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Reflections on the Impact and Importance of International and Global Education
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Musings on Japanese and Ryukyu Budo
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 Primary Text Under Review
Jennings, G. (2016). Ancient Wisdom, Modern Warriors: The (Re)Invention of a Mesoamerican Tradition in Xilam. Martial Arts Studies, 2, 59–70. Before turning to Jennings' article, a brief point of context may be useful. The selection of this paper was prompted by a recent and highly stimulating conversation with my friend and colleague Professor Rune from Norway. While we did not discuss Xilam directly, we found ourselves returning repeatedly to a deceptively simple question: when a martial tradition claims to connect practitioners to a deeper cultural inheritance, what exactly is being transmitted? Is it technique, identity, memory, philosophy, or something else entirely? Jennings' article does not answer these questions directly, but it provides a fascinating lens through which to explore them. As is often the case in academic life, one conversation opened the door to another. While Jennings frames his discussion through Bonfil Batalla's concept of México Profundo, I found myself reading the article through a somewhat different lens, namely Pierre Bourdieu's notion of habitus and Michel Foucault's concept of subject formation. Doing so raises a question that extends well beyond contemporary Mexico: what kinds of people are martial arts attempting to create? Summary of the Article It is perhaps inevitable that any serious student of martial arts eventually encounters the question of authenticity. Is a martial art legitimate because it possesses an unbroken lineage? Because it is effective? Because it preserves a cultural tradition? Or because it helps create meaningful lives for those who practise it? George Jennings' examination of Xilam, a contemporary Mexican martial art inspired by pre-Hispanic cultures, provides an opportunity to revisit these questions from a fresh perspective. Yet what makes this article particularly interesting is that authenticity is not ultimately its most important concern. Rather, Jennings invites us to consider how martial arts participate in the construction of identity itself. The article introduces Xilam as a modern martial art founded by Marisela Ugalde during the late twentieth century. Inspired by the cultures of the Mexica (Aztecs), Maya, Zapotec and other Mesoamerican peoples, Xilam seeks not merely to teach techniques of combat but to reconnect practitioners with what anthropologist Guillermo Bonfil Batalla termed México Profundo — the deeper civilisational foundations of Mexican society that survived conquest, colonisation, and modernisation (Bonfil Batalla, 1996; Jennings, 2016). Importantly, Jennings is refreshingly honest from the outset. Xilam is not an ancient martial art. There is no continuous lineage stretching back to pre-Hispanic warrior societies. The martial systems of ancient Mesoamerica were disrupted and largely destroyed following the Spanish conquest. Xilam is therefore a modern reconstruction rather than a preserved tradition (Jennings, 2016). Yet Jennings argues that this does not render the project meaningless. Instead, he suggests that Xilam functions as a form of embodied cultural education through which contemporary Mexicans may reconnect with elements of their ancestral heritage. Through ritual, movement, philosophy, symbolism, and physical discipline, practitioners engage not simply with a martial art but with a broader project of identity formation (Jennings, 2016). Situating the Article within the Field Jennings' article emerged during an important period in the development of Martial Arts Studies as a distinct academic field. Much early scholarship focused either on Asian martial arts or on questions of technical effectiveness, violence, and sportification. By contrast, Jennings joins a growing body of scholars interested in martial arts as sites of cultural production, identity construction, and embodied meaning-making. The article sits comfortably alongside studies of capoeira, taijiquan, kalaripayattu, and other traditions that cannot easily be understood solely through the lens of combat efficacy. It also contributes to ongoing debates surrounding Hobsbawm's notion of "invented traditions" and the broader question of how communities construct continuity with an often imagined past (Hobsbawm & Ranger, 1983). What particularly distinguishes the article is its engagement with Bonfil Batalla's concept of México Profundo. This framework allows Jennings to move beyond simplistic questions of whether Xilam is historically authentic and instead examine how martial practice may serve as a vehicle for cultural memory and civilisational continuity. For readers familiar with Japanese budo, this discussion may feel surprisingly familiar. While the historical circumstances differ dramatically, one finds similar concerns in the writings of Kano Jigoro and other educational reformers who viewed martial practice not primarily as preparation for violence but as a means of cultivating particular kinds of citizens. The Warrior as a Subject Position What struck me most while reading Jennings' article was the repeated appearance of the figure of "the warrior". Yet this warrior is not primarily a fighter. Indeed, Jennings repeatedly emphasises that Xilam's understanding of the warrior is metaphorical rather than literal. The warrior becomes a person who pursues excellence, self-discipline, honesty, responsibility, and service to others (Jennings, 2016). This is where I believe the article becomes most interesting. Drawing loosely upon the work of Michel Foucault, one might argue that Xilam is less concerned with reconstructing a lost combat system than with producing a particular kind of subject. The warrior here functions as what Foucault might describe as a subject position — an identity category that individuals are invited to inhabit through repeated practices of self-cultivation (Foucault, 1988). The goal is not simply to learn techniques. The goal is to become a particular kind of person. This becomes especially apparent in Xilam's recurring emphasis on "removing the skin" — a metaphor for shedding ego, illusion, and false identities to discover a deeper self (Jennings, 2016). Such language bears a striking resemblance to what Foucault described as "technologies of the self": practices through which individuals actively transform themselves in accordance with particular ethical ideals. Viewed in this light, the question of whether Xilam accurately reproduces pre-Hispanic fighting methods becomes somewhat secondary. The more interesting question becomes: What kind of human being is Xilam attempting to create? Habitus, Embodiment, and Cultural Memory The article also invites interpretation through Pierre Bourdieu's work. One of Jennings' central claims is that Xilam transmits aspects of Mesoamerican culture not primarily through intellectual study but through embodied participation. Practitioners move, bow, perform rituals, learn stories, engage symbols, and enact philosophies through the body itself (Jennings, 2016). This is remarkably close to Bourdieu's concept of habitus (Bourdieu, 1977). Culture, in this view, is not simply something people know. It is something people become. Through repeated bodily practices, certain dispositions, values, assumptions, and orientations toward the world become naturalised. Xilam may therefore be understood as an attempt to cultivate a specifically Mexican habitus rooted in indigenous civilisational memory. In this sense, Xilam functions as much as a pedagogical project as a martial one. Critical Engagement The article possesses several notable strengths. First, Jennings treats Xilam with intellectual generosity while remaining transparent about its historical discontinuities. He neither dismisses it as fantasy nor uncritically celebrates it as recovered tradition (Jennings, 2016). Second, the article broadens the geographical horizons of Martial Arts Studies. Too often, the field remains dominated by East Asian examples. Jennings demonstrates that Latin America possesses equally rich traditions of embodied culture worthy of scholarly attention. However, the article occasionally seems somewhat sympathetic to Xilam's narrative. Questions concerning authority and representation remain underexplored. Who has the right to speak on behalf of ancient Mesoamerican cultures? Which histories are selected for inclusion? Which are omitted? How are competing indigenous perspectives negotiated? Yet perhaps this criticism should be applied more broadly across the martial arts world. How many karate practitioners genuinely represent Okinawan culture? How many kendoka represent Tokugawa Japan? How many judoka embody Kano's educational philosophy rather than the imperatives of Olympic sport? Viewed from this perspective, Xilam may not be unusual at all. Rather, it makes visible processes of invention, reconstruction, and selective remembering that exist within many modern martial traditions. One aspect of the article that warrants further consideration is the repeated use of the term warrior. While these are undoubtedly admirable qualities, the language of the warrior deserves closer scrutiny. Most contemporary martial artists encounter conflict within highly regulated environments governed by rules, safety protocols, legal frameworks, and institutional oversight. Whatever else occurs in the dojo, gym, or training hall, it is generally far removed from the realities of warfare, political violence, or life-and-death combat. In this sense, the warrior often functions less as a historical reality than as a pedagogical metaphor. This is not necessarily a criticism of Xilam. Indeed, many modern martial arts employ similar narratives. The interesting question is not whether practitioners are literally warriors. They are not. Rather, it is why the figure of the warrior remains such a powerful symbolic resource for constructing identity, purpose, and meaning within martial arts communities. That, however, is perhaps a discussion for another FART. Suggestions for Future Research Jennings concludes by identifying transformation, transmission, and transcendence as fruitful themes for future research. I would wholeheartedly agree. However, I would also suggest several additional directions. First, comparative studies between Xilam and other reconstructed martial traditions would be valuable. Historical European Martial Arts (HEMA), modern kendo, reconstructed indigenous wrestling systems, and even aspects of modern karate all raise similar questions concerning authenticity, memory, and identity. Second, greater attention could be devoted to pedagogy. How precisely are values transmitted through practice? What role do instructors play in shaping interpretations of the warrior ideal? Third, scholars might explore how practitioners themselves understand their participation. Do students experience Xilam primarily as martial training, cultural recovery, personal development, spiritual practice, or some combination of these? Finally, the article opens broader questions about martial arts education generally. Perhaps the most significant question is not whether a tradition is ancient or modern. Rather, it is whether it provides meaningful frameworks through which individuals can cultivate purposeful lives. Conclusion Whether Xilam successfully reconstructs pre-Hispanic martial traditions is, in some respects, the least interesting question raised by Jennings' article. Far more compelling is the recognition that martial arts are often less concerned with preserving the past than with producing particular kinds of futures. The warrior, then, is not simply a historical figure preserved from the past. Nor is it merely a cultural symbol. It is a subject position; an invitation to inhabit a particular relationship with oneself, one's community, and the wider world. In this respect, Xilam and Kano's Judo may have more in common than first appears. Both seek to use martial practice not simply to teach techniques, but to cultivate particular kinds of citizens. Both are concerned less with combat than with character. Both ask how embodied practice might contribute to the formation of a meaningful life. Whether that invitation originates in the Kodokan, a taijiquan school, or a training hall in contemporary Mexico City matters less than we might imagine. The enduring question is not how we fight. It is who we are trying to become. References
本稿では、ジョージ・ジェニングスによるシラム（Xilam）研究を取り上げ、武道とアイデンティティ形成の関係について考察した。シラムは1980年代末に創設された現代メキシコ武道であり、アステカやマヤなどの先スペイン期文明に着想を得ている。しかし、その価値は古代武術を正確に復元しているかどうかではなく、現代人にどのような自己理解や文化的帰属意識を提供しているかにある。 論文を読みながら私が着目したのは、「戦士（warrior）」という概念である。シラムにおける戦士とは戦闘員ではなく、自己規律、誠実さ、責任感、共同体への貢献を体現する人格的理想像として提示される。この点から私はフーコーの主体形成論や「自己の技法」を想起した。シラムは失われた戦闘技術を再現する試みというよりも、特定の人間像を育成する教育的プロジェクトとして理解できるのである。 また、ブルデューのハビトゥス概念を用いると、シラムは身体実践を通じて文化的価値観を体現させる装置として捉えられる。文化とは知識として学ぶだけでなく、身体を通じて「なる」ものでもある。 一方で、「戦士」という言葉そのものには慎重な検討も必要だろう。現代の道場やジムは厳格な安全管理の下で運営されており、実際の戦争や暴力とは大きく異なる。したがって戦士とは歴史的現実というより、人格形成のための教育的メタファーとして機能していると考えられる。 結局のところ、本論文が投げかける最も重要な問いは、「武道はどのような人間を育てようとしているのか」である。問題は、どのように戦うかではない。どのような人間になろうとしているのかなのである。  Bibliographic Entry Mizoguchi, N. (2024). Judo and Gender in Japan. The Arts and Sciences of Judo, 4(2), 19–27. Friday Academic Reflective Thinking (on Budo) – Judo and Gender in JapanOver the past year I have found myself reflecting increasingly upon the state of contemporary Budo, particularly within Japan. Recent discussions with a colleague who practises judo locally prompted me to revisit broader questions regarding the role of martial arts within modern society. Simultaneously, reports concerning harassment and problematic institutional practices within certain areas of contemporary judo culture have raised important questions regarding authority, pedagogy, and organisational structures. Such concerns appear particularly relevant given that judo, like many forms of Budo in Japan, faces changing social expectations and declining participation rates. Although I no longer practise judo regularly, I have long regarded Jigōrō Kanō as perhaps one of the strongest examples of a Meijin in the modern era. Not merely as a technician or founder, but as an educator whose aspirations extended beyond technical instruction towards broader personal and social development. In many respects, I have often viewed Kanō as someone I aspire to emulate both as a teacher and as a Budoka. Against this broader context, Mizoguchi’s (2024) Judo and Gender in Japan offers an informative and timely contribution. Situating the Article within the Field Over the last two decades, martial arts studies has increasingly emerged as an interdisciplinary field that extends beyond narrow technical descriptions and historical chronologies towards broader analyses of identity, culture, politics, embodiment, and social structures (Bowman, 2015; Bowman, 2017). Rather than treating martial arts simply as systems of combat or self-defence, scholars increasingly examine them as complex cultural practices embedded within wider historical and social contexts (Farrer & Whalen-Bridge, 2011). Within scholarship concerning women in judo specifically, considerable research has focused upon physiological performance, competition histories, and the biographies of pioneering female practitioners. However, a smaller body of literature has explored broader historical and social dimensions of gender within martial practice (Miarka et al., 2011; Callan et al., 2018). Mizoguchi’s article contributes meaningfully to this latter body of scholarship. Rather than simply examining when women entered judo, the article asks more fundamentally how and under what institutional conditions participation became possible. This shift in focus is significant because it reframes women’s judo not as a linear narrative of progress but as a product of negotiation between social expectations, institutional structures, and competing pedagogical philosophies. Strengths of the Article One of the strongest features of the article lies in its rejection of simplified historical narratives. Rather than presenting women’s participation in judo as a straightforward movement from exclusion towards inclusion, Mizoguchi instead demonstrates the complexity and contradictions characterising this development. Particularly noteworthy is the treatment of Jigōrō Kanō. Contemporary martial arts discourse frequently portrays Kanō in idealised terms as an educational reformer, visionary founder, and progressive moderniser. Mizoguchi presents a considerably more nuanced interpretation. Kanō appears simultaneously supportive and restrictive: encouraging women’s education and physical development while maintaining limitations concerning competition and participation (Mizoguchi, 2024). A second strength lies in the article’s comparative institutional perspective. The contrast between Kōdōkan policies and regional organisational practices is particularly valuable. Whereas the Kōdōkan sought to preserve specific educational and organisational structures, local federations occasionally demonstrated greater flexibility in implementing practices and participation (Mizoguchi, 2024). Finally, the article succeeds in situating judo within broader social transformations occurring within Japanese society. Rather than treating martial arts as isolated phenomena independent of wider social contexts, Mizoguchi demonstrates the interaction between judo and shifting educational, political, and gendered expectations. Areas for Further Development Despite these strengths, several areas could benefit from further development. First, while institutional structures and policies receive considerable attention, the experiences and perspectives of female practitioners themselves remain comparatively underdeveloped. Readers receive relatively limited insight into how individual women experienced and negotiated these systems. Several questions consequently remain:
Second, while Mizoguchi generally interprets Kanō’s restrictions as emerging primarily from educational concerns rather than discriminatory intent (Mizoguchi, 2024), greater engagement with alternative interpretations may have strengthened the analysis. Finally, greater international comparison may also have proved useful. More sustained comparison with women’s experiences outside Japan may have helped distinguish uniquely Japanese developments from broader patterns across martial cultures. Future Directions and Next Steps Mizoguchi’s work opens several productive pathways for future research. First, greater attention to oral histories and practitioner narratives could provide insight into how institutional policies were experienced at individual levels. Second, contemporary research might examine whether historical structures continue to shape organisational cultures within judo today. Questions concerning hierarchy, authority, gender expectations, and institutional responses remain highly relevant. Finally, comparative work across other Budo disciplines, including karate, kendo, and aikido, may reveal broader patterns extending beyond judo itself. Conclusion Ultimately, the significance of Mizoguchi’s article extends beyond women’s participation in judo alone. The article raises broader questions concerning the relationship between institutions, ideals, and historical memory within martial arts culture. Martial arts frequently present themselves through narratives of continuity, tradition, and universal principles. Yet martial arts studies increasingly remind us that such systems are also social products shaped by historical circumstances and institutional choices (Bowman, 2015). Mizoguchi’s article, therefore, serves as a useful reminder that Budo does not exist outside society. Rather, it reflects, reproduces, and occasionally challenges the assumptions of the societies from which it emerges. 本稿はMizoguchi（2024）の『Judo and Gender in Japan』を武道研究（Martial Arts Studies）の文脈の中で位置づけ、その学術的意義と課題を検討したものである。本論文の重要な貢献は、女子柔道の歴史を単純な進歩の物語としてではなく、制度、社会規範、教育理念の相互作用として分析している点にある。特に嘉納治五郎を理想化された創始者像としてではなく、進歩的側面と制約的側面の双方を持つ歴史的人物として描いている点は興味深い。一方で、女性実践者自身の経験や視点については十分な検討がなされておらず、口述史や個人の語りを用いた研究の必要性も示唆される。また、柔道のみならず空手、剣道、合気道など他武道との比較研究も今後の課題として考えられる。本論文は武道を社会的・文化的文脈の中で理解する重要性を示している。  Bibliographic Entry
Roe, Augustus John. Myths, Legends, Archetypes and Stereotypes in Martial Arts. YMAA Publishing, 2023. Personal Reflection Augustus John Roe's Myths, Legends, Archetypes and Stereotypes in Martial Arts intervenes in a persistent yet insufficiently examined problem within martial arts practice: the misrecognition of myth as history. In doing so, the article makes a valuable contribution to the interdisciplinary field of martial arts studies, while also drawing implicitly on key insights from sociology and historiography. Its central claim—that much of what practitioners inherit as "tradition" is mediated through oral transmission, narrative embellishment, and modern reconstruction—demands serious consideration from both scholars and practitioners. Roe begins by situating the widespread civilian practice of martial arts as a relatively recent historical development, emerging not from a continuous need for combat but from periods of relative peace and stability. This framing challenges the assumption of direct continuity between premodern fighting systems and contemporary practice. In this respect, Roe's argument aligns with the revisionist work of Paul Bowman, who has demonstrated that "martial arts" as a coherent category is itself a modern cultural construction rather than an unbroken inheritance. The article then distinguishes between myth and legend as modes of transmission. In conditions of low literacy and informal instruction, martial knowledge was frequently preserved through oral storytelling, rendering it susceptible to exaggeration, reinterpretation, and symbolic embellishment. Figures such as Zhang Sanfeng or Bodhidharma, therefore, operate less as historically verifiable individuals and more as narrative constructs that encode ethical, spiritual, and technical principles. Roe is careful not to dismiss these narratives outright; rather, he recognises their pedagogical function within martial cultures. From a sociological perspective, this positions martial arts traditions as systems of collective meaning-making. In terms consistent with Émile Durkheim, such narratives function as "collective representations," sustaining shared values and group cohesion. More precisely, they operate as socially constructed systems of legitimation, shaping what is accepted as authentic, authoritative, or valuable within a given community. Myth, in this sense, is not simply falsehood but a mechanism through which meaning is organised and transmitted. Roe develops this further through the concept of archetypes, drawing on Carl Jung's framework. The recurring figures of the hero, the mentor, and the creator emerge not only in fictional narratives but also in the retrospective construction of martial arts founders and masters. Over time, these archetypes harden into stereotypes, influencing how practitioners perceive legitimacy. The preference for instructors who conform to preconceived images of mastery illustrates how narrative forms can produce subtle yet pervasive exclusion within martial arts communities. Historically, the article reinforces the now well-established view that martial arts traditions are dynamic rather than static. The twentieth-century globalisation of martial arts—through military exchange, cinema, and popular culture—did not merely disseminate existing systems but also actively reshaped them, both in the West and in Asia. This complicates any appeal to authenticity grounded solely in lineage or antiquity, and instead points towards a more contingent and constructed understanding of tradition. The significance of Roe's argument becomes particularly evident when considered through the lens of Shu–Ha–Ri (守破離) within Budo (武道). Properly understood, Shu (守) is not passive imitation but disciplined preservation—something rendered impossible when the tradition itself is misrecognised. What Roe ultimately exposes is that many practitioners attempt Ha (破) and Ri (離) without ever having meaningfully achieved Shu. If the foundational stage is built upon unexamined myth, stereotype, or retrospective invention, then subsequent attempts to "break" or "transcend" risk perpetuating distortion rather than achieving mastery. In this respect, the article offers both a critique and a corrective. It does not call for the rejection of myth—indeed, it recognises its enduring pedagogical and cultural value—but rather for its proper contextualisation. Tradition must be understood as a layered construct in which symbolic narratives and historical realities coexist but are not interchangeable. While Roe's analysis is persuasive, the article would benefit from a more sustained engagement with non-East Asian traditions, where similar processes of myth-making and narrative construction are equally evident. Such an expansion would further strengthen the claim that these dynamics are not culturally specific but structurally inherent to the transmission of embodied practices. The implications for the field are clear. There is a need for continued interdisciplinary research that bridges martial arts studies with sociology, anthropology, and critical historiography. At the level of practice, instructors bear responsibility for how knowledge is framed and transmitted, ensuring that myth is presented as symbolic rather than empirical truth. For practitioners, the task is one of intellectual discipline: to engage with tradition critically, without either naïve acceptance or dismissive rejection. The task, therefore, is not to abandon tradition, but to interrogate it—rigorously, historically, and without illusion. Only then can movement from Shu to Ha to Ri represent genuine development rather than the repetition of inherited misrecognition. This review is dedicated to Miyase Sensei (先生), whose teaching—only now partially understood—continues to inform my practice and reminds me that what is given is not always immediately recognised. 本稿は、Augustus John Roe の論文を検討し、武道（武道）における伝統理解の問題を論じる。著者は、武術の「伝統」が神話・伝説・語りの再構成によって形成されてきたことを指摘する。これらは文化的意味や倫理を伝える一方で、ステレオタイプや誤認を生み出す側面も持つ。本稿はこれを守破離（守破離）の観点から再考し、真の修行はまず「守」における批判的理解を前提とするべきであると主張する。伝統を無批判に継承するのではなく、歴史的・社会的文脈の中で再検討する必要がある。  Imagine a school shaped by a Christian ethos. Its mission speaks of peace, dignity, moral formation, and care for neighbour. It rejects violence not merely as imprudent but as contrary to human flourishing.
Now imagine a proposal that students might study budō — not as street self-defence, not as competitive fighting, but as a disciplined martial art rooted in restraint, hierarchy, repetition, and self-mastery. Is there a contradiction? At first glance, perhaps. Martial arts train the capacity to strike. Christian education seeks to form the conscience away from harm. The optics are uneasy. Yet beneath the surface lies a deeper question — not about bruises, but about anthropology. Christianity has never spoken with one voice on violence. Across history, it has held at least two distinct moral trajectories. One tradition — most visible in pacifist movements such as the Religious Society of Friends — insists that participation in violence is incompatible with discipleship. Peace is preserved by refusal. One simply does not take up the sword. Another tradition — articulated most clearly in Augustine and Aquinas — accepts that force may, under strict moral conditions, be used in defence of the innocent. Here, violence is never celebrated, but neither is it categorically excluded. It is morally tragic, tightly bound, and sometimes necessary. I write from within the Roman Catholic tradition — a tradition that developed just war theory as a moral attempt to regulate the use of force, yet whose historical record reveals how often those limits were strained, ignored, or manipulated. Crusades, religious wars, political entanglements: the Church has not always embodied the restraint it theologised. That history matters. It cautions against moral triumphalism in either direction. Most Christian schools today operate, whether consciously or not, within this Augustinian inheritance. They teach virtue, justice, courage, and self-control. They field rugby and hockey teams without perceiving contradiction. Physical contest is framed as discipline rather than aggression. The difficulty with budō is not injury. Controlled dojo practice often produces fewer serious injuries than collision sports. The difficulty is symbolic. Budō carries an explicit lineage of combat. It trains techniques that, in another context, could cause harm. The question, therefore, becomes whether the cultivation of such capacity is already a moral compromise. Here, the tension sharpens. One regime of thought holds that peace is safeguarded through abstention. If one refuses the sword entirely, one cannot misuse it. Moral clarity lies in distance from force. To rehearse violence, even in ritualised form, risks normalising it. Another regime holds that force, as a human capacity, does not vanish by being ignored. Strength exists. Anger exists. The potential for harm exists. The question is not whether these capacities are present, but whether they are disciplined. Peace, in this view, is secured not by denial but by mastery. Budō belongs to this second logic. At its philosophical best, it is not the celebration of aggression but the training of restraint. Repetition tempers impulse. Hierarchy humbles ego. Ritual slows reaction. One learns precisely how much force is possible — and therefore how grave its misuse would be. The highest expression of skill is often the refusal to strike. Everything turns on telos — on the end toward which the practice is ordered. If the end is domination, spectacle, or personal superiority, then it stands in tension with Christian anthropology. If the end is the disciplined formation of character in service of peace, the contradiction is far less obvious. This is not alien to Christianity. Monastic traditions cultivated bodily discipline through fasting, silence, obedience, and structured hardship. The aim was not punishment but purification of desire. The body became the site where will was trained. Budō functions analogously as a corporeal asceticism: through physical form, the self is governed. The New Testament does not present a systematic theory of violence; it presents actions that later theology must interpret. Christ refuses retaliation at his arrest and commands Peter to put away the sword. Yet he also confronts injustice forcefully and disrupts the Temple in a dramatic prophetic gesture. The Gospels leave space for ethical development. Christian history filled that space in divergent ways. It must also be admitted that the cultivation of force always carries danger. Discipline can slide into pride. Technical mastery can inflate ego. A martial framework without humility becomes caricature. But refusal carries danger as well. Moral abstention can drift into abstraction, detached from the embodied realities of conflict and responsibility. The disagreement, then, is not between peace and violence. It is between two visions of how peace is secured. Peace can be imagined as the refusal of power. It can also be imagined as the disciplined governance of power. Within a Christian educational setting, this becomes a question of formation. What kind of person is the school trying to produce? A person who never touches the sword, believing that purity lies in abstention? Or a person who understands the weight of the sword so thoroughly that it remains sheathed? The Roman Catholic tradition, for all its historical failures, has long held that strength itself is not evil; it is its ordering that determines its morality. The tragedy of history is not that power existed, but that it was so often disordered. Yet there remains a further question — perhaps the most uncomfortable one. Can one meaningfully guide others through the realities of conflict without ever having encountered its mechanics? Peace formed entirely in abstraction risks fragility. Restraint that has never wrestled, even in disciplined form, with the dynamics of force may prove thinner than it appears. There is a difference between refusing violence. After all, one cannot wield it and refuse it because one has learned its weight. What appears at first to be a curricular question is in fact a theological one. It turns on the nature of the human person. Is strength inherently corrupting? Or is strength morally neutral until directed toward good or ill? The sword, literal or metaphorical, is always dangerous. The Church’s own history testifies to that. The question is whether peace is best preserved by refusing to touch it — or by learning to hold it without drawing it. Optics cannot settle that question. It must be answered by anthropology. And that, perhaps, is a conversation worthy of any Christian school — especially one mindful of its past. 「平和」と「鞘に収められた剣」― キリスト教的学校における武道の位置づけ（要約）本稿は、キリスト教的理念を持つ学校において武道を導入することが矛盾するのか、という思想的問いを扱っている。 キリスト教は歴史的に暴力について一枚岩ではなかった。一方には、すべての暴力参加を拒否する平和主義的伝統（例：クエーカー）がある。もう一方には、アウグスティヌスやトマス・アクィナスに代表される「正戦論」の伝統があり、一定の厳格な条件下でのみ武力行使を認めてきた。 筆者はローマ・カトリックの伝統に属しているが、その歴史は武力を神学的に制限しようとしながらも、必ずしも常にその理想を守ってきたわけではない。この歴史的自覚は、どちらの立場にも単純な道徳的優越を与えない。 武道の問題は、怪我の多寡ではなく「象徴性」にある。ラグビーなどの接触競技が容認される一方で、武道は「戦いの技術」を明示的に扱うため、倫理的緊張が生じる。 ここで二つの「真理の枠組み」が現れる。
キリスト教の修道的伝統における断食や沈黙の修練と同様に、武道も身体を通して意志を鍛える「身体的禁欲」と理解できる。 しかし最後に、より根本的な問いが残る。 暴力の現実や力の構造を一度も経験したことがないまま、人に平和を教えることは可能なのか。 抽象的な平和は脆いかもしれない。力を知らずにそれを拒否することと、その重みを理解した上でそれを鞘に収めることは同じではない。 結局のところ、この問題は課外活動の可否ではなく、人間観の問題である。 力は本質的に腐敗的なのか。 それとも、方向づけられることで善にも悪にもなり得る中立的なものなのか。 平和とは、剣に触れないことなのか。 それとも、抜かずに持つことを学ぶことなのか。 この問いこそが、キリスト教教育の核心に触れている。 
At first glance, a budō organisation and a school appear to have little in common. One trains bodies through disciplined movement and tradition; the other trains minds through curriculum, assessment, and institutional structures. Yet both are fundamentally educational organisations. Both depend on transmission, authority, trust, and culture. And both face the same quiet risk: mistaking longevity for coherence, and tradition for organisational health. Whether on the mat or in the classroom, the central question is the same: How do we sustain values, standards, and identity across generations without freezing them in place? 1. Longevity Is Not the Same as Transmission In budō, extended membership is often taken as evidence of depth. In schools, long service is often treated as a source of authority. But staying is not the same as transmitting well. Accurate transmission — of technique, ethos, or professional standards — requires clarity. Students, practitioners, and colleagues must be able to answer:
2. Tradition Without Reflection Becomes Stagnation Budō philosophy is explicit: kata without understanding is empty. Education research echoes this: routine without reflection produces compliance, not learning. When practices are defended with “this is how we’ve always done it,” reflection has already stopped. In both schools and martial arts organisations, stagnation begins not because tradition exists, but because it is no longer interrogated. Healthy organisations treat tradition as a living inheritance. They ask:
3. Disagreement Is a Health Signal, Not a Threat A key indicator of organisational health is how disagreement is handled. In unhealthy cultures, disagreement is personalised. Seniority becomes protection. Questions are read as challenges to status rather than contributions to learning. In healthy budō organisations and schools alike, explicit norms exist for disagreement. Members know:
4. Coherence Matters More Than Geography In budō, moving between dōjō or organisations can attract suspicion. In education, mobility is sometimes framed as instability. Yet neither staying nor moving determines quality. Coherence does. A practitioner or teacher who moves but integrates learning thoughtfully strengthens the organisation. One who stays but reflects deeply does the same. Problems arise only when movement becomes superficial or staying becomes defensive. Healthy organisations establish shared core values while allowing local interpretation. Alignment between values, training, evaluation, and leadership practice — not tenure — sustains culture. 5. Leadership Is Modelling, Not Position Culture is reinforced through what is rewarded, tolerated, and modelled. Students and junior practitioners learn less from mission statements than from daily signals:
6. Belonging Without Blindness Strong organisations foster belonging — but not at the expense of thought. Belonging means people feel:
In schools, it enables professional dialogue rather than compliance. When people feel safe to question and refine practice, loyalty becomes earned, not enforced. Culture becomes a guide, not a constraint. In Closing Staying does not equal greatness. Moving does not equal shallowness. In budō organisations and schools alike, organisational health depends on coherence:
But because it is understood, tested, and renewed. That is true transmission — in the dojo and in the classroom. 本稿は、学校と武道組織に共通する「組織的な一貫性（コヒーレンス）」と健全性について論じるものである。長く一つの組織に属していることは、必ずしも優れた実践や深い理解を意味しない。同様に、複数の組織を移動してきた経験も、それ自体が専門性を保証するものではない。重要なのは、価値観や期待される行動が明確に共有され、伝統が無批判に守られるのではなく、内省と対話を通して更新されているかどうかである。健全な組織文化は、明確な規範、建設的な異議申し立ての在り方、そして立場ではなく行動によって示されるリーダーシップによって支えられる。真の伝承とは、変化を拒むことではなく、理解と熟慮をもって伝統を生かし続けることである。 |
James M. HatchInternational Educator who happens to be passionate about Chito Ryu Karate. Born in Ireland, educated in Canada, matured in Japan Archives
April 2026
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