Ask anybody who’s worn cowboy boots on ice how that went. Somebody barely leans on you and you’re flat on your back. The shoes you have on decide whether you can hold your ground.
A Roman soldier knew this better than anyone. His sandals had cleats nailed into the bottom — not for fashion, but so he could plant his feet in the middle of a fight and not slide. He could stand. And when the order came to march, those same shoes carried him forward.
That’s the picture Paul reaches for in Ephesians 6 when he tells us how to dress for the Christian life. We’ve spent weeks now in this armor passage, and here’s the thing too many of us miss: following Jesus was never meant to feel like a cruise. A cruise is built to serve you — every meal, every comfort, exactly your taste in music. A lot of us quietly want our faith to run that way. But Paul didn’t hand us a deck chair. He handed us armor. “Put on all of God’s armor so that you will be able to stand firm against all strategies of the devil” (Ephesians 6:11, NLT). The day you made peace with God, you also made an enemy in the devil. That’s not a reason to panic — the war is already won — but it is a reason to stop drifting and start standing.
The shoes do two jobs
When Paul gets to the feet, he says, “For shoes, put on the peace that comes from the Good News so that you will be fully prepared” (Ephesians 6:15, NLT). The word behind “prepared” carries the idea of readiness and a firm foundation. And like those cleated sandals, the shoes of peace do two things at once.
First, they give you firm footing. The enemy’s main play is lies — you’re not really forgiven, you’ve blown it too many times, God is done with you. Those are the whispers that knock people down. But if your feet are planted on the peace Christ already made, the lie has nothing to grab. You don’t argue your way to steady ground; you stand on what’s already true.
Because here’s what that peace actually is — it’s not a feeling you work up. “For Christ himself has brought peace to us” (Ephesians 2:14, NLT). At the cross He tore down the wall between us and God, for people near and far off. Every other religion runs on the same engine: do better, score higher, earn your way in. Only the gospel rests not on your performance but on the sinless performance of Jesus. That’s the ground you stand on. You didn’t build it and a bad week can’t crack it.
Beautiful feet
But the same shoes that plant you also make you ready to move. And the peace that steadies your own feet turns out to be peace worth carrying to somebody else.
“How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of the messenger who brings good news” (Isaiah 52:7, NLT). In the ancient world, a runner came back from the battlefield, and people could tell by how he ran whether the news was good. Beautiful feet are feet running from a victory, too full of good news to keep quiet.
Here’s where a lot of us go silent, though. We think sharing our faith means winning a debate. So we never open our mouths. But God never called you to be His attorney. In a courtroom the attorneys make the arguments — the witnesses just tell what they saw. “You will be my witnesses” (Acts 1:8, NLT). You don’t have to have every answer. You just tell what Jesus has done in you. And there are no exemptions — not too young, too old, too introverted, too anything. “Everyone who calls on the name of the LORD will be saved” (Romans 10:13, NLT). Everyone. Your neighbor. Your weird uncle. The council member who’s hard to deal with.
The part that takes the pressure off
If all of that still feels like too much, hear the best news of the day: the Holy Spirit is the one doing the work. When someone seems to be “searching for God,” what’s really happening is God calling them. We Wesleyans call that prevenient grace — grace that runs ahead of us, already at work in a heart long before that person ever bows their head. Your part is small, and it’s a privilege: be a witness while the Spirit does the convincing.
Which means you can stop losing hope. Maybe you’ve got a child who walked away, a spouse who’s gone cold, a name you’ve carried in prayer for years and are tempted to quit on. Don’t. They can’t run farther than God’s reach. The Spirit is still there, still drawing, still whispering, come.
So here’s the one thing to do this week. Ask God for a name — your one more. Write it down. And start praying, knowing the outcome doesn’t rest on your eloquence or your stamina, but on the Spirit who’s already moving.
Christ is your peace. Plant your feet on it — and carry it to your one more.
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