Are my shoes embedded with nails to walk confidently?
It's a strange question to ask myself on an ordinary Tuesday morning. When I think of my shoes, they are very utilitarian, functional in a basic way. Comfortable sneakers for errands. Work shoes for the office. Nothing remarkable. Certainly nothing with nails driven through the soles.
But Roman military shoes—caligae, they were called—had iron nails or spikes embedded in the leather soles. These weren't for comfort. They were for grip, for stability, for the kind of confident movement required when your life depended on keeping your footing. I can't imagine the discomfort the nails must have created with every step—but I digress. Because that discomfort was beside the point. The soldier wasn't looking for comfort. He was looking for certainty.
The shoes are the last of the integral foundation, along with the belt and breastplate. I've been thinking about this progression. These three pieces—belt, breastplate, shoes—form the core. They're not easily removed. The other pieces we'll ponder after this are still essential, but they're equipment you can pick up and set down. The shield. The helmet. The sword. But these first three? They're integrated into who you are as you stand ready.
The shoes provide a grip of stability to move confidently. Not just to stand, but to move. To advance. To go somewhere with purpose. And Paul specifies exactly what kind of movement these shoes enable: they're fitted with "the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace."
That phrase has always puzzled me. Gospel of peace. If we're talking about battle, about armor and conflict, why peace? But the more I sit with it, the more it makes sense. This grip—this stability that lets me move confidently—isn't about aggression. It's about assurance. It's the grip to move forward to share the gospel with those who need to hear it. The grip to continue to resist the push of temptation as the nails dig into the ground, holding me steady when everything around me is trying to make me slip.
These shoes protect our feet. It's such a practical detail, but it matters immensely. Without our feet, we can't walk to share the gospel with those who don't yet know Him. We can't go to the neighbor who's struggling, the coworker who's questioning, the family member who's hurting. We become stationary when we're meant to be mobile. Stuck when we're meant to be sent.
And here's another detail that struck me: these aren't just sandals that others wore casually around town. Roman military boots were secured to the calves of the soldier with leather straps wrapped upward, ensuring they would not be lost as they walked and ran. You couldn't kick them off easily. You couldn't lose them in the chaos of movement. They were bound to you, part of you, ready for whatever terrain you encountered.
I picture the soldier leaning into battle, taking the offensive. Not cowering behind his shield, though the shield has its place. Not merely defending ground, though defense is sometimes necessary. But leaning forward. Moving with purpose. Advancing with the confidence that comes from knowing his feet won't fail him, that his footing is secure, that the gospel of peace he carries is worth every difficult step.
Am I leaning into my discipleship journey with Christ?
The question haunts me in the best possible way. Because I realize how often I've been standing still. How often I've had the belt buckled, the breastplate secured, even the shoes laced up—but I haven't moved. I've been equipped for action but settled for stillness. Ready for battle but choosing safety instead.
The nails in those Roman shoes didn't just provide stability for standing. They enabled aggressive movement over difficult terrain. Up hills. Across rocky ground. Through mud and streams and whatever else stood between the soldier and his objective. The discomfort of the nails was the price of mobility, of effectiveness, of being able to go wherever the mission required.
What is the gospel calling me to walk toward? Who needs to hear about the peace that surpasses understanding? Where am I being sent that requires this kind of confident, nail-gripped stability?
The shoes of readiness aren't about comfort. They're about confidence—the kind that comes from knowing I'm anchored to truth, protected by righteousness, and equipped to move forward with a message of peace that the world desperately needs to hear.
So I lace them up. I secure the straps. I feel the nails grip the ground beneath me. And I ask God to show me where to walk today, knowing that wherever He leads, these shoes—this readiness, this gospel of peace—will hold me steady.
The soldier leaned into battle. The disciple leans into mission. And both movements require the same thing: feet that are firmly planted on truth and ready to go wherever the Holy Spirit leads.
