Shakespeare’s words made legendary the victory of King Henry V at Agincourt during the Hundred Years’ War. In the two months since they had landed in France, Henry’s army had gained little and lost much. One-third of his expeditionary force was dead, and the rest were weak from hunger and dysentery. They had just marched 250 miles in two weeks, and now, standing between them and their beloved England stood a huge force of well-equipped French men-at-arms. The cold, soaking October rains had turned the freshly-plowed field at Agincourt into a sea of mud: ankle-deep…knee-deep…even waist-deep in some places. Falling off a horse in that kind of mud was no joke, especially in armor.

About 11 o’clock that fateful morning, about the time the supremely confident French commanders were sending their servants back to retrieve their lunches, Henry made a daring move. He decided to force the issue by moving his archers forward to the narrowest spot of the field between two woods. They fired a volley of arrows and goaded the French into the first attack, which was a disaster, for two reasons. The first reason, ironically, derived from their overwhelming numbers. The French nobles were so anxious for glory that they all tried to have their banners seen front and center. The French lines pressed together so hard at the point of attack that they had four soldiers per square yard. They couldn’t run, they couldn’t retreat, they couldn’t even swing their weapons: they were easy prey. The second reason, just as ironically, derived from their advanced weaponry. English arrows could seldom penetrate the armor of French knights, but they had a devastating effect on their horses. Wounded, panicked animals threw their riders and trampled foot soldiers. While on dry ground armored knights were quite mobile, the mud and the crush rendered them helpless. Many of them were simply knocked down, to drown in the mud or suffocate under other falling bodies. The outcome of the entire battle was never much in doubt after the first thirty minutes. The French suffered devastating casualties. At the end of the day, most of the French nobles, the flower of their national manhood, lay lifeless in the mud. Henry and his battle-weary troops made it home to England and lived to fight another day.

Why do I tell this, here, today, to you? Why speak of a 15th-century battle in France to high school graduates in 21st-century America? Why spoil such a bright, joyful, sentimental day with this dreadful, militaristic language? Because…nearly every page of the New Testament uses this language to describe the normal Christian life. An epic war between Christ and Satan started long before you were born, and while you’re here, it is your war, too. There is no way to avoid it; there is no place to escape it; there are no “conscientious objectors.” Jesus said, “He who is not for me is against me…” You enlisted by being born. We call this day “commencement” because, in a sense, you are beginning your tour of duty.

Sometimes this long crusade erupts into a shooting war - when planes collapse buildings in New York and Washington, when trains explode in London and Madrid, when troops engage in Baghdad and Kabul, it’s a shooting war. But when you hear of planes and plots and bullets and bombs, remember this: your ultimate struggle is not against flesh and blood (Eph. 6)…and the weapons of your warfare are not the weapons of the world (II Cor. 10).

Like Henry V, you are in a long war, but your prize is much more precious than land or titles or gold. Your prize is the hearts and minds of men, and a noble way of life. Whom you take with you to heaven, and what kind of world you leave behind, will depend on how well you carry out your mission – which is to say, how well you live your lives...

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