by Andrew Stephens-Rennie
All your heroes are not.
None are who they appear to be, and none will ever live up to your idolatry.
On this morning of mourning, we can no longer see what we’d hoped would be. Instead, we must admit that all our heroes are not.
Watch the cursed man climbing his lonely olive tree. The last nail goes in, there’s nothing but scream. All that was certain, all that was solid has melted into air as triumph and victory are overwrought with despair.
Arms stretched out naked before us, the object of rejection, mockery and scorn. And in the midst of it all, my heart, in two, is torn. Dis-illusioned, I am forgotten, abandoned, forlorn.
What do you do when all your heroes are not?
Not the product that promises fulfilment; Not the relationship that makes you whole; Not the saviour of your universe; nor the champion of your war.
It’s bad enough when it turns out the author, the cyclist, the speaker on the stage; when rocker, talk-show host and preacher turn out depraved.
Worse yet, a cruciform messiah who refuses to be saved, leaving comfortable illusions dismantled and razed.