Star Wars and Me: Love, Disappointment, and Hope

I can still remember the first time I saw those now-famous words scroll across the screen:

“A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…”

I was four years old. And 1977 was a life-changing year for me—not just because of Star Wars, but because it was also the year I made the most important decision of my life: I asked Jesus to be the Lord of my life (one of my first memories).

In fact, these two stories—one fictional and one true—were woven together in my heart and imagination from the very beginning. I spent my childhood praying to the real Creator of the universe while dreaming about wielding a lightsaber and joining the Rebellion. Like many kids from my generation, my shelves were lined with Star Wars action figures, my bed was covered with Star Wars blankets, and my plastic lightsaber (or sometimes my dad’s flashlight!) was always at the ready.

But here’s the thing: it wasn’t just the ships, the blasters, or the special effects that captured my heart. It was the story. The battle between good and evil. The hope of redemption. The struggle between the dark side and the light. And these weren’t just entertaining plot devices—they echoed something far deeper, something real.

Star Wars, at its best, is modern mythology. It resonates because it taps into the same universal longings that the gospel actually fulfills. Themes like heroism, sacrifice, freedom, justice, love, and redemption—these are not arbitrary narrative elements. They are signposts pointing us toward the greatest story ever told: the true story of a Creator who entered His own creation to defeat evil and rescue His people.

So when Disney bought Lucasfilm in 2012, I was among the millions who felt that same spark of childhood hope. More Star Wars? With modern technology, big budgets, and new stories to tell? Count me in.

At first, I was genuinely optimistic. I enjoyed The Force Awakens. It wasn’t perfect, but it felt like it respected the original trilogy. And Rogue One? Absolutely brilliant! The Vader hallway scene at the end of that film remains one of the most breathtaking moments in cinematic history.

But then came The Last Jedi. And with it, a disturbance in the Force.

I’ve written about my deep disappointment before—especially with how Luke Skywalker, my childhood hero, was reduced to a bitter, broken caricature of himself. The Luke I had imagined for decades—the Jedi Master who had learned from Yoda and had matured into the wisest of the wise—was nowhere to be found. Instead, we got a Luke who was still “Luke-warm,” still the whiny kid from Tatooine, only now older and disillusioned. As far as I'm concerned, The Last Jedi is not canon!

And here’s where the “hate” side of my love/hate relationship with Star Wars really began to set in.

It wasn’t just that Disney made creative choices I didn’t like. It was that they seemed to forget what Star Wars is. They forgot that these stories matter because they reflect the deeper truths of human nature, freedom, moral responsibility, and hope.

The Dark Side: Where Disney Lost the Way

Now, to be clear, my disappointment isn’t rooted in some rigid commitment to nostalgia. I’m not opposed to new characters, new stories, or even bold creative risks. I don’t expect or want carbon copies of the originals. But what made Star Wars special in the first place wasn’t the special effects—it was the storytelling. It was the moral clarity. The sense of mythic weight behind the struggle between good and evil. The real hope that redemption was possible . . . even for the worst of villains.

That’s what Disney seemed to forget.

It wasn’t just Luke’s bizarre character arc that left me feeling like my childhood hero had been assassinated—it was the repeated subversion of meaningful arcs for the sake of shock value. There was a strange eagerness to “deconstruct” everything that had once inspired awe and hope, as if the writers thought the best way to keep us interested was to undermine the very foundations that made Star Wars resonate.

In The Last Jedi, we’re told that the Jedi should end—not because the dark side has been defeated, but because Luke made mistakes. Imagine if Tolkien had written Gandalf that way: "Well, the wizards messed up a few times, so we should probably just let Sauron take over." It’s absurd. But in The Last Jedi, that’s exactly the kind of logic we’re asked to accept.

The tragedy here isn’t just that the story went in a direction I didn’t personally enjoy—it’s that it betrayed the heart of what Star Wars was always about.

Star Wars was never meant to be about moral relativism or existential despair. It wasn’t about tearing down heroes—it was about calling out the hero in all of us. It was about the belief that even the most fallen soul—Darth Vader himself—could be redeemed. That hope was what set Star Wars apart from so many other sci-fi and fantasy stories.

But when the story shifts from redemption to cynicism, from heroism to self-pity, something essential gets lost.

The Bright Spots: Why I Haven’t Given Up Hope

Despite all of that, I’m still here. I’m still watching most of what Disney is producing (I did not watch The Acolyte). I’m still rooting for Star Wars to reclaim its magic.

Why? Because we’ve been given glimpses of what it could still be.

Rogue One was one of those glimpses. Yes, it was dark—but it was also meaningful. The sacrifices were weighty. The hope was real. The Vader hallway scene wasn’t just cool (though, let’s be honest—it was unbelievably cool)—it was terrifying because it showed the true face of evil that the Rebellion had been fighting all along.

Then came The Mandalorian. And suddenly, the Force felt strong again.

Jon Favreau and Dave Filoni tapped into the essence of what made Star Wars special. The old west, samurai-loner vibe. The slow-building relationships. The respect for the lore. The understanding that the heart of Star Wars beats strongest when it focuses on hope, self-sacrifice, and love.

In fact, I’ve said before (and I’ll say it again): Favreau should be the only pilot allowed in the Star Wars cockpit. Whatever he touches seems to “turn to gold.” Whether it was Elf, the launch of the MCU with Iron Man, or now The Mandalorian, Favreau understands how to tell a good story—one that honors the past without being enslaved to it.

When I watched Mando’s story unfold, especially his relationship with Grogu (“Baby Yoda”), it felt like Star Wars again. It recaptured the original vibe that made me fall in love with the galaxy far, far away in the first place.

Why This Matters (and Why I Still Care)

You might be thinking, “Tim, why do you care this much? It’s just a movie franchise.”

But that’s the thing—it’s not just a movie franchise. Storytelling matters. Myth matters. These stories shape how we see the world, how we imagine virtue, sacrifice, courage, and hope.

Good stories reflect the True Story.

The reason Star Wars works (when it works) is because it borrows from the contours of the gospel itself: the fall, the fight against evil, the hope of redemption, the sacrifice of the hero, and the ultimate triumph of the good. The echoes of Christianity run deep through the best parts of Star Wars, even if Lucas himself didn’t fully realize how true that was.

As my parents told me back in 1977—just after introducing me to Jesus and shortly after taking me to my first screening of Star Wars—“The same power that created the universe and raised Jesus from the dead is the same power that lives in you through the Holy Spirit if you are walking in God’s will. That’s the ultimate Force.”

That stuck with me. And it still shapes how I engage with Star Wars today. When the stories tap into those eternal truths, they’re not just entertaining—they’re meaningful.

Rooting for Redemption: Hope for the Future of Star Wars

I suppose that’s why, despite my frustration with much of what Disney has done, I’m still here. I’m still a fan. Still holding out hope.

Why? Because hope is at the heart of Star Wars (literally in the title of the first Star Wars story ever told)—and I’m not ready to give up on it.

I want Disney to succeed. I want them to turn the ship around and make Star Wars great again. I’m rooting for them to rediscover what made this galaxy far, far away so powerful in the first place. Not just the cool ships or fancy lightsaber battles (though those are fun), but the deeper narrative thread—the moral clarity, the courage to stand against objective darkness and evil, and the belief that even the most broken can be redeemed.

I want the next generation to someday fall in love with Star Wars the way I did—not just because it’s exciting, but because when it's at its best it speaks to something true. It points beyond itself to the greatest story ever told.

The truth is, Star Wars has always been at its best when it mirrors the gospel—whether intentionally or not. When it reminds us that evil is real, but so is hope. That darkness can never overcome the light. That freedom, sacrifice, love, and redemption are worth fighting for.

These aren’t just movie themes. They’re eternal truths. And they’re true not because George Lucas dreamed them up, but because God wrote them into the fabric of reality.

That’s why I’m still here. That’s why I still care. Because Star Wars, for all its ups and downs, remains one of the greatest modern mythologies—a story that, at its best, points us to the bigger, truer Story.

So here’s to hoping Disney finds their way back to that galaxy far, far away—the one where the Force is strong, the heroes are heroic, and the hope is real.

Stay reasonable (Isaiah 1:18),

— Dr. Tim Stratton

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