone, thinking we are now so spiritual.
But like a couple sleeping in separate beds, the intimacy has gone out of our romance with God. Now when we see a young lover chasing after Him, we’re jealous for a passion we once had. So we call into question the fidelity of their love. We are bitter and old, maybe not physically but definitely spiritually.
I see this now and am ashamed I’ve let it fester in me for the past several months. I’m ashamed I let someone use this worn-out attack on me and finally be successful now. But I’m determined with every ounce of strength, and whimsy, and wonder I have left not to let it steal my joy anymore. I shall indeed “rage against the dying of the light”, since that Light is the thing most valuable to me.
In short, I’m refusing to get spiritually “old”. And you’ll excuse me while I attempt to be eloquent for a moment. Guess I’m just showing off, as usual…
Old is not an age, but I’ve seen its withered face and know it all too well.
I’ve seen it holding onto bitterness and anger so long that they convince you every smile around you is really a smirk.
I’ve seen it resenting the enthusiasm of the young, instead of letting myself experience life anew through their eyes.
I’ve seen it focusing on sifting sands of time running out, instead of on the opportunities I still have time for.
I’ve seen it wallowing in yesterday’s slights and oversights, when a banquet table still stands before me.
I’ve heard these other voices, you who are yelling at me from the sidelines. You say it’s only a matter of time until I curse the dawn the way you do. You say to keep my hands and feet inside the car on this ride, and proceed with care.
Instead, I will throw my hands in the air and lean into the ebb and flow of this crazy ride we’re on.
I defy your sensible shoes and laugh at the pastel colors you demand us to paint with. And I call on you to leave your dimly lit monastery and join me in the sunlight.
Get up and eat, and laugh, and love, and wander off on yet another adventure, my friend, while there is still time. ESPECIALLY in view of what time it is.
BUT let’s refuse to ever give the slightest glance at the clock. Let’s live life so fully, everyone around us will be stunned at our dying…
“What? The old man is gone? How can this be? Is the sun still in the sky? Do the planets still spin a wobbly waltz around its campfire light midst the universe’s midnight blue?”
No, old is not an age, but merely an attitude. No aches or pains can tell you the contrary unless you choose to listen to them. So snuff out all the candles, throw away the cake, and leave the birthday wishes for fools who died years ago and only have yet to discover it.
Better to be Peter Pan, the boy who never grew old, than the Captain Hook whose only joy is despising him. Why live your days running from a ticking clock inside a crocodile?
Not me. I’ll take second star to the right, straight on till morning. For I’m sure that’s where I’ll find my childlike wonder again, held safe by the One who I will always worship with nothing less than joy.
