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by Bob Roberts, Jr.

I want to know that some pastor out there made it. I don't mean that he became a religious success story, but that he completed the race. I want to know that he didn't have to lose his sanity or morality to do it. I want to know that ministry really is what we say it is. I want hope that I will really be more than what I do, and stay true to who I am.

I need an old man.

Neil Young, in his song "Old Man," sings, "Hey, Old Man, take a look at yourself: you're a lot like me. I need someone to show me the whole way through."

Sometimes I feel like a windmill—blowing in the wind so fast but never going anywhere. Sometimes I feel like a small, hyperactive child who never grew up; I just got older.

I need a pastor who will show me his scars so I'll know I can survive being cut open. I need an old man who has asked the same questions I've asked and doesn't think I'm a heretic because I ask them. I'm not sure I need a model, just a person who is willing to talk honestly.

In my attempt to understand busters and boomers—the ones I give myself to reach-I know little about "bombers," those who were born during the Depression and World War II. I've discovered that boomers and busters aren't going to be there for me; they're too busy. But a bomber, though twice my age and not nearly as current, still flies and understands flying (though perhaps not with jet speed and current technology).

Recently I found an old man for my life, and already I thank God for him.

First, my old man isn't too big for someone like me. A pastor of a large, flagship church once told me to drop him a line and we'd get together. I wrote, and he replied with an autographed copy of his latest book and a note: "You can imagine how busy I am. But in God's timing we shall meet."

In contrast, once when I shared deep hurt with my old man, he wept with me. He then told about a hurt in his life.

My old man listens to me, not like an operator obligated to listen, but with eyes looking into my soul and hands holding his chin, like a man praying intently. I've learned I can talk ministry philosophy with him, because even if he disagrees with me, his goal is not to make me exactly like him.

Second, my old man has moved beyond technique and into touch. As young men, we thought that if we just had the right technique, all would be well. Then we got the technique, and it even worked, but it still didn't make it all well inside of us. My old man has no charts, programs, breakthroughs. But he understands the power of passion. "If you think you're big enough!" seems to be his reply. "Be ambitious for God!"

We've pushed physical limits by rapelling, rafting—I've even been part of "baptizing" him in a spirit of Christian love and force in the Watauga River.

Third, my old man teaches me by illustration of his life. I've never seen anyone be so open about his fears. One night I asked him, "I've heard you talk a lot about getting older. Why are you afraid of it?"

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