Why Boys Need Heroes Again
How Stories Shape the Men Our Boys Become
There are moments in a boy’s life that seem small at the time but end up shaping everything.
When I was in third grade, my world broke in a way I couldn’t quite understand. My mother died, and with her passing, the world grew quieter, colder. I didn’t know how to name the grief then, only that something had gone missing, not just in our home, but in me. My father, a man raised in a generation where grief was handled with silence, work, and distraction, didn’t have the tools to guide me through the loss. He coped the only way he knew, by burying himself in labor and relationships that didn’t last. And I, in turn, slipped into a timid place, a quieter corner of life where it felt safer not to feel too much or expect too much.
But in seventh grade, something unexpected happened.
Mrs. Cathy Hooper, one of those rare teachers who sees more in a child than the child sees in himself, introduced us to Henry V. Yes, Shakespeare, of all things, to a class of kids. We read through the text (as best we could), and then she showed us Kenneth Branagh’s film adaptation. That’s when it happened. That’s when I met him—Henry, the king, the warrior, the leader of men. And for the first time in a long time, something stirred in me.
There was a moment in the play that especially grabbed me, one that would etch itself deep into my heart. The night before the Battle of Agincourt, Henry, knowing the weight of what lies ahead, prays:
“O God of battles, steel my soldiers’ hearts. Possess them not with fear.”
That line hasn’t left me. In fact, it’s still with me today. It’s in my email signature, in the cadence of my prayers, in the quiet resolve I try to carry into life’s battles. That portrayal of leadership—courageous, selfless, vulnerable, and yet unwavering—did something to me. It gave me a vision of manhood I hadn’t seen before. A man who bore burdens for others. A man who led not by bravado, but by example. A man who could command soldiers, but first had to master himself.
Henry V became, for me, the first true example of a hero.
Looking back, I can say this: that one story helped save me in many ways. It gave me a picture of who I could be, not just a boy shaped by loss but a man shaped by purpose. It’s no accident that years later, I would find myself drawn to military service or that even now, as a father and chaplain, I long for young men, especially, to have what I almost missed: a hero worth following.
Here’s the tragedy: boys today are starving for heroes, and the world is giving them none. We have plenty of celebrities, plenty of influencers, and plenty of powerful figures. But heroes? Men who show us what it means to live with courage, virtue, and sacrifice? Those are in short supply.
If we want to raise boys who can stand, who can lead, who can carry the weight of manhood with honor, then we must give them stories—better stories. We must rebuild their moral imagination, not with empty slogans, but with heroes who awaken the best in them. Because when boys lose their way, they don’t need more noise. They need heroes.
The Death of Heroes
There was a time when boys and girls were handed down stories like heirlooms. The tales were treasures to be guarded, pondered, and passed down. They were told stories of bravery and sacrifice, of right and wrong, of kings who bore burdens and knights who bowed only to truth. These stories didn’t just entertain; they formed. They whispered to the imagination, “This is who you could be.”
But somewhere along the way, we stopped handing out heroes. Instead, we handed out sarcasm, irony, and moral ambiguity. We handed out Netflix anti-heroes who brood in shadows and only fight for themselves. We stopped telling stories that aspired to greatness and started telling stories that were too cool to care.
Modern storytelling has become suspicious of virtue, allergic to nobility, and oddly comfortable with despair. Heroism is dissected, deconstructed, and left for dead on the editing floor. If a character shows any real conviction, they’re either naïve or hiding something. The cultural air we breathe is thick with cynicism, and boys, especially boys, are choking on it.
The result? A generation adrift. Boys who have never been invited to imitate the good, the noble, the self-sacrificing. Boys who have been told that strength is dangerous, leadership is oppressive, and masculinity itself is suspect—something to be subdued or apologized for. And so they either recoil into passivity or erupt in misguided, ungoverned aggression. We’ve condemned them as a lost species, while offering them no map.
We once gave them David and Daniel, Arthur and Aslan, Aragorn and even Shakespeare’s Henry. Now, it offers characters who are either morally paralyzed or emotionally unmoored, always searching but never sacrificing, always self-expressing but never self-mastering.
But here’s the truth: boys will look for heroes somewhere. If we don’t give them real ones, they’ll follow false ones. They’ll idolize strength without virtue, influence without responsibility, rebellion without cause. And the cost will not be theoretical, it will be written in the collapse of homes, the erosion of purpose, the quiet ache of young men who don’t know who they are or what they’re for.
This isn’t just about nostalgia. This is about the moral imagination, the inner world where a boy envisions what is good, what is worth doing, and who he might become. And that inner world, like a garden, will either be cultivated or overrun.
I was lucky. I had Henry. I had a teacher who believed stories mattered, and a film that opened a window into a better kind of manhood. But most boys today have no such window. Their imaginations are not stirred by duty, sacrifice, or honor. They are dulled by endless distractions and disenchanted by a world that has forgotten how to tell noble tales.
The death of heroes is not just the death of stories; it is the death of vision. When a boy loses vision, he loses direction. When enough boys lose direction, a society loses its way. So the question presses in: Will we keep burying our heroes, or will we dare to raise them again?
The Power of Story and How the Imagination Shapes the Soul
Before a boy ever swings a sword or speaks a vow, he dreams. And what he dreams about, what fills the silent spaces of his imagination, matters more than we often realize.
We tend to think of imagination as a child’s toy, something to be outgrown and traded for the serious business of adulthood. But imagination is no small thing. It is the soul’s rehearsal space. It is where the heart tries on courage, where the mind plays with truth, where the will begins to shape what it loves. Give a boy the right stories, and you can awaken in him desires he didn’t know he had: the desire to protect, to endure, to stand for something that matters.
C.S. Lewis understood this better than most. In one of his essays, he wrote, “Reason is the natural organ of truth; but imagination is the organ of meaning.”1 A boy can know what is right and still not feel its weight until it has been clothed in story. That’s why Jesus didn’t hand out theological abstracts to his disciples. He told stories of mustard seeds and prodigal sons, of hidden treasures and faithful stewards. He demonstrated how truth, when woven into a narrative, bypasses the defenses and goes straight to the heart.
Imagination, at its best, is not an escape from reality. Instead, it is a deeper dive into it. It is how we learn to love what is good before we can even explain why. That’s why the stories we tell our boys are never just entertainment. They are formation.
But this kind of formation takes work. It’s much easier to offer up the low-hanging fruit of modern media—quick, loud, colorful distractions that entertain but never elevate. We give them digital noise, and then wonder why they can’t hear the still, small voice of conscience. We let them binge endless reels of triviality, and then ask why they have no appetite for things that last.
Yet deep down, they’re still hungry. Every boy longs for a quest. Every boy wants to matter, to fight for something, to become someone. That hunger is still there. It’s just been dulled by constant snacking on stories that go nowhere. The task, then, is not to create this hunger, but to awaken it. And here is where myth and virtue-formed storytelling come in.
Myths, those grand and ancient stories, were never just about gods and monsters. They were moral compasses disguised as epics. They taught that the world is dangerous, but good. That life is hard, but worth it. That a man’s strength was not for himself, but for others. Tolkien called myths “splintered fragments of a great light,” and he believed they pointed to the greatest story ever told, the Gospel itself.2
When boys hear these kinds of stories and are invited into worlds where good and evil are real, where courage is costly but glorious, they begin to see their own lives differently. They begin to believe that maybe, just maybe, they too could be brave. They, too, could resist the darkness, defend the weak, and love what is right.
But this won’t happen by accident. It won’t happen if we keep handing them nothing but moral fog and narrative junk food. It takes intentionality to feed the imagination with what is noble and true. And it takes stories.
Stories where the hero doesn’t just win, but suffers well. Stories where victory comes not through might alone, but through humility, wisdom, and self-sacrifice. Stories that don’t just end in triumph, but transform the heart along the way.
Because what a boy imagines, he will one day seek. And if we can help him imagine goodness, truth, and beauty—not as abstract ideals, but as living realities—then we have already taken the first step in shaping the man he will become.
The Great Storytellers and a Summons for New Ones
If the modern world has been busy tearing down its heroes, then Tolkien and Lewis stood as master builders, crafting tales that called us back: back to virtue, back to wonder, back to a world where courage still matters.
These two friends, these ink-stained professors from Oxford, saw what was happening long before it reached the fever pitch of our own day. They lived through the horrors of war, through the disillusionment of modernity, through the creeping cynicism that mocked faith and heroism alike. And yet, rather than surrender to the despair around them, they picked up their pens and gave us worlds where goodness still fought back.
Tolkien gave us The Lord of the Rings, not just as fantasy, but as a mirror reflecting both the darkness of the world and the nobility that could rise within it. Frodo, small and unassuming, bears a burden too great for him, yet walks on. Sam, loyal and steadfast, reminds us that even the overlooked can be giants of the soul. Aragorn, the king in hiding, shows us that true leadership is not seized, but embraced with humility. These are not superheroes with capes and swagger, they are heroes forged in suffering, held together by duty, friendship, and grace.
Tolkien believed in what he called “eucatastrophe”—the sudden, unexpected turn toward joy in the face of despair. It is the heartbeat of every true myth, and for him, it echoed the greatest story of all: the resurrection of Christ. In a world that idolizes the tragic or the senseless, Tolkien dared to say that hope is not a lie and that the most incredible tales are not those that end in ruin, but those that, through ruin, find redemption.
Lewis, ever the imaginative apologist, crafted The Chronicles of Narnia to baptize the imagination, to awaken children (and the child in all of us) to a deeper longing. In Narnia, the world is enchanted, but not soft. Evil is real, but so is the lion. Aslan, majestic and terrifying, tender and fierce, is not safe, but he is good. Peter learns to lead, not through domination, but through service. Edmund’s betrayal is met not with wrath, but with a deeper sacrifice. Lucy, the youngest, teaches that the most profound faith is often found in those who simply believe and trust even when everyone else refuses to see.
Lewis understood that stories could do what arguments never could. They could make us feel the weight of truth before we even fully grasped it. His stories aimed at the heart, knowing that the mind would follow once the heart was stirred. Together, Tolkien and Lewis rekindled the fire of heroic storytelling. But they didn’t just leave us with books to read—they left us a call to action.
Here, it is fitting to call for a new generation of storytellers.
Our boys and our girls cannot live on critiques alone. It’s easy to deconstruct, to poke holes, to point out flaws in old tales, but where are the new ones? Where are the stories that lift our eyes, that stir the soul, that dare to believe in something greater than the self?
We need writers, poets, filmmakers, and teachers who will stop apologizing for virtue and start exalting it again. Who will write characters with backbone, with conviction, with the kind of flawed humanity that struggles, repents, and rises? Who will dare to write not just what the world is, but what it could be if only we remembered how to hope?
The world is desperate for stories with heroes, not perfect, but good. Not invincible, but courageous. Stories where the quest is hard, but worth it. Where the villain is real, but overcome. Where sacrifice is not foolish, but glorious.
We cannot afford to let the imaginations of our children be shaped by noise and nihilism. We must give them better. We must provide them with truth clothed in wonder, as Tolkien did. Faith clothed in fur and swords, as Lewis did.
The battle for the soul does not begin in the streets, it begins in the stories. And the pen, still, is mighty.
The Ultimate Hero Story
If we find ourselves looking for inspiration to create better heroes, for stories that call us higher, we don’t have to look far. The pages of Scripture are filled with them, not flawless men, but faithful ones. Not legends, but lives, shaped by the very virtues that define what heroism truly is.
The Bible is not a dry ledger of rules; it is a living, breathing story. It is a story of battles fought, kingdoms won and lost, of men and women caught between fear and faith, stumbling yet standing, broken yet brave.
Take David, the shepherd boy who faced giants when others trembled because he trusted in God. His courage wasn’t born in the spotlight, but in the fields, tending sheep, learning to be faithful in the small things. Even in his failures, his heart was fixed on something greater than himself: “The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear?” (Psalm 27:1).
Or Daniel, who stood tall in a foreign land, refusing to bow, refusing to feast, refusing to forget who he was. His life tells every boy that integrity is possible, even when no one else is watching, even when the cost is high.
Or Paul, beaten, imprisoned, shipwrecked, but never moved. His heroism was not in conquest, but in endurance. “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith” (2 Timothy 4:7). These are not the words of a man who won every earthly battle, but of one who conquered in the only way that matters…by finishing well.
Scripture overflows with portraits of virtue: courage, faithfulness, sacrifice, self-mastery, and hope. If ever we feel starved for examples, they are there, waiting for us, not as distant saints but as fellow travelers on the same hard road.
But even these heroes, for all their greatness, point beyond themselves. Because boys don’t just need heroes, they need the Hero. The One who never failed. The One who never faltered. The One who bore the weight of the world, not with sword or crown, but with a cross.
Jesus Christ is the Hero every story longs for, the perfect fulfillment of every virtue we admire.
His courage: He faced the cross with resolve, sweating blood, yet still praying, “Not my will, but Yours be done” (Luke 22:42).
His leadership: He knelt to wash feet, He wept with the grieving, He lifted the broken. “The Son of Man came not to be served, but to serve, and to give His life as a ransom for many” (Mark 10:45).
His strength: Not in domination, but in sacrifice. He could have called legions of angels, but He stayed for us.
His love: Fierce, unyielding, untainted. A love that bore our sins, endured our shame, and conquered our death.
Every tale of heroism, every spark of virtue we find in ancient myths or modern epics, is but a dim reflection of Him. Tolkien called the story of Christ the “true myth”—the myth that became fact. The story that, unlike all others, is real. And in Him, the longing of every boy’s heart for greatness, for purpose, for victory, finds its home.
This is the greatest gift we can give our sons, not just examples of bravery or models of manhood, but Christ Himself. The only Hero who can save them, not just from aimlessness, but from sin. The only King who can lead them, not just into battle, but into eternal life.
Let the world scoff at heroes. Let it call manhood toxic and virtue oppressive. We know better. We know the One who walked on water, who calmed storms with a word, who touched lepers, who lifted the outcast, who took nails for enemies, and who rose again, victorious.
We know the One worth following, we know the True Hero.
Stirring Hearts Again
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood…"– Henry V, Act III, Scene I
I still remember hearing those words for the first time as Henry stood before his men, weary and outnumbered, calling them to courage. Something in his voice, something in that moment, spoke to the boy I was and to the man I hoped to become. And now, years later, I hear that call again, not from a stage, but from the world around us.
Because make no mistake: we are at the breach. The walls are crumbling, not with cannon fire, but with the slow decay of virtue, the erosion of meaning, the death of heroes. And we, dear friends, are left to decide whether we will simply stand by, or will we rise?
This is not a fight won with might but with stories—the kind that shape souls and steel hearts. Stories that remind us that modest stillness and humility do become a man in peace, but when the blast of war (cultural, moral, spiritual) blows in our ears, it is time to summon up the blood.
It is time to give our boys a reason to believe again.
I look at my sons, and I often think of how the world they are growing into often offers them so little to aspire to. I think of my daughter, and I wonder who the men she can trust will be, who will be strong enough to embrace the fact that she is strong, and who will demonstrate love with fierce integrity.
I know the answer begins here—with me—and it begins by giving them better heroes: real ones, ancient ones, and new ones.
Let us read them the old tales, tell them the stories that matter, and live lives worth their imitation. Let us show them David, who ran to the fight, Daniel, who knelt in defiance, and Paul, who stood through storms. Let them walk with Odysseus, who braved the long road home, and Aeneas, who bore his father on his back as he fled the burning city. Let them rise with King Arthur, who led with honor and wielded Excalibur not for conquest but for justice. Let them ride with Frodo, who bore the weight of evil not with strength, but with perseverance. Let them stand beside Reepicheep, the valiant mouse who chased honor to the edge of the world. Let us give them Henry, standing at the breach. And above them all, let us show them Jesus—the Lion and the Lamb, the King who gave all. The one true Hero to whom all others point, and in whose shadow every act of courage finds its light.
Let us give them a vision so grand, so noble, that it calls them out of the smallness of self and into the greatness of sacrifice because the world may have forgotten its heroes, but we have not.
As long as there are boys who long to become men, and men who remember what it means to fight for something good, we are not finished.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends.
C.S. Lewis, Selected Literary Essays (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 265.
Humphrey Carpenter, JRR Tolkien: A Biography, p. 151.