Craig Groeschel - Fight: Winning the Battles That Matter Most

I learned how to fight in the second grade. I was walking home from school one day, minding my own second-grader business. Suddenly, a much larger third-grader, Bo Talbot, loomed before me, planting himself squarely in my path. Bo was only one year older than I was, but I was convinced that his parents had kept him out of school for a few years to be molded by UFC trainers, bruisers who gave him steroids to snack on between weightlifting sessions.

Bo grabbed my shirt with one hand, drawing his other hand back into a fist the size of a wrecking ball. Through clenched teeth, he snarled, Groeschel, are you gay?

Since it was 1975 and I was only eight years old, I wasnt really sure what gay meant. As my mind raced to respond, I landed on my moms one lifelong rule: always tell the truth. Squinting up at him, bracing myself for his fists meteoric impact, I stammered, I-I-Im not sure. C-c-can I get back to you tomorrow?

Truth can be a dazzling weapon. Bo was startled by my stalling tactic. He stood there for several seconds, frozen like a statue of a Greek warrior, mulling it over. After an awkward silence, he released me and said, Okay. But you better tell me tomorrow. He walked away, and the crisis was temporarily placed on pause.

Whew! Mom was right. Always tell the truth.

Trembling, I scampered home and found my mother piling my dirty socks into the washing machine. My future hanging in the balance, I blurted out my big question, not revealing my near-death experience. As nonchalantly as I could, I asked, Mom, what does gay mean?

She hesitated the same way I hesitated recently when my eight-year-old daughter asked me how she got into her moms tummy before she was born. My moms hesitation should have raised a red flag for me, but I guess in my heightened state of fear, I overlooked it.

Honey, she said with calming assurance, gay just means happy.

And that was the moment my mom broke her own rule and ruined her perfect record.

Huh. So gay means happy. That made sense to my second-grade mind, even if it seemed strange that a bully would ask about my happiness.

The next day after school, I found myself cornered by Bo once again. Like an actor resuming his place onstage, he stood over me, his fist drawn back, using my shirt collar as a handle. Then he asked the fateful question, drawing out the words for dramatic effect: Craig, are you gay?

I grinned broadly, proud to know how to answer. Sure am. Been gay my whole life. Im probably the gayest guy youve ever met!

I dont remember much of what happened after that. I do remember a ringing sound and a metallic flavor in my mouth, the disinctive taste of blood. I understood then why a cartoon character who gets hit sees stars and sometimes little birds. Bos wallop gave me a vivid glimpse into the cartoon dimension.

The whole side of my face swelled like a melon. My head weighed twice as much as the rest of my body. As my watery eyes came clear, I blinked there in Bos shadow, his massive frame still towering over me. He promised there would be plenty more beatings, every day after school for the rest of my life. Then he walked away.

At that moment, I didnt feel very gay at all.

When the dizziness wore off enough that I could stand, I staggered home in shame. My very first fight and I didnt even get a punch in. Getting beaten up was bad enough. Getting beaten up for being happy was infinitely worse.

W e love to root for the underdog. We love to see good triumph over evil and courage defeat cowardice. We love to see righteousness prevail and unrighteousness punished. And we love a hero who refuses to give up the fight no matter how impossible the odds.

Right now were starving for heroes. Were no longer surprised when men we once admired and respected elected officials, superstar athletes, gifted pastors tumble in a sex scandal, an embezzlement scheme, or a domestic abuse arrest. Weve almost become jaded, half-expecting our leaders and favorite celebrities to be hiding something. Most are, right?

We hope theyll make sacrifices, take risks, and make hard decisions to do the right thing, but we arent surprised when they dont. We lack real heroes, and Hollywood fills the void with a glut of superheroes Iron Man and Batman and Thor and Spider-Man and Avengers and X-Men dazzling us with their powers in 3D and on Blu-ray. But we still long for someone to show us what an authentic flesh-and-blood hero looks like.

Where have all the good men gone?

I read a book recently that suggests that our culture has tried to turn the good men into women nicer, softer, kinder, more compassionate, and fashion savvy. Forgive me for stating the obvious, but men are not women. (For the record, women dont make good men either.) After all, God created us differently. So God created human beings in his own image. In the image of God he created them; male and female he created them (Gen. 1:27 NLT). Both men and women reflect the image of God, but in distinct ways.

Im convinced that one of the most profound ways has to do with how we use our manhood. God created men to have the heart of a warrior, placing a desire within us to stand up and fight for whats pure, for whats true. A man has a warriors heart. You have a warriors heart. You itch for a fight. Thats Gods design, not ours. That doesnt mean that men should be aggressive, alpha-bully punks. (Nor does it mean that women cant fight for whats right as well.) It simply means that within every man, God has planted a divine desire to fight for righteousness.

Think about it this way. There are two kinds of movies: chick flicks and, well, everything else. Do chick flicks inspire men? Do they make them want to be stronger, braver, better men? Remember that Cary Grant movie, An Affair to Remember? Remember when Deborah Kerrs character says, If you can paint, I can walk anything can happen, right? Have you ever known a guy to watch that movie? If youre a guy, you dont even know what Im talking about, do you?

What about in Pride and Prejudice when Keira Knightleys character says to her new husband, You may only call me Mrs. Darcy when you are completely and perfectly and incandescently happy. And he responds with, Then how are you this evening Mrs. Darcy? and kisses her on the forehead. And then, Mrs. Darcy, as he kisses her on the cheek. And then, Mrs. Darcy, as he kisses her on the nose. Again, if youre a guy, you have no idea what Im talking about, right? Or if you do know, youre trying hard to forget.

What about Braveheart? Mel Gibson, blue-faced, says, Fight, and you may die. Run, and youll live. At least a while. And dying in your beds, many years from now, would you be willing to trade all the days, from this day to that, for one chance just one chance to come back here and tell our enemies that they may take our lives [raising his sword over his head], but theyll never take