One crisp fall Saturday late in the 1930s my Italian-born grandfather was sitting in a park with some friends, venting about how much he hated this American sport of football. On and on he went. Finally one of his friends asked, “If you hate football so much, Agostino, why do you let your son play?”

Grandpa was stunned. His shock grew deeper when he learned that my dad not only played football, he was the star wide receiver at Paterson, New Jersey’s Eastside High School.

“In fact,” said the friends, “he’s playing right now.”

The clock was winding down. The quarterback lofted the ball toward my dad as he cut into the end zone. As he jumped for the ball two angry defenders sandwiched him. The good news? Though knocked senseless, he somehow held onto the ball. Touchdown, Eastside Ghosts! Cheers rained down on Dad from the stands. The bad news? When he opened his eyes Grandpa was standing over him, cursing at him in Italian.

The victory celebration was very short-lived.

Grandpa was particularly upset that Dad had put his future at risk. Dad was already a professional-level musician, a horn player set for a career in music. One unfortunate injury to his hands or mouth and his dreams, his greatest passion, would be over.

This story makes me wonder: Would I put aside God’s calling on my life for the fun of a game and the roar of a crowd?

The Helmet

That hope, like a helmet, protects our minds from the blows of the word, keeps our heads clear of disappointment and despair.

We still have Dad’s helmet from his high school days. For years it was tucked away in the basement. Today it holds a place of honor in my nephew Dan’s sports memorabilia case.

Dad’s helmet doesn’t much look like a football helmet. “You had to wear that?!” I remember asking. The leather contraption looks like it could barely protect against a snowball, let alone brutal football. The leather is so stiff and curved in, a squirrel would have trouble fitting its head in. And forget about a face mask. They didn’t play with a face mask.

What’s particularly curious about Dad’s helmet is the sizable dent on top. I’d hate to think his head was in it when the dent got made. In the mythology of my mind, I want to think the dent was made the day of the fateful catch.

The Other Helmet

Now, being a sports nut, I picture that old, dented, beat-up helmet when I read in Ephesians 6:17 about the “helmet of salvation.”

As part of the “armor of God” the helmet of salvation doesn’t grow stiff. It always fits. And if you wear it you’re certainly not going to have the Father cursing you out if you do something against His will.

However, it’s awfully hard to get through this full-contact game of life without your helmet and other armor of God getting dented and scratched up. The horrors of this past week prove that. We get a further idea of this when Paul again alludes to the helmet in 1 Thesselonians 5:8-11.

But let us who are of the day be sober, putting on the breastplate of faith and love, and as a helmet the hope of salvation. For God did not appoint us to wrath, but to obtain salvation through our Lord Jesus Christ, who died for us, that whether we wake or sleep, we should live together with Him. Therefore comfort each other and edify one another, just as you also are doing.

So we have the hope that comes with the gift of salvation Jesus has given. And that hope, like a helmet, protects our minds from the blows of the word, keeps our heads clear of disappointment and despair.

We can’t keep this helmet in a dusty basement, though, or even on display in a beautiful cabinet. No, we have to actually put it on, and wear it onto the field. After all, the game is on the line, the ball is in the air and the Enemy is closing in fast on all sides.