Lamb to Lion

“Rise and rise again, until lambs become lions”
-Robin Hood

These words appeared in more than four scenes of the new Russell Crowe movie, Robin Hood. My brain engines emitted exhaust fumes as I played with this phrase over and over again in my mind throughout the movie. I desperately wanted to land on a satisfactory meaning of the phrase so that I could pay attention and not have to ask my dad which British guys were fighting themselves and which ones were fighting the French at the moment. But later on in the movie, my agony was mitigated as Robin explained to one of the characters that the quote means “to never give up.” So I realized that the phrase can be whatever its beholder wants it to mean.

This unique assembly of words probably has a biblical origin, seeing as Jesus Christ is known as both the lion and the lamb; He is the “Lion of Judah” in heaven, but He then appears to us as the “Lamb of God which takes away the sins of the world.” It could also have a capitalistic undercurrent which would encourage the pursuit of one’s own success and integrity. It could also just simply mean (as Mr. Crowe articulates for his popcorn-eating fans) to never give up.

I’d like the phrase to mean that we experience an internal transformation from lamb to lion as we persevere through hardship, and that we must rise and rise again, through joy and through pain.

We get up and we face each day. We get up and we make decisions and do lots of work and resist temptations. Well — maybe not every day. But for those days that we fight, and for those days that our tiny sorrows or relationship dramas become our own scarlet battlefields, a lion begins to replace the lamb inside each of us.

The internal lamb is a mass of insecurity, immaturity, inexperience, and weakness, surrounded by a thick coat of cushiony wool. As the lion of hardship sinks its teeth into the permeable woolen membrane of our weaknesses, we become stronger and wiser. Something larger is born within us, something with more girth and ferocity. The lion doesn’t let us surrender in the face of turmoil — he helps us to rise again. The lion’s hot blood is a powerful liquid that bleeds perseverance and moxie. He is not bothered by distractions; his gaze is focused and deliberate.

But the lamb is still a part of us. It becomes the lion; it does not get overtaken by the lion. The lamb’s becoming qualities are thus salvaged. Its tenderness, its affection, its sentimentality, and its charm remain unscathed. But it has transformed into a mighty creature: one that can transcend constraint and demand liberty as king of the jungle.

As Dianne Setterfield puts it, “we all have our sorrows, and although the exact delineaments, weights, and dimensions of grief are different for everyone, the color of grief is common to us all.” The color of grief is the hemoglobin of our internal lamb. It bleeds when we bleed; it carries our troubles beneath its wool. And though our troubles never disappear, the silent metamorphosis will gradually enable us to cope easier with life’s afflictions. The lamb’s excrements become the lion’s fuel as we eventually forget our fears and allow the lion’s ferocity to present itself as self-confidence to the world.

Invigorating the day means that I need to put faith in the lion to help me rise and rise again. It means that I need to savor the versatility of experience and approach life with an informed confidence. As I train with a Born to Run style of running, my exercise follows this path naturally. As I try to live by the Four Agreements, I must remember that the mastery of these four pathways will only come with practice, and that I can only ever do my best without expecting immediate results. By doing our best and living with love, we feed the lion. By depleting our bodies, dwelling in insecurities, and practicing hatred and pessimism, we unintentionally throw the weaknesses of the lamb a celebratory welcome-back party.

What does this phrase mean to you?