I would take William H. Macy as a teacher any day of the week.

Skeet Ulrich once declared with reverence: “I would take William H. Macy as a teacher any day of the week. He’s incredible. He’s got a lot of hard-earned experience.” These words, spoken of an actor, reach beyond the stage and touch upon the ancient truth of wisdom itself. For what is a teacher, if not one who bears the scars of struggle, the fruit of trial, the weight of journeys long endured? In praising Macy, Ulrich is not merely admiring talent, but honoring the value of experience, which no book, no lecture, no fleeting theory can replace.

The ancients always placed the highest value upon such experience. The philosopher Epictetus said that wisdom is forged in the fires of adversity, not in the comfort of ease. A general who has never seen battle may speak boldly of tactics, but his voice lacks the authority of one who has stood in the storm of war. Likewise, an actor who has memorized lines without tasting failure or triumph upon the stage remains unseasoned. True greatness in art, as in life, comes not from theory alone, but from years of practice, failure, and perseverance. Ulrich, in honoring Macy, is paying homage to this eternal truth.

William H. Macy himself is a man shaped by such a path. Known for his craft, he is not one who stumbled into brilliance by accident, but one who built it brick by brick, role by role, through long seasons of labor. To learn under such a man is to inherit more than technique; it is to receive a living example of persistence, humility, and courage. The teacher is not merely a conveyor of knowledge — he is a vessel of experience, offering his students the distilled wisdom of a lifetime.

History shows us many such figures. Consider Socrates, who claimed he knew nothing, and yet through dialogue and questioning led others to discover truth. His authority did not come from lofty proclamations but from the tested clarity of a man who lived simply, who endured misunderstanding, and who died for his convictions. Or think of Leonardo da Vinci, who taught apprentices not only by showing brushstrokes, but by living a life of tireless curiosity, crossing the boundaries of art, science, and invention. In each case, it was experience, not mere knowledge, that made their teaching endure across the ages.

There is also humility in Ulrich’s words. To declare, “I would take Macy as a teacher any day,” is to acknowledge one’s own need to learn, one’s recognition that greatness lies not in pretending mastery, but in kneeling before those who have walked further. This humility is itself a mark of wisdom, for the proud refuse instruction, while the wise seek it endlessly. It is the open heart, willing to learn from those with “hard-earned experience,” that finds the richest treasures.

The lesson, then, is for all of us: when choosing guides in life, seek not the loudest voices, but those who have lived, endured, and labored in their craft. Let your teachers be those who bear the marks of trial, for their wisdom will be steady, tested, and real. And if you yourself would be a teacher, remember that your words will mean little unless they are rooted in lived experience. Struggle, fail, rise again — and from those ashes, your voice will carry the weight of truth.

Practically, this means cultivating reverence for those whose wisdom is carved from time. Listen to elders, mentors, and craftsmen who have walked their path for decades. Ask not only for their knowledge, but for their stories. Learn from their scars as much as their successes. And in your own life, do not despise hardship — for every trial you endure becomes tomorrow’s experience, and one day you, too, may pass it on to others.

Thus, Skeet Ulrich’s praise becomes more than a compliment. It is a reminder that greatness in teaching lies not in theory, but in experience, and that true wisdom is hard-earned, not cheaply gained. Let us therefore seek out such teachers, honor them, and strive to become like them — living vessels of truth, passing the flame from one generation to the next.