Kendo as Church
Correlations and coincidences fascinate me, just as much as how the philosophies and structures in one discipline or field can have similar applications in another. What works and is transferable between what seems to be completely separate areas. Often times, innovation comes not from those who are most knowledgeable in their area of expertise, but rather from those who know enough to participate, but are at the same time enough of an outsider that they can see the forest for the trees.
Perhaps, everyone requires a church. Not necessarily a place of worship, but a gathering ground of common interests. From my understanding, for example, a lot of what makes conspiracy theories attractive is not so much the arguments, but rather the sense of community, and how those beliefs align with other aspects of their character. I’m of course using the word church here in a broadly defined manner, in a very secular way, without any of the religious connotations that can go with it.
In brief, I started kendo, Japanese fencing, when I was twenty-years old, stopped when I was twenty-three, and took it up again at thirty-two. My reason for halting my participation in this sport had a lot to do with my own existential troubles and it took me a while to find my way back to something I now not only greatly enjoy, but desperately need.
As a martial art, kendo has no relevance when it comes to self-defense. A mugger jumping out at me won’t give me the opportunity to deliver a line, such as ‘halt there evil-doer, or face the fury of my bamboo blade!’ That’s not happening. As with most martial arts, the focus is instead on personal development and physical conditioning. It is also a sport with a long tradition, rooted in the sword schools of the samurai class. Those with an interest in history will remember that for nearly two-hundred and fifty years the warrior class had no wars to fight in. Their main occupation during the Pax Tokugawa period was serving the nation’s various domains as bureaucrats. How then to justify their lineage and high position in this society when the main justification for them being where they were in the societal ladder was no longer a regular occurrence? They had to stay sharp, somehow, but merely getting good at sword-craft wasn’t going to be enough. Infused with Buddhist philosophy, especially Zen, was a way to make learning the swordsmanship more relevant. In this way, the Buddhist thinking served as a bridge between their everyday reality and the techniques of war that they were mastering, but no longer had a use for. Now, kendo is not a religious pursuit. Just as one can reject the tenets of Christianity, but value the thoughts of Christ (such as the Sermon on the Mount), one glean good ideas from the philosophies of various religious and apply them secularly to one’s life.
There are plenty of similarities between practicing kendo and church life. There are rituals and rules. You dress in Japanese clothing (hakama and kendogi); you carry the bamboo sword (shinai) in the left hand and you treat it with the same respect as if it were a real blade; you bow upon entering the practice space, as well as to partners and opponents you are training with. There are also ranks within the club, allowing one to progress and to have targets to strive for (far less exploitative in terms of one’s wallet than Scientology, for sure). You are being guided by the higher ups along a path, in that they teach you what you need to know and understand at your level, while working on getting you to a higher understanding of what you’re doing. Kendo, after all, literally means ‘Way of the Sword’, and in this sense all practitioners are on a journey of learning.
What it of course lacks is worship, but the argument can be made that you don’t need to attend church to worship a deity. But, there is a loose culture at work. Yes, it is rooted and packaged in Japanese culture, but within that framework there’s a lot of wiggle room. Everyone, from my experience, who starts kendo has at least some interest in Japanese culture. There’s been the odd one here or there who have wanted to do it because they like swords in general or watched Star Wars a bit too much. Sometimes they stay, mostly they go. In this sense, kendo is church-like. If I were Jewish and moved from one city to another, finding a synagogue would be an important way for me to not only meet my spiritual needs, but also it would serve as a way to ground me in my new locale; it’ll put me in touch with people who probably share the same views and values as I do, speak a similar language, and that I share a cultural-shorthand with. Same goes for Catholics, Muslims, Hindus, etc. It’s not perfect, as the saying goes, five rabbis, seven opinions, but you’re going to more or less find people with whom you have a lot in common with, more so than if you go elsewhere or not go at all. One of the reasons I returned to kendo was because, after a few short years in Spain, I had begun to miss Japan. Picking the bamboo sword up again was not only a way to get back into something I enjoyed when I was younger, but it was a way for me to connect with a country and culture I missed, while getting to associate with people who had similar interests.
Community is something no human can do without. Even the loneliest misanthrope needs someone to talk with from time to time. There is a rough, and at times, uncomfortable push and pull between the individual and the group, but such is life. We each form part of something greater than ourselves, and no one gets to where they’re going without other people. In this day and age, we are fortunate in that we can choose from a diverse selection of communities, and it’s entirely possible for someone to belong to multiples at the same time. As an introvert, I don’t go out much. I yearn more for solitude than I do for company, which is a tricky state of affairs to be in when you’re in a gregarious society such as Spain. Meeting people ain’t easy. Kendo, for me at least, is that perfect balance. I get to spend almost two hours with a group of people; we sweat, we yell at each other while swinging bamboo sticks around, and we give and receive advice. It’s human interaction without being overwhelmed by conversation. We’re all there for seemingly one thing, to improve our kendo skills, while also benefiting from it in several ways.
Another aspect of my club that I appreciate is how undictatorial it is. I did karate in high school, and from what I’ve gathered from not just my own experiences, but also the opinions of others, is that a lot of martial arts clubs tend to be very top down. You have a teacher (perhaps calling themselves a master), and what they say is law. They are there to teach you, and it is your task to follow their instructions. A lot of karate styles are very dogmatic in this way, and even more so those fake-martial arts styles that focus on ‘chi’ techniques. Because kendo is removed from the self-defense racket, it doesn’t make promises about how you’ll become invincible. In fact, it’s sort of pacifistic, in a violent way. You consent to fight with bamboo sticks while wearing protective armor. The worst someone can do to you is give you a bad bruise. You can do more damage to yourself (think of a torn Achilles’). In my club, there are several high ranking instructors. I once referred to one of them as a sensei, a common term in Japanese martial arts, and was quickly told that in this club there were no senseis. The reason being that outside of Japan, the word has become corrupted. In Japan itself sensei is an honorific term; teachers and doctors are addressed as sensei as a matter of respect. Outside of Japan, though, people put it on business cards and on billboards, like it’s a job title. It was an interesting change for me at this club, because it meant that no one in the club wanted to hold a position of power. It’s not a club that belonged to anyone. It came down to everyone playing to their strengths. The higher ranking individuals take turns leading training sessions, some more than others, but overall the real teaching takes place between people practicing. I learn as much from an instructor demonstrating a technique as I do from a more informed practitioner working with me one-on-one. In this sense, no one is in charge, and it is a bit more like a study group. We’re all there to learn and to learn together, and no one is the final authority. We’re not servicing someone’s ego. In fact, any ego will get checked and humbled quite quickly.
If anyone were to ask me why I do kendo, the honest answer would be that it improves my life. I go not just for the thrill that is sportive combat, but also because it delivers on so many other fronts. It is a physical church, in that sense, and the quality of my experience is not shaped by my attendance, but rather by the people involved in its local community. This isn’t something that is unique to kendo, of course. In the particular you can find the universal. I can foresee someone finding much of what I described here elsewhere, in other disciplines and pursuits. I can only express the hope that participation in these communities will genuinely benefit rather than serve as a detriment. I’ve been fortunate to find a club with wonderful and knowledgeable practitioners, and whenever I go home after a training session, I feel a love for being alive and for being in that time and place that is hard to put into words. It’s the sort of love that makes you feel like you’re filling out your entire body, that you’re no longer hiding in an empty husk. This love is not the sole domain of religion. It can be got at through other means, the most important of which is by finding that little corner you feel you belong in. Lastly, it should be something that makes you a better person. I’d like to think that I’ve become a kinder person over time. The end all hope is that people, in their lifetime, can find that thing, a church-like gathering, that makes them better people and that will improve their lives. I’ve found a place that is welcoming and accepting, that nurtures learning and seeks out enthusiasm in others, and I think I’ll be sticking around for as long as possible.