Jeremiah found him in the back corner of The Shepherds Cafe, the quiet side where the light was softer and the noise didn’t chase you. The man sat with both hands wrapped around a mug he wasn’t drinking. His shoulders were broad, but they sagged like a porch beam that had held too much weight for too many seasons.
Jeremiah didn’t rush him. He simply slid into the chair across from him and let the silence do what it does when it’s safe: it invites truth to come out.
The man cleared his throat. “I’m tired,” he said, like he was confessing a crime.
Jeremiah nodded once. “Tired is honest. What kind of tired?”
The man stared into his cup. “All of it. Body tired. Mind tired. I’ve worked my whole life. My knees ache. My back’s about done. I’m trying to make it to retirement from the job… and if I’m being honest…” He hesitated, then said it anyway. “I want to retire from church work too.”
Jeremiah didn’t act shocked. He didn’t reach for a cliché. He watched the man’s face, the lines that told the story of decades spent keeping promises.
“I don’t mean I’m leaving the Lord,” the man quickly added, like he was afraid Jeremiah would misunderstand him. “I just… want to sit down. I don’t want phone calls. Don’t want responsibilities. Don’t want to be asked to teach, help, visit, fix, pray, counsel, serve, organize—none of it. I just want to come, sit, worship, and go home.”
Jeremiah leaned back and took a slow breath. “I hear you,” he said. “And I’m going to tell you the truth in a way you can actually use.”
The man looked up, wary but listening.
Jeremiah spoke gently. “There is such a thing as retiring from secular work. Your body has limits. Time has limits. Employers understand that. But spiritually…” He paused. “There is no such thing as spiritual retirement. Not while you’re breathing.”
The older man frowned. “That sounds like a life sentence.”
Jeremiah’s eyes stayed kind. “It is a sentence. It’s just not a punishment. It’s a calling.”
He opened his Bible with the slow confidence of someone who had walked with these passages through real life, not just sermons.
“Listen to Paul,” Jeremiah said, turning the pages. “‘I have fought the good fight, I have finished the course, I have kept the faith’” (2 Timothy 4:7, NASB). He tapped the verse lightly. “Paul didn’t say, ‘I retired.’ He said, ‘I finished.’”
The man’s gaze drifted back down.
Jeremiah continued. “And a few verses later Paul says, ‘The time of my departure has come’ (2 Timothy 4:6). That’s when the work ends—when the departure comes. Not when the knees start hurting.”
The man’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know what it feels like to be this old.”
Jeremiah nodded, receiving the rebuke without offense. “You’re right. I don’t know your exact pain. But I do know this: God does not measure your service by your energy level. He measures it by your faithfulness.”
He turned to another passage. “Hebrews 3:14 says we have become partakers of Christ if we hold fast… until the end.” He looked the man in the eye. “Not until you feel like you’ve done enough. Until the end.”
The older man swallowed. “So what am I supposed to do? Keep going until I collapse?”
Jeremiah shook his head immediately. “No. That’s the lie that makes this conversation feel cruel. Let’s separate two things: your assignment may change, but your devotion does not.”
He pointed toward the window where people were crossing the street, hurrying in and out of shops. “Some people think retirement means becoming useless. But in the kingdom of God, retirement is not the end of service—it’s often the beginning of a different kind of service.”
The man didn’t respond, so Jeremiah went on.
“Let me give you a picture,” Jeremiah said. “Think about Moses. He was eighty when God sent him back into the fight (Exodus 7:7). Caleb said, ‘I am still as strong today as I was in the day Moses sent me’—and he asked for the hill country at eighty-five (Joshua 14:10–12). Anna was an elderly widow who served God with fastings and prayers night and day (Luke 2:36–37).”
Jeremiah’s voice lowered. “None of those people were playing games. God used them late.”
The man stared. “That’s the problem. I don’t want to be used late.”
Jeremiah didn’t flinch. “Then let’s name the deeper thing. It’s not just tiredness. It’s discouragement.”
The man’s eyes flashed, then softened. “Maybe. Maybe it is.”
Jeremiah nodded. “Discouragement makes a man want to disappear. It makes a man want to go quiet and call it peace.”
He turned to Galatians. “‘Let us not lose heart in doing good, for in due time we will reap if we do not grow weary’” (Galatians 6:9, NASB). He tapped the words lose heart. “Paul didn’t say you won’t get weary. He said don’t let weariness turn into quitting.”
The older man ran a hand over his forehead. “I’m not trying to quit God. I’m just tired of being needed.”
Jeremiah nodded slowly. “That’s honest. But I’m going to tell you something most men your age don’t want to hear.”
The man waited.
Jeremiah said, “You don’t get to choose whether people need you. That comes with being seasoned. You do get to choose what kind of needed you become.”
He leaned in. “Some men become needed because they’re the fixer. The worker. The heavy lifter. And when their body starts failing, they feel like they’ve lost their value. But there’s another kind of needed that doesn’t require strong knees.”
The man’s face tightened with curiosity.
Jeremiah said, “A man your age can become the kind of needed that the church is starving for: steady wisdom, steady prayer, steady encouragement, steady example.”
The older man scoffed quietly. “Prayer doesn’t feel like work.”
Jeremiah’s eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in seriousness. “Then you’ve forgotten what prayer is.”
He opened to James. “‘The effective prayer of a righteous man can accomplish much’” (James 5:16, NASB). “Prayer is not a side activity. It’s front-line warfare.”
Then he turned to Colossians. “Epaphras is described as ‘always laboring earnestly for you in his prayers’ (Colossians 4:12, NASB). That word—laboring. Prayer can be work.”
The man shifted in his seat, listening now.
Jeremiah continued. “And you can disciple without lifting a thing. You can call a younger man and say, ‘Meet me for coffee. I want to talk about your marriage.’ You can sit with a teenager and say, ‘Let me tell you where I wasted time so you don’t.’ You can show up to worship and sing like you actually believe it—because you do. You can be consistent. You can be present. You can be the kind of older saint that younger Christians look at and think, ‘If he can hold faith at that age, I can hold faith now.’”
The man’s eyes glistened unexpectedly. “I don’t feel inspiring. I feel worn out.”
Jeremiah nodded. “Worn out isn’t disqualifying. Worn out is evidence you’ve been in the fight.”
He paused. “But we need to talk about one more thing.”
The man raised his eyebrows.
Jeremiah said, “Some people say they want to retire from spiritual work, but what they really want is to stop dealing with people. Because people are messy. People disappoint you. People don’t say thank you. People don’t change fast enough.”
The man looked away. That was answer enough.
Jeremiah’s tone stayed respectful. “Brother, if you served people expecting they would finally become easy, you were promised something God never promised.”
He opened to Luke. “Jesus said, ‘If anyone wishes to come after Me, he must deny himself, and take up his cross daily and follow Me’ (Luke 9:23, NASB). Daily. Not until sixty-five. Not until your body starts complaining. Daily.”
The older man’s voice cracked. “So what am I supposed to do with this tiredness?”
Jeremiah’s response was immediate. “Bring it to the Lord. And bring it to the church in the right way.”
He held up two fingers. “First: you are allowed to step down from roles that your body cannot sustain. That’s wisdom, not weakness. If you can’t do what you used to do, then you shouldn’t pretend you can.”
The man nodded, relieved.
“But second,” Jeremiah said, “you are not allowed to step down from discipleship. Not entirely. Not while you’re alive.”
He leaned forward. “You can change how you serve. You cannot stop serving.”
Jeremiah reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notepad. “Let’s build you a new plan. Not a guilt plan. A realistic plan.”
The man stared at the notepad like it was a lifeline.
Jeremiah wrote three lines.
A prayer list you actually use — five names. One weekly encouragement — a call, a text, or a note. One monthly investment — coffee with a younger man or couple.
He pushed it across the table. “That’s not heavy lifting. But it is ministry.”
The man read it twice. Then he whispered, “I could do that.”
“I know you can,” Jeremiah said. “And here’s what will happen: when you stop trying to serve like a thirty-year-old and start serving like an elder statesman of faith, you’ll regain your joy.”
The older man stared at the table. “What if I don’t want to be responsible for anyone anymore?”
Jeremiah answered softly. “Then remember who you belong to.”
He turned to Romans. “‘Whether we live, we live for the Lord, or whether we die, we die for the Lord; therefore whether we live or die, we are the Lord’s’” (Romans 14:8, NASB). He looked up. “If you are the Lord’s, your life is not your own to retire from.”
The man’s shoulders trembled slightly, the way they do when a man is trying not to cry in public.
Jeremiah lowered his voice. “Let me say it another way: the Lord doesn’t ask you to burn out. He asks you to finish.”
The man wiped his face quickly, embarrassed.
Jeremiah didn’t shame him. He said, “Finishing doesn’t always look like building projects and long drives and late nights. Sometimes finishing looks like showing up, praying hard, encouraging often, and refusing to let your heart go cold.”
The older man took a shaky breath. “I’ve been scared,” he admitted. “Scared that if I stop doing what I used to do, I won’t matter.”
Jeremiah nodded. “You matter because you are in Christ. Not because you’re useful.”
He let that settle, then added, “But you are useful. Just differently now.”
The café’s noise rose and fell around them like waves, but the corner booth felt still.
Jeremiah said, “Tell me your name again.”
The man answered.
Jeremiah wrote it at the top of the page. “This week,” he said, “you’re going to pick five names. And you’re going to start praying like a man who intends to finish well.”
The man nodded slowly. “Okay.”
Jeremiah stood, then hesitated. “Before I go, I want to pray for you.”
The man’s eyes were wet. “Please.”
Jeremiah bowed his head. “Father, thank You for a lifetime of work and faithfulness. Strengthen this brother. Give him wisdom to step away from burdens You are not asking him to carry anymore, and courage to keep carrying the calling You still have for him. Renew his joy. Guard him from bitterness. Help him to finish well, with faith steady and heart soft. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
When Jeremiah looked up, the older man’s face hadn’t changed into a superhero’s face. It was still lined. Still tired.
But something else was there now too.
Resolve.
He folded the notepad carefully like it was a new assignment—because it was.
And as Jeremiah walked away, he heard the man murmur, almost to himself, “Not retirement. Finish.”
Jeremiah smiled, not because it was neat and pretty, but because it was true.
In Christ, you don’t retire.
You remain faithful until the departure comes.