Finding myself hankering after some endorphins, at the start of the year I joined our local gym. In order to justify the monthly cost, the aim was to go to two or three classes each week.

The first couple of weeks I played around with different classes at different times, seeing which ones I enjoyed. 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.

There’s probably three or four regular instructors of the class, and I soon learned which ones I like best. I like 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 stuck 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 a couple of weeks back, I realised how much I would like an instructor such as this one 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. I wondered who I could find on YouTube that might shout these truths at me, so that I’m stirred inwardly to fight.

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 have longed for some of that spiritedness for myself, so that I can stand up straight again..

These thoughts of fighting swirled around for a few days, then early last 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 are known for their pumping beats and passionate vocals, but this morning I choose to listen to an album they’ve recorded called ‘Peace’. It’s quiet and gentle album where they sing some of their favourites tracks, normally high-octane, in a slow and peaceful way. One particular song ‘Raise a Hallelujah’, has this chorus

I’m gonna sing, in the middle of the storm
Louder and louder, you’re gonna hear my praises roar
Up from the ashes, hope will arise
Death is defeated, the King is alive!

I’ve often belted out these words, and love the picture of singing praises right in the middle of the storms. 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.

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 feeble to us, or lacklustre, but in the spiritual realm there are great gains from any time anyone turns their hearts in dependency upon God.

Literally, any minuscule act of faith is spiritually significant in ways we may never see. However quietly we sing.

I mull this over.

What had I been thinking that it had to look a certain way in order to be worthwhile to God? Who do I think God is if he isn’t 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 as I sit on the train, the bright light 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 days 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. To see my bedraggled offerings to God as extraordinarily significant in the spiritual realm feels so empowering, I already feel less draggled. Arhh 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 voice roaring that God needs in order for the battle to be won. 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 counsellor?”
“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

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 the fight against the enemy. My punches punch against evil. I kick my feet 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.

I raise a hallelujah, with everything inside of me
I raise a hallelujah, I will watch the darkness flee
I raise a hallelujah, in the middle of the mystery
I raise a hallelujah, fear you lost your hold on me!

Amen and amen! Maranatha, come Lord Jesus come!

Ros, your favorite Scottish writer.