I AM NOT sure that it is a good thing that so many world leaders are old men. Without wanting to sound ageist, I can’t help noticing that Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin, Xi Jinping, Narendra Modi, Recep Tayyip Erdogan, and Benjamin Netanyahu are all over 70. President Trump is the oldest, at 79.

The elderly have much to contribute, of course — and I would say so, being 75 myself, and therefore technically geriatric, as I discovered on a recent visit to my GP practice. But there is a danger in “gerontocracy”, especially when it comes with the belief that leaders should be fathers or even grandfathers to their nations, to the point of controlling the succession, or sacrificing younger and possibly more capable rivals.

The traditional reward of the great patriarch is a form of apotheosis. Death is merely a transition to a permanent semi-divine status. Mao Tse-tung’s image was still visible in Red Square during China’s recent military parade; his Little Red Book still has a status like that of scripture. In North Korea, Kim Il-Sung is regarded as the “eternal” President, in spite of being succeeded first by Kim Jong II, and then by his portly son, Kim Jong Un.

In contrast, we are all aware of the vulnerability of elderly leaders and alert to signs of failing health. Think of how we watched Joe Biden’s stumbling gait and diminishing mental capacities. At the start of the Ukraine War, there were endless rumours that President Putin had cancer or some other serious disease. President Trump’s high colour and swollen ankles are similarly noted as possible signs of illness.

We should remember that the Christian Church has an investment in gerontocracy. The word from which “priest” is derived is “presbyter”, “elder”. Bishop Polycarp of Smyrna was in his eighties when he was martyred. St Nicholas, Bishop of Myra, became Father Christmas, the archetypal giver of gifts. Popes are usually for life: Benedict XVI’s retirement was exceptional.

One of the most extraordinary old men I have ever met was Roland Walls, an Anglican priest and founder of an ecumenical community just outside Edinburgh. He was a scholar and a natural contemplative; he never wrote much, but he was holy, wise, and often irreverently funny. He said to me once: “Old men need Mum,” which was an enigmatic way of explaining why, at an advanced age, he decided to become a Roman Catholic. He modelled, for me, a way of being an old man without needing to control other people’s future, but content to continue exploring for himself.

Christians should remember that we follow a master who did not live into old age, who welcomed children, supported women, and chose nonentities to be his disciples. And the only Father-figure he taught us to revere is Our Father who is in heaven.