Our culture also worships youthfulness and fears the aging process, having long ago lost touch with a biblical view of aging well. Gray hair, which Scripture describes as “a crown of glory” (Proverbs 16:31), signals obsolescence or even invisibility to the man or woman whose greatest treasure is found in this world. Certainly, we don’t give in to our changing bodies without a fight. We exercise and eat sensibly — but we don’t listen to bad advice from advertisers who tell us we can stop the clock. Nor do we chase pleasure and make irresponsible choices in an effort to feel “alive” again.

I have an image in my mind of the godly old lady I want to be someday: soft-spoken, kind to all, full of wisdom. Having logged half a century under God’s sanctifying sandpaper, I should be well on my way by now. And, taking stock, I can see that I don’t have to rein in my temper as much as I used to, and there’s precious little out there that tempts me to covet. What I am learning, however, is that as I age, I sin differently. Sin is still “crouching at the door.” It just comes in a different form.

I can easily be fooled into mistaking apathy for godly serenity. I might take comfort in the absence of “fiery” sins like lust and anger — yet I may be blind to the pride, selfishness, and slothfulness that have crept into their place. Time can make us lazy, and we’re all subject to its subtle drift. Perhaps the sifting question for the aging Christian is, “Am I killing sin, or have I just traded one destructive path for another?”

The sad failures of David, Solomon, and Hezekiah suggest three solemn warnings for the seasoned Christian who wants to finish well.

1. Beware The Temptation to Coast.

As a much younger woman, I heard a well-respected Christian leader admit, “I could take my foot off the gas pedal today, and no one would ever know it. But I would, and God would.” From Screwtape’s devilish perspective, C.S. Lewis describes the “long, dull, monotonous years of middle-aged prosperity or middle-aged adversity” as “excellent campaigning weather” (Screwtape Letters, 155). He added, “Indeed, the safest road to Hell is the gradual one — the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts” (61).

This description perfectly fits “the time when kings go out to battle,” as David, coasting “on the roof of the king’s house,” set himself up for moral collapse rather than tending to business (2 Samuel 11:1–2). Then, later in the monarchy’s downward spiral, King Hezekiah, concerned mainly that there be “peace and security” in his own time (2 Kings 20:19), took “the gentle slope” at the end of his reign. Apparently, if he could cruise along in safety for the rest of his life, he didn’t care that Babylon would eventually be the instrument of God’s judgment upon Israel.

With David’s and Hezekiah’s backslidings before our eyes, we might ask ourselves, “And what about me? As I age, will I coast — or will I press on?” Personally, keeping my foot on the gas pedal will look like deep study and preparation for every ministry opportunity, resisting the temptation to whip up a twenty-minute devotional from the scraps of my previous teachings. It will require that I take captive the subtle sins that go undetected by others, listening instead to the voice of the Spirit as he filters every thought, word, and deed. It will mean that I never stop praying desperate prayers for God’s power to carry me and to keep me in the battle against sin and the fulfillment of my calling.

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