Presbyterian minister Frederick Buechner writes: “The place God calls you to is where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”

Where is God inviting me to greater meaning and joy?

Where is God inviting me to join Him as He makes all things new?

While the burning passion of my inner-most being is to join with others in radical, countercultural nonviolent subversive expressions of cruciform love and divine shalom, all around me are age-peers who, though once fervent for Jesus, now seem to desire only to either die leaving a “legacy,” or retreat into restful oblivion. Like fat old men slurping cheap beer at the VFW reminiscing of by-gone (and often fictitious) glory — men who fire off blanks at funerals, fold flags, and pin medals on each other — many of the radical Jesus freaks of old appear content to fade away into heaven. Nothing dramatic, nothing newsworthy, just the slow hiss of deflation like an inflatable snowman leaking air. 

Certainly, as we age, health issues arise, energy levels drop, and ministries shift. But equally, wisdom surges, spiritual depth escalates, relationships settle, quiet confidence (in an area or two) develops, and priorities come into sharp focus. I’ve been with many a man on his deathbed and have yet to hear one lament that he spent too much time with his family or wasted time in too much prayer. One reason for the wisdom and empathy of seniors is that they have suffered. 

That we live in a youth oriented culture is not news to anyone. Everything is geared to the young and vibrant. Millennials scoff at Boomers. Those who lived through the Great Depression and World War II are warehoused in nursing homes by their Boomer children who have voted into power the very fascism their parents fought against. Once radical, now aging, Jesus Freaks champion reactionary totalitarian despots preaching white supremacy and nationalistic jingoism. 

All of this I reject adamantly. In whatever time I have left, and with whatever level of energy I may have, I vow to flame out for Jesus. Pedal to the metal. Sprint to the finish. Leave it all on the field. Sip your beer with the fat guys if you want, I’m jumping in the trenches. Will it cost me my life? Hopefully.