Lately, pastors in the neighborhood have been inviting me to join them for meals at the senior center operated in our church. Breakfast costs one dollar and lunch two dollars. There is always a long line. Last week, the dining hall was especially crowded, and we had to wait quite a while. Later I learned that it was haircut day, so many more seniors had come than usual.
As we stood in line, one pastor muttered, “This is pretty embarrassing.” To be honest, I felt the same way. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this was a valuable lesson in growing old. Countless people in this world endure situations that are embarrassing. There is no reason I should be exempt from such experiences.
A few days ago, a friend called me. “I’ve been eating lunch at the senior center these days,” he said. “You come all the way here for that?” I asked. “I walk there and back. It’s good exercise.” Then I asked, “Doesn’t it feel embarrassing?” He laughed and said, “Pastors need to feel embarrassed occasionally. That’s how we learn what people go through. Once a church grows a little, some pastors start enjoying special treatment wherever they go. They walk around full of themselves. It’s not a pretty sight.”
To eat at the senior center, you learn to stand quietly in line and not complain. The other day I got scolded for trying to choose the banana I wanted. Finding an empty seat isn’t always easy either. And once people sit down to eat, they rarely speak to one another or even make eye contact.
At first, I found it very strange. Then it occurred to me that monastery dining halls are often like that. No one draws attention to themselves. No one acts important. No one expects special treatment.
Even though the room is full of people, there is very little conversation and almost no laughter. So, I tried to brighten the atmosphere by greeting people and making small talk. Then suddenly I caught myself. Part of me wanted others to notice that I was the pastor of the very church that operated this senior center. It was a subtle form of self-display. The center did not need me to take charge or improve the atmosphere. The staff and volunteers were already doing their jobs well. More than anything, it revealed a lifelong occupational habit—not a desire to learn, but a reflexive urge to teach; not a willingness to listen, but an instinct to lead.
Standing in line at a ministry operated by my own church, I was simply another old man waiting for lunch. And perhaps that was exactly what I needed to learn. These days, I am working hard at learning how to grow old well.
Perhaps it begins with something as simple as standing quietly in line.