One sword is pulled from the stone; another is driven in.

The legendary Great King of Camelot, Arthur, is a well-known hero. Most famously recounted by Thomas Malory in Le Morte d’Arthur, Arthur drew the sword that had been fixed in a marble stone to determine who should rule the land. Only the one worthy and virtuous enough could remove the sword. Many knights and nobles attempted this feat, but none did so with Arthur’s virtue. He acted without pride, thinking only of his brother. “And so he handled the sword by the handles, and lightly and fiercely pulled it out of the stone, and took his horse and rode his way until he came to his brother Sir Kay, and delivered him the sword.” This act identified him as Britain’s next ruler. He would go on to unify the land through victories in Scotland and Wales, which solidified his claim as king.

Such “chosen one” narratives endure for good reason; they appeal to our own desire to be heroic. They hint that greatness already lives within us; all we need is a moment of magic to reveal it. The long years of obscurity will be replaced in a flash of destiny.

Contrast this tale with that of Galgano Guidotti. Born to a noble house among the rolling hills of Tuscany around 1148, he led a life without want or worry. Yet the respect that accompanied his name and the gold he would inherit rankled in his soul.

All Galgano Guidotti had to do to make his name was to act as a knight of spotless virtue. In twelfth-century Tuscany, this meant jousting in public tournaments and, when honor demanded, killing those who challenged his name. It was bloody work, but maintaining his title meant everything, and it paid handsomely, not just in the coin he received from his parents but in adoration and indulgence in earthly pleasures.

Each evening, however, he rode alone out to the silent hilltop of Monte Siepi to clear his head. On one of these rides, his horse panicked, and Galgano crashed against the earth. When he came to, an angel was waiting for him, standing in the twilight. The angel asked the knight to renounce all he had known, throw down his sword, and give his life to God. This upset the knight Galgano greatly. He thought the angel was ridiculing him. He laughed, took up the challenge, and proclaimed, “It would be easier to split this stone with a sword!” At that, he brought his blade down with all his might and it slid easily into the solid rock. It formed a cross, the symbol of Christ.

It was then the shroud of discontentment lifted from Galgano. The approval he had once deemed essential now stirred nothing within him. He vowed to renounce violence and ambition. No longer did he have to impress others, which had given him so little joy. Instead, realizing his story didn’t have to be one of conquest, he gave up everything to live out the rest of his life as a hermit. He remained content among the windswept hills, where a stone church stands now, built around Saint Galgano’s tomb. The sword still rests there today, never to be drawn again.

We are raised on stories of heroes slaying dragons and triumphing over evil. Legends like that of Arthur permeate our modern culture. We burn with the fire of ambition, or fear what will happen if we stop wanting more. We are afraid of being left in the dust by our peers and surpassed by a quickening world. We worry that without proof of our achievements, we will be nothing at all.

Galgano, too, walked in such a world. Yet at a critical moment along his path he saw through the curtain of futility, glimpsing a life without the need to grasp destiny by the horns. His miracle was not martyrdom, it was the simple act of laying down his sword. With this he refused to prove anything at all.

Some of the hardest victories are silent: swords left buried, ambitions released, power relinquished. Of course, even though we’ve laid down our arms, there will still be times in life when we must act. We may have people who rely on us, obligations to be handled with care. Letting go doesn’t have to mean disappearing into the mountains to live a hermetic life. It might mean not tying our worth to our earnings. It might mean creating without praise.

Galgano’s sword remains buried in the stone, a symbol of refusal. No holy war. No crown. No glory. Just a decision to let ambition fall away.

As Jesus once said, “Put your sword back into its place. For all who take the sword will perish by the sword” (Matt. 26:52). The one way leads to war; the other leads to peace.