At the start of the year I found myself hankering after some endorphins, so I joined our local gym. As I settled into something of a routine I mostly found myself at Body Combat, a vigorous thirty minute workout where you punch and kick your way to fitness. 

I soon learned which instructors I like best: it’s the ones who shout at you. ‘Punch like your life depends on it!’ I like the ones who tell you to pretend you are grabbing your enemy’s head and bringing your knee up to crack their jaw. In short, I like the ones who are really violent. 

It stirs something in me: a will to fight, a will to push, to extend myself, to crush my enemy with my fists and jumping kicks. 

Lest you get the wrong impression, this is a room mainly full of middle-aged women, most of whom have never struck a violent blow in their lives. Yet, under the emphatic direction of our instructor, we turn into warriors, albeit wobbly ones. 

During one of the classes, I realised how much I would like an instructor such as this to shout words of encouragement at me throughout the day. You know, a spiritual-combat instructor, someone who could stand next to me and shout, ‘Remember who your enemy is! Remember that you are on the winning side!! Keep going, keep going, keep going.’ My mind lingered on the passage from Ephesians 6 about the armour we need to wear for the battle.  

It’s perhaps obvious from how I’m writing that I find myself lacking in both physical and spiritual fight. I’m a little weary, a bit defeated, not much energy. I seem reliant on the verve and exhortation of others around me – not a bad thing – but I long for some of that spiritedness for myself, so that I can stand up straight again. 

A quiet roar

One Saturday morning, I find myself on a train to Edinburgh. It is a bright day and the sun shines straight into my eyes as I sit alone in the carriage. 

One of the worship bands I enjoy, Bethel Music, are known for their pumping beats and passionate vocals, but this morning I choose to listen to a quiet, gentle album they’ve recorded called Peace, where they sing some of their normally high-octane tracks in a new way. I love the chorus of one particular song, ‘Raise a Hallelujah’, where the lyrics tell of singing out – even roaring – our King’s praises right in the middle of the storms of life.  

I’ve often belted out these words. On the train it’s initially a bit disconcerting to hear these words being sung slowly and gently, but as the melody and the words wash over me, the Holy Spirit begins something of a shift inside me. 

I realise in that moment that I have become unnecessarily preoccupied with my own vehemence, or lack of it. I have made my perceived lack (lack of spirit, lack of passion or fight) the most important thing, when quite simply it’s not. For the miracle that is ours in Christ is that whenever we even flick our eyes up to Jesus, whenever we muster our thoughts towards God in prayer, we participate in something extraordinary.  

These momentary choices to face light rather than darkness, hope rather than fear, love rather than hate, act to push back the curse and bring blessing to the earth. Our efforts might seem lacklustre to us, but in the spiritual realm there are great gains any time anyone turns their hearts in dependency upon God. 

Literally, any minuscule act of faith is spiritually significant in ways we cannot yet see – however quietly we sing.

All he asks of us 

I mull this over as I sit on the train. 

Why had I been thinking that it had to look a certain way in order to be worthwhile to God? God is the one who takes a mustard seed and moves a mountain! Do I really think that he can’t use me in this slightly depleted state I find myself in? 

These thoughts twirl around in my mind, the light so bright  

When the train arrives in Edinburgh, I set off up the hill to my destination. I’m a few minutes early, so take a moment to sit on a wall next to the canal. The stone of the wall quickly chills me and I know I can’t linger long here. But inside there is a curious warmth – permission, air to breathe. Something has shifted. 

The irony is that in the weeks that have followed I have sensed in myself something of a rejuvenation of spirit. The train-ride revelation acted to release an internal pressure valve. Seeing my bedraggled offerings to God as extraordinarily significant in the spiritual realm feels so empowering. The wonder of life in Christ: we come as we are and receive, over and over again. It’s all he asks of us. 

I long for the day when my spiritual and physical vitality mean that I can be the one shouting encouragements and truths to myself and others. But for now, I rest in the confidence that it’s not my roaring voice that God needs to win the battle. He’s God! He needs nothing. My confidence comes not from my own fighting talk, but from him. 

‘Oh, the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God! 
    How unsearchable his judgments, 
    and his paths beyond tracing out! 
 ‘Who has known the mind of the Lord? 
    Or who has been his counselor?” 
 ‘Who has ever given to God, 
    that God should repay them?” 
For from him and through him and for him are all things. 
    To him be the glory forever! Amen.’ (Romans 11:33-36 NIV)

Prayer combat

And what of the Body Combat classes? Well, interestingly I’ve taken to seeing these classes as the spiritual training ground that I had so yearned for. Each time I take a punch, I see myself enacting something so very powerful. The instructor, yelling at us from the front, has no idea what I’m imagining myself hurling my fists towards.  

In that slightly claustrophobic room in the local leisure centre, with the lights dimmed and the galaxy projector spinning, I fight against the enemy. I punch against evil. I kick against brokenness. Uppercut into the jaws of the Father of Lies. I pray with my fists. All that I despise and long to see this world rid of, I channel into that thirty-minute combative workout. Maybe there’s some fight in me left. Come, Lord Jesus, come.