In honor of Joyce and Graeme Strickland’s 80th birthdays
Today we’re marking a birthday.
And birthdays have a way of making us honest.
They make us count years.
And then—quietly—they make us measure worth.
We live in a culture obsessed with youth.
Youth as relevance.
Youth as innovation.
Youth as proof that you still matter.
If success doesn’t come early, we’re told it probably won’t.
If something takes time, we assume something went wrong.
If wisdom comes slowly, we stop listening.
Judaism says: all of that is a lie.
Last week, when we read from the Torah, there was a verse that could easily have slipped past us:
“Moses was eighty years old, and Aaron was eighty-three, when they spoke to Pharaoh.”
That detail is not incidental.
The Torah is making a claim about when authority is earned.
And the proof is right in front of us—
because what begins for Moses at 80
is the leadership that still shapes us now.
A week later in the Torah,
centuries later in the Jewish world,
we are still reading about Moses.
Still following his leadership.
Still shaped by his voice.
What begins at 80 is not the end of the story.
It is the authority that carries the story forward.
It is the story.
Moses does not step into leadership young.
In his youth, he sees injustice—and he kills an Egyptian in a moment of moral urgency.
The Torah does not deny his outrage.
But it shows us the cost of acting before wisdom has caught up with passion.
Moses has to flee.
He disappears from public life.
He becomes a husband. A father.
A long time passes—the Torah is explicit about that.
He lives a quiet, unnoticed life:
working, waiting, learning what power can and cannot do.
And then—after the encounter at the burning bush—
Moses finally stands before Pharaoh.
And suddenly, the Torah becomes very specific:
“Moses was eighty years old.”
At 80, Moses has changed.
Not because he never gets angry again—he does.
He will smash the tablets he receives on Mount Sinai.
He will enforce the law with severity.
He will make decisions that are painful and hard.
But there is a difference.
In youth, anger explodes without authority.
In maturity, anger is held within responsibility.
Moses no longer acts alone.
He no longer reacts on impulse.
He acts within the covenant—
with accountability,
with an understanding of the cost of power
before he dares to wield it.
In the ancient book Pirkei Avot, we are taught that 80 is the age of gevurah—inner strength.
Not physical power.
Not speed.
But strength shaped by patience,
by restraint,
by knowing when to act—
and when waiting is itself part of the work.
Here is the lesson Judaism insists on teaching, even when our culture resists it:
If you haven’t put in the time,
you don’t get to dismiss those who have.
We honor elders not because they are perfect,
but because they have endured.
Because they have seen cycles repeat.
Because they have learned lessons life only teaches over time—
lessons you can’t download, rush, or skip.
This is strength.
This is wisdom.
Immediate success is impressive.
But it’s fragile.
Enduring wisdom is quieter.
And it lasts.
That is why Judaism does not worship youth—
but neither does it romanticize age.
What it honors
is responsibility earned over time.
That is why experience is not a liability, but a qualification.
That is why a life lived slowly, faithfully, and attentively
can carry responsibility others cannot.
So today is not just about marking a birthday.
It is about reclaiming a truth our culture keeps forgetting:
Years do not diminish purpose.
They refine it.
Patience is not weakness.
It is preparation.
That is the power of 80.
And it is a blessing.
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