awkward

#CringeLivesMatter

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Over the holidays my wife was out bargain hunting with me and we stopped at a strip mall where there was a pop-up store in one of the unleased spaces.  We had parked at the wrong end of this clearly past its prime shopping plaza and near what appeared to be a Christmas party of some sort which I glanced at before heading to the discount shop a few doors down.

On the way back, after purchasing a box of used baseball gear, there was an older gentleman who beckoned me and my son to come inside.  My wife wasn’t interested and returned to the car, but I wanted to be friendly and thought my eleven-year-old may enjoy meeting Santa. 

Upon entering, there was nothing wrong with anything I saw as my eyes swept the room.  They had various stations set up, there was a Mr. and Mrs. Claus, as one may expect, but the place wasn’t brimming with children and the average age most likely exceeded me by a decade or two.  So we sauntered in past the ladies positioned to receive the guests towards the promising display of cookies and treats. 

“Hmm…maybe we’ll come back to this?”

I didn’t bother to politely pluck a pastry as we turned towards the other folding tables, stopping first at the one with the coffee urn, warming CJ to the idea, by suggesting, “Hey, maybe they have hot chocolate mix!”  Nope, I guess not.  I quickly observed that cocoa was not available, segued to coffee, and—no cups.  I didn’t feel like bothering anyone and my son had found a craft station where they had little ornament tree cookies for him to paint.  He used an embarrassing amount of orange and blue paint to make a little brown for the trunk, but we achieved success and I worked on my exit strategy.

We humored the sweet old ladies on the way out (including one actually the size of an elf and appropriately dressed to play the part) then passed their brochures on the way out were they such and such county patriots or something?  Not sure.  But definitely fits a stereotype I have in my mind of the “save the children” picketers and people who rant online about chemtrails.  They could be the January 6th grandma, showing up to throw their support behind Trump and ending up a felon for their undocumented tour.

Whatever the case, these probably were not the popular kids in school, not the members of the homecoming court, valedictorian or star athlete of the football team, but those of very average abilities.  Some likely served in the military, most probably worked those mundane blue-collar jobs our politicians tell us Americans don’t want to do.  They’re the forgotten people.  Those who never had a way out of flyover country struggled to make the payment on the picking truck in from of their trailer park home, and even this party was awkward as there were.

This was real grassroots politics.  Not those well-funded astroturf campaigns that get only glowing sympathetic reports from the corporate media.  Nah, unlikely darling BLM or Antifa, these people are the true outcasts of our society, and when I look at them with a judgmental tone.  I mean, there’s nothing wrong with their little outreach effort, I know they put work and planning into it, but still, I cringe as if the coastal elites will somehow think of me as different if I mock and throw these rubes under the bus.

I know how the internet treats these people, in one breath denouncing these lower class folks as being “privileged” and then, in the next, making fun of them for their crooked teeth or poor spelling.  How many of those who smirk and sneer have a “Be Kind” sign in their front yard?  I thought of this today as some older folks, some of them likely to wear a MAGA hat, tried to arrange a singles meet on the local community board only for an attractive 30-something female to call this effort “creepy” as if lonely people should be seen and not heard.

The thing is, there is no social benefit to our showing compassion to truly downtrodden people.  While I would certainly get praise from the ‘cool’ people for showing up at a Black Lives Matter event, I get nothing for speaking up for the kind of people eliciting a cringe-response.  This is another thing that feeds my skepticism about Christianity, the most ‘mission-minded’ uncles, those who appear to show love for the people of the world, will uncritically parrot the most negative characterizations of these people as if they’re lessor than.

And I get it.  How can we respect someone who is unsophisticated and doesn’t know the difference between they’re, there or their, like we do?  These people are likely high school dropouts, and certainly not professionals or professors, and (as awfully dumb as they are) are obviously brainwashed by the most dangerous and anti-democratic man in the history of America!  No, we can’t take their grievance seriously. Instead, we’ll label them as “racist” “xenophobic” and “white nationalist” so we feel free to dismiss all they say as rubbish.

Meanwhile, the current party favorites can do no wrong, even if their violence is good.  Torch a city and they’ll tell us straight-faced, while the fires burn, that this was “mostly peaceful protest,” but question their election result and enter the Capital building (like many on the left have done in the past when things don’t go their own way) and suddenly it is an “insurrection.”  While they hunt down and gleefully prosecute those grandmas for their unauthorized tour—nobody on Jeffery Epstein’s client list gets investigated.  Tell me again how you care about justice?

Far-left protestors take over capital in Madison to subvert the democratic process


Maybe I should just join the disdainful and look down my nose at my neighbors?  They have nothing really to offer me.  They had jobs that could be outsourced and can be replaced with migrants from South of the border who work for less pay, right?  Besides that, most of these folks will be dead in a decade or two, why not look to the future?  And yet if we do then we should admit what we are and quit acting as if we’re these wonderful Christ-following people for being completely in sync with the Hollywood activist in-crowd. Maybe Jesus wouldn’t pile on the world’s favorite whipping boy?

Ken Metzler — A Tribute to the Unsung Heroes

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In the world of sports there are the stars and then there are the role players.  The stars get the attention, the glory, while the role players work quietly behind the scenes, and yet would Michael Jordan be famous without his supporting cast?

This past week one of those supporting cast men died after becoming infected by Covid-19, having succumbed on Tuesday of this past week, on the same day as another regular during my growing up days, Lenore Miller, 89, who loved to use testimony time at church to sing, and passed after becoming ill of the same disease.

John Kenneth Metzler, 82, better known as just “Ken,” had been in poor health for the past decade and really seemed to be living on borrowed time as it was.  He was born in 1938, February 15, in Lancaster County, the faithful husband to his wife of 60 years, Arlene, and proceeded in death by his daughter Brenda.

I almost didn’t write anything about Ken.  I mean, the Mennonite denomination is my past and Ken was simply Ken.  A deacon in the church.  But an awkward and common man.   He ran a muffler shop for years, lived in a little ranch house beside it, drove a Chrysler minivan for years (completely practical like him) and spoke with his totally unsophisticated dutchified drawl.

Not really the kind who gets invited to speak in front of the crowds nor mentioned as someone noteworthy, and yet someone always willing to serve.

I’ll admit, as a teenage punk, who knew nothing and prioritized ‘coolness’ over substance of character, Ken was annoying for his self-effacing style.  He would literally apologize for himself while sharing a devotional, for his lack of education and many shortcomings. 

He also held some odd views, like the time he confessed to enjoying the comics page and acted as if it was some sort of terrible transgression.  He would also, while teaching youth Sunday school, ask questions that would be more suitable for kindergarten students, which would leave everyone confused thinking he was asking rhetorically and him frustrated (or “fuss-trated” in his persistent Lancaster dialect) thinking we weren’t paying attention.

But in the end? 

Ken was a man with a golden heart, who became more and more endearing as I matured and, despite his slightly stooped posture, had all the true qualities of a hero.

There are plenty of flashy Mennonites, big fish in their small ponds, who act as “missionaries” or “evangelists” and are roundly praised for their efforts.  Many of them have the perfect hair, the superior intelligence, the pedigree and popular families.  They travel to the exotic places, some have the academic credentials too, they have the wealth (or access to resources) and reputation for their wonderfulness.

Ken had none of that pomp and pizzazz.  He wouldn’t want it even if he were capable.  Instead he, slow and steady, like the persistent tortoise compared to the haire of children’s book fame, he worked mostly unrecognized for the good of others.  If it was to cut someone a break on a repair bill at his shop or consistently running the canned goods distribution, you would hardly have noticed his contribution. 

When crowns in heaven are distributed, I believe there will be many surprises.  But it will not be a surprise to me if Ken received a reward bigger than that of the known names.  No, he did not lead the church outreach, but he supported it wholeheartedly, and remained long after the charismatic movers and shakers chased after that next new and exciting project.  He stayed, stayed true to his commitments, and is a hero in a world full of vain and self-serving ‘good’ men.

Ken also died as he lived.  He could have, given his poor physical health, cowered in fear and never left his home. Nobody would have criticized him for doing this, he was clearly in that most at risk category and could not be faulted for hiding out the pandemic.  But then why miss out on life when you already know that your days are numbered?  He got out instead, remained a part of the community, and that is a choice that I respect—even recommend.

Ken’s death was not a big surprise to me.  My initial reaction when I heard he had been at church when a visiting chorus was there, basically a Covid super-spreader event, was to think, “oh, Ken,” and question the wisdom. 

But, on second thought, Ken made the right and heroic choice.  Ken knew that risk of death isn’t a reason to stop living.  He had been on death’s door before and made a deliberate choice. 

Ken, unlike many in this age, understood life is difficult and every day is a gift.  He may have lived a year or two more, possibly, but was not long for this world by any reasonable assessment.  Sure, he likely suffered, he spent his last days alone because of nonsense policies created by administrators, but he was a man who never had it easy and lived a life of faith and sacrifice.

Real heroes don’t wear capes or live in the pages of comic books, most of them do not die in some grand saving-the-world deed, many of them pass unnoticed. They quietly play their role, in the background, until it is time to go home.