Christian Worldview and Martial Arts

Once when I was in college, I was hanging out with a group of guys from our Christian fellowship group. The conversation turned to MMA, and one of them asked if anyone in the group knew martial arts. After a moment of hesitation, I said, “I have a black belt in kung fu.” One of them burst out laughing. It seemed ridiculous that a sweet, quiet girl like me would do kung fu.

But I wasn’t joking. My black belt came from the kids’ program at my kung fu school, but my school was run by a teacher trained in Taiwan who had very high standards for his students – even young ones. It took me about seven years of consistent hard work to gain the black belt. I’m really out of practice now, but it was a fun experience, and I can still do all the basic techniques and some of the forms.

That’s why I was so interested in a blog post by Warren Fox, another American Christian martial artist living in Taipei. Fox described how he began learning to fight as a child. He, unlike me, learned martial arts for self-defense; he was an African American growing up in a town full of KKK supporters. The post, which I highly recommend, also talks about some more general issues related to the origin and morality of martial arts.

As I see it, martial arts raise two potential problems for Christians. The first is that they’re designed for violence. If one is a pacifist, I see how this would make them unacceptable. But most Christians I know aren’t. And those who aren’t opposed to force in principle shouldn’t reject martial arts for this reason. My martial arts instructor told us clearly that we should only use the techniques we learned if someone physically attacked us. Even then, we were urged to run away, or do just enough damage to allow ourselves to escape. (Self-defense note: if you stomp on the top of an attacker’s foot, where the shoelaces would be, you can usually break a few bones, which will prevent them from chasing you.) Kung fu was not for showing off or picking fights. It was a powerful tool that must be used wisely.

The other potential problem is that eastern martial arts developed in a culture with an unbiblical worldview. That in itself doesn’t mean Christians shouldn’t use them. The same can be said of tea, paper and fireworks. The basics of martial arts consist of punches, kicks, blocks and stances – purely physical actions. But at higher levels, the techniques begin merging with Buddhist or Taoist philosophy (depending on the style). They begin blending with what Fox calls “ritual” – chants and techniques meant to tap into energy, either within your body or from a source outside yourself. These, I believe, can be spiritually dangerous and even demonic. But those are distinct from the techniques themselves, and it is possible to study and learn the techniques without delving into this dangerous territory.

Fox came to the conclusion that the ritualistic aspects of martial arts are a corruption of a good thing God gave us. I would argue that using it for unnecessary violence is the same.

But if God did create martial arts, then it must have real benefits. The obvious benefits of martial arts are self-defense and defense of others. When I studied kung fu, I did it because it was a form of exercise that I actually enjoyed and was reasonably good at. I have miserable hand-eye coordination, so any sport involving a ball was extremely difficult for me. Kung fu required different skills, and it wasn’t competitive. My goal was to compete only against myself, to do deeper, stronger stances and crisper, more accurate techniques than I did the previous class.

Kung fu also taught me discipline – the willingness to practice and even endure pain for my own improvement. And it helped me begin to feel more confident in myself. It even helped my body image – my legs may have been large and lumpy, but at least I knew they could throw a mean roundhouse kick.

These are all blessings, and they should lead us to praise the God from whom all blessings flow. The God who created our bodies, who knows every joint, muscle, ligament and tendon, who describes Himself as a mighty warrior and the leader of an army of angels, reveals his glory even through martial arts.

The Sun in the Night

Those who like me grew up going to church are aware that Christians like to draw a distinction between joy and happiness. The idea is that happiness is based on circumstances, but joy is not. We like to quote 1Thessalonians 5:16-18: Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.

And that’s all well and good, but for someone who struggles with depression, it can be confusing. The Bible says we should be joyful in all circumstances. Depression is a circumstance. Therefore we should be joyful when we’re depressed. What?

This seems impossible, so I started examining each step of the argument. I don’t want to deny the truth of Scripture (by saying we don’t have to be joyful always). Arguing that depression is a sin (not a “circumstance”) also doesn’t make sense to me (for reasons I can explain if people are interested). So, paradoxical as it sounds, there must be a way to find joy in depression.

I’ve come to a tentative solution: joy in the midst of depression looks less like happiness and more like hope. I think the details are better explained in poetry than in prose.

The Sun in the Night

Joy is the sun that fills my world with light,

That paints the flowers with their rainbow hue,

That crowns the dancing waves with diamonds bright

And shimmers out from every drop of dew.

But sorrow strikes – I spin into the dark.

Night rises up to steal the sunlight’s throne.

A hungry void devours every spark.

Night hisses, “Light is dead. You are alone.”

Yet though the sun is hidden from my gaze,

It does not for that reason cease to be.

I see it in the moon’s reflected rays

And grasp at hope’s unfelt reality.

Joy’s gravity holds me within my way,

Saves me from slipping out into despair.

It guards me till I spin back into day

And dawn paints roses in the morning air.

Two Poems on Suffering

It's been a rough month. My last post touched on a news item that hit close to home, but there has been a lot of other bad news since then. We've had bombings in Boston (which also hit close to home, since I went to school there) an explosion in Texas, and earthquake in Sichuan, China, continued civil war in Syria, and a collapsed building in Bangladesh, not to mention countless other tragedies, many of which probably didn't get reported. All this bad news has caused me to think a lot about how messed up the world is. These are my best attempts at expressing my thoughts so far.

Waiting for Hope

We wait within this world of pain

Where sunlit days explode in fire

Directed by some dark desire

The shrapnel falls like April rain

We wait within this world of fear

With trembling rocks beneath our feet

Our shelters crumble in the street

And with them falls all we hold dear

We wait within these feeble frames

Where battles rage in every cell

The parts against the whole rebel

Or fall to famine, flood or flame

We wait – but if we raise our eyes

To look beyond our dying sun

In heaven sits the Living One

Upon whose wings from death we rise

We wait, and through the night we sing

Undimmed, the hidden stars still shine

Hate will give way to love divine

As ice dissolves in certain spring

And the second poem:

Prayer of Suffering

O God who hears our every plea,

When darkness blocks the sunlight’s beams

When bomb blasts shatter tranquil air

And cheers and laughter turn to screams,

We cling to hope that you are there.

O God of glory, fiercely just,

The cosmos rests within Your hand,

O master of each hurricane,

Although we do not understand,

We beg You for the grace to trust.

O Christ who bore our every grief,

Absorbed death’s fullest agony

When grief and pain impale our hearts

Back to Your spear-torn side we flee,

Your blood is balm for our relief.

O Christ who overthrew the grave

Within Your triumph we find peace,

We thirst for Your returning day

When You will cause all war to cease

And Your tormented people save.

O Spirit who grants every grace,

Infuse our hearts with mercy’s power,

To break the bonds of fear and pain

And even in this evil hour

With selfless love the night to face.

O Holy Spirit, living flame,

Send out Your glory’s radiant beams

To pierce the heart of evil’s throne,

Defeating dark, demonic schemes

And bringing honor to Your name.

To My Fallen Comrade

Hearing the tragic news about the death of Matthew Warren, Rick Warren’s son, stirred up deep feelings in me. I realized that we had much in common – so much so that but for God’s mercy his story could have been mine. We were fairly close in age, both Christians raised in Christian homes with parents who do some kind of ministry (my father has even worked with Rick Warren on a project), and we both struggled with mental illness for years. But I pulled out of it (more or less), while Matthew never did. This is a terrible time for the Warren family, and although I know nothing I say can heal this grief, I am offering my prayers to the One who can. I dedicate this poem to Matthew Warren and hope it will bring some kind of catharsis and/or comfort to those who are grieving.

To My Fallen Comrade

It was a weary, lonely fight we fought

Standing side by side, yet miles and miles apart

Upon the blackened landscape of our thoughts.

With all our strength we strove each morning,

Wrestling our weary bodies from the beds

Where we had fought, bled, wept

For sleep that fled.

With every breath we breathed we choked

Upon the black and burning smoke that cloaked

Our every move, obscuring sight,

With darkness deafening our ears

To words of hope.

We struggled through the days, weeks, months and years,

Begging our Lord for peace that did not come,

Striking at shadows, never knowing

Where to swing to smite the beast

That battered, bruised and broke our hearts until they hurt to beat

And every breath burned.

How did I escape that battelefield

To find this sweet oasis where the air

Is clear and light can fill my eyes?

But you, my brother both in faith and battle blood,

Are fallen, and my heart is filled with tears.

I long to tear into that demon in the dark

That stole you from this world

With so much joy untasted,

With so much good undone,

But there is nothing I can do.

So rest, my brother, in the sleep that once fled

Until the day when agony and death will lie dead

And we will dance where once the darkness reigned

And weep no more.

Mount Moriah

My Bible study has been reading Genesis, and last week we studied chapter 22, in which God called Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac. Like any good father, Abraham loved his son deeply, and Isaac was also the promised son through whom God had promised Abraham an enduring legacy. That legacy would include the Messiah, which is why I refer to Isaac as the “child of hope.” However, the first two couplets could also refer to another “child of hope” whom I mention more explicitly at the end of this sonnet.

Mount Moriah

Would God demand as idols did of old

Youth’s priceless blood poured out in sacrifice?

The child of hope by heavenly voice foretold

Cut off from Earth by ceremony’s slice?

His servant flinched but faltered not in fear.

He rose beside pale light of trembling dawn

While stillness masked his sorrow’s silent tear,

Perplexed but trusting hope’s child would live on.

His trembling hand held up the awful knife.

Beneath its blade his bound beloved lay.

But then a word, a trade of life for life,

The boy was saved; grace shone in bright display,

An echo of far greater grace God gave

When His beloved Son He did not save.

The Song

Echoing out of the expanse of eternity is a song.

It flows in flawless three-part harmony from one Singer’s voice, vast and vibrant.

Its chords resound with such magnificence that the universe springs into being solely for the purpose of resonating with it.

Its harmony rings out in the treble tweeting of birds, the staccato rhythm of rain, the baritone bellow of the elephant, the tender lullaby of a mother.

But humanity in its vanity chooses not to sing along.

In our insanity we demand the right to compose solos for ourselves, rather than letting our voices meld into the overpowering orchestra.

We plug our ears with distractions – toys, wealth, pleasure, fame, flattery

We bang on everything we can touch, hoping to drown out the song, striking wildly at others and ourselves.

We create a cacophony so we don’t have to listen, then loudly conclude that since we can’t hear the Song, it must be a myth manufactured to silence our voices.

Its vaulting melodies are replaced with the grinding of machinery, inane chatter, whispers of gossip, voices raised in quarreling, the crack of whips, the thumping of soldiers’ steps, the sobbing of frightened children silenced by a gunshot.

Yet the song plays on.

The Singer’s voice will not be silenced, though it may sound soft and slow, sadden by our suffering.

The chords continue, constantly calling us to stop.

To listen.

To rejoin the chorus.

The song longs to seep into our tone-deaf souls, giving us new ears, hearts and voices.

The music will not stop until all discord resolves in radiant harmony.

For the Singer is also a Composer, and He planned a flawless finale before the first note was sung.

A Call to Adventure

The word “adventure” can evoke a wide variety of feelings – excitement, nostalgia, longing, fear. It ties together stories told across geography, era and culture. The word itself is enough to make children’s eyes sparkle, to inspire them to create imaginary worlds and picture themselves as the heroes. Adults don’t always react so enthusiastically, though. Maybe the monotony of everyday life has stifled the longing for adventure, or maybe years of bitter experience have taught us that anything out of the ordinary is dangerous. We may begin to think of adventures as, to paraphrase Bilbo Baggins from The Hobbit, “nasty, unpleasant things that make you late for breakfast.”

But I think the longing for adventure is still there, buried in our hearts. It’s why we race to see movies like The Avengers, Star Wars and The Lord of the Rings. In one scene in The Hobbit, Bilbo goes running after Gandalf and the dwarves exclaiming, “I’m going on an adventure!” His reaction makes sense because we share the source of Bilbo’s excitement – a longing to do something heroic.

This desire is strong and real, but even in movies, it’s not all that drives heroes. Often heroes reluctantly agree to take a stand when great evil threatens their home or loved ones.

This may seem distant from our everyday experience – we don’t often encounter mad scientists or evil wizards bent on world domination. But the world is still full of evil, and as I learned last month it does threaten the things closest to us.

Last month, the approach of Christmas stirred up fond memories and longing for my home. In my homesickness, I was tempted to think of my home as an idyllic location like the Shire where we can live safely, far from stress, danger and evil. The Newtown massacre sent me into a tailspin of mourning, in part because it made me realize that senseless, radical evil isn’t distant – it can ravage even my home state.

Evil is all around us, but we can still fight it. We must fight with all the power we have, whether great or small, in every circumstance we find ourselves in. That means saying no to the evil that would engulf our own souls, and it also means reaching out and bringing what light we can into the darkness. 

For me, that meant passing a card around the office and sending it to Sandy Hook Elementary School. It means writing posts like this that I hope will be helpful and encouraging. It means looking for opportunities to help others and make their lives a little brighter. Every time we choose to do good instead of evil, to bless instead of cursing, to love or to forgive, we strike a blow against the darkness. And by engaging in the battle against evil, we can find the adventure our hearts crave.

Light, truth and goodness will win in the end, but until then, we have an opportunity to engage in this epic battle. By taking a stand against evil, we not only help others, but we also give ourselves the opportunity to become the heroes we were meant to be.

I’d like to close with a quote from Winston Churchill, a man far more articulate than me, who faced evil far more dangerous and powerful than I do.

Do not let us speak of darker days: let us speak rather of sterner days. These are not dark days; these are great days—the greatest days our country has ever lived; and we must all thank God that we have been allowed, each of us according to our stations, to play a part in making these days memorable in the history of our race.