Don’t you know that’s a youth song? You sang it like an old hymn!
The silver-haired lady didn’t actually shake her finger in my face, but I had a vision of it being waggled there.
I almost laughed. It was an old hymn. To me, it was. Why—right there on the page, beside the author’s name, it told when he wrote it. 1902.
It was an old song. For old people.
Then I read the words again. And again.
Give of your best to the master.
Give of the strength of your youth.
I apologized to the dear saint. The next time I led it, with the Lovely Lady accompanying me, we sang the song with a tad more pep, and just a little more vigor.
I learned a lesson that day. It’s profound. You’ll want to save this.
Old people were young once.
Most of them still remember it. Some, vividly.
I know young Timothy’s instructor didn’t mean for me to take it this way, but I can’t help but think it.
Let no man despise your youth. (1 Timothy 4:12)
It is disrespectful to the aging and elderly for us to disregard the experiences they had as young folks. The things that shaped the adults they would become haven’t diminished in importance in all the ensuing years.
It is a youth song. Written in 1902.
I dare not speed on past without revisiting the words our old friend, my namesake, had to say to his youthful protegé, though.
Don’t let anyone think less of you because you are young. (1 Timothy 4:12)
I wonder how many times a day I hear—or read—disparaging words directed at the younger generation. The generalizations are rampant, the vitriol nearly universal.
All coming from old folks. Okay, aging folks. People who once were young themselves. People who can’t stand to have the days of their own youth ridiculed.
I’ve done it myself.
These kids today. . .
A young friend sent me an invitation a few weeks ago. The local university, as it has for a number of years, was sponsoring an evening dedicated to promoting writing and the arts in a faith-based environment.
I glanced at the two guests who were on the schedule. A comic-book illustrator and a spoken-word artist.
Lightweights! This is what passes for writing and art? Pass.
I repent. Did I say that already? It doesn’t matter. I may do so again.
The Lovely Lady encouraged me to go. Friends were going to be there. There was ice cream.
I went. Don’t tell the friends, but the ice cream is what tipped the scales (no pun intended).
May I tell you what happened?
Surrounded by young folks who could be my grandchildren, I saw respect. They were attentive. They were appreciative.
My eyes were opened. Well, when they weren’t filled with tears, they were opened. The tears were a surprise.
I detest spoken-word poetry. All angst and anger and foul language, it falls somewhere on a scale with rap music, without the music.
The young man, in his jeans and untucked shirt, skull-cap pulled over his head tightly, looked for all the world like a street punk to this old man’s eyes.
I dared him.
He moved me.
No. That’s not right.
The Spirit moved me.
It was all I could do, when the young poet, arms windmilling above his head and waggling in front of his face and hanging down at his side, spoke the names of Jesus—it was all I could do—not to jump up and shout like a Pentecostal in a Holy Ghost revival.
And, I’ve never been to a Pentecostal Holy Ghost revival.
I looked down and I was sitting on my hands with my legs to keep them still, the tears streaming down my face.
There is a power that comes, not from experience, nor from age, nor from practice, but from the Word. From the mouths of babes, through the writings of old men, by the witness of all who are His, He speaks.
Disregarding our differences, ignoring our preferences, and brushing aside our objections, He will be heard.
I wonder if it’s time for us to realize that our Creator uses—He always has—the methods He thinks best to ensure an audience for His words.
I wonder if it’s time for us—young and old—to close our mouths about those methods we don’t especially like.
I haven’t always given of my best for Him. Sadly, I may have left it a bit late to give of the best of my youth.
I’m grateful that all the young folks aren’t waiting around until their golden years to work on it seriously.
Still, I have begun to look at youth a little differently. I wrote recently about that great cloud of witnesses the writer of the book of Hebrews in the New Testament describes. I realized that these men and women are my peers.
Really. Moses, Abraham, Rahab, Sarah, and all the others—all of them, my peers. Yours, too.
We’ll join them one day, to live without any time limit there.
If we’re to live forever, and I believe we will, we’ve only lived a minuscule percentage of all the days we have ahead of us.
I’m still young.
There’s still time.
I’ll give it my best.
I invite you to watch the video linked below. Powerful words—from the heart of the poet and directly from God’s Word.
When we’ve been there ten thousand years,
Bright shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
Than when we’d first begun.
(from Amazing Grace ~ English clergyman ~ 1725-1807)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.