I am studying a photo of my mom in Barcelona, a picture taken twenty-five years ago; in it she is the age I am now. A slim brunette sitting in the shadows of a Moorish hotel garden beside my handsome dad, she could be thirty-five, forty, or even a young fifty, but surely not what she actually is: about to begin her seventh decade. She has never been to Spain before, they are here to celebrate their anniversary, and there is no hint on her calm and happy face that within four years of this culminating moment she will be a widow, and that life will have changed forever.

Old age is a mystery. It steals in upon us and quietly relieves us of our youth and our beloveds. Once it has arrived, it stays, and the indelible marks of our decay begin to appear upon our faces. In its grip, our path starts to veer, and eventually we find ourselves standing before that daunting gateway called death. Whatever we have managed to hold on to during the silent struggle with aging must now be relinquished forever. Our time is up, our journey over. And, faith or no faith, what happens next is shrouded in obscurity.

Right now, I am my mom in Barcelona. At almost sixty, I can still “pass,” and it’s easy to convince myself that what happened to her—early widowhood, a terminal illness of glacial slowness, the inexorable crumbling of her dark-eyed beauty—will never happen to me. After all, I am at the top of my game. I can still hoist a grandchild in each arm, write books, teach, jog, backpack. I’m clearly too strong and healthy to get old, so what do I have to fear?

My culture heartily concurs, and offers me two inspiring myths. The first is that technology is my friend and if I am only willing to tap into its wondrous resources, I never have to age or die. The second is loftier, and does not concern itself with wrinkle abatement; instead, it assures me that the older I get, the more fascinating, wise, and powerful I am destined to become.

The first myth, clearly corporate-sponsored, encourages me to spend a lot of money on health supplements, gym memberships, plastic surgery, and hormone replacement therapy. The second taps into my unrealized ambitions and leads me to seek gurus who can bring me forth into full blossom. Underlying each is the same unquestioned modern belief: that the purpose of life is to get what I most want before I die. Postponing aging buys me the time to do that; “believing in myself,” as the gurus put it, provides the necessary inspiration.

If my culture is right about this—and it does make a passionate case for itself—then my job from now on becomes clear. I must avoid aging at all costs. I must live as though there is no death. And most of all, I must strive harder than I ever have before to achieve my unrealized aspirations, obtain what I desire but still lack, and come into my own as a self-fulfilled, autonomous being.

So why does such stirring rhetoric make me feel so tired?

One of t he great minds of the twentieth century, philosopher and novelist Iris Murdoch, speaks of the “consoling illusions” we so readily embrace. Such fantasies make us feel better when we are hurting or even help us bear real suffering; they inspire us to higher purposes; they sustain us for the long haul. What then can be wrong with them? Her answer is simple: they shield us from the truth. And since we are truth-seeking creatures, ultimately such fantasies can never satisfy.

If our two modern myths about aging are really just consoling illusions, then where can we find a more truthful view? If our culture’s underlying belief about the purpose of life is misguided, then where shall we go for wisdom?

These questions are crucial, because if there is one thing I have learned from my mother’s slow decline, it is this: old age is the most challenging stage of life we face. We must be able to tap into all the wonderment of childhood, the hope of young love, the patience of motherhood, and the determination of middle age if we are not to be defeated by it. Yet at the same time it is calling us to be better people than we’ve ever been, it is busy diminishing our capacities for serious effort. The irony of old age, which slowly reduces us to infancy, is that we must be true adults to survive it.

Right now I am my mom in Barcelona. In twenty-five years, if I am still here, I will be as gray and unsteady on my feet as she is rapidly becoming. My children will be trying their best to take the car away, to get me into a senior residence where nurses can dole out my medications, to update my will. I’ll be wearing hearing aids and mixing up dates and forgetting to turn off the flame on the stove. No matter how much money I have spent on hormones and health supplements, no matter how many gurus I have consulted, I will be old. And there’s no getting out of it.

There is, however, a different way to face it. And there are at least three good reasons for doing so. The first is that we can avoid a lot of unnecessary brooding and unhappiness. The second is that we can live a better life. And the third is that we can more easily prepare ourselves for death and what follows afterward.

The cultural belief that getting what we most want will make us happy is not a new one; it has cropped up regularly for millennia, and every time it does, it is disproved by the facts. Fabulously wealthy people—superstars and celebrities and CEOs— theoretically have the resources and freedom to obtain whatever they most desire. Yet they are famously dissatisfied, plagued by restless boredom as they endlessly seek what will finally bring them peace.

The rest of us, with fewer dollars or hours to spend on the quest, do not escape the suffering. We feel cheated out of what we deserve; we feel like failures; we become envious and resentful of those who have what we want. Equally dissatisfied, we are ripe for depression and anger, both of which get dramatically compounded when we face the inevitable losses of old age.

Setting aside the fruitless quest for happiness, then, frees us up to become better human beings. Philosophers have long pointed out the difference between the “enviable” and the “admirable” life. The first may be aesthetically tasteful and filled with interesting adventures: we keep a yacht in the Bahamas, climb Mount Everest, collect masterpieces, or make great wine. The second is invariably less pleasing, at least on the surface: we pour ourselves out in a Calcutta hospital for the dying; we adopt a crack baby; we take care of our Alzheimer’s-stricken father for a decade before he dies.

Though in our time the enviable life inevitably wins out—who wouldn’t choose Himalayan trekking over thankless caregiving?—it is the second kind of life that haunts us with its images of what we ourselves might become if only we had enough courage and faith. It is the difficult, admirable life that calls out of us what is highest and best and most satisfying.

Transcending the endless cycle of want-satisfaction also gets us ready for death and what follows. My friend Betty, age eighty-five, sums it up like this: “Getting old is about preparing for the next life. But nobody these days is thinking about that anymore.”

Though recent polls show that most of us believe in some kind of afterlife, it’s unclear by our behavior what this means or how this belief is being translated into the decisions we make here and now. As contemporary Christians, we are much more “this-worldly” than in previous eras. We believe it is good to focus on the present, to value the physical world, to get the most out of living. Thus, we spend little time pondering Christ’s many words about what’s to come.

Yet given the poignant nature of aging with all its griefs and losses, why do we so studiously ignore the most hopeful news we will ever get? For Jesus has not only conquered death (“I am the living bread t h at c a me down from heaven. Who-ever eats this bread will live forever,” John 6:51, NIVScripture quotations marked (NIV) are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™), but we will not have to cart our deafness and varicose veins and dementia with us into the next life (“If our temporary, earthly dwelling is destroyed, we have… an eternal dwelling in the heavens, not made with hands,” 2 Corinthians 5:1, HCSBScripture quotations marked (HCSB) are taken from the Holman Christian Standard Bible, copyright 1999, 2000, 2002, 2003, by Holman Bible Publishers. Used by permission.).

More, we don’t have to sign up on any waiting lists to get into this fabulous new residence, for a room has already been set aside with our name on the door. As Jesus assures us, “in my Father’s house are many dwelling places” (John 14: 1–3, NASBScripture quotations marked (NASB) are taken from the New American Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1960, 1971, 1977, 1995, 2020 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. (www.lockman.org)). And lest we worry about being overlooked, he adds, “Are not two sparrows sold for a small coin? Yet not one of them falls to the ground without your Father’s knowledge. . . . So do not be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows” (Matthew 10:29–31, NASB).

No need, it turns out, to spend thousands on pharmaceuticals. No need for Botox or slavish obedience to a personal trainer. Through Christ, we have been liberated from all fruitless efforts to artificially extend our physical lives. Through him, we have been freed from the grim quest to satisfy every desire.

So how can we face old age and dying? We can deliberately open our eyes to the reality that awaits us, no matter how daunting it appears to be. We can remind ourselves of our real purpose here on earth: to be “servants of Christ and stewards of the mysteries of God” (1 Corinthians 4:1 NASB). And on a practical level, we can adopt some spiritual practices that might give us the strength to withstand the pervasive negative attitude toward aging.

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01.  The Discipline of Aging

The first, the discipline of listening, can help us stop superimposing our own take on every situation before we even have a chance to hear and see what is really there. The practice of delighting can encourage us to notice and be thankful for what is small and seemingly insignificant. Deliberately lightening our store of possessions and list of social obligations can free us up to explore this new land we are entering with greater curiosity and flexibility. Settling into our life as it is can help calm the voices of our culture who insist we should be out there checking items off a bucket list. The practice of confronting can teach us to look backward with a humble, honest eye, and then to forgive both others and ourselves.

The discipline of appreciating life in its hardest-edged forms can be a good antidote to curmudgeonly irritation and anger. A daily practice of befriending the stranger can give us a new sense of purpose, in the same way that the discipline of generating can teach us how to sow seeds for the future in those who are much younger. None of these, however, can so readily vanquish our natural fear of old age and dying as the act of blessing the world through our very presence: of living, the best we can, as Christ lived.

The classic afflictions of old age (close-mindedness, complaining, fear of change, obsessing about comfort and security, boredom, denial, resentment, judgmentalism, hoarding, cursing an increasingly unfamiliar context) do not hold up well under this onslaught of virtuous practices. Yet it is important to remember that none of these practices is about achievement, or even about self-improvement in the sense that we are striving to become “better.” Instead, these quiet, daily disciplines can help transform us into what Karl Rahner calls “ordinary mystics”: typical people—nobody special—who nevertheless live in the continual presence of God.

Grandma or not, I’m still at the beginning of this mysterious season. Thankfully, I have many friends who are much older than me, some of whom have already passed on and others who are still living and available for consultation. I also have beloved friends who’ve reached old age well before their time because of diseases like Parkinson’s and multiple sclerosis. I’m very conscious these days of leaning on their wisdom, along with the insights of great contemplative saints, from the fourth-century Diadochos of Photike to the twentieth-century Henri Nouwen.

For one of the most beautiful teachings of Christianity, on par with the promise of everlasting life and an enduring relationship with God, is the assurance that we are never alone on this difficult earthly journey. Instead, we are part of a vast community, both living and dead, bound together with unbreakable ties of love. We face none of this alone.

It is true: I am my mom in Barcelona, poised on the precipitous edge of a long decline. Am I nervous? Of course; we can none of us ponder physical decay and its inevitable end without some healthy trepidation. To balk at this point, however—to go into denial and turn back toward the consoling illusions of our culture— would be self-defeating. Instead, I seek hope in the vision of an ancient Syrian monk, St. Ephrem of Nisibis:

 

Death becomes something new for those who have died:
At it, they have put off suffering, And at it, they put on glory.

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02.  The Discipline of Accepting

Excerpt from Paula Huston, A Season of Mystery: 10 Spiritual Practices for Embracing a Happier Second Half of Life (Chicago, IL: Loyola Press, 2012). All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission of Loyola Press. To order copies visit www.loyolapress.com.

“Our Lord gave me a spiritual insight into the unpretentious manner of his loving. I saw that for us he is everything that is good, comforting and helpful; he is our clothing, who, for love, wraps us up, holds us close; he entirely encloses us for tender love, so that he many never leave us, since he is the source of all good things for us.”

—Julian of Norwich (c. 1343–1417)

 

Two of my favorite bits of monastic wisdom come from Fr. Bernard. Years ago, a big-city newspaper contacted the Hermitage for permission to do a feature story. The pretty young reporter assigned to the job brought a photographer with her, who spent a day trying to herd the monks into spontaneous-looking groups. They were not, according to Fr. Bernard, very cooperative. He, on the other hand, having the heart of a French- man, was highly simpatico with women, and he felt sorry for this young lady, who’d clearly never waded into such deep water before. So he stuck around to see if he could help.

This mean the wound up being interviewed at length—a scene that, knowing Fr. Bernard as well as I did, was hard to imagine. How had she kept him on topic? How many jokes had he trotted out? How had she navigated that tricky French-Canadian accent, no doubt intensified by the romantic thrill of being in her attractive young presence? When he proudly handed me a copy of the newspaper the next time I visited, I made as if to put it away for later, not wanting to risk blanching in front of him. But he insisted that I read it then and there.

Fr. Bernard, I found, had PR skills I’d never suspected. Not only had he conducted himself with statesmanlike dignity, but also he’d summed up in a single sentence the whole point of the monastic enterprise. Why did you become a monk ? the reporter had asked him. Because

life is short, he replied calmly, and I wanted to live it the best way I could.

On another occasion, a first-time visitor asked Fr. Bernard how he managed to keep his eyes on God through all his decades at the Hermitage. Don’t you ever get sick of this? Don’t you sometimes wish you were doing something else? Fr. Bernard shook his head, pointing out that monks have a saying that keeps them focused.

 

“What’s that?” asked the visitor.
“Memento mori,” said Fr. Bernard. “
And what does that mean?”
Fr. Bernard gave her an impish grin. “Hello, I’m going to die.”

 

From its beginnings in the third-century Egyptian desert, Christian monasticism has concerned itself with final things. Certain stringent practitioners sometimes occupied caves used to house the dead or even slept inside their own coffins as a visceral reminder that time here on earth is limited. Physical existence, they believed, is meant to prepare us from eternal life with God. And there is no other way to meet our future except to undergo the terrible transition of death. Even people of great faith quail in the face of what, from this side of the passageway, cannot help but feel like total extinction.

Perhaps this is one of the reasons we work so hard. Hyper-productivity is a way to harden ourselves against emotional turmoil, including the stormy anguish of grief or the shocking recognition that death is imminent. We’ve got too much to do; we cannot afford to spend serious time in thought. Hence, one of aging’s greatest challenges makes its appearance when we find ourselves too old to be productive any more. Suddenly, we are faced with certain facts about life that we’ve been able to hold at bay for decades simply by keeping ourselves so busy we’ve had no free moments in which to ponder them.

And thus does aging increase our levels of anxiety and fearfulness. Not only do we now have hours to cogitate—an activity guaranteed to make us hardworking Americans extremely nervous—but also we’re steadily losing ground in the sensory department. We hear and see less than we used to. We fumble with our fingers and trip on our own feet. We forget what we heard or read two minutes ago. We’re constantly falling asleep in the big blue chair. Some of us, medicated for various medical conditions, begin to experience vivid hallucinations that make it extremely difficult to sort out what is real and what is not. When we’re constantly losing important items (the keys, the checkbook, the wallet), it’s easier to blame others than face the facts. The combination of frustration and suspicion can lead to elaborate conspiracy theories. No surprise, then, that senior paranoia is widespread; reality and the looming specter of death are simply too painful.

Monastic memento mori disrupts this vicious cycle. A daily meditation on dying can ease death’s threatening sting, and it can also help us bear the grief that accompanies loss. The practice of memento mori reminds us that every- thing—our fondest memories of child- hood, the physical relics of our most joyful moments, our very ability to see, hear, walk, remember—are passing away, too. We cannot hold on to a single thing, no matter how we try. For this is the way of all flesh; naked we arrive and naked we shall depart. Many of the ascetical practices of monasticism are undergirded by memento mori. Disciplines such as fasting, celibacy, silence, and solitude highlight the ephemeral nature of the physical realm and thus force us to confront the brevity of earthly existence.

What are some of the practical steps we can take to keep the reality of death before our eyes, especially in a society that tries its best to avoid the subject completely? First, every time we look into the mirror, we can gently remind ourselves that this person we have come to know so well is in the process of dying, and has been ever since birth. Nobody escapes; everyone is on the same road, including the youngest and freshest among us. Like birth, death is an experience that we all share, so why do we fear it so?

Second, when we catch ourselves making long-term plans—in five years I will be doing this, in ten, this—we can stop and pray these words: God willing. During past eras when death took so many children and young adults, people tended to make fewer assumptions about the future and to more consciously place the future in God’s hands.

Finally, we can “keep our bags packed,” in the sense that we are always prepared to make the journey out of this earthly existence, no matter when that journey begins. And one extremely important preparation for death is to have our affairs in order. Is there some- body we still need to forgive? Is there a relationship that needs healing? Is there something we are guilty about but have never confessed? To practice memento mori means to take care of these obligations while we still can.