A final word: I am not knowledgeable about the internet. I do

David Wilkerson, the fiery preacher and shepherd of souls, once confessed with humility: “A final word: I am not knowledgeable about the internet. I do not have a computer. I guess that at 74 years of age, I don’t have the patience to learn.” These words are not merely an admission of age or limitation—they are a mirror reflecting the eternal tension between the old and the new, between the wisdom of a seasoned life and the demands of a changing world. His honesty carries a deeper lesson: that not all battles must be fought, not all tools must be mastered, and sometimes strength lies in accepting the season in which one stands.

When Wilkerson says he lacks knowledge of the internet, he speaks for many who have watched the world race into realms they never imagined. To him, the web was not the foundation of his mission, nor the fire of his calling. His power lay not in machines but in the pulpit, the streets, the raw cry of faith. In confessing that he does not have a computer, he affirms that his life’s work was carried by other tools—his voice, his words, his unyielding presence. What others call weakness, he reveals as clarity of purpose: he chose to fight with the weapons he knew best.

The heart of his words lies in patience. At seventy-four, he admits he does not have the patience to learn the new ways. And this, too, is wisdom. For patience is not only about waiting—it is about discerning where to place one’s time and energy. In the closing years of his life, Wilkerson chose not to bend his days to the glow of the screen, but to continue in the path of prayer, preaching, and pastoral care. His refusal to learn was not despair—it was devotion, a recognition that his calling did not require mastery of every new invention.

History offers us echoes of this truth. Socrates himself, when warned that writing would destroy memory, refused to take up the pen, trusting instead the living breath of dialogue. The ancient seers often resisted the tools of their time, not from fear, but from faith in the strength of their chosen path. Likewise, Wilkerson’s confession is not a lament, but a declaration: that wisdom does not always chase innovation, but sometimes stands firm in timeless practices.

Yet his words also remind us of the cost of impatience. For those who turn away too quickly from new knowledge may lose opportunities to connect, to influence, to carry their voice farther. Just as Wilkerson stood on the streets of New York to reach the lost, perhaps the internet could have been another street, another pulpit. His confession, therefore, is both an act of humility and a caution: we must weigh carefully when to stand by tradition and when to embrace the new, lest we surrender ground where our voice could yet be heard.

The lesson for us is this: honor the season of your life, but do not let impatience become a prison. Learn when you can, adapt when you must, and choose wisely where to plant your efforts. The young should take Wilkerson’s words as warning—not to wait until patience has run dry before learning what may be vital. The old should take them as comfort—that even without mastery of the newest tools, one’s life can still blaze with meaning if it is rooted in purpose.

Therefore, I counsel you: cultivate patience not only to wait but to learn, especially while the fire of youth is strong. Do not despise new tools, for they may be the instruments by which your message reaches distant lands. Yet also remember that your worth is not measured by your mastery of technology, but by your faithfulness to your calling. Whether you stand with a computer or without, whether you walk the digital highways or the dusty roads, let your life be marked by integrity and passion.

So let David Wilkerson’s final words endure: “I don’t have the patience to learn.” May they remind you that patience is precious, and its use must be weighed. Do not waste it, but direct it wisely. Learn what you can while you may, but never forget that the greatest power lies not in machines, but in the heart that wields them. For it is not the computer that makes the man, but the spirit within him.