A significant legacy requires a lifetime of paying attention to God, to others and to the shape of one’s commitments.
I was in San Antonio when the news of Buckner Fanning’s death broke. Television stations and newspapers reported expansively on this beloved Baptist minister known as “pastor to the city.” He was a welcoming presence to people of all faiths, and he could interpret the gospel in pithy, memorable words. At nearly 90 and diminished by a recent stroke, he was far from forgotten. He had managed to befriend a wide swath of people, and many offered fond recollections of how he had touched their lives.
One person told me how it would take at least 20 minutes for him to get to his table in a restaurant because so many wanted to speak with him. It was the same when he departed; it took 20 more minutes to get out the door. He did not see this as a bother; rather it was an opportunity to check on folks. He was known for this kind of public pastoral care.
As I witnessed this outpouring of love, I considered what it means to leave a legacy. Most likely when Dr. Fanning was a young preacher, he gave little thought to what his lasting reputation might be. He was concerned about the pressing tasks at hand, and obviously he gave himself to them with energy and commitment. I wonder at what point he consciously decided the legacy he wanted to craft?
No life is without contradictions, and humans are usually more generous when summing up the lives of others when they die. Flaws and failures do not ultimately destroy the legacy, especially if a person has dealt redemptively with these, bearing “fruit worthy of repentance.” Yet, the arc of one’s life is distinctive, and the enduring impact matters. One of the themes of Fanning’s life was his generous interest in people from all walks of life.
I have a friend who works with senior adults. She is fond of saying, “The older you get the more like yourself you become.” Now this is good news if one is kind and patient; it is really bad news if one is whiny or self-absorbed. When a life is distilled to its essence, what remains?
Kathleen Norris observes that in a monastic community one encounters “old people in whom pretense has been so stripped away that their holiness is palpable.” These persons become lamps to others. Their joyful and generous attitudes bear witness to years of listening, prayer and stability in a community that burnished them.
Norris tells the story of an aged Benedictine monk whose life was suffused with joy. One day she accompanied another monk to visit this elder who had taken a bad fall earlier in the week. When a nurse tapped on his door announcing two visitors, he responded with “Ah … it’s a sweet life.” As they entered, he repeated his glad greeting, “it’s a sweet life.” His injuries were forgotten in the pleasure of receiving others as Christ, a foundational Benedictine virtue. Encountering these elders can be transformative for the younger ones who encounter what they may hope to become.
What do you desire to be remembered for? What words will summarize your life? Will your eulogy describe you as generous, joyous, merciful, kind — or critical, stingy, judgmental, pompous? While the minister and family members will probably not mention the negative in the funeral setting, people will remember the true impact of a life. As Maya Angelou wrote, “People will always remember how you make them feel.”
In his fine book Road to Character, David Brooks compares our résumé virtues, which are about achieving name recognition, wealth and status, and our eulogy virtues that exist at the core of our being. He advocates great intentionality in paying more attention to the latter, a neglected practice in our day.
Alasdair MacIntyre strikes a similar note in his important work After Virtue. He laments the vacuous nature of modern moral discourse, finding it basically in grave disorder. Earlier ethical reasoning relied on the teleological idea that human life has a proper end or character, and that human beings must diligently prepare for this reckoning. This perspective did not survive the Enlightenment as the “turn to the subject” prevailed. Ascribing moral agency to individuals meant that personal subjectivity came to dominate and, consequently, the received ethical tradition based on Aristotelianism fractured. Virtue and moral discourse were no longer rooted in communities that could sustain them, and society foundered.
These perceptive writers call new attention to the human condition and our prospects for crafting a significant legacy. Such requires a lifetime of paying attention to God, to others, and to the shape of one’s commitments, grounded in community. I imagine Buckner Fanning entered the great cloud of witnesses hearing these words: “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.” I trust we all press toward that goal.