I'm glad now, at age 66, that I never used alcohol or tobacco...

When Jerry Falwell, the preacher and founder of Liberty University, declared, “I’m glad now, at age 66, that I never used alcohol or tobacco... I’ve buried a lot of friends who used tobacco or alcohol,” he was not speaking from the pulpit of judgment but from the vantage point of experience. His words are simple yet profound, carrying the tone of a man who has seen the years unfold, who has walked through both life’s triumphs and its funerals, and who now speaks with the calm authority that comes only with age. Beneath his statement lies not only a moral warning, but a meditation on discipline, mortality, and the quiet strength that comes from choosing restraint over indulgence.

Falwell, a man who dedicated his life to faith, education, and social engagement, understood that every decision — however small — is a seed that grows across the decades. In his youth, his abstinence from alcohol and tobacco may have seemed austere, even old-fashioned. But as the years passed and his friends fell to illness, addiction, and the slow toll of vice, his conviction transformed into gratitude. His words speak to the truth that wisdom is often born in hindsight, and that the choices made in youth echo long into the corridors of old age. What once feels like sacrifice may, in time, reveal itself as salvation.

The ancients understood this truth well. In the temples of Greece and the monasteries of the East, the wise spoke often of the virtue of temperance — the ability to master desire before desire masters you. The philosopher Epictetus, though born a slave, taught that true freedom is found not in doing whatever one wants, but in being free from the things that enslave the soul. Falwell’s words carry this same spirit: to abstain is not to deny life’s pleasures, but to preserve life’s purpose. For the pleasures that promise escape often bring bondage, and the indulgences that comfort the moment may poison the years that follow.

There is, in his reflection, a shadow of sorrow as well. “I’ve buried a lot of friends,” he says — not in anger, but in mourning. His abstinence was not a boast, but a lament that many could not share his path. In this, Falwell reminds us that self-discipline is not only self-protection, but an act of love. For every person who chooses health, clarity, and sobriety stands as a light to those still struggling in darkness. His statement becomes not a condemnation of others, but a gentle urging to the living: take care of your vessel, for it carries not only your body but your destiny.

History, too, is filled with those who discovered the same truth too late. The poet Edgar Allan Poe, whose genius burned bright, was consumed by the very intoxication he sought to control. His brilliance, drowned in despair, serves as a mirror to Falwell’s wisdom — that indulgence, however romanticized, exacts a terrible price. And yet, for every Poe, there is also a Benjamin Franklin, who practiced moderation, or a Florence Nightingale, who guarded her body as she guarded her mission. These figures remind us that self-control is the foundation of endurance, and that endurance is the root of legacy.

To be “glad at age 66” is to have lived long enough to see the fruit of one’s restraint. Falwell’s words are not the voice of deprivation, but of freedom — freedom from addiction, from regret, from the tyranny of the moment. He speaks as one who has endured the test of time, who has chosen the path of long light over short fire. His gratitude is not pride, but peace — the peace that comes when the choices of youth align with the wisdom of age.

So, O listener, take heed of this lesson. Guard your habits, for they become your fate. What you take into your body, you take into your future. Let not fleeting pleasure steal from you the joy of longevity, the strength of mind, or the clarity of purpose. Choose moderation; honor your health as the instrument through which your spirit fulfills its calling. The body is not the enemy of the soul but its companion — treat it with reverence, that it may serve you well in the years to come.

Thus, the teaching endures: discipline is not denial, but devotion. The one who walks in restraint walks toward freedom. The one who lives with care lives long enough to see the blessings of their choices. And like Jerry Falwell, standing in the twilight of his years, you too may one day look back and say — with gratitude, not regret — that wisdom has kept you alive to witness the goodness of time.