I wear, around my neck, a small carved siltstone sword. It’s a fragment of jewellery that I retain from my teenage years, and it means a great deal sentimentally. However, I find that it also means a great deal sacramentally. For myself, it is not just a talisman or a sword, it is also a cross.

The cross is a pervasive symbol across Western culture as a whole. As an architectural design, a stylistic decoration, a heraldic device, and even a form of literary layout, the cross finds itself being used and reused. In the early Middle Ages, a style of sword took off known as the cruciform sword. This proved very popular with knights and footsoldiery alike, particularly during the Crusades, as the crosspieces acted as a guard, but also because of the cross shape inherent in the design.

I have a fondness for double meanings, and a sword cross is one of those double meanings that sits over my heart. I am a man of action. I am alive, most alive, when I have something to keep my mind ticking and dancing; some problem to make the blood pump and the brain sing. The cross by itself is such a gentle image, as it should be. The sword, with its added martial overtones, acts as a conduit for this. Equally, the sword is the symbol of St Michael, the leader of the archangels. St Michael has patronage over the sick as healer. But still he carries a sword. Again, it is a symbol of strength and of power, representative of the defeat over evil.

My little sword is my triumph over evil. It is my guardian against my own personal legions of darkness, who I know could beset me at any time. As such, it is not a sword to turn outwards against the world. It is a sword I hold against the dark spaces within, where the wild parts of myself martial against the outside world.

It is the cruciform sword that represents the struggles I have had with my faith, both within and without the Church. It is a defence against the triple-headed serpent of Self-loathing, Depression, and Dread. When my hand reaches up to hold it, where it hangs like a pectoral cross about my neck, it reminds me that Christianity is about fighting. Not fighting out there against others, not ever using strength against the world, but against the little demonic doubts inside – the “I’m not good enoughs”, the “I belong deads”, and the multitude of personal demons that wrack my soul.

Strength can be drawn from a symbol, and in my symbol, St Michael lends me his strength for my own personal crusade. Christianity is a constant struggle. To do the right thing, to not let my own arrogance and pride have the driving seat. But one thing I can see – it’s that way for most people. And it’s probably the way it’s supposed to be. Christ himself said “I come not to bring peace, but a sword.”