It was John Wayne’s birthday a few weeks ago. You probably missed it, because Americans are not so madly in love with John Wayne, the ultimate masculine American man, as they used to be. I’m a moderate fan, at best; but on his birthday I read something that made me like him a lot more than I used to.
It’s a short excerpt from a book called “Miracle of Molokai,” and describes what happened when the famous actor visited the once-notorious Hawaiian island where victims of leprosy were segregated, and largely left to fend for themselves, for decades.
Here is an account of how Wayne’s appearance went:
As the plane touched down and taxied toward the welcome committee, hundreds of leprosy patients surged enthusiastically across the rope barrier and almost engulfed the plane. Their disease-scarred faces stared up at the little windows, searching for their famous guests.
Their crippled hands were extended and applauding. At last, the door was opened and John Wayne, America’s original man of macho, the strong, silent champion of little people, the fighter who used his fists and guns against incredible odds at Iwo Jima and in the wild, wild West, stepped out to greet them.
One of the residents of the island describes what happened next: “He took one look at all us lepers staring at him, then turn right around, got back into the plane and closed the door. He said he not coming out, seeing the patients, eh? Was scared. So he went back in.”
What a rotten, bitter end to the story that would have been. But that is not how it ended.
‘I’m sorry I was scared’
Instead, the other American manly man on board, actor James Arness, who played Matt Dillon on “Gunsmoke,” apparently had a little talk with Wayne. I don’t know what he told him, but after a few minutes of suspense, while the crowd waited in silent confusion, the door of the plane opened again and the two men stepped out. The crowd cheered, and Wayne walked up to the microphone and said something extraordinary.
“I came to give you courage,” he said, “but I took one look at what the disease has done to you and I knew I couldn’t do it. I wanted to go right back home. I was scared, but my buddy here, James Arness, talked to me and helped me get my wobbly legs out the door and down the ramp. I’m sorry I was scared and I wish you well.”
It’s one of the best things I’ve ever heard. He acknowledged what happened and why, he gave credit to the man who set him straight, and he apologized for the offense he caused.
I don’t want to make more of this story than is really there. John Wayne was not an especially virtuous man in general, that I’m aware of, and he certainly didn’t claim to be some kind of model Christian.
But when we hear a story of a widely admired man who comes down from on high to bring strength to the lepers — well, you tell me who springs to mind! (It’s Jesus.)
The problem seems to have been that John Wayne, in this story, thought he was Jesus, who could bring about healing just by virtue of who he was. It turns out he was actually one of the lepers, one of the victims, one of the ones who was afraid and in need of being strengthened.
The power of humility
But here’s the neat part. Paradoxically, by acknowledging that he failed, that he was scared, and that he was sorry, he ended up doing a really good thing, something that I imagine really did encourage and strengthen his audience — maybe even more than he would have done if he had just sauntered down the stairs of the plane, doing his impenetrable John Wayne tough-guy routine.
That’s how it worked for me. When I read this little story, I was struck by a sudden resolve, and I did a small thing — just a little service for a friend — that I had been putting off because I was scared. I had been avoiding it for various understandable but unadmirable reasons, and the longer I avoided it, the more ashamed I became of not having done it, which just made me put it off even more. But the story gave me a little wake-up slap, and I decided to get over myself and just do it.
Sometimes the best way to help each other is to admit that we failed, that we were scared, that we needed a talking-to from someone wiser than us. Did his little speech of apology tarnish Wayne’s reputation, and make him seem like less of a man to the people who heard his words? I don’t know, but I doubt it. It sure didn’t work that way on me.
A man’s job
There is a lot of silly talk in recent years about what it means to be truly masculine. It was popular to talk it over in John Wayne’s heyday, and it’s even more popular, and even more silly, now.
I wish more men realized a few things that this brief story demonstrates: That, yes, it’s your job to show up, be strong and do the right thing. But also, it’s your job to listen to people who are wiser than you and change your course of action, if need be, based on what you hear. It’s your job to admit it when you’re scared. It’s your job to apologize when you’re wrong. And by doing all of these things, you will not somehow lose the power of your masculinity. Instead, you will build the strength of your humanity.
How I wish we could spend more time talking not about masculine virtues or feminine virtues, but just human virtues. I have often thought that the reason the Lord became incarnate as a man is not because men are somehow inherently more fitting vessels of the kind of virtue he came to teach, but because men just plain wouldn’t listen to him if he had been a woman. I wonder if John Wayne would have shaped up if some lady had given him a talking-to on that plane, rather than a fellow tough guy.
But we can fight about that later. Right now, let’s just all fight to be more human. More generous, more honest, more humble, more contrite when it’s called for, and more courageous, whether what we’re afraid of is other people or our own dumb cowardly selves. Let’s fight to be more, you could say, like Jesus, who did sacrifice himself for others, and who was afraid, and came most gloriously out the other side of that fear.
More, at least in this one instance, like John Wayne.
