I caught myself laughing along with a couple of older hosts—until the laughter started to feel a little too rehearsed.
The whole “age equals grumpiness” vibe plays like a harmless punchline, but it lands on something sad: the idea that maturity doesn’t come with it, just socially acceptable meanness.
From punchlines to real character
On a recent episode of Pardon the Interruption—a show I’ve been watching faithfully since I was in middle school—co-hosts Tony Kornheiser and Mike Wilbon opened with a lighthearted riff on “National Nothing to Fear Day.” The cold open did what it always does: jokes, momentum, that familiar rhythm where fears get listed like confetti—snakes, spiders, emotional intimacy.
“None of that,” Tony quipped.
I laughed, sure.
And then—almost immediately—both men, each of whom is over retirement age, Tony considerably so, conceded their lists weren’t the only things increasing with age.
No, they both agreed that they’re getting grumpier as they’ve aged.
“The list of things that upset you get longer as you get older,” Tony said.
“Absolutely, yes,” Wilbon added.
It’s the kind of moment that’s treated as normal television texture.
But what if the assumption behind it is the problem?
What if we aimed instead for something truly countercultural, and thoroughly biblical—becoming older and gentler?
There’s a reason this question keeps scratching at the edges of pop culture: stories love the crank.
We’re bombarded with narratives where “old” means sharp elbows and warmer sarcasm.
You can feel it across film history, even when the plots don’t match.
From the 1993 eponymous romcom Grumpy Old Men to Clint Eastwood’s Gran Torino to Disney’s 2009 hit, Up, the grumpiness is the common thread.
Whether it’s feuding next-door neighbors competing for the affections of a widow; a racist veteran trying to make sense of his neighborhood’s changing demographics; or curmudgeonly Carl, the adventure-seeking septuagenarian—these characters are coded as ill-tempered.
The “grumpy old man,” which has become a popular narrative trope, is also a self-fulfilling prophecy.
The “fruit” argument against bitterness
But should it be?
I don’t think so.
The apostle Paul, in his letter to the Galatians, outlines the fruit of the Spirit: “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, [and] self-control.” (Gal.
5:22–23).
The fruit of the Spirit aren’t meant to be passing traits or youthful ideals.
No, they’re the markers of a life shaped by God.
“Christian virtues,” as Martin Luther put it.
If you take sanctification seriously (and it is!), you’d expect these traits to ripen and mature, not sour, over time.
As we age, the cultural script says we should become more set in our ways—more easily upset, more irritated by “kids these days.” But insofar as the “fruit” go, we should become more loving, more joyful, more peaceful, more patient, more kind, more good, more faithful, more gentle, more self-controlled.
And yet… how often is it the opposite?
We’re hateful.
Depressed.
Quarrelsome.
Impatient.
Unkind.
Unhelpful.
Unreliable.
Easily provoked to anger.
Undisciplined.
That list reads like a parody, except people recognize it too well.
We lionize the crank.
We chuckle at the retiree who shakes his fist at teenagers and complains about how everything used to be better.
We write off bitterness as an earned indulgence of old age.
But trials don’t have to make us bitter.
Yes, the older we get, the more losses we endure.
Our health declines, and our friends and loved ones pass away.
Institutions disappoint.
Dreams fade.
Life hits hard in manifold ways.
Still, with Christ’s help, trials can—and, with Christ’s help—they do, refine us (Rom.
5:3-5; James 1:2-4).
That’s the part we rarely let sitcom logic touch.
Now, let me quickly say that I don’t want to attack Mike or Tony.
I admire them both.
Their banter has been part of my regular rhythm for the better part of two decades.
But I do want to challenge the assumption baked into the claim that aging necessarily leads to irritability and detachment.
In a culture obsessed with youth (and terrified of aging), it’s tempting to reclaim relevance by embracing a caricature: we can’t be young and charming forever, so let’s be old and cantankerous.
But what if we aimed instead for something truly countercultural, and thoroughly biblical—becoming older and gentler?
Older and more patient.
Perhaps even older and kinder.
I know, it’s fictional, but there’s a moment in The Fellowship of the Ring when Frodo, newly burdened with the knowledge of the Ring’s evil, turns to Gandalf in despair: “I wish it need not have happened in my time,” he says.
Gandalf, old and weathered, does not chastise him or stoke his fear.
Instead, he answers with profound wisdom: “So do I… and so do all who live to see such times.
But that is not for them to decide.
All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”
That’s a portrait of maturity—what age, guided by grace, can become. Gandalf doesn’t respond to Frodo’s fear with cynicism or irritation. He doesn’t throw fuel on the fire or throw in the towel. No. Gandalf listens. He comforts. He inspires. Let’s hope many of us grow into Gandalfs.
The next time I hear someone treat grumpiness like proof of relevance, I’ll try to remember that I’m not just watching TV—I’m watching a cultural habit.
And habits can change.
The world tells us getting older means getting meaner.
More easily provoked.
More irritable.
Crankier.
But it doesn’t have to.
We don’t have to become grumpy old men.
In Christ, we can—and should—grow into the kind of “olders” Scripture envisions—warm and wise, charitable yet firm.
And not because we’ve seen it all, but because we’re being transformed by the One who sees all of us—and loves us still.
Kiki, drag balls, and the soft melancholy of Brassaï’s Paris