(David) Many years ago in a land far away a peasant boy grew of age in a remote province of a great kingdom. The boy grew up dreaming of joining the king’s army—a force of conquering swordsmen famous around the world both for their skill with the sword and for the excellence of their weapons.
To join the king's army prospective swordsmen were required to appear before the king on a yearly enlistment day with a sword of sufficient quality to be borne for the king. And swords of such quality--swords of the caliber that had led the kingdom’s armies to victory in battle after battle--lay far beyond the means of a lowly peasant.
Yet this boy dreamed constantly of swordsmanship and glory. Though even a rustic sword lay far beyond his means, he longed to join the king’s swordsmen. On his twentieth year the boy gathered his meagre savings to purchase passage to the capital. Penniless, now, as well as swordless, he was still determined to plead his case before the king.
Enlistment day dawned with the peasant boy in the midst of a throng at the palace gates. The gates were opened and an official led the waiting men into a courtyard. As dawn's first light grew to the light of day the young peasant saw his fellow would-be swordsmen more clearly. All were of similar age to himself, but the majority clearly possessed far greater fortunes. Most of the young men wore rich clothing. Many carried jeweled swords. Only a few were dressed crudely, and fewer still appeared without a weapon.
One by one the residents of the courtyard were summoned before the king. The day lengthened. The courtyard emptied. Late in the afternoon the peasant’s name was finally called. He entered the enlistment room where he found the king seated by a solitary swordsman. On a table beside the king lay a sword.
“You stand before me bearing no sword,” the king said. “Why have you come?”
“Your honor,” the peasant replied, “I long to fight for you. I would do battle for your glory and honor. You are a great and wise and generous king. I promise you my obedience, my life even. But I’m a poor man, the son of peasants. I possess no sword. I come to prevail upon your generosity. I beg of you a sword to fight for you.”
With a knowing look at the swordsman by his side, the king responded, “What? You ask for a sword? Don’t you know that you must have a sword to join my army?”
“Yes, your honor,” the peasant replied, “so I know. And knowing also your benevolence and generosity, I beg you to give me what I need.”
“Give it I will,” the king replied. “What you have done is what every swordsman who serves in my army did before you. The warriors of my army are only those men who sought their swords of me as you have done. None of those who come bearing their own swords serve in my army, only those who seek swords of me because only the sword I give is equal to the battles you will fight. This is the secret of my knights and my army--and you must never tell it to anyone.”
The king turned to the swordsman at his side. “Give me the sword,” he said. Lifting the shining, razor-sharp sword from its place on the table, the swordsman handed it to the king. The king touched the young peasant on the head with it. “Go and fight for me,” he said, “Bear my sword. Be a warrior for my glory.”
Years of training followed, then further years of battle. By skill gained from training and by the power of the king’s sword, the young peasant became a conquering warrior, a hero of his kingdom.
One day, however, after countless victories, the now-famous swordsman encountered a weak yet crafty foe in the field of battle. The man who confronted him carried a stick instead of a sword. Instead of attacking, he stood humbly, head bowed before the warrior.
“Great warrior,” he said, “I know that you are about to kill me. I’m nothing, a pea, a dead dog before your glory. But before I depart this life may I ask one favor of you? Permit me to look upon the sword you will dispatch me with. I’ve heard tell of the glories of your weapon. May I see and touch it before I die? I could die satisfied with the honor of being dispatched by so famous a warrior bearing so noble a weapon were you to permit this one request.”
Seeing no reason to deny the man’s final wish, the soldier drew near with sword outstretched. The very wise little man, touched the edge of the sword. “Ah, Damascus steel, I see. A falcata, with elephant tusk handle and a false edge on the concave side of the blade.”
“No,” the warrior responded, “not a falcata, a scimitar, and not Damascus, but Toledo steel, and not elephant, but whale ivory handle.”
The argument, thus joined, lasted long into the night. Eventually, the warrior grew tired. When he slipped into sleep, sword still in his grip, the little man made his escape.
Word of this encounter spread. Soon, all across the world warriors began questioning the nature of the swords of the king’s swordsmen. The warriors responded by examining their swords, classifying them, determining their origin and provenance.
Debating societies sprang up in the king’s barracks training swordsmen to argue the greatness of their swords. Soon, the king’s swordsmen were debating the nature of their weapons more than fighting with them. They became lax in training. They grew lazy. They became sedentary creatures, fat, slow-moving.
Though now excellent at disputing the nature of their swords they grew less and less adept at fighting with them. Eventually, a warrior’s greatness was judged by his skill at debate rather than his ability with a sword. All the king’s knights became acclaimed debaters, famed intellects, formidable disputants on the nature of swords and swordsmanship. But good as they were at debate, the result was the ruin of the king’s army, his warriors made mockery of in battles where they went out to fight bearing doctoral degrees and academic tomes on swordsmanship even as their swords grew rusty from disuse.
2 Timothy 2:14
