When I was very young, probably about three or four years old, I believed that people arrived on earth at their current age, whatever that might be, and that they remained at that age forever. Although I did know that eventually I would have another birthday, and would celebrate with cake and presents, somehow, in my four-year-old reality, I would never actually grow old. I'd never look like my grandmother.

I vaguely remember a conversation with her that went something like this:

I felt very fortunate that my particular assignment in life had been to be young. Who would want to be old and have wrinkles and relaxing skin? In my young mind there was an obvious dichotomy between those who were old and those who never would be.

As a child I looked forward to birthdays and frequently pressed my age to the upper limits, proudly declaring that I was eight and a half, or almost thirteen. I was fairly truthful about my age in my twenties. But by the time I reached thirty, then forty, I wasn't so quick to proclaim my years. I chuckled over the joke, "What age is it that is officially middle-age? Answer: Middle age is ten years older than whatever your present age might be."

By the time I reached fifty, I became increasingly more fascinated with definitions regarding aging, checking to see where I fell in the different models. One model placed those from sixty to seventy-five years old in the classification labeled "young old"; those seventy-five to eighty-five "middle old"; and those above eighty-five "old old". Then I saw a newer model which identified those from eighteen to thirty as emerging adults; those thirty to fifty as young adults; fifty to seventy middle adults; seventy to eighty senior adults; and those over eighty as elderly.

Of course, by the time that I reached that fifty milestone, obviously I intellectually understood that all human beings are growing older each day, and that I was too. But emotionally, there was a part of me that tended to put the reality of my own personal aging somewhere "out there" in the distance. Other people might be growing older but I never would be elderly. In my mind I naively created artificial boundaries between myself and others, as though I was some kind of a sub-species, as though there was a "me" and a "them" and that all of "them" would grow elderly. It was a profound breakthrough for me to begin to dismantle those boundaries and to admit that, I too, am journeying toward elderhood.

In his book Aging and God, Dr. Harold Koenig, a Duke University psychiatrist with an interest in gerontology writes: "(A)ging.. (is) the process of growing older that begins at birth and ends at death and encompasses physical, psychological, and spiritual changes that take place throughout the life cycle" (p. xxiii). So, each of us is aging daily; some of us have been doing it longer than others. However, unless we die a premature death, there is no dichotomy between those of us who will grow old and those of us who won't. So, practically speaking, aging is a lifelong journey that is universal.

Today is the last Sunday in 1997. Since milestones like the end of a year often cause us to pause to consider another marking off of our time on earth, this morning I'd like to examine some opportunities we all have for successful aging, regardless of what our present age might be.

Koenig writes: "(S)uccessful aging involves how adults see themselves fitting into their world and (the) purpose they play (in the world). Purpose involves having a goal, a vision, a reason to live, a reason to get up in the morning, a reason to struggle and fight against the forces that would overwhelm and destroy. Older adults, particularly disabled by chronic illness, need a vision that can sustain them through difficult times, can motivate them onwards in life, can keep hope alive when circumstances indicate otherwise" (p. xxiv). So in Koenig's opinion, successful aging involves having both a purpose and a sustaining vision.

Perhaps one of the most difficult times for people to formulate a purpose in life is when they have experienced a loss. No matter what our age, all humans experience the pain of loss. In fact, some psychologists say that our first loss in life comes at the very moment of birth in the trauma of being expelled from the security and comfort of the womb.

In her book Necessary Losses, Judith Viorst writes, "Loss is (an) encompassing theme in life. For we lose not only through death, but also by leaving and being left, by changing and letting go and moving on. (O)ur losses include not only our separations and departures from those we love, but (also) our losses of romantic dreams, impossible expectations, illusions of freedom and power, illusions of safety - and the loss of our younger self, the self that thought it always would be unwrinkled and invulnerable and immortal" (p. 2). Viorst concludes that although losses are painful, they are inextricably linked to growth, wisdom, and hopeful change.

During the later years of life, losses come quickly and are often multiple. Physical changes occur throughout the body in the heart, lungs, muscular/skeletal tissue, nervous system, sensory organs, and the skin. Often advancing age brings about the loss of a home, driving privileges, and personal autonomy and independence. Decreased income often results in financial hardships. How can these very real and sometimes devastating losses be addressed?

First, it's important to distinguish between necessary and unnecessary losses. Unnecessary losses are those which can be avoided, often by making accommodations or allowing for some range of choice. In later years sometimes the choices may entail decisions such as what bureau to take when moving to a smaller residence or even a choice as basic as whether to have either potatoes or rice for dinner. Recently an elderly woman confided that her family never asked her about any of her preferences. Instead they talked around her and she felt like a piece of furniture, or worse yet, like she was invisible. Small accommodations increase the sense of personal autonomy.

And then there are the losses that can't be escaped. In what ways might the responses to those losses shape our lives in a positive way? How might we let go of something in order to embrace something new, to move on to a new chapter in life's journey, and to explore different horizons? One way is to identify a gain that comes with the loss. What are the positives? What are the positives that come with retirement? With having an "empty nest?" With giving up a driver's license? Sometimes, as one ages the gains are harder to discern but they are there. The challenge is to discover and embrace them.

Koenig states that successful aging involves having a purpose in life, having goals, a reason to live, a reason to get up in the morning. Often a loss requires a major shift in one's perspective, and a total change of plans. Often a loss requires one to write a new "future story," a story which restructures the dimensions of our human pilgrimage.

For example, I recently had a conversation with a very ill and elderly man who confided that what is keeping him going each day is the hope that he will be alive to hold his first great-grandchild, and it is that hope that is giving him a goal, a purpose, and a future story.

One of my neighbors who has cancer has given her life new energy and purpose during the last two years by continuing to set ongoing goals for herself: first she wanted to live to celebrate her forty-fifth birthday. When she reached that milestone she wrote a new future story and that was to live to see her garden bloom in the spring. Her next goal is to be at her daughter's high school graduation. And so she continues to strive for purpose in her life, as she revitalizes her energy and hope.

Writing a future story, committing oneself to specific and explicit goals, plans, and intentions can be done at any age. One recommended manner for doing this is to create and maintain an ongoing list, to be continuously updated, entitled "Fifty Things I Want to Do Before I Die." Entries are restricted only by one's interests, imagination, and creativity and might include items as varied as planting a garden, taking a trip, learning a skill, reading a book, completing a project, or attending the graduation or wedding of a family member. But remember: there must always be fifty items on the list, so as some are checked off, new ones are added.

Without a future story, there is no purpose or hope. As each of us moves into new stages of life, it is our personal challenge to craft and direct our own future stories, to continue to write, page by page, new chapters in our lives. With aging come limitations and challenges. But also with aging come new possibilities offered by the accumulation of experience and wisdom, as well as the gift of time unencumbered by the demands of schedules so prevalent in earlier years.

Recalling that Koenig's definition of successful aging stressed having both a purpose and a sustaining vision in life, I now turn to examine the role of religion and faith in this business of aging. I think that that necessary sustaining vision that Koenig refers to can be nurtured by bringing a religious perspective to one's journey and by developing a sense of faith.

Years ago I read a statement by UU minister Forrest Church which has had a profound impact on me and the way I think about religion. He said: "religion is our human response to the dual reality of being alive and having to die." Some may say that in a sense, all of us, no matter what our age or state of health are terminally ill because we are born to die. So confronting death is a lifetime task and is intrinsic to the process of aging. As we age, the past section of life's timeline increases, and we begin to face the reality of a diminishing future and our own mortality.

Forrest Church goes on to say, "Knowing we are going to die not only places an acknowledged limit on our lives, it also gives a special intensity and poignancy to the time we are given to live and love. The fact that death is inevitable gives meaning to our love, for the more we love the more we risk losing. Love's power comes in part from the courage required to give ourselves to that which is not ours to keep: our spouses, children, parents, dear and cherished friends, even life itself. It also comes from the faith required to sustain that courage, the faith that life, howsoever limited, contains within its margins, and often at their very edges, a meaning that is redemptive." So in this religious community we have the opportunity to struggle to develop that faith, the faith which gives our lives a sustaining vision.

I define faith as that power of the human spirit which gives hope and a sense of trust that even when the present looks bleak, in the transcendent scheme of things, all will be well. I also like author Frederick Buechner's description of faith: "Faith is what makes our journeys through time bearable. When faith ends, the journey ends, ends either in (actual) death ..or in the living death of those who believe themselves to be without hope."

Author Eugene Bianchi writes that "to live by faith is to walk not necessarily against reason , but beyond it. It is the full experience of reason, as a combination of mind, will, and emotion that leads us to the door of the unknown, that uncrossable threshold of personal finitude. Yet it is faith, an even more mysterious phenomenon, that beckons us beyond the entrance of the unknown to risk, fashion, and experience a more comprehensive unity of life."

In recent months, as part of my senior paper for my Master of Divinity, I've had the occasion to talk with several members of Cedar Lane about this topic of faith and here are insights from three Cedar Laners. One woman said, "To me faith is something beyond rules and dogma. It has to do with a sense of spirituality, an interconnectedness, and an acceptance that we are part of the whole, part of the ordered universe, part of all of life."

Here are Jack Shaffer's thoughts: "Faith cannot contradict what I know from science. My theology must be compatible with scientific knowledge. I see faith as being the energy that propels me into activities which would make the world conform to what we conceive the ideal to be."

And Joe Campagna: "Faith is a sense of trust or confidence. It's a hope that no matter what things look like at the moment, something positive will come. Religion can help to develop a sense of faith, especially if you look at the larger picture in life, not the everyday occurrences."

As we walk together in religious community, we support each other while we journey along, each struggling to come to terms with living in the face of death, each struggling to carve out our own personal sense of faith. Blessedly, churches are intergenerational communities, so we are in a unique position to participate in friendships across age lines and to learn from the knowledge of others who have the benefit of years, who are reservoirs of experience and wisdom, and who can be role models for us.

Now, before I leave this topic of religion, aging, and Koenig's opinions, there is one other bit of insight I'd like to offer you. A few months ago I was reading the religion page in the Washington Post and I saw an article about some of Koenig's recent studies: "'Regularly attending religious services has the power to boost the immune system and lower levels of bad blood protein in people older than sixty-five. 'Those who go to church or synagogue regularly are physically healthier, mentally healthier, and have healthier immune systems,' said Harold Koenig, a Duke University psychiatrist known for his research on the relationship of religion, spirituality, and medicine." And so, Koenig confirms yet another benefit to coming to church here at Cedar Lane.

From the moment we are born to the moment we die, we are aging. Some of us just have been doing it longer than others. But unless we die a premature death, each of us will go through the stages of being young, middle-aged, and old. There is no dichotomy between those of us who will grow old and those of us who won't.

In his book The Sacred Journey, Frederick Buechner describes the journey of life: "Listen: Your life is happening. You are happening. A journey, years long, has brought each of you through thick and thin to this moment in time . Think back on that journey. Listen back to the sounds and sweet airs of your journey that give you delight and hurt not, and (also) to those too that give no delight at all and hurt like Hell The music of your life is subtle and elusive and like no other not a song with words but a song without words, a singing, clattering music to gladden the heart or turn the heart to stone, to haunt you perhaps with a vaster, farther music of which it is a part." Now, of course, "we cannot live our lives constantly looking back, listening back, lest we be turned to pillars of longing and regret, but to live without listening at all is to live deaf to the fullness of music."

I think it's interesting to observe the different metaphors that are ascribed to life. Often life is viewed as a pilgrimage or journey. And life is also spoken of metaphorically in terms of the arts: we carve out and shape our lives as a piece of sculpture; our life is a literary work which we write page by page, and chapter by chapter; our life is a symphony, a collection of notes and melodies; our live is a mosaic with different pieces and colors; our life is a tapestry, with patterns woven stitch by stitch.

Albert Einstein was undoubtedly thinking along the lines of such metaphors as these when he reflected: "Is there not a certain satisfaction in the fact that natural limits are set to the life of the individual, so that at its conclusion it may appear as a work of art?" We all will die. The process of life is the art.

So aging is not a problem to be solved. It is lives to be lived, inspired by purpose and vision. It is lives to be sculpted and crafted and written and woven and lived, while remaining ever-open to new discoveries and new possibilities. We are born and we die. But in between is the sacred gift of life. Today, and each day that we are alive, we stand on holy ground, moving from what has been to what will be. May we fill our lives with purpose and meaning and people that we love.

And during the process, as we are molding the masterpiece, may we, like Frederick in the children's story I read earlier, pause each day, and remember how important it is to gather into our memory and into our heart, things that we hold dear: sun rays, and colors, and words of poetry, and the beauty of life, so that when we are faced with a bleak winter, we may draw on our store of warmth and blue periwinkles to sustain us in the face of even the most adverse of circumstances.

Cedar Lane Unitarian Universalist Church
9601 Cedar Lane, Bethesda, Maryland 20814-4099
Tel: 301-493-8300    Fax: 301-897-5713
e-mail: office@CedarLane.org
Sunday Services at 10 a.m.
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