This past Monday was May 4^th, and as many of you may know, that date has become “Star Wars Day,” a playful nod to the famous line, “May the Force be with you.” While the calendar has turned, I find that the themes of that saga—and the heroes we admire—are worth reflecting on any day of the year.

I am a confessed Star Wars fan. I grew up loving hero movies. In my younger days, I wanted to be the hero. I watched Westerns and imagined myself as the Lone Ranger, Marshall Will Kane in High Noon, and, of course, Alan Ladd in Shane. In high school, my imagination shifted to the swashbuckling D’Artagnan from The Three Musketeers or Fletcher Christian in Mutiny on the Bounty.

However, in my late twenties, I found myself in a season where I didn’t just want to be a hero—I needed one.

I married my first wife right after college and graduated from seminary into my training as a hospital chaplain. We had been married almost seven years when she left me. I felt like a failure. In that era, churches rarely called divorced pastors, and I was certain my career in ministry was over before it had truly begun.

It was during that difficult time that the first Star Wars movie was released. I was one of those people who stood in line to see it seven times. I can still quote much of the dialogue—including the often-misquoted line where Vader reveals, “No, I am your father.”

Before I had a deeper grasp of theology, I wanted to save people. I understand now that I can leave the “saving” to God. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t work for the rest of us to do.

Throughout my life, I’ve heard the phrase, “Do the right thing,” but I’ve often questioned how we can know with certainty what that is. During my years as a hospital chaplain, I served on a bio-medical ethics committee where I learned the true definition of a dilemma: a situation where one is forced to make a difficult choice, often having to choose the “least worse” option. While many base their ethical decisions on philosophy, I prefer to ground my decisions in the enduring wisdom of Biblical ethics. Jewish and Christian ethics have been around for a very long time.

We remember the popular saying from years ago, “What would Jesus do?” You might expect me to follow that by asking, “What would Luke Skywalker do?” But I have learned that I am neither Luke Skywalker nor Jesus. I am no hero, nor do I want to be.

When I seek the right path, I ask what God wants me to do. The answer isn’t always obvious or immediate; it requires patience. Sometimes I still make the wrong choice. When I discover I’ve made a mistake, I have to find the courage to admit I was wrong and work to correct my mistake. I see now what I didn’t see as a young man: all of my heroes were flawed.

The older I get, the more willing I am to admit my mistakes. I believe this is connected to accepting the grace of God and the reality of His forgiveness. Because He forgives me, I can be more graceful toward myself and others.

I sense that kind of grace and acceptance among us here at Kirkwood. By the time we arrive at this community, we have enough life experience to have true empathy for one another. We may not have walked the exact same path, but we have all navigated similar storms. In those shared experiences, we find a strength far greater than any fictional hero—we find the strength of a community held together by grace.

Peace,

Cary