At the Center of It All

One of my favorite films is Gladiator. In it, there is a scene where Maximus—once a Roman General, now a slave—first steps into the gladiatorial arena to fight. He is reluctant, refusing to attack. As a Roman soldier, he had the best weapons and armor available. Now, he was nearly naked, seemingly defenseless. But even without the physical defenses, he was able to use his training, his wits, and the few weapons he had to fight and win.

A similar thing happens when I fall into sin. In the film, Maximus was thrust involuntarily into slavery. Sin, on the other hand, usually involves making a choice to reject God’s armor and to go into battle naked. Once I’m standing in the center of the arena, though, I’m forced to summon up whatever defenses I can create for myself. I put on the full armor of sin.

Paul describes God’s Armor—the best available to me as a general in His army:

Therefore, put on every piece of God’s armor so you will be able to resist the enemy in the time of evil. Then after the battle you will still be standing firm. Stand your ground, putting on the belt of truth and the body armor of God’s righteousness. For shoes, put on the peace that comes from the Good News so that you will be fully prepared. In addition to all of these, hold up the shield of faith to stop the fiery arrows of the devil. Put on salvation as your helmet, and take the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. (Ephesians 6:13-17, NLT)

You’d think I would want the best defense I can put on. But sin twists my perceptions, making me think that God’s armor is too heavy, too weak, or too complicated. Sin then presents me with an alternative—armor that seems shiny, light, and fits perfectly. It’s easy to wear, and the longer I wear it, the more comfortable it gets, to the point where eventually I hardly even notice I’m wearing it at all.

Sin replaces each solid component of God’s armor with a flimsy substitute. Looking back on the last year, I’ve realized that I was wearing all of these worthless parts. I put on the belt of deceit and the body armor of self-righteousness. For shoes, the paranoia that comes from the fear of discovery so that I would be fully prepared with justification. Then I held up the shield of rationalization to deflect the arrows of truth. My helmet was distortion, and my blugeon was diversion; in my mind, the facts were molded to fit my actions, and my friends were perceived as enemies to target for counterattack.

Like the costumes in a movie, the substitute armor looks perfect on the surface, but close inspection reveals a complete lack of substance. It holds up for a while, but when truly tested, when the light shines brightly on it, it begins to come apart. It gets harder and harder to cling to the pieces, to hold it all together, until inevitably it fails catastrophically, evaporating like the fading memories of a dream, and I’m left naked in the center of the arena, surrounded by death.

It is at this point that God’s Armor, as heavy and clumsy and complicated as it may seem, reveals its value and its substance. I can’t put it on at first without help—just as Maximus needed a servant to dress him in his Roman uniform. I find, though, as I begin to wear it more that the pieces are custom fitted to me. I find as I carry it around on a daily basis that the burden lightens. I find that I draw courage and strength and peace from the knowledge that I’m no longer on my own, that God is the one who protects me.