Tribe > Self

A few weeks ago, I was traveling to an event with a bona fide cultural anthropologist. Not long into our drive, the topic of 'Rites of Passage' came up. A Rites of Passage is an event or a series of events that marks a boy's transition from boyhood to manhood [think Jewish bar mitzvah].

It turns out that my travel companion had spent much of his academic career studying how different cultures transition their children into adulthood. He shared that, throughout history, ancient cultures had in common a single trait that signified a boy had left boyhood and entered manhood. Be it Greek, Mayan, or Native American cultures, boys became men when they recognized that the well-being of the tribe was more important than their individual wants, needs, and desires.

The transition into manhood was not defined by strength, ability, or autonomy; it was fundamentally about community—emotional and social maturity. It involved a self-forgetfulness, where one moves from being a self-centered boy to becoming a selfless man.

A Different Day

What struck me was how different our modern Rites of Passage are. Today’s ceremonies often hyper-focus on the individual, emphasizing character-building and self-esteem. These events typically culminate in a ceremony where everyone verbally affirms the boy's worthiness and often showers him with gifts. I recently attended such a ceremony where a grandfather gave his grandson a gold watch, the very watch he had received after 40 years of service at his company. This grandfather dedicated his entire life to one company and passed on the only thing he had to show for it to his grandson, who had done nothing more than turn 14. The entire ceremony centered around the boy—his abilities, his intelligence, his character—with no mention of the idea that he should, or is even ready to die to self and live for others.

A New Day

The notion that true manhood is characterized by selflessness has lingered in my mind since our trip. While I understand that cultivating self-forgetfulness is something every man must pursue, hearing it framed as a prerequisite for manhood was a new perspective for me.

As Christmas came and went, I observed the attitudes and actions of my sons more closely, growing increasingly convinced that my travel companion was right. My three boys could not, and would not, become men until they grasped that the tribe's needs were more important than their own.

I cannot shake this thought: How do I cultivate a home and establish a culture where self-centered boys evolve into selfless men?

To assist in this thought journey, I am enlisting the help of a few trusted friends who will be writing alongside me for the next few months, one of whom is Steven DeGeorge..

Steven is the husband of a graceful woman named Lauren. He is the father of four boys: Steve-O, Jack, Jesse, and David. They are good at having fun and bad at sitting quietly in church. Steven is a storyteller, a songwriter, and a social worker (in that order). He obtained his Master's Degree in Social Work at the University of Louisville [Steve and I met here], where he played soccer for the Cardinals. Steve runs a fatherhood program for young dads in crisis in Macon, GA. He is also working on a new album called 'Pelican.' He loves Scotland, Joni Mitchell, riding horses, Reebok Pumps and cardigan sweaters. He is what some refer to condescendingly as 'a talker.' He clings with all he has to the Hope of Christ, the focus of his praise and writing.

To give you a taste of Steve's storytelling, read this piece he sent me shortly after Christmas:

I got almost nothing for my kids for Christmas. We did go camping at a fascinating place called Peanut Island... The time and money it took to get to South Florida and back made my wife and I feel like we didn't have much left to give. I gathered the boys up on Christmas morning and told them as much. I was pleased with their response. Indeed, knowing that their grandparents would more than supplement for the lack, I think they also had a sense that our camping adventure was a worthy trade-off. But I did give them each one thing.

I went looking for some Christmas inspiration at a comic book store down the street from our house. At the back of the shop, there is a wall of figurines. Vintage, used, repackaged nostalgia by the thousands. Star Wars, Gi Joe, HeMan, and so much more. As I scanned, I felt old feelings. I spent so many hours as a kid pretending with figurines. I didn't have much of a collection, but what I had was enough to take me away. I spent hours in the bathtub with my thumb wrestlers, facilitating epic showdowns between the heroic Hulk Hogan and the villain Macho Man Randy Savage. I also had some Gi Joes, but my go-to was the Ninja Turtles. Why? I don't know why. There was/is just something about these cold-blooded mutant teenagers that I love. My favorite was Michelangelo. Of the four turtle figurines, he is all I had, so to have a proper adventure, he'd have to fight green plastic army men, Sergeant Slaughter, and the thumb wrestlers, of course. I was limited but happy.

My eyes landed and lit up on the back corner wall at FanBoy Comics in Macon, Ga—an entire section of vintage ninja turtle figurines. An idea popped into my head. I have four boys. There were four turtles. Brothers. One thing I love about the ninja turtles is that their personalities are so different. Even today, I can tell you about them all. Don was the smart one. Leo was the leader. Raphael was bossy and impatient but ready for action. Mike was the funny one. He just wanted to have a good time.

I started sifting through the many evolutions of ninja turtle figurines, and as I did, I attached each turtle's personality to each of my sons. I found four plain originals, paid less than $50, and left the store inspired.

After our camping trip, the boys were exhausted. We got home on Christmas Eve and emptied the car into the living room. I was tired, too, but I got up before everyone on Christmas morning and wrote a page for each boy, telling him about his strengths and linking him to the turtle I chose. This is a dangerous activity with sons, I think. I didn't want my observations to limit their feelings about themselves or what they could accomplish. I hoped to celebrate the unique young men that God made them to be.

Oh, how I wish they could shift from competing individuals fighting for the front seat, the last cookie on the plate, or, most recently, for the right to light the advent candle at Sunday dinner into a "fearsome fighting team" unified in brotherhood.

Oh, that their differences would bring them together and make them stronger.

Oh, that the Gospel would be their inspiration, and the Bible would be their ninja code.

Before I gave my gifts, I first had to explain to them who the ninja turtles were. They were only vaguely familiar. I lead sheepishly with, "Y'all might think this is weird, but I loved this when I was your age." My youngest boy, David, got Michelangelo. Although his weapon isn't the best, I told him he was my favorite. David asked me more questions about the turtles.

His final question was, "Do they have a leader?"

"Yeah," I said, "Master Splinter. He's a giant rat."

"Did they have Splinter at the comic book store?" David asked.

"Yeah, there was one."

"How much was it?"

"They're all about $10."

David smiled and said, "I got $10 from Nana! I'm getting that for you, Dad."

Like Steven, I want my sons to be a "fearsome fighting team," united in brotherhood. This is what every man truly longs for—a team to fight alongside and a brother to walk with. We won’t achieve this by simply discovering our 'true selves.' Instead, we will find it by following the ancient path, which is paved with self-forgetfulness and marked by self-denial. Living for God and others is challenging, but it is worth it.

The journey begins with dying to myself [Matthew 16:24]. Here’s to cross-bearing in 2025.

All faucets no drains,

— Harp