My worst is my “Mr Nice Christian Boy” outfit. I bought this during my youth group days. Imagine the very opposite of an Incredible Hulk outfit - and you have the picture. The church loved it. Always sweet, always available, always accommodating and always ‘good’. I learnt very late that both God and the world doesn’t want nice guys but heroes and warriors.
In its place, God issued me with a new outfit; it was a suit of armour. It still stands in the corner, bright, shiny and unused. Initially I would not wear it because it was 2m tall and I stand only 1.8m in my socks. I explained to God that he had sent the wrong size but he firmly said it was my size exactly. I didn’t want to put it on in case I made a total idiot of myself and fell off my horse.
Against the wall is a rack of old swords, all inscribed with the words “Sword of the Spirit”. I pick up an old favorite. Well-worn, comfortable, blunt and safe. Nice guys didn’t play with dangerous weapons, so this one suited me for years. Now however, I have a new weapon, a wickedly sharp battle-sword; it’s still in its box. I’m scared of its white-hot edge and the dull hum it makes when I pick it up.
I remember a Sunday afternoon awhile ago. I wandered around the deserted house and into the garage. Bored and with nothing else to do I tried the armour on. The leggings sucked closed like a second skin. Surprised, I tried the torso as well. It too sucked, clunked and latched around my upper body with no space to spare. I easily walked around the garage. Braver, I leaped onto old trunk and landed silently like a cat. With a bound, I snatched up my new sword and swung it around my head repeatedly. It cut the air around me until it withdrew cringing into the corner.
The sound of horses, metal chain and armour plating caught my attention. Outside a squad of heavily armed men rode past.
“Hey, where are you going?” I shouted.
“We’re riding back into battle.” The speaker’s face was dirty, grim and hard.
Intimidated by his gruff and off-hand manner I asked, “Can I join you?”
“Sorry, but you’re not on the list. Besides, you’ve never seen the outside of your garage!” The men laughed as they rode off and left me wandering which church they went to. They weren’t very nice.
Disappointed I kick an old can with my steel boot. It shattered into a million fragments against the concrete wall.
“Hey Steve, won’t you please arrange the chairs for the Sunday service?”
I looked up and there outside my garage were six people from my church.
“Sorry”, I said, “but this suit is too big to fit in the gap between the rows. I’ll help next week.”
Another called out. “Steve, join us for a Bible study!”
“Sorry”, I said, “but these steel gloves are too big to turn the pages. I join you next time when I’m more suitably dressed.”
“Steve, join us for coffee after the service.”
“Sorry, but I cannot get anything near my mouth with this steel plate in the way – next time.”
They trundled off and I was left alone. Finally, I laid my sword back into its box. With a single click, the armour fell from my body and I stood it back against the wall. The garage was silent, cold and dusty.
I still need to have that spiritual bonfire but then my garage would be empty and nobody likes emptiness. And I dread Sunday afternoons.
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