Faith Works 7-14-18

Faith Works 7-14-18

Jeff Gill

 

"Why am I still here?"

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If you are going to call yourself a minister, if you serve in any pastoral care role, you are going to find yourself doing theology, whether you call it that or not.

 

I said a couple of weeks ago I wanted to talk more this summer about "what is aging for?" What does God intend for us to do with these years when mobility is limited, our physical skills may be less, and even our mental acuity is sharper in some ways, but a blunt instrument in others?

 

And I think often about this because beyond a shadow of a doubt, the most common theological discussion I've had in the last ten years has been in response to bedfast elderly people asking me, in exactly these words, more or less: why am I still here?

 

Sometimes I hear this asked anxiously, more often it's said very matter-of-factly, sometimes even with a smile and a twinkle in the eye . . . but still quite seriously said. It's really more of a statement of frustration than a question, but I've found that taking the question it is seriously is the best way for us to deal with the impatience and irritation and even sorrow that's behind those words.

 

"Why am I still here?"

 

You can go in a more philosophical direction if you want: it's the ultimate existential question. And that's part of my answer to the centenarians and nonagerians who ask me that: we can, and should, all ask ourselves that question. We have lots of ways of evading the question when we're younger and more active and mobile, but age and immobility take those screens away. The question is much more immediate, and you're forced to reflect more directly, on trying to understand why you are here.

 

Sometimes, we go on to talking about why you've been here. Trust me, elderly people are MUCH less uncomfortable talking about the imminence of death than the young are. Maybe even too comfortable at times! But they know there are more days behind them than before, and it's a worthy exercise to reflect on what they did or didn't make sense of about their years as a spouse, a sibling, a parent, a friend. What their work did or did not add to their lives; how their favorite activities were part of that meaning making that they only saw as amusement then, but see a purpose now.

 

Church and faith and those who have, as we say, "gone on before" are part of those holy conversations. And then back to the present, and the current conundrum: "why am I still here?"

 

Which I believe is always a good question, and like most good questions, there's a value to simply taking it seriously and wrestling with it honestly. I can't guarantee anyone a clear short answer to it. That often helps, just to put it out there.

 

Yet as a Christian pastor, I have to put two more things on the conversational table. One is, if God wanted you to go on into glory, you would indeed have already "passed on." And you have not. Therefore, I would argue, you must still have some purpose, some part of the bigger plan . . . or you'd have been called home some time ago. So let's try to figure out what that might be.

 

Sometimes we come up with a grandchild or adult child who still needs to hear something, or someone they'd like to see one more time. Well, that's an answer. Occasionally, I'm having this conversation with a person who literally has no one. They've outlived family, friends, colleagues, everybody. There's no one yet to speak to or influence.

 

Those conversations often happen in care centers, what we used to call (and still call) nursing homes. Or assisted living, or different arrangements with various names, but the same general idea. So we talk about the staff.

 

Yes, care center staff, we talk about you. The ones who care, the ones who make eye contact, the ones who talk to us – and the ones who do not. And I wonder out loud if there's some one here, working here, who needs to speak to you, on whom you might yet have some kind of impact or influence. And I hear then about guardians and inspectors and even people who got lost looking for someone else who come into your room and talk. And one's purpose seems to gather force from those interactions.

 

Or not. It's not unusual to find no clear resolution to the question, but there's always a certain sort of relief, a lifting of the spirits, from being able to ask it out loud. And as I leave, for I'm still young enough that I get to do that, the question echoes around inside of my head: "what am I here for?" Which might be part of the purpose of the person who asked that question out loud to start.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; he's already older than he was when he wrote this. Tell him about what you about aging and the elderly in society at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.