Empty Hand Revolution

Kung Fu for Jesus

Tossing a watermelon in the air, Cosmo sliced it cleanly in half with the blade of his hand and caught the two pieces before they could hit the ground. The villagers laughed and cheered. Even the man with the machete stood relaxed and smiling.

“For my next demonstration, I’ll need a volunteer.” Cosmo prodded the audience, hoping they understood his Hindi.

“Me!” The man with the machete jumped. “Volunteer. Me!”

Cosmo nodded. The catalyst for his impromptu show seemed an appropriate choice. This called for further improvisation. “Can I borrow your machete?” Cosmo asked.

The man’s eyes grew big, then narrowed to slits.

Cosmo stooped to pick up his last remaining apple. He addressed the man again. “All you have to do is stand very still with this on your head.” Cosmo indicated his intention to the rest of the audience by placing the apple on his own head.

The crowd gasped and murmured.

The big man flipped the machete in his hand and offered the handle to Cosmo.

Cosmo stretched to place the apple on the man’s head before accepting the weapon. A foot taller than Cosmo, the man’s height would increase the difficulty of the stunt, along with the thrill.

Cosmo strode into the center of the clearing and pushed aside the larger fragments of fruit with his bare foot. Content with the space, he progressed through some advanced sword forms of Thang Ta.

 Lunging and spinning, Cosmo flashed the weapon in the high-altitude sun of a crystal clear afternoon in the Himalayas. He slapped the flat edge of the weapon against his palm and his thigh. In a graceful frenzy, he fought off a dozen invisible attackers.

A blanket of impressed silence fell over the villagers. This was the sort of martial arts they could relate to—a skill every man in the village desired. Half a dozen men trained in this art could defend an entire village.

Short of breath, Cosmo realized he had better finish his final demonstration before he grew too dizzy to perform it safely. Landing on both feet directly in front of the big man, Cosmo barked a single word command in Hindi. “Steady!”

The man transformed into a human statue.

Defying gravity, Cosmo leapt into a windmill kick three feet above the ground. Spinning 360 degrees, he flared all four of his limbs and slashed the machete centimeters over the man’s head before landing chest to chest.

A hand’s breadth remained between the two men.

Shock filled the big man’s eyes.

Cosmo calmly removed the apple from his head. Stepping back, he proffered the handle of the man’s machete.

The man took it without blinking.

The audience didn’t breathe.

Finally, Cosmo held up the apple in both hands and let it fall into two pieces—sliced cleanly in half.

The villagers thundered with approval. They cheered and laughed and clapped. A show indeed!

Cosmo bowed. As he straightened, lightning shot up his spine. The familiar jolt both terrified him and humbled him.

The nerve damage reminded him that every day he lived with nearly full mobility was a gift. He had unwrapped that gift without gratitude for most of his life. Now he knew better, and he knew what he had to do next.

Parting the crowd, Cosmo leapt onto the remains of the rickety platform built for the projector. He gestured for a microphone.

The members of the film crew stared at each other until Mark prodded one of them. Jumping into action, he scrounged up a microphone, hastily plugged it into the small PA system, and handed it to Cosmo.

In eloquent and clear Hindi, Cosmo reached inside himself and drew out the most intimate aspects of his story. He shared his back and forth dance with God, including the low points he’d never dared reveal to a living soul.

With grateful heart, he poured out the good, the bad and the ugly. He concluded that only by the grace of God could he still walk. Only by the grace of God was he alive despite the countless efforts of others to take the life God had given him.

Cosmo lowered the mic and exhaled a breath of complete and total fulfillment. As enjoyable as campus ministry had been, this was infinitely more so. Before Cosmo’s peace could settle, the villagers clambered for more.

They begged to know more about the God of which he spoke.

Cosmo froze, uncertain of what came next. He’d shared everything he had inside him. What more was there?

As if responding to his inward question, Mark appeared at Cosmo’s side. The platform groaned under their collective weight. Mark tugged the microphone from Cosmo’s grip. “Good job, Mr. Zimik.” He nudged Cosmo from the platform.

Cosmo jumped down. Attentively, he listened as his mentor explained the broader truth and finer points of the Gospel message that continued to be better and better news in Cosmo’s own life.

An hour later, nearly the entire village, including the man wielding the machete, had committed to the same journey Cosmo had undertaken years earlier. It had taken physical torture to put Cosmo on the path.

He hoped the villagers had not endured as much to arrive at the same place.

Like a peal of thunder in his brain, purpose reverberated within him. Perhaps this was the reason God had given him a second chance. Perhaps Cosmo’s years in Delhi had been bumping him clumsily toward this. The nights in the hospital had been a reminder of his second chance.

He could use the very fighting that resulted in his broken body to honor the God of second chances.