Paul McCartney and Me

“I’m not old, and I’m not retiring,” said 82-year-old former Beatle Paul McCartney in a recent interview.

“At long last,” I thought, “I can tell people that Paul McCartney and I have something in common.

Aging and retirement are distinct concepts, of course, but they frequently intersect. For clarity’s sake, let’s agree that aging is a natural biological process that occurs over time, involving physical, cognitive, and social changes. It’s a universal experience that affects everyone. McCartney and I are both aging, whether we like it or not. And we are both old, according to actuarial tables.

Retirement, on the other hand, is a social and economic status that typically involves stopping full-time employment. It’s a choice or circumstance that not everyone experiences at the same age or in the same way. For much of human history, there was no such thing as retirement. And so, the Bible has next to nothing to say about it, and until the last century (maybe even the last half of the last century) there was little written about it.

I am retired. I know that because my denomination, the PCUSA, has conferred on me the honorific “honorably retired.” Beyond that, I am receiving pension income from the denominational fund that I paid into for more than 40 years.

But here’s the thing. That’s not what my LinkedIn profile says about me. There you will find that I am an “author, pastor.” In other words, I am continuing to do the things that I have always done. Since I retired a few years ago, for example, I have gone back to work twice as an interim pastor, both times to assist churches as they searched for a more permanent staff member.

Also, I continue to write—in fact, I find that I am writing more now than ever, with as many books published after retirement as before. Which is how I can still claim to be both an author and a pastor.

Nearly 20 years ago, I reflected on all of this in a book titled What Am I Supposed To Do With My Life? Asking the Right Questions (Eerdmans 2006). I still agree with most of I wrote there, but it is painfully obvious to me that my reflections on the last third of life were—to put it charitably—a bit shallow. I didn’t know what I was writing about because I had not yet experienced what I nevertheless was offering advice about. A frequent temptation for the preacher.

I tried, for example, to make a distinction between career and vocation, and I argued that, while a career may come to an end, one’s vocation never really ends. I still think of myself as a pastor, but my useful life as a parish pastor—leading weekly worship, preparing and then preaching sermons, visiting the sick, meeting with people in my office—is mostly over. I preach occasionally, mostly to help out my pastor when she takes a week of continuing education, and I visit church members who are in assisted living. But am I still doing these things on a full- or even part-time basis? The answer is no.

I also tried to make a distinction in the book between blessing and wisdom. Based on a verse from Proverbs, I argued that older adults should spend more of their time offering blessing than wisdom. If younger adults want our wisdom, I wrote, they’ll ask for it—and their asking for it is more likely to occur after they receive our blessing. I still think that’s true.

But not many younger pastors are interested in my wisdom these days. No one has ever asked me how to do one of the million (or more) things I learned how to do as a pastor. And that, I realize, is because the church I served back in the day is vastly different from the church that exists today. I may have learned a great deal along the way—it felt that way at the time—but much of what I know is of little practical value today.

And then, when I do try to bless younger pastors, I’m not always sure how it’s received.

I went to a graveside service not long ago where the officiating pastor turned out to be the granddaughter of my childhood pastor. She was terrific. I thought she handled that pastoral moment with exceptional care and made it look effortless, even though I knew it wasn’t. Did I bless her afterward? I tried, but mostly I fumbled around for what to say. Later, when I saw her mother at the gym, I told her that her daughter was really a fine pastor, which the mother seemed to appreciate. A second-hand blessing, maybe.

To be honest, I don’t know how I would rewrite that chapter of my book, but these days I find myself thinking a great deal about the topic. What should retirement look like for me? How can I use what I know in ways that are helpful? And when is it time for me to step aside and allow someone younger to do the job?

These are not questions for pastors only. I can think of several politicians in both parties who should be asking themselves these and similar questions. Joe Biden finally stepped aside, but it seems likely his refusal to do so earlier hurt his party’s chances. Yet it’s not like America voted for a new generation: Donald Trump, who is 78, will be the oldest president ever sworn into office. Now it’s time for Chuck Grassley (age 91), Bernie Sanders (age 83), Mitch McConnell (age 82), and Dick Durbin (age 80), to address this—and that’s just the U.S. Senate.

Frankly, there isn’t a lot out there to read on the subject. I really liked the New York Times best-selling book by Swedish author Margareta Magnusson, The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning (which is about downsizing and clearing out unnecessary belongings so that others don’t have to), so when her book The Swedish Art of Aging Exuberantly appeared, I ordered a copy.

But the second book, as often happens, wasn’t nearly as good as the first. She offers some good advice about aging gracefully—wear stripes, don’t resist new technology, let go of what doesn’t matter, and more—but overall, I have to say, the book was a disappointment. I seldom wear stripes, and, despite what my children think, I nearly always embrace new technology.

And then, last spring, my mother died a few weeks short of her 97^th birthday. For a while it seemed as though she might live forever. Like the Queen of England, she drove her car well into her 90s. But then Covid, a fall, and a couple of other things happened. And suddenly, my sisters and I could plainly see that she was mortal. Her vocation had mostly been to be a mother, but during those last weeks and months, her children were looking after her. And so, her death has made this topic seem even more urgent. How should I be spending these days before my own death occurs? What does it look like for me to live out my vocation, even though I am no longer employed?

A few weeks ago, I participated in an interview for Oldster Magazine, an online publication about “traveling through time in a human body—of any gender, at every phase of life,” and my profile should appear before the end of the year.

While my responses to the questions are not particularly memorable, I thought the questions were wonderful. In addition to predictable questions like “What do you like about being your age?” and “What is difficult about being your age?” there were other questions that left me in tears.

Here’s one: “What are some age-related milestones you are looking forward to? Or ones you ‘missed,’ and might try to reach later, off-schedule, according to our culture and its expectations?” At that moment, I blurted out that I had done the math and, even though I’m very much looking forward to those milestones, it seems unlikely I will live long enough to see any of my grandchildren graduate from college or get married or have children of their own. So, for now, I said, I do my best to enjoy their first days of kindergarten. Milestones for sure.

Here’s another: “What’s an aging-related adjustment you refuse to make, and why?” Rather than tears, I remembered this time how my grandparents (and later my parents) made decisions about their own lives so that their children and grandchildren didn’t have to make those decisions for them. I forget exactly how I put this in the interview, but I realized in that moment that I have had some fine role models, people who grew old and accepted increasing limitations in their lives, but nevertheless continued to live as they always had, embracing their vocations, living as fully as limitations allowed. It wasn’t that they refused to make adjustments; it was that they made wise and thoughtful ones. That’s what made a deep impression on me.

I suppose that’s an important later-in-life vocation—namely, to model a life consistent with the faith and teachings and values I’ve spent a lifetime proclaiming. I wonder what my buddy Paul McCartney would say about that.