John Eldredge's Blog, page 9

Cutting the Cord: Cell Phone Addiction

I feel I need to begin this article with some sort of confession, like in a recovery meeting.

“Hi. My name’s John.” [The small group responds, “Hi John.”] “And I’m a user.” [Group leader says, “This is a safe place, John. Tell us your story.”] Shifting a little uneasily in my chair, I continue: “Well…I need it first thing in the morning. Every morning. I need it right before I go to bed. I have to get a fix even when I’m out to dinner with my wife. Or on vacation. I feel agitated and uncertain when I can’t find it. When it looks like I’m about to run out, I get panicky and look for some place to plug in, if you know what I mean.” [Group responds, “We understand.”]

Last month I was basically in paradise. My wife and I had slipped away from Colorado’s January snowstorms to the North Shore of Kauai. It is, without question, the most gorgeous of the Hawaiian Islands, maybe one of the most beautiful places on earth. Volcanic cliffs covered with lush tropical forest spill right down to the water’s edge. Hibiscus blossoms fall onto the peaceful rivers that wind their way through the jungle. This isn’t your tourist Hawaii. Apart from Princeville, the North Shore is way laid back, and after you cross a couple one-lane bridges, you feel you really could be on the edge of Eden.

Anini Beach is one of our favorite spots—far from the crowds, east of the Princeville scene, along a quiet neighborhood street that still has rural pasture and horses, if you can believe it. There is a reef about a hundred yards out which creates a massive protected lagoon where you can swim, snorkel, spearfish, SUP, hang out with the sea turtles. It is an utterly peaceful and enchanting place, made even more magical this year by huge winter surf which created 25-foot waves thundering out on the reef.

Sitting on the quiet beach there, with no one to our right or left for more than 200 yards of pristine white sand, it was so luscious I kind of expected Adam and Eve to go strolling by. Now—you’d think this would be enough to delight and enchant any soul, but as I took a stroll myself, I passed a guy sitting under a banyan tree… watching videos on his iPhone.

Wow.

You’re s’n me.

You can’t unplug from your technology even in a place like Kauai?

Now, to be fair, I bet this is what happened: He had his phone with him—because everybody always has their phone with them—and somebody texted him a funny YouTube video, and he couldn’t resist the urge, and that was that. He was glued to a little artificial screen watching some stupid cat sit on a toilet when all around him was beauty beyond description, the very beauty his soul needed.

And I saw myself in him.

Because I, too, had brought my phone with me to Anini, and I, too, responded when the little “chirp” alerted me to an incoming text. (We always have our excuses; every addict does. I was “keeping myself available to my children.”) The thing is, I’ve seen this all over the world. Fly fishing along a stunning stretch of water in Patagonia, and some dude has a rod in his right hand—line and fly out on the water—and in his left his cell glued to his ear, chatting away. I’ve seen people checking their email at the National Gallery of Art in London. And of course there are the users who can’t even turn it off at the movies. I’ve climbed a ridge to check my phone while hunting; I’ve kept it on the table out to dinner with my wife, “just in case.”

Neo was never so totally and completely plugged into and hopelessly dependent on the Matrix. But our umbilical cord is a lightning cable.

You know what I’m talking about.

I’m talking about our attachment to our smartphones—an attachment that goes way, way beyond “necessary tool” or “helpful device.” Do you have the courage to read on?

Knowing that denial is one of the stages of addiction, let me ask a couple questions: When your little Chime, Glass, or Swoosh alerts you to an incoming text, do you easily ignore it and go on with the conversation you are having, or reading what you are reading, or enjoying the back seat view as you drive through the desert? I’m serious—when that thing vibrates in your pocket, do you regularly ignore it? Or do you automatically reach to see? Can you shut your phone off when you get home in the evening and not turn it on again until morning? When you first get up in the morning, do you allow yourself a leisurely coffee and bagel before you look at your phone? Or is your phone the very first thing you look at every morning?

Yeah—me too.

And I hate cell phones. Which only shows how powerful the attachment is.

What blows my mind is how totally normal this has become. I’ve got a friend who decided to break with his addiction; he now turns his phone off over the weekend. I text him, and he doesn’t reply until Sunday night or Monday morning. And what’s fascinating to watch is my irritation. Like, C’mon, dude—you know the protocol. Everybody agrees to be totally available, anywhere, anytime, 24-7. It’s what we do. What does it say that you look like some sort of nut job when you turn your phone off?!

The early Desert Fathers fled civilization for their monastic outposts because they knew the “world” was corrupting their souls—in an age when everyone walked to work, there was no artificial light to extend the daytime late into the night, there was no internet, Wi-Fi, TV, Facebook, Youtube, no technology whatsoever. No smartphones.

What have we become accustomed to? What have we become dependent on? And what is it doing to our souls?

What does the constant barrage of the trivial, the urgent, the mediocre, the traumatic, the heartbreaking, the buffoonery do to us when it comes in an unending stream—unfiltered, unexplained, unproven, unexpected, and most of it unworthy—yet we pay attention on demand?

The brother of Jesus was trying to offer some very simple guidelines to a true life with God when, among other things, he said, “Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world” (James 1:27). That unpolluted part—that’s what worries me, when 81 percent of smartphone users keep their phone on at all times, even in bed (I’ll bet the number is much higher for Millennials, probably around 98 percent), and when we check our phones somewhere between 46 and 150 times a day.

The idea of forming a spiritual life is to create space in your day for God—to intentionally put yourself in a space that allows you to draw upon and experience the healing power of the life of God filling you. Over the ages, serious followers of Jesus have used stillness and quiet, worship, fasting, prayer, beautiful places, and a number of “exercises” to purposefully drink deeply of the presence of God. And to untangle their souls from the world. No one will care for your soul if you don’t.

So here are a couple steps I am taking:

I’m turning my phone off around 8:00 p.m. I’m choosing not to turn it back on first thing in the morning—not till I’ve had some time to pray. I’m putting it on silent mode during dinner and ignoring the buzz if it does vibrate. (Get this—it just buzzed while I was finishing this article, and my eyes started to glance over. Good God.) Last Saturday night Stasi and I went out on a date, and we left our phones at home. When it chirps or vibrates I’m not instantly responding like Pavlov’s dog; I’m deliberately making it wait until I am ready. In these small ways I am making my phone a tool again, something that serves me, instead of the other way around.

Gang—it’s time to cut the lightning umbilical cord.

Attention to Prayer

And so a new year has begun. And begun with something of a bang, it seems. A dear friend’s daughter is in the hospital. Another friend just got out. Yet another is launching a new mission venture while the son of friends leaves his career to start his own company. I don’t know if it’s the New Year itself or greater movements in the Kingdom, but my goodness—there is so much going on in the lives of the saints. A lot of good things; a lot of trial and testing. Time to give a little attention to prayer. 

 

This month we are releasing a new book on prayer, and we are very excited about what it is going to do for you. Prayer is the greatest secret weapon God has given his people. But many dear folks have lost heart over prayer; they haven’t found the breakthrough they were hoping for and they’ve given up on it. I understand; I have my own mixed story when it comes to prayer. I think much of the heartache and confusion can be cleared away with a better understanding of what prayer actually is and how it works… 

 

First, prayer is not just asking God to do something and then waiting for him to do it. I know that’s the popular view, but that is not what you see in the major stories of prayer in Scripture. Like the account from 2 Kings 18, where Elijah calls down rain to end a three-year drought. You remember the story—how the old prophet climbs to the top of the mountain, and sets himself to praying, then sends his servant to have a look. Elijah doesn’t just take a quick whack at it; no little, “Jesus, be with us today” prayers. Elijah is determined to see results. He bows, and prays, and then sends his manservant to see if it’s working—is it having any effect? I love his posture, his willingness to give it a go, see what happens, then adjust himself to the results. The servant returns with bad news. This is the point at which most of us give up, but the old prophet sticks at it; he has another go and sends his man to have a second look. Nothing. So, he takes his cloak off, puts his shoulder to the wheel, and gives it yet another try. He’s not letting the evidence discourage him. Six more times he sticks with it. 

 

By now the rest of us would have bailed down to Starbucks to commiserate about “the dark night of the soul,” and what to do with “the silence of God.” Not this old Israelite—he’s still up on the mountain, persevering. After eight rounds of prayer—and “rounds” really does feel like the right word by this point; you get the feeling they are like rounds in the ring, full of sweat and grit and a real going at it—after the eighth bell the servant says, “Well . . . there’s a puff of cloud on the horizon, not any bigger than your fist” and that’s all it takes; the storm is on its way. You get the impression that Elijah is partnering with God in the way he prays. Not just asking, but teaming with, joining in, enforcing the plans of God though prayer. It has dramatic results. 

 

And speaking of dramatic, what about the really startling report from Acts 12—where James is executed but Peter is freed from prison? Peter’s rescue is clearly connected to the prayers of the young church: “But while Peter was in prison, the church prayed very earnestly for him” (v. 5). James seems to have been seized and executed rather suddenly; the church is not reported to have been praying for him. Were they caught off guard? Then Peter is seized, and the church is reported to be praying earnestly, and his outcome is different. 

 

The Greek for “very earnestly” is the word ektenos. It is the very same adjective used to describe the prayer of Jesus in Gethsemane. What a noble, and sober, comparison. There in the olive grove at midnight was held the greatest prayer vigil of all time; we can be sure Jesus was praying with every ounce of his being, empowered by the Spirit, eyes fixed on his Father. That is the comparison being given here for the church’s prayers; Eugene Petersen translated the action this way: “the church prayed for him most strenuously” (Acts 12:5 MSG). That is how the church is praying—strenuously—and it produces dramatic results. 

 

This is the “Prayer of Intervention;” they are not just asking God and waiting; they are intervening in prayer for Peter, intending to change the outcome of events. Clearly, God does not just zap Peter out of prison. The church has to pray “strenuously” for him; the event goes on into the night. He does not zap the promised rain either—Elijah had to climb to the top of the mountain, and there he prayed rounds of intervening prayer. Intervening prayer often takes time. And it takes repetition, repeatedly intervening and invoking. (Eight rounds for Elijah). These men and women in Acts had spent three years with Jesus learning the ways of the Kingdom (there is a way things work). 

 

In the famous “Lord’s prayer” he taught them to invoke the kingdom: “Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven” (Mt 6:10). They understood that he had given them his authority: “I have given you authority” (Luke 10:19). The Prayer of Intervention involves a flow of “proclaiming, invoking and enforcing.” They proclaimed, they invoked, they enforced, just as the psalms taught them to do; just as Jesus taught them to do. 

 

We do not have to be passive victims of life, waiting until a distant God chooses to do something. We are friends and allies of our intimate God; he has given us power and authority to change the course of events ourselves. Human beings are meant to intervene, to engage, to make a difference. We can move mountains. It’s in our DNA. 

 

This feels like it’s going to be a big year. I think God has big plans. I think we are going to see some serious trials, too. So the timing of this book seems really extraordinary; it feels like God’s timing. Moving Mountains comes out February 16th. I think it will help you grow in your prayer life; I think you will begin to see far greater results. 

 

That is my prayer for you!

 

Beauty Heals

It had been one of Those Days.

You know the kind—when everything seems to go sideways from the moment you get out of bed.

There is no milk so there is no cereal and you are late so there is no breakfast. You are halfway to work when you realize you forgot your phone and who can live without their phone these days so you are late to work because you went back and got your phone and now you are behind on everything and people are tweaked at you. You can’t answer that urgent email because you are waiting for an answer yourself but the person who has it took the morning off for a “doctor’s appointment” (bullshit, you think; they are out for a ride). On it goes.

You look forward to lunch as your first chance to come up for air but the line at your favorite taco place is out the door and though you should have stayed you are already well on your way to totally fried so you leave in frustration which only makes you skip lunch which justifies your use of chocolate and caffeine to see you through the afternoon but that completely takes your legs out from under you and all you end up accomplishing is making the list of all the things you need to do which overwhelms you. By the time you get home you are seriously fried.

I was seriously fried—deep in a vat of anger and frustration and self-indulging cynicism and fatigue. A dangerous place to be. The next move could be rescue, or the KO punch.

After a cold dinner I went out on the porch and just sat there. I knew I needed rescue and I knew the nearest hope of that was the porch.

It was a beautiful Indian summer evening, the kind where the heat of the day has warmed the breezes, but you can also feel the cool from the mountains beginning to trickle down like refreshing streams. The crickets were going at it full bore, as they do when their season is about over, and the sunset was putting on a Western Art show. I could immediately feel the rescue begin to enter my body and soul. Beauty began its gentle work.

I let out a few deep sighs—“Spirit sighs,” as a friend calls them, meaning your spirit is breathing in the Spirit of God and you find yourself letting go of all the mess, letting go of everything. They weren’t cynical or defeated sighs, they were “letting it all go” sighs. My body relaxed, which made me realize how tense I had been all day. My heart started coming to the surface, as it often does when I can get away into nature and let beauty have its effect on me. Warm evening, cool breeze, beautiful sky now turning to that deep blue just before dark, crickets making their eternal melodies.

That’s when the carnival started.

A beer would make this a lot better, went the voice. Or maybe tequila. You oughta go find some cookies. Some agitated place in me started clamoring for relief. Even though the evening was washing over my soul, or maybe because it was allowing my soul to untangle, the carnival of desire started jockeying for my attention. I think there’s still some ice cream in the freezer.

It felt like two kingdoms were vying for my soul.

The carnival was offering relief. Beauty was offering restoration.

They are leagues apart, my brothers. Leagues apart.

Relief is momentary; it is checking out, numbing, sedating yourself. Television is relief. Eating a bag of cookies is relief. Tequila is relief. And let’s be honest—relief is what we reach for because it is immediate and it is usually within our grasp. Most of us turn there, when what we really need is restoration.

Beauty heals. Beauty restores. Think of sitting on the beach watching the waves roll in at sunset and compare it to turning on the tube and vegging in front of Narcos or Fear the Walking Dead. The experiences could not be farther apart. Remember how you feel sitting by a small brook, listening to its musical little songs, and contrast that to an hour of HALO. Video games offer relief; beauty offers restoration.

This is exactly what David was trying to put words to when he wrote that God “makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul” or as another translation has it, “He lets me rest in green meadows; he leads me beside peaceful streams. He renews my strength” (Ps 23:2-3). He is speaking of the healing power of beauty and oh, how we need it. The world we live in fries the soul on a daily basis, fries it with a vengeance. (It feels vengeful.)

So I stayed on the porch, choosing to ignore the chorus of vendors trying to get me to leave in search of some relief (Your favorite hunting show is on; maybe what you want is wine…). I knew that if I left all I would find was sugar or alcohol and my soul would be no better for it. So I chose to let the evening continue to have its healing effect.

The sunset was over. Night was falling and still I sat there. The evening itself was cool now, and an owl was hooting somewhere off in the distance. I could feel my soul settling down even more; the feeling was like “un-wrinkling” or “disentangling” on a soul level, maybe like what your body does in a hot tub. Thank you for this gift of beauty, I said. I receive it into my soul.

The carnival tried one last swing for the bleachers. There’s a women’s catalog on the counter in the stack of mail….Very, very clever. This counterfeit is harder to see, because now the offer is beauty. But you and I know when we give our soul over to the beauty of Eve, it never ever ends up healing the ache. Oh, sure—the relief feels almost instantaneous, but it never lasts (relief is not restoration) and it always comes with a shame hangover. But it does prove my point—when we reach there we are trying to heal something in us. We know down deep inside that beauty reaches those places like nothing else, and so the truly helpful thing to do is to stop and ask yourself, What is it I am trying to heal? What is the wound or the ache that I am trying to heal with the beauty of Eve?

Then what we do is turn to the true Source of beauty, the maker of all that is beautiful, and we ask for his love to come instead, and bring us restoration.

I made it through the last pitch and lingered on the porch just a little longer. Darkness, crickets, coolness, quiet. I felt like I had been through detox. And when I went to bed that night, it was as if the hellish day had never even happened. Restoration. So much better than mere relief.

Journals We Think Are Particularly Cool

A secret fishing hole. A hidden point break. The best carnitas tacos in town. There’s nothing like a good tip from somebody you have at least marginal confidence in. So, in a spirit of generosity towards what might be viewed as “competitors,” we thought we’d turn you on to some of our favorite (other) journals. One, because we love finding great reads, and Two, because we remain confident that even if we tell you about the other guys, no one is doing anything close to what we’re doing. So, here we go; this is what’s on our nightstand or in our bathroom…

Overland Journal 

A quarterly gem on some of the coolest vehicular adventures and the requisite gear for them (thus, over land journal). Put out by some guys who self-describe as, “Adventurers. Constantly traveling. Testing and using gear in real-world situations. Gaining experience, which we readily share.” It is an understatement. By adventures they mean stuff like (in the Spring 2015 issue) four dudes who drive—yes, drive—across Antarctica in specially equipped Toyota Hilux trucks. Some of our earlier favorites were a single gal in her 30s who rode a revved-up moped across Vietnam in search of the infamous Ho Chi Minh Trail, and, a bit closer to reality, great BMW GS bike trips across Death Valley. Fabulous photography, good adventure writing, truly helpful gear reviews. And the ads alone are worth it, because they are on some of the coolest adventure gear on the planet.

In fact, it was this journal that sealed our plans to make our second film series about a GS bike adventure through the backcountry of Colorado this August (stay tuned!). I was on a return flight home from some business trip I didn’t really want to be on, dog tired, crammed in the middle seat between two robust Ukrainians, and I took out this journal for a little medication. I opened to a review of “dual sport” adventure bikes, and as I read, that wonderful “still small voice” whispered inside, You should do it. We now have six used GS bikes in hand and plans are under way. Good proof for the inspirational power of any read.

 

The Drake                              

There are fly fishing magazines and then there is The Drake—a hip and stubborn departure from the fish-porn of most mags, featuring, yes, great articles on where the good fishing is—all around the world. (Fly fishing in India? You betcha. Tiger fish in Tanzania? Just mind the crocs.) But also great features closer to home, like Yellowstone cuts and Adirondack brookies and Olympic Peninsula steelhead and the bass in your local pond. Thoughtful essays on protecting the creation we love, new developments in gear and also fisheries management, good book and trend reviews, all done in a rather sassy “canned beer” sort of culture (like the recent article on how to find killer carp on the fly ten minutes from your own downtown, while sleeping out of your car).

Again, the ads are almost worth the price (“Five dollars. Ten for bait fisherman.”) The advertisers got the groove and the ads are funny, irreverent and feature some very cool gear. Articles are all written to fit a very specific time slot—about the time it takes to take care of…business, if you catch our meaning. Very Drake.

Backpacker      

Hang on—if you do anything outdoors, this magazine is worth your nickel. Yes, it is obviously on hiking, trekking and backpacking. But it also features phenomenal intel on good wilderness and great beauty not far from your door, with maps and websites offering more. Regular features on first aid, survival, gourmet camp cooking, physical training, outdoor photography techniques and more give you an idea of why even non-backpackers will dig this rag.

And yes, even if you simply want great beta on day hikes, this is the place to look. Now, we don’t particularly appreciate it when they run a feature on some of our favorite “hidden spots” (now hidden no more), but hey—we are generous enough to recognize that the more people love the outdoors, the more they are going to care for it and frankly, we think being outdoors is really good for human beings and does all sorts of wonderful things for the soul. Dreaming of backpacking through Scotland? They got you covered. Jordan? No problem (well, other than armed conflict, which is outside the magazine’s responsibilities). We love their regular “off the beaten path” info on the National Parks.

Plus, their gear reviews are famous. Like, they really go out and test all sorts of stuff in all sorts of climates and conditions and tell you what works and what doesn’t and where the really good deals are. Sunglasses, headlamps, running shoes, knives, rain gear, stoves, UPF clothing, camp showers, tents…you get the idea. These guys have been around forever, and we’re really glad they survived the widespread magazine collapse of the late ‘90s.

Eastman’s Bowhunting Journal      

Okay, okay—this is no doubt a highly specialized niche. However, if you hunt at all or have even considered hunting, this is a great place to get an education. Lots of “DIY” stories each month on regular guys out there trying to make it happen on public land (as opposed to, for example, Safari Journal, which we also enjoy but frankly has a pretty high bar when it comes to the kind of adventures they feature).

We like the blue-collar culture of the journal, which positions itself as “The Original Resource for Hardcore Western Bowhunting.” Look—even if you don’t hunt, there is a part of your soul that needs something to break the malaise of those 42 hours in your cubicle each week, and the features in this mag will take you to those places vicariously.

Plus, the beta they provide on how, where and when to apply for hunting tags across the Western states, by species and units and trends, is a staggering amount of research you could never pull off for yourself. Give the Robin Hood in you a treat.

Cigar Aficionado    

Put out by the guys that do Wine Spectator (let’s not forget Cana!). Look, we’ll be honest—both magazines have their serious faults. They are high-gloss, slightly arrogant, utterly worldly and definitely trying to give you the “you just got welcomed into the back room of a very cool bar” vibe. Leather chairs and all. We admit that right up front. But both rags are worth the reviews—here, regular cigar reviews, and we really appreciate the fact that while they flaunt their Cuban connections they also reveal where the killer smokes are for under $10, which is, well, wonderful. We learned about Brick House here, and Flor de Las Antillas, along with a bunch of our other faves.

Good articles on famous “smokers,” including a recent fascinating interview with Liam Neeson, who we also happen to love. (Did you know his nose got broken in a former boxing “career” attempt, and that’s why he has that tough-guy look? I mean, c’mon. That’s just, well, cool.)

We take the whole James Bond affectation tongue in cheek. Think of this one as plundering the Egyptians.

Mars Hill Audio Journal      

Yep, time for a curveball. No bows, winches, reels or Honduran wrappers here. This is a very insightful audio journal bringing some of the best Christian thought on the arts, culture, science, politics—stuff that actually matters in the world. (Not that this other stuff doesn’t matter, but there is a hierarchy of importance, yes.)

Ken Myers was an up-and-coming NPR reporter, bright guy, perfect radio persona. NPR came to him, knowing he was an intelligent and reflective Christian, along the lines of a C.S. Lewis, and they offered him his own show helping explain the Church to the world. He went and thought about the offer, came back and said, “No. My calling, I now realize, is the opposite—I want to explain the world to the Church.” So he started his own thing.

And explain he does, via interviews with leading thinkers on everything from genetic engineering to Tolkien’s mythic writing to the imagination of our aforementioned hero, C.S. Lewis. Great, great stuff. Perfect for your car or your iPod. Your brain will grow. Your soul will, too.

Okay, we’ll stop there. For now. Holding off on our desire to rave about Rock and Ice or Surfing or some other goodies that maybe we’ll come around to next time. Meanwhile, if you’ve got a great recommend, post it on And Sons social! Share the joy.

After all, we only come out once a month, and we know you promptly devour And Sons, and then what? Here are some great additions to your water closet.

 

 

As seen in And Sons Magazine, our online magazine for men.

Western heART

I want to ride to the ridge where the West commences

I can’t look at hobbles and I can’t stand fences

Don’t fence me in.

-Cole Porter

The places we love call to us because they are, in fact, “the landscape of our soul.”

I don’t mean the landscape of our childhood or of some special memory. The landscapes we love speak powerfully to us, they call to us, because the country corresponds to the actual terrain of our interior world, the landscape of our soul. That is why one man feels such a deep connection to the deserts of the Southwest, while another feels it with the ocean, or hardwood forests, or the high country above timberline. When we go there, we feel as if we have come home.

I find the same thing to be true of art—when you find a painter or a style that you really love, you’re also encountering something that speaks to the geography of your own soul.

For me, it has always been Western art. Not the cheesy John Wayne-on-black-velvet stuff you see at swap meets. I’m talking especially about the early classics—Remington, Russell, Moran, Runguis—painters who captured the heart of the West in the late 1800s. Their work expresses the ethos of the landscape and lifestyle that have a mythic place in my heart.

The more I looked into their lives, the more I loved the story they lived.

Runguis’s biography is entitled Fifty Years with Brush and Rifle. I bought it for the title alone, partly because I thought, That is a fabulous life, and partly because of a conversation I had recently had. “You’re the first thoughtful, artistic person I’ve ever met who also hunts.”

The comment was made with wonder and confusion by a very reflective man, a student of human nature. The surprise he felt in the apparent “obvious” contradiction of “artistic” and “hunter” is a reflection of assumptions held by many thoughtful people in the 21st Century, whose lives have become almost completely separated from wild places and from the sources of their food. But it would have been foreign to the people who lived before the age of TV dinners and frozen burritos.

Runguis was a hunter and painter; he lived out in the woods for months at a time, in the Wind River Range in Wyoming, pursuing big game, drawing sketches, and studying the wildlife that he would become so famous for.

Whereas many so-called “western artists” stayed in the East and painted their horses using as models the ones you see on children’s carousels. Born and trained in Germany, Runguis cut all ties with the Old World after his first hunting trip to the Rocky Mountain west.

“My heart is in the West,” he explained. I know exactly what he meant—he found the landscape of his soul.

Charlie Russell is another fascinating story—he came out West to work as a cowboy and live among the hard characters he would so powerfully portray. Born in then a rather tame Missouri, he dreamed about the Wild West and like many boys after him read every story about it he could lay his hands on.

The call of the West seized him at sixteen, so he dropped out of school and went to work on a ranch in Montana. Like Runguis, he never looked back, moving from ranch to ranch as a hired hand. In 1888 he lived with the Blackfeet Indians, and much of his work portrays an intimate knowledge of the Native American way of life.

What I love about these guys is that they plunged into the world they would eventually paint. Their knowledge was firsthand; it was hard-earned, and it gives me a respect for their work. Russell’s painting “Loops and Swift Horses” seems incredible—except to the men who lived in the saddle, and yes, did this very thing. (I know some old cowboys who would chase down bull elk and lasso them.)

Remington spent a lot of time living and painting among the U.S. Cavalry, and many of his works are based on true stories he heard from officers. Unlike Russell, who lived among the Indians and was welcomed as one of their own, Remington was influenced with an “anti-red man” bias from the soldiers he hung out with, and some of his work romanticizes the accounts from a Cavalry point of view. But overall, his paintings and sculptures are worthy to have become iconic, mythic, nearly synonymous with the Old West.  

Thomas Moran paints in the style of the “Hudson River School” he was a part of, but his work out West is what earned him a national reputation. I love his “Cliffs of the Green River” (above). What’s really cool about Moran’s story is that his work helped establish Yellowstone as a National Park. He came west with the Hayden expedition in 1871, and painted both the Yellowstone and Teton regions. It was those images that helped win national support for the protection of Yellowstone. (Mt Moran, named after him, is our favorite peak in the Tetons).

But I’ve been writing on the landscape of my heart. The real question is, what is yours? Has it occurred to you that the geography you love is a mirror image of the landscape of your soul?

It might be good to go back and look at photographs, or visit the place again, and let that thought take you deeper. I would do the same with art—don’t just put up any old image in your home or office. Find those works that call to and feed your soul. There is a terrain in you that needs to find its counterpart in the world.

It's Not What You Think It Is

Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after. — Henry David Thoreau 

 

If you’ve watched any sports television in the last few months—the Super Bowl, or twenty minutes of March Madness—you’ve seen at least one of the commercials for Game of War. You saw the buxom blonde bombshell striding or galloping on horseback through battlefields, urging and taunting timid soldiers on to great and daring feats. Challenging rulers to rule, or be forgotten. Calling boys to be men.

 

I loathe those ads. I loathe them because they brilliantly play upon the masculine heart, without the masculine heart knowing what exactly it is they are playing upon.

 

Most of the Game of War ads end with the seductress looking straight at the viewer with a provocative invitation that also feels like a challenge: “Want to come and play?” I guarantee you that the viewer isn’t thinking about a smartphone game in that moment.

 

Deceptive as it is, that’s actually not where the real deception lies.

 



 

To understand the cynical brilliance of the advertising campaign, you must remember that every day of his life, every man searches for validation. Every man is haunted by the question of whether or not he is a man, whether or not he has what it takes. This is the driving force of the masculine soul, whether he’s eight or 80. The famished craving for validation fuels just about everything a man does. Everything you do.

 

Why do men sell their souls to the corporate world, working late hours, starving their family for time and affection? Because they’re looking for validation in that arena. They have either found it, and now can’t dare let it go, or they haven’t and are desperate to secure validation through even harder work.

 

It’s the very same reason some guys ritually head down to the gym while others stay away: there in the arena of physical fitness, some latch onto validation, while others fear they don’t have what it takes. Work and sports are the modern “battlefields” on which many a man is taunted.

 

Viagra has seized on this famished craving with the similar cunning as did Game of War. Surely you’ve seen the ads: “This is the age of taking action.” A guy out camping can’t get his fire lit; a cowboy gets his truck stuck in the mud; some guy out in the middle of nowhere has the hood of his muscle car up—something needs fixing.

 



 

Isn’t it fascinating that the Viagra commercials don’t focus on sex? They typically don’t even mention sex at all. Rather, they aim straight at the heart of men when they focus on the issue of strength, competency, and being the guy who comes through in the end.

 

“This is the age of taking action,” or, “This is the age of knowing who you are,” or, “This is the age of knowing what you’re made of.” Do you see it? The guy whose lighter broke while trying to light his campfire goes to his toolkit, pulls out a pocket knife, strikes that knife against a rock and voila—he makes fire like his barbarian ancestors.

 

The cowboy whose truck gets stuck in the mud pulls a team of horses from his trailer, and the next shot is him driving the team with reins in his left hand as he steers his truck out of the quagmire with his right. Manly men. Competent men. Guys who clearly have what it takes.

 

The Viagra ads are required by law to go on and state the medical warnings—about  37 of them—including the fact that your heart could explode or your eyeballs fall out or your skin may burst into flames. But 20 million men don’t give a @#$% because the ad has grabbed that yearning to feel like a man, and boy did it get their attention.

 

Fellas—none of this is about sex. Really.

 



 

This is about validation; it’s about feeling like a man.

 

And yes—having a beautiful woman tell you that she’s all yours if you’re man enough can sure make you feel like a man. For a few minutes. But you can never get a lasting validation there. It’s a dry well when it comes to that need. Oh, yes—the famished craving must be met. But Eve and all her daughters cannot settle that issue for you.

 

This is where most guys get sideways in their relationships with women. Unaware of what compels them (far less aware than the creators of those ads), they make the fatal mistake of taking their need for validation to the Beauty. Either they feel intimidated by the girl—most men fear their wives—and they can’t step up and play the man because it feels like she holds the report card on their masculinity, or, they get obsessed with the girl—real, or imagined, or online—and keep going there for the momentary relief that seems to touch the ache but never heals it.

 

Let’s seize clarity where we can. A video game you play on your cellphone has absolutely no capacity to validate your masculine soul. If the Game of War advertisers pulled the buxom bombshell and simply showed a guy sitting in his cubicle playing a game on his phone, they’d never sell the product. But that is in fact what they’re selling.

 



 

Nor would the Viagra ads work if they simply showed a guy standing there, glass of water in one hand, pill in the other, while the narrator says in his husky-manly growl, “This is the age of knowing what you’re made of.” You can swallow a pill? So what. They have to substitute making fire like Bear Grylls or handling a team of horses like John Wayne. It’s all bait-and-switch. Because this (what they are selling) can’t do that (bring validation).

 

Neither can Eve. She is wonderful in so many ways, but only God can tell a man who he is. Only a Father can validate his son.

 

The more we keep this front and center, the better it is going to go when it comes to loving a woman.

We Must Be

Certain stories come into your life, and because of the way they come, or the timing of the moment, or because of what they speak to you when they do arrive, they become a part of your soul-library—books that both shape and reflect who you are as a man. One of those stories for me is Norman Maclean’s A River Runs Through It.

 

“In our family,” the tale begins, “there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing.” It is part memoir, part celebration of fly fishing and wild places, part tragedy, set in rough-and-tumble Missoula Montana in the 1920s.

 

Norman and his younger brother Paul have a Huck Finn-like childhood, coming of age at a time when lumberjacks still used two-handed whipsaws and Indians would sometimes walk the downtown streets, still made of dirt. The story centers on how Paul’s family tries to come to terms with his unruly life and untimely death as a young man when they find his body dumped in an alley.

 

Sometime later, Norman and his father are talking about Paul. It seems their father is grasping for more to hold onto as he presses Norman for every fragment of information the police provided:

 

“I’ve told you all I know. If you push me far enough all I really know is that he was a fine fisherman.”

“You know more than that,” my father said. “He was beautiful.”

“Yes,” I said, “he was beautiful.”

 



photo by matt bennett

 

It is not an expression often used for men, but it ought to be.

 

The older philosophers and saints evaluated the universe using three categories: the Good, the True, and the Beautiful. To get the idea of what they meant by the last, let me refer to a story from the Gospels:

 

While Jesus was in Bethany in the home of a man known as Simon the Leper, a woman came to him with an alabaster jar of very expensive perfume, which she poured on his head as he was reclining at the table. When the disciples saw this, they were indignant. "Why this waste?" they asked. "This perfume could have been sold at a high price and the money given to the poor." Aware of this, Jesus said to them, "Why are you bothering this woman? She has done a beautiful thing to me.” (Matthew 26:6-10).

 

Jesus describes the act as more than simply good, more than merely truthful. He says it transcended those categories into the beautiful. But though the Master named it as one of the best things ever done to him—thus exalting the beautiful forever—we find that Christians have lost the longing for the quality Christ saw here, the quality Paul’s father and brother saw in him.

 

As truth all but vanishes from cultural value, some corners fight for what is true; others want to be more relevant and commit themselves to “doing good.” Both are important, but both can fall short of a better way.

 




photo by matt bennett

 

Francis Schaeffer—a pastor, missionary, writer, a man many thought to be the greatest “common philosopher” of the 20th Century—wept over the bitter taste of many theological debates and church factions turned sour. He saw the devastation done when Christians fight for the truth in an ugly way or cling to a moral good but in a repulsive manner.

 

It isn’t enough to be right, he felt—there are many who might in fact be in the right, or on the right side of a position, but their lives are so unattractive that they do damage to the very truth they defend. Worse, the manner in which they were right—the pride, the arrogance, the severity, the judgment—made the very morality they fought for repulsive to the watching world.

 

“We must not only be True,” he said. “We must be Beautiful.”

 

There are simpler ways to catch fish than with a fly rod. A century ago fishmongers from Denver would dynamite the South Platte and bring home wagonloads of wild trout. But the beauty of a dry fly cast with grace to a rising trout is in a league by itself.

 

Certainly not as efficient, but if you think efficiency is the point then you won’t understand this article. In fact, the disciples were upset by the alabaster jar broken for Jesus; they saw a better way to use it for social justice. Jesus said they missed the point entirely and even rebuked them for their righteous indignation.

 

I know men whose lives are far from perfect. In no way could they be called efficient or “maximizers.” Yet there’s something in the way they love, in what they love. Something in the manner in which they tell a story. Their devotion to an art or a place or a person. The grace they extend to others. The joy they get in a good joke, a dog, a good book, a day on the river. Oh, they love the True, and the Good, but they love the Beautiful even more, and in doing so, their lives have become beautiful.

 

As we thought about this column for March—the column where we celebrate Beauty in many ways—we felt it was time to let the category speak to our own lives. As a reminder that we must not only be true, we must be beautiful.