The Spiritual Ronin: A Path of Action and Universal Virtues

By Doug Katz

I’ve always admired the concept of the Ronin, the masterless samurai of feudal Japan. These warriors weren’t tied to a single lord or army. They moved according to their own principles, aligning with causes they believed in, fighting bravely, and moving on. It wasn’t about rebellion or disloyalty—it was about having the freedom to act on their own terms.

That archetype really speaks to me. Over the years, I’ve felt like my own spiritual journey mirrors that of the Ronin. I’ve stepped away from rigid structures and rules, but I haven’t abandoned spirituality. Instead, I’ve charted my own course—a path that embraces universal virtues and focuses on action rather than sitting back and overthinking things.

Growing up in a minority faith opened the door for me to see the world differently. I wasn’t surrounded by people who thought exactly the way I did. My upbringing naturally gave me exposure to different beliefs and traditions, forcing me to think a little bigger and connect with those outside my own circle. This experience followed me into the military, where the stakes were even higher. I had to work with people of all faiths—whether they were my subordinates, my peers, or my allies. When I was deployed to Kuwait, bridging those gaps wasn’t optional. It was essential. That time shaped my ability to understand and connect with people across different belief systems.

Judaism, the faith I was raised in, gave me a strong foundation rooted in tradition, ethics, and community. Reform Judaism, in particular, encouraged questioning and self-discovery, which I appreciated deeply. But while the tradition allowed for exploration, the answers I found didn’t resolve my deeper angst. I was still left with questions about how to connect with something greater in a way that felt direct and personal. That search became the starting point of my broader journey.

That questioning led me to Zen. Its simplicity and mindfulness offered me something I hadn’t found before: a way to strip things down to the essentials. Zen didn’t ask for intermediaries or endless explanation. It was about being present and intentional. Around the same time, I dove into Aikido. At first, I was drawn to it as a martial art, but it quickly became much more. Aikido taught me balance—not just physically, but emotionally. It tempered my intensity and helped me understand harmony in the middle of conflict. Together, Zen and Aikido gave me tools to ground my actions in something deeper than just impulse or belief.

Then came COVID—a time when everything slowed down and reflection became unavoidable. I decided to revisit the Old Testament during that time. I wasn’t consciously looking for comfort or guidance; it just seemed like a good opportunity to do it. Maybe, subconsciously, I was searching for something, but in truth, it started more as an exercise than a spiritual quest.

Instead of answers, I found frustration. The words felt distant, buried under layers of interpretation. It was like reading something that had been processed and overworked, losing the rawness and nourishment I was craving. There was one passage in particular that stuck with me: God’s directive for the wholesale slaughter of men, women, and children. Historically, I could understand it as part of the brutal realities of ancient life. But spiritually? It just didn’t sit right.

I asked for advice on how to make sense of it. Instead, I got explanations about how I should interpret the text “better.” None of it landed. In fact, it made things worse. It felt like I was being asked to bend my morality to fit the doctrine.

That was the turning point for me. I didn’t want to reinterpret spirituality—I wanted to experience it directly. I didn’t need someone to package it up and make it digestible. I wanted something raw, something that aligned with the universal truths that seemed to rise above any specific belief system.

These universal virtues are what guide me now. Kindness is the most immediate and accessible of them. It doesn’t take doctrine or debate to know the power of connection and small, meaningful gestures. Humility keeps me grounded. It reminds me that my perspective isn’t the only one that matters. Gratitude anchors me in the moment and reminds me of what I have, rather than what I lack.

And then there’s the directive to help others—especially those less fortunate. That one has shaped so much of my life and work. It’s not enough to live with gratitude if you’re not using it to lift others up. This belief is at the heart of NULU, a project born from my desire to help people maintain their independence and dignity. For me, NULU isn’t just a product. It’s a reflection of my core values and the belief that everyone deserves tools to make life a little easier, no matter their physical limitations.

When people face a crisis of faith, it’s tempting to disengage. Some turn to atheism or agnosticism, figuring that detachment is the easiest option. For me, that wasn’t the answer. Being a Spiritual Ronin means rejecting apathy and leaning into action. It means aligning with what resonates deeply, showing up for what matters, and living those values out in the world.

It’s not always easy. Without a structured path to follow, you have to make your own way, which can feel isolating at times. But the rewards are worth it. Living authentically and grounding yourself in universal virtues brings freedom and clarity. Gratitude and adaptability make this path sustainable. They keep me grounded even when the road gets tough.

One book that shaped me spiritually as much as any religious text is The Road by Cormac McCarthy. Its haunting message about perseverance in a broken world carries a truth I hold close: “Keep a little fire burning; however small, however hidden.”

That line taught me something profound: that guidance doesn’t have to come from traditional places. The world is full of wisdom, but you have to open yourself up to it. Stories, art, music—even the smallest, most unexpected things—can hold the kind of truths that help you keep going. The Road reminded me that spiritual clarity isn’t confined to religious texts or sacred traditions. It can live in the words of a novel or in a fleeting moment of beauty. For me, that realization has been liberating. It’s what sustains me through challenges and gives me the strength to keep fighting the good fight.

That fire, however small, is always there. Hidden, maybe. Small, sometimes. But alive. And as long as it burns, so will I.