Let me be straight with you. Whoever goes around saying, “Looks don't matter, it's what's on the inside that really counts,” is an idiot. Forceful language? Yes. But it is time for me to take a stance and proclaim on this the first day of April, 2010, that statement is only ¾ true. (Yes there is a certain degree of irony in the fact that it is April fools day, but I assure you that it is in your best interest to take me serious right now.)
If that mushy statement were more than ¾ true, then why don't lawyers dress like “gangstas” when bustin' a good case. If that were true, then why is it that little boys across America act like barbarians when given plastic body armor and a sword?
Mufasa had a mane. So did Simba. They were the kings of the jungle. The men who make the best statues have beards... it's the mane of a kingly man. Stonewall Jackson, Robert E. Lee, Ulysses Grant, Beowulf, Jesus... all great statue material... all had great beards. A beard says, “Follow me, and you will have protection and freedom... or I shall die getting it for you!”
When the center of a beard is removed, the power represented is now different. Not necessarily less powerful, but different. It is the sign of a strong and courageous servant. Chops, as designed by God, are not necessarily made to be warn by a prolific king or leader. They are made to be on the man who is otherwise normal (except for his unnaturally high levels of testosterone). Chops are remarkably common and cry out, “Put me in flannel and scent me with pine and an hint of gasoline. Watch me chop wood... you'll like what you see.” But when the chips are down, a man in chops will somewhat rebelliously follow a man with a beard and basically save the world. Consider Wolverine as an example (only in that case he was following a man with a bald head... minor inconsistancy).
In battle, a beard says, “Watch me suffer if it should inspire my men!” In battle, chops yell out, “I am a man, give me pain and watch me not feel it... no watch me crush it.” A man in chops is not meant to be seen... he is only meant to save. When his time of service is done, he will not be found basking in the glory or making speeches of celebration. He will only linger if there are women and children to be carried to safety. Otherwise he will slip away, only to be found with an ax and crosscut saw in hand, building a cabin in the woods... probably for orphans.
I used to think very little about chops, until recently when I picked up the sport of mountain biking. Apparently, men in chops love mountain biking. Chops are easy to find at a race or on a trail far back in the woods. The pain involved in banging down a trail for miles upon miles is appealing to a man in chops... as is the excruciating fatigue generated from the steep climbs on a good ride. And the icing on the cake... bikes have lots of moving parts that sometimes get greasy. They have chains... like chainsaws. Men in chops love tinkering with moving parts that are sometimes black with grease. Fixing the unfixed, truing the untrue is part of their God-given nature.
And then it occurred to me. My father was a chops man back in the seventies and eighties. He looks great in flannel and taught me how to chop wood. I love the smell of sawing into pine. I own a chainsaw... it doesn't work, but I still own one. I love being in the woods and secretly would like to wear flannel more. I love mountain biking and tinkering with my bike. I love the cardiovascular sting of a good climb. Perhaps the call has come and I am to learn to follow the high order of becoming a man of the chops. I'm growing them out this week. If I am found to be enough of a man, I shall take up the call... I will become a chops man.
