I
While watching some of the Rugby Union World Cup quarter-finals this weekend, it struck me how, before hostilities begin, the players slowly position themselves into two columns in the tunnel that connects the changing rooms and the pitch. They stand abreast of each other, as warriors, whose lot has already been cast. They will enter the fray, there is no turning back. Some stare ahead, others glance at the enemy. Perhaps they look for a chink in the armour. Stationary for a minute or two, the noise from the stadium washes over them in waves of intimidation, inspiration, even incredulity. A few of them may not even hear the singing, or the chanting, or the spine-tingling introductions emanating from the stadium’s loudspeaker system — such will their senses be dulled. For those souls, they may as well be listening to white noise. Or the hissing of a circling vulture. Or the sickening clanging of metal, as an armourer forges a shield, strong enough to withstand the mightiest of axe strikes.
Then they emerge. 15 gladiators.
Initially, they march, before switching into a jog as they leave the safety of the stadium’s cavern. By lifting their knees and gently pumping their arms they feel some tension leave their bodies.
And they line up again. This time in a single row. Facing the baying spectators. They sing their national anthems. Tone-deaf. Lungs bursting. Massive paws are placed over left breasts, holding back hearts from bursting open and gushing crimson red blood into the ground. Eyes are closed. Blank stares are immortalised on camera. Rogue tears form small streams. The crowd roars at the final crescendo, irresistibly driving home the occasion, ramping up the adrenaline, allowing it to flow into every sinew. Some players are so energised that the game-plan is now lost. The coach’s words a distant echo. He is not here to help us. We are on our own. Hence the soon-to-occur unintended line infringements, foul play, subsequent penalties, yellow, and even, sometimes, red cards.
We have long had an expression for it. We call it the fog of war.
II
In the Book of Kings in the Old Testament, David, the future King of Israel, is able to remain composed in battle.
When he faces the Philistine Goliath — whose height was “six cubits and a span” — he does not let fear cloud his judgement. Instead, he asks of Goliath: “Who is this uncircumcised Philistine, that he should defy the armies of the living God?”
Knowing that he alone is willing to challenge Goliath, he tells King Saul: “I, thy servant, have killed both a lion and a bear: and this uncircumcised Philistine shall be also as one of them.”
And with serenity he approaches the giant man and tells him: “The Lord will deliver thee into my hand, and I will slay thee, and take away thy head from thee: and I will give the carcasses of the army of the Philistines this day to the birds of the air, and to the beasts of the earth: that all the earth may know that there is a God in Israel.”
And David “put his hand into his scrip, and took a stone, and cast it with the sling, and fetching it about struck the Philistine in the forehead: and the stone was fixed in his forehead, and he fell on his face upon the earth. And David prevailed over the Philistine, with a sling and a stone, and he struck, and slew the Philistine. And as David had no sword in his hand, he ran, and stood over the Philistine, and took his sword, and drew it out of the sheath, and slew him, and cut off his head.
“And the Philistines seeing that their champion was dead, fled away.”
And so David does as he promised he would. For he, in fact, gives Goliath’s flesh “to the birds of the air, and to the beasts of the earth”, which is what Goliath had threatened to do to him.
I am not quite sure why I am banging on about King David (you’re not alone — Ed). But I do like many of the lines and much of the dialogue in this passage. That includes one I have not yet mentioned, which is when Goliath says to David: “Am I a dog, that thou comest to me with a staff?”
Why was David so calm in facing Goliath? Perhaps it was because he had been anointed by Samuel, the prophet, at which point “the spirit of the Lord” had rested upon him. Perhaps it was because he was confident in his skills as a warrior, for he had “killed both a lion and a bear”.
Whatever it was, he was not intimidated by Goliath’s words. Or his reputation, whatever that may have been. Or his appearance. He was not paralysed with the fear that had seeped into King Saul’s soldiers. He concentrated on the matter at hand — to slay his enemy, so that “all the earth may know that there is a God in Israel”.
III
We do not have to be in the middle of an actual physical conflict, sporting or not, to be lost in the fog of war. For as St. Paul wrote, “our wrestling is not against flesh and blood; but against principalities and powers, against the rulers of the world of this darkness, against the spirits of wickedness in the high places.”
If we can identify them, then we can slay our dark rulers.
We too can give their metaphorical flesh “to the birds of the air, and to the beasts of the earth”.
Progress report:
The first draft of my latest novella, The Anchorite, is complete and is going through its first edit.
I am still editing my next novel The Fragment from The Shroud.
Take it easy. And thanks for reading.