Which Sword: Steel or Spirit?

A Sermon Preached by The Rev. Paul Debenport

August 16, 2009

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Hear the Word of God from our primary text from Ephesians 6: 10:

“Be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his power.  Put on the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.  For our struggle is not against enemies of blood and flesh, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places.  Therefore, take up the whole armor of God so that you may be able to withstand on that evil day, and having done everything, to stand firm.  Stand therefore, and fasten the belt of truth around your waist, and put on the breastplate of righteousness.  As shoes for your feet put on whatever will make you ready to proclaim the gospel of peace.  With all of these, take the shield of faith, with which you will be able to quench all the flaming arrows of the evil one.  Take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.” 

And from Matthew 26, at the arrest of Jesus [47, 50b—54]:

While Jesus was still speaking, Judas…arrived with…a large crowd with swords and clubs from the chief priests and the elders of the people.  …They came and laid hands on Jesus and arrested him.  Suddenly, one of those with Jesus put his hand on his sword, drew it, and struck the slave of the high priest, cutting off his ear.  Then Jesus said to him, “Put your sword back into its place; for all who take the sword will perish by the sword.  Do you think that I cannot appeal to my Father, and he will at once send me more than twelve legions of angels?  But how then would the scriptures be fulfilled, which say it must happen in this way?”

And finally, Jesus’ words from Matthew 10: 34:

“Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth;

I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.”

The Word of the Lord.  Thanks be to God.

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          Obviously, today’s metaphor is the “armor of God,” especially the “sword.”  It’s also obvious that I have pushed together several passages that at least seem at odds with each other, this last passage especially, which has always bothered me.  But it is now clear to me that the sword Jesus came to bring was never a sword of steel, never the sword of kings and rulers.  The sword Jesus came to bring is one that pierces Mary’s heart and ours.  The only literal blood it draws is Jesus’ own.  It’s the sword that troubles us and doesn’t give us spiritual peace, for it slices through falsehood and serves up righteousness.  It exposes our own hypocrisies, as well as evil and raw injustice.  It flashes truth.  It takes the shape of a cross and leaves scars for us to touch, and to be touched by, sometimes even transformed by.  It’s the Word of God that renounces the ways of retaliation and vengeance, as Jesus rebuked his follower who struck out viciously at his arrest.  The armor of God, which looks like weakness, is the true power of God saving this world.^1.

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          A while back, the Art Institute of Chicago displayed its collection of medieval European weaponry—swords, maces, daggers, helmets, shields, and suits of armor.  These tools of war were both beautiful and frightening, with their fancy etchings somewhat obscuring their brutal purpose.  What was most striking, though, was the neat correlation between tools designed for killing and tools designed to thwart killing.  There’s a helmet for every mace, a breastplate for every dagger and a shield for every sword.  In a sort of bizarre neutrality, it’s showed humanity’s murderous intent being checked and blocked by the quality of its armor, not unlike today’s pairings of ballistic missiles and antiballistic missiles.

          But, of course, we know the truth is that our armor always loses because our weapons are consistently one step ahead of our protection.  As the museum exhibit revealed, we can wrap ourselves in wonderful, fine-hammered metal, but every suit of armor has its vulnerability, and our warring nature finds and exploits them.  So if we cannot be protected from an enemy as obvious ourselves, can we ever hope to find protection strong enough to thwart the “cosmic powers” that cause us to turn on one another in the first place?

          Ephesians thinks so, but insists that this new armor is not of our own making.  Instead, it belongs to God and is from God.  I can try to protect myself in a multitude of ways, but my efforts will fall short.  The breastplate of self-righteousness will not protect me; nor will a helmet made of bourbon or barbiturates.  A sword of cynicism or of the piety of aggressive certitude is also insufficient, as are prosperity, religious zeal, fitness and even family.  None of these are strong enough to hold back “the cosmic powers of this present darkness,” as Ephesians testifies.  Which is why the writer of Ephesians makes a distinction between “the whole armor of God” and our efforts to become godly.  The shield is God’s, not ours.  The armor is a free gift from God, not something we make ourselves.  Hence, this passage makes clear that God gives us God’s strength only when we accept our essential weakness.  God’s power is neither aggressive nor violent.  Those are our ways, not God’s.  God’s power is given and revealed in what looks to us as nothing but weakness, foolishness even.  But, God’s non-violent armament, taking the violence and injustice onto God’s self, is sufficient, and effective—eventually.^2.

          Somewhere, though I couldn’t find where this week, I have a book of prints of Rembrandt’s religious etchings.  While pondering these passages, I found myself picturing one of them, a stark depiction of the Crucifixion of Jesus.  The brutal injustice to Jesus is central, of course, surrounded by many other figures, from soldiers to bystanders.  My memory is that most of the faces are hard, even hateful.  But one face reveals a heart that has been pierced by the sword of God’s Spirit.  This soldier is appalled, even transformed by the injustice of the vulnerable Jesus offering his own body.  I can’t imagine he ever picked up his steel sword again.  I see him as the soldier who cried, “Surely this is the Son of God.”  God’s power in vulnerable, non-violent weakness was already beginning to triumph over the violent ways of the cosmic powers of evil.

          As they were in another, much more contemporary picture.  It’s a shocking photograph of a lunch counter in Nashville in the first volume of Parting the Waters, Taylor Branch’s history of the civil rights movement in this country.  A white man and woman are sitting with an African-American woman.  Their backs are turned on an angry mob gathered behind them.  Their waiter has just poured a bottle of ketchup over the white man’s head.  In the black and white photograph, the ketchup looks like blood as it drips down the man’s jacket.  His jaw is clenched, his shoulders braced.  He must want nothing more than to turn and attack the jeering crowd, to pick up a steel sword and slash into battle.  But he sits still.  On the world’s terms he is weak.  Armed with nothing but Christ’s gospel of peace, he receives every sort of abuse.  Which is the difficult thing about the armor of God: it lets more in than it keeps out.

          The eyes of the crowd are insane, lit by the cosmic powers of that hateful time.  One man has a sugar jar in his hand and a joyful smile on his face, having just dumped its contents over the African-American protester’s head.  But at the far edge of the photo’s boundary, there is a member of the mob who looks ashamed of this ugly scene.  He is a young man with his eyes downcast, his face tormented.  Like the soldier at the foot of the cross, he appears to be in transformed pain.

          Most likely, that young man had come ready to at least cheer on some violence.  If one of the protesters had carried anything but God’s weapons, surely he would have fought back with pleasure.  But his weapons of prejudice and hatred proved no match for the armor of God; indeed, the photo caught the precise instant when some part of him—his heart? —was pierced by the sword of the Spirit, opened wide by the power of love. 

          Now I can’t imagine that those three protesters felt triumphant that night when they went back to try to wash off the day’s sweaty fear and traumatic indignities.  They probably thought it was all for naught, that the cosmic powers of evil had won again. But as is usually the way, God’s victories only emerge years later.  It’s usually ugly in the moment, but becomes beautiful in retrospect.  And, now at least, there is beauty in that picture.  The armor of God is shining brightly.  Though the flaming arrows of hatful rage, God’s grace will win eventually.  As Ephesians promises, it always does and always shall.  Therefore, “be strong in the Lord and in the strength of God’s power.”

Thanks be to God.  Amen.