Heroic Path: In Search of the Masculine Heart

by John Sowers

People usually can’t describe this type of strength, but they can feel it. There is something trustworthy about this man. It’s not that he never makes mistakes, but you can count on him. Others look to him for guidance or wisdom. Even without seeing his résumé or job title or social media pedigree, they sense his fortitude.

Spiritually, we are transformed when we confront ourselves and our mortality, surrendering our lives at the feet of the Living One. We receive gifts, calling, and are endowed with supernatural power and wisdom for the journey.

When it happens, we are not fully aware of our transformation. Something feels different, but our change is usually more noticeable to others. We walk without fear, with purpose and intention. Our brow is creased and our eyes are narrowed as we prowl through life. Others are uncomfortable by our wildness, by our pulsing and dangerous courage. When we face the bear, we take something from him. Or rather, he offers it to us with a glance. At home, people no longer take advantage of us. We no longer avoid eye contact, lowering ourselves beneath others. We lift our head, fix our gaze, and straighten our shoulders. The transformed man no longer walks in shame or fear. When the trials come, we do not submit to them, or accept them as impending defeat. We do not roll over. We now face our boss or our employees or the person who wishes to encroach on us with equal courage; we no longer shy away from the heat of conflict. We are changed. After our confrontation and transformation, we return to the village.

Saint Augustine talks about this bearded man: “The beard signifies the courageous… the earnest, the active, the vigorous. So that when we describe su...

Today’s man is crippled by Something Awful, by fear, confusion, fatherless pain, and inadequacy. Culture steers him away from the woods. He faces a challenge but stops short of claiming his true identity.

The village does not know it needs the wild masculine. It needs: Wild Kings. Bearded Men. Weight-Bearing Men. Dangerous Men. The village needs men who head into the woods and kill whatever is eating the livestock. It needs men who can charge remote beaches, men who can fight, not just at work, but also at home. The world needs Living Myth now more than ever.

It takes courage to stand up to the hostile village. It takes courage to claim your mythic ground. The return means giving our whole lives, bringing vitality and wildness to the community. Bearded Men of yesteryear returned from the woods to build cities and orphanages, hospitals, and churches. These men saw the unseen and lived for the “now and not yet.” They joined the ranks of those who build the invisible kingdom.

Severance. Confrontation. Transformation. Return.

For this man, movement feels impossible. He sinks down into discontented acceptance of a less-than life. Sits in his self-imposed cage of victimization and grief. Coasts from job to vacation to relationship with no other intention than to arrive safely at death. He has vivid dreams about moving away from the madness, facing the chaos and winning the fight.

Mike Tyson recalled Cus saying, “The hero and the coward both feel the same thing, but the hero uses his fear, projects it onto his opponent, while the coward runs. It’s the same thing, fear, but it’s what you do with it that matters.”3 The man who avoids fear misses life.

Marine Stephen Pressfield writes, “Being paralyzed with fear is a good sign. Like self-doubt, fear is an indicator. Fear tells us what we have to do. The more scared we are of a calling, the more sure we can be that we have to do it.”4 In the face of fear—movimentio es vida.

Movement changes us. Movement in one area can translate into widespread movement. Some decisions give us willpower and courage to face the other. These decisions ripple across our psyche like flat stones across the pond.

New York Times reporter Charles Duhigg calls this a “keystone habit.”7 This is the one decision that generates momentum in other areas of our lives. We don’t have to change everything at once; we just need to change one habit. Moving in the right direction is success. Success, even the smallest success, creates momentum and confidence. Courage begets courage. It’s brick and mortar. Even though it is small, it’s something.

Then he asked, “Will you be my dad?” This is a question a lot of men still ask. I still asked it well into my twenties. We want Dad’s approval; we want him to be proud.

Getting wisdom is key. Bad advice is like visiting a shady chiropractor. We leave his office with a throbbing back, worse off than when we walked in.

Men are told not to cry; tears are a sign of weakness. I grew up afraid of my shame; I hated how fragile it made me. As I wept, I found the opposite to be true. It took courage for me to sit down in the ash heap and mourn. The grief was not making me weaker—it was setting me free. Martin Shaw adds: “Wildness is the capacity to go into joy, sorrow, and anger fully and stay there as long as needed, regardless of what anyone else thinks. Wildness carries sobriety as well as exuberance, and has allowed loss to mark its face.”

We must forgive our fathers. Dad may have passed away. Or be locked up. Maybe we never knew him. Whatever the case, we need to make peace. We need to let go of bitterness and the victim story. We will never move forward if we don’t, never become the men we were born to be. Someone once said, “The man who curses his father curses his destiny.”

Men have a capacity to forget, to compartmentalize. We store pain for years in a buried, rusty toolbox. We push through and pretend it doesn’t matter. We gash a bloody hole in our left calf with a handsaw, rub some dirt on it, and keep going. We think, “It’s not that big of a deal.” Some of us do this our whole lives. Keep going. We push ahead, even when our entrails drag along the ground. It takes man-sized courage to stop, to look down at our wound and admit it mattered. Until we do that, we will never experience our full life, love, or emotion. We live slumped over, under the weight of fear and shame. We are afraid of the grief forest, and afraid, too, of the sunrise and the joyous ocean breakers. We’re afraid of disapproval from our peers, our girlfriend or wife, or our current boss-dad. It takes courage to stop and dig our fingers into the red earth. When we find the courage to be honest, to grieve, to forgive and release, we find freedom. And as a new father, I pray my children will extend me the same grace. I love them deeply, but know I have cracks and flaws.

C. S. Lewis once said, “It is in the process of being worshipped that God communicates his presence to men.”

Mom argued and fought for us. And we still expect her to fight our battles, to shoulder the weight of our responsibility. This makes us passive in our relationships, at work and in life.

His victim badge becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy; with no edges or boundaries, he is still victimized by others.

The wounded man is too afraid to look up. He’s deathly afraid of more pain or rejection. He hates confrontation. So the bank continues to rip him off. His boss rides him. His relationship with his wife limps on. His neighbor continues to steal the morning paper. His “friends” borrow his tools and return them broken. Passivity keeps him in check. It tells him to “stay calm, don’t upset anyone.” He’s too afraid to build walls or say “no,” as it makes others uncomfortable. He apologizes too much, and his whole life feels like one big apology. He has no virility, no claws or teeth. No roar. Men have forgotten how to fight.

Stance matters. Stance is more than a physical posture; it represents our intention. The victim cringes. The passive man turns away. The ashamed man looks down. But the fighter keeps his eyes wide open, and leans forward into the fight.

Emotional—Moving past our victim mentality. Working through our depression, codependency, or grief. Forgiving our father or mother. • Relational—Fighting for our marriage. For our children. For our friends. • Physical—Training our body. Eating the right foods. Resting. • Spiritual—Awakening to the true, unseen battle. The fighter is not something we can erase. It is innate; it is who we are.

My human nature, the flesh, has self-destructive tendencies. They are brought out especially when I’m hungry or lonely. Or when I am hurt or tired. We all have earthly appetites. But when we are weak or hungry, our self-control may falter. We binge. Take a bite of the forbidden apple or swallow down gobs of Turkish delight. Before long, self-control crumbles into nothingness and we are controlled by the urges of our flesh. The urges often go far beyond food hunger. The lusts of the flesh may be impulse purchases, sexual fantasies, social media dings, porn addiction, or escapades. We may succumb to substances, serotonin hits, alcohol, or hard drugs. Our flesh wishes to betray us. It is “crouching at our door, but we must master it.” If we do not, little by little, it will consume us. Cracks grow into rifts, which split and fracture, until we become men with broken-down walls—slaves to our own bodies. Unless we recognize and surrender daily to the Spirit, we strive in the self-willed life, and are headed onto the lonely shores strewn with broken vessels.

Peter was wrong. The Crusades were wrong. As is every other wing nut who uses religion as an excuse for physical violence. The true war is not against other men or terrorism or drugs or corporate greed. Our fight is the unseen, hidden battle. Ephesians 6:12 says: “Our battle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.”

Most of us want to steer clear of the fires of the forge. We want to avoid the hammer and anvil. But it is in these very places where we are purified and shaped into our eternal destiny.

Too often, I fail to hear his voice over the deafening noise of my life. I habitually step into a frenetic, adrenaline pace, filling my life with noise, hurry, and crowds. And then I feel victimized by the rush. “I just don’t have time.” I turn a deaf ear to his voice when I bury myself under layers of blogs, texts, posts, tweets, and e-mails. Noise. Over time, my life begins to align with the shallow buzz of adrenaline, social media, and coffee. I slip into this rhythm for weeks, weeks which become months, which become years. I don’t notice the difference, at least for a while. But slowly and steadily, my soul conforms to a panicked-induced pace, and I move further and further from the core. My life becomes less about living and more about reacting, an ADD reaction to the swarming, digital madness. Frantic banshee voices scream at me: Be this! Think that! Consume more!

It comes the very moment you wake up each morning. All your wishes and hopes for the day rush at you like wild animals. And the first job each morning consists simply in shoving them all back; in listening to that other Voice, taking that other point of view, letting that other larger, stronger, quieter life come flowing in. And so on, all day. Standing back from all your natural fussings and frettings; coming in out of the wind.