News of Kilmer's death hit me like a freight train because his Doc Holliday stirred something in me about friendship—both the earthly kind and the divine.
As a sixth-generation son of Georgia, I carry the Peach State in my bones. From the Atlanta Braves to the Georgia Bulldawgs, from Charlie Daniels' fiddle in "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" to Val Kilmer's performance as Doc Holliday in Tombstone—these are some of the threads of my heritage, woven deep and covered in Georgia red clay. So, when news broke of Kilmer's death, it hit me like a freight train, not just because he brought a Georgia legend to life with unmatched swagger but also because his Doc Holliday stirred something in me about friendship—both the earthly kind and the divine.
Kilmer's Doc Holliday is my favorite character in any film, bar none. A dentist turned gunslinger, a Southern gentleman with a quick draw and quicker wit; he's the romanticized echo of the real Doc Holliday, born in Griffin, Georgia. My heart swells with Peach State pride at Kilmer's portrayal—those one-liners, delivered with a southern drawl and a devilish grin, have been quoted countless times amongst my friends and me since Tombstone hit screens in 1993. It's a travesty he didn't take home an Oscar for it. But beyond the charm and the verbal barbs, what lingers like gun smoke is the bond between Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp (played by Kurt Russell)—a friendship so fierce it fires through the noise of our silent, lonely age. It's a friendship that appears so foreign as to prompt questions like, "Will I ever have a friend like that?"
In Tombstone, Doc and Wyatt aren't kin, but you'd never know it. Their loyalty runs deeper than blood. When Wyatt's threatened, Doc's there, pistol in hand, ready to face hell itself with his friend. This portrayal of friendship is scarce in our day—a non-sexual, soul-deep camaraderie that echoes what soldiers know in the trenches: the willingness to lay down your life for another without a second thought. Doc would've died for Wyatt, and the film makes that plain.
Two scenes between Doc and Wyatt remain burned in my memory. First, as the Earps brace for a gunfight at the O.K. Corral, Wyatt turns to Doc and says, "This isn't your problem, Doc. You don't have to mix up in this." It's a noble and kind gesture, a chance for Doc to walk away from the bullets and blood without shame. But Doc's face twists and contorts with hurt. "That is a hell of a thing to say to me," he fires back.
Why the sting? Why the offense? Because Wyatt is Doc's friend. An assault on Wyatt is an assault on Doc. Wyatt is Doc's "ride-or-die." For Wyatt to suggest his friend does not need to be by his side because he's not an Earp cuts Doc to the quick. Wyatt should've known better. And in the end, he does not protest Doc's insistence on strutting to the O.K. Corral with the Earps. I've got a handful of friends like that—men I'd stand with through fire—but I ache for more. Our culture starves for this kind of bond, and I'd wager this is one root of the despair driving so many to the edge.
Jesus doesn't just talk about friendship—he embodies it, bleeding out on the cross for tax collectors, sinners, you, and me.
Then there's the aftermath of the showdown with Curly Bill. Doc, racked with tuberculosis, leans against a tree, spent. Turkey Creek Jack Johnson grumbles, "Doc, you oughta be in bed. What the hell you doin' this for anyway?” Doc's reply is simple, weighty, and powerful: "Wyatt Earp is my friend." Jack shrugs, "Hell, I got lots of friends." Doc, unflinching, says, "I don't." That confession lands like a fist. Wyatt is his one true companion, and the scarcity of such friends lays bare a longing we all carry. Some of us have a ride-or-die. But many don't, and the silence stings behind the phrase: "I don't."
But here's the good news: none of us is left friendless. Scripture proclaims to us a Friend who outshines them all—Jesus Christ, the Son of God. In John 15:15, he tells his disciples, "No longer do I call you servants… but I have called you friends..." Marinate and stew on that. The One who spoke the world into being calls us friends. And he proves the enormity of it in John 15:13: "Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends." Jesus doesn't just talk about friendship—he embodies it, bleeding out on the cross for tax collectors, sinners, you, and me.
Doc Holliday’s loyalty to Wyatt is something I love to watch, but it's a shadow of the real thing.
That's a friendship deeper than any holler, more potent than any river. Our grit or goodness does not earn it; it's a promise from him, given by his grace. I don't know if Val Kilmer knew this friend, but I pray someone told him the news that Christ died for his sins. But I know this: as you read this, you might be wondering, "When will someone tell me such good news? Doesn't anyone want to proclaim to me the good news of Christ’s cross and blood?"
I’m your huckleberry; that's just my game! So now hear this, friend: Jesus Christ, crucified and risen, bore your sins on that tree. Three days later, he walked out of the tomb to justify you before God. Believe that! In the name of Jesus, you are forgiven all your sins! For Christ’s sake, the Friend of sinners, this is most certainly true!
Doc Holliday’s loyalty to Wyatt is something I love to watch, but it's a shadow of the real thing. Jesus is the Friend who sticks closer than a brother (Prov. 18:24), the One who laid down his life so we might live.
