Armored

Scripture: The Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Lectionary 21), A.D. 2015 B

Sermon:

Armor makes a man more than a man. That’s what it’s for. It lets us cheat death.

We have been obsessed with armor from the beginnings of Western civilization. The terror of the ancient world was not the undisciplined barbarian horde but the Greek phalanx, a methodical and eerily silent marching wall of metal. The gods of the east were said to have skin made of bronze or gold, so when these warriors clad themselves in a second metal skin—did that not make them a sort of god as well? Certainly it must’ve seemed that way when they advanced, all armored up and interlocking, with soulless black slits for eyes. They might indeed have been gods, or perhaps beasts, but certainly not mere men anymore.

Fearless. Dauntless. Impervious. That’s why as children we love tales of knights in shining armor, gleaming and clanking, shrugging off blows that would otherwise surely prove mortal. That’s why today the stars of any military display are not the poor infantry but the bulletproof tanks, the Armored Corps. Of course, the dream of the armorer from the dawn of time has been, in effect, the Iron Man—a suit of armor so perfect, so adaptable, that its wearer could go anywhere, survive anything, completely unscathed. It’s not just metal. Armor makes a man into a god; armor lets a man fight freed from the fear of death.

Today’s reading from St. Paul’s letter to the Ephesians contains one of the most popular biblical passages for modern American Christians, especially amongst a certain Evangelical subset: the “Whole Armor of God”.

Take up, therefore, 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.

This is very rousing, very militant, language, isn’t it? It instills in the heart a sort of Christian triumphalism that views life as constant battle, stirs up the old passions and barbarian virtues of strength, honor, and victory in battle. Throw in some hymns like “Onward Christian Soldiers” and “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” and we’ll go marching out like it’s the Fourth of July.

If that doesn’t make you at least a bit uncomfortable, it should. But there’s more going on here. This is not the traditional militarism that we may gather at first blush. Paul is, in fact, using violent imagery in order to subvert violence. Ephesus, mind you, is a militantly pagan city at the time of this epistle. Their chief goddess is Artemis, the Huntress, and her Ephesian temple is literally one of the Seven Wonders of the World. The whole city makes its money off of pagan pilgrims buying pagan idols, and the month-long festival of the Artemesion is known throughout the Roman Empire.

The Ephesians aggressively persecute anything or anyone that appears to dishonor the cult of Artemis. We read about them attempting to drive out the small Christian community at Ephesus in the Acts of the Apostles. This means that Paul’s epistle to the Ephesians is written to a persecuted minority church beleaguered and besieged by militant paganism. They are under attack. The very existence of their community is constantly at risk, and beneath that fear they must feel the need to fight back.

Yet how does Paul counsel them? Does he tell them to prepare for battle, to put on armor and get concealed carry permits for their swords? To the contrary. “Our struggle is not against enemies of blood and flesh,” Paul insists, but “put on the whole armor of God so that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.” We are not at war with people, Paul tells us. The pagans are not our enemies. Our neighbors are not our enemies. This conflict, this war that we experience, is a spiritual war, and so our weapons too must be spiritual: the belt of truth, the breastplate of righteousness, the shield of faith, the sword of the Spirit, and as shoes for our feet whatever will make us ready to proclaim the Gospel of peace.

Every item in Paul’s inventory of this “Whole Armor of God” is defensive. Its purpose is not to wage war but to wage unyielding peace. Even the sword of the Spirit, the only weapon he commends to his congregation, is nothing other than the Word of God—the Word, of course, being Jesus Christ found within the Holy Scriptures. He’s telling us not to give in to violence. He’s telling us not to fight fire with fire. Instead, we must armor ourselves, plate ourselves, with things holy and divine: an armor that defends us from the snares and wickedness of the devil; an armor that makes us more than men; an armor that lets us fight without the fear of death.

In other words, Baptism. He’s telling us to remember our Baptism. Remember that we are clothed not in our own righteousness but with the righteousness of Christ, promised to us in Word and water, poured out upon us when we were born again. It is Baptism that makes us more than mere mortals, Baptism that does not cheat but that conquers the grave, Baptism that frees us from the fear of death and empowers us to wage unrelenting peace against the evils that torment and oppress us all.

In Jesus Christ, God has revealed an entirely new kind of power, an entirely new kind of victory. God is not by nature violent, but neither is He some passive pushover. God is active—not in horrors, but in ceaseless, deathless love. In Jesus Christ, God conquers not by force of arms but through vulnerability. He defeats His enemies not with the crushing blow of a war hammer, but with God’s own weakness. All the world wants a war, all His people want a fight, yet God comes to conquer, comes to triumph, purely through the peace of Christ.

This is not a theology of military glory. This is something much more shocking, much more disturbing. This is Theology of the Cross. And Theology of the Cross understands that God’s true strength is in weakness, His true force is in love, and His true life comes to us in death, in humiliation, in the Cross. This is a hard teaching indeed. It’s not what we want to hear. We want a God Who will cause our enemies to suffer, not a God Who brings enemies into the family and takes the suffering upon Himself.  But such, I suppose, is the price—indeed, the very nature—of a truly loving God.

“This teaching is difficult,” the disciples complained. “Who can accept it?” And because of this, many of His disciples turned back and no longer went with Him. So Jesus asked the Twelve, “Do you also wish to go away?” And Peter answered Him, “Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life.”

To put on Christ, brothers and sisters, is to put on the whole armor of God. For bronze can be pierced, and iron falls to rust, but love raises life from death.

In the Name of the Father and of the +Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.