God and Country

When I lived in Japan as a missionary many years ago, I heard a lot of stories.  I heard stories of Japanese Christians, and how they came to faith.  Some of the stories were from the time immediately after Japan lost World War II.  It was a time when the Japanese people did a lot of soul-searching.

I heard one story about man who had been in the military during World War II.  I no longer remember his position, but I still remember the American pastor pointing to the pew where this man always sat, every single Sunday.  He threw away his Shinto "god-shelf" when he became a Christian.  He no longer venerated his ancestors as you were bound to do, as a good Japanese man.  He was all in.

What had finally convinced him of the truth of the Christian faith?

It was the story of the creation of the world.  The Shinto religion only had a creation story for the creation of Japan.  But the Christian faith -- their creation story told of the creation of the whole world.  Therefore, the Christian God must be the greater God.  The Christian God is the God of the whole world, not just one country.

The Christian faith is a tiny minority in Japan.  All of the churches where I worshipped were small, just fifty or sixty people making a congregation.  Yet there was a witness of the good news in Japan, good news of great joy to all the people:  not just one country.

After three years of living and working in Japan, I returned to the United States.  I remembered this man's story, although I'm not sure exactly why.  Perhaps it was so odd to me.  I am used to testimonies that focus on the grace of God in Jesus.  I'm used to hearing stories that focus on personal redemption.  And all of that might have been there.  But the final piece of the puzzle for this man -- was that the Christian God created the whole world.  A god bigger than his country -- that was a god he would follow.  A God who created the whole world was a god worth believing in, a god worth following.

A God who created the whole world.  A God who loves the whole world.  Not just one country.  That is the God we confess when we come to church every Sunday.  That is the God we claim to follow.  So as much as I love my country, as much as I love this place I call home, I have to believe that God has wider concerns.  God loves the people fleeing violence in Central America, the displaced children in Syria, people who are starving, no matter their country.  God wants them to be fed.  God wants them to know God's love and grace.

In the Scriptures there are stories of a promised land and a chosen people:  Abraham and Isaac, and the nation of Israel.  But the chosen people were always set within a larger story:  the story of a God who created, and loves, the whole world.   Not just me, but you.  Not just American children, but children from Syria, children from Guatemala, children who are hungry, children who are afraid.  Wherever they are.

Tonight I am thinking about that Japanese man, the one who threw away his god-shelf and went all-in, who never thought that being Japanese and being Christian were the same thing.  Maybe it was easy, in a country where there were only a few Christians.  But even here in the United States, where there are many more Christians, I think we need to make a distinction.  I need to make a distinction.  I need to throw away my god-shelf and go all in.

I believe in a God who is bigger than my country.

Stranger in a Strange Land

Long ago, I was a missionary.  I lived for a time in a country where only a small minority of the people were Christian, where I could not assume that most people understand the shorthand expressions that I used to talk about my faith.  If I thought about the water and the new life that came from it, I couldn't assume that people would make the connection with baptism.  The words "justification" and "redemption" did not roll off the tongue; Bible stories like The Prodigal Son and the Good Samaritan didn't make people nod in recognition.

I was a missionary in Japan.  To say the word "missionary" makes me cringe, a little.  I wonder what most people think of when they hear the word.  Do they think about missionaries who brought not only the Christian faith but also colonial ways and intolerant views?  Do they think of people who were actually more interested in claiming the country for their own purposes than they were about teaching about the love of Jesus?  Do they think about all of the stereotypes of superiority, lack of curiosity, and meanness?

Here's what it meant to me to be a missionary:

It meant being curious.  When I arrived in Japan I knew almost no words of Japanese.  I had tried to take an evening class in the spring before I left.  But I could not get any Japanese words of grammar to stick in my head.  It was too strange to me, a language I could not get my brain around.  I remember walking around a lack with a friend who had grown up in Japan.  She patiently tried to teach me sentences.  Every word fell back out of my head.  So when I arrived in Japan, I had everything to learn.  I needed to learn to take the trains and the subways, to take off my shoes when I went inside, to eat with chopsticks and to bow at the right time.  I needed to learn some Japanese.  I needed to find things at the grocery store.
I needed to be curious and to listen.

It meant being humble.  There was so much to learn, and there were so many opportunities to make mistakes.  Not just mistakes in speaking Japanese, but mistakes in understanding, mistakes in living.  To live in another culture is to be learning all the time.

It meant being an outsider.  In Japan, I always stuck out.  I never fit in.  No matter how much I tried, I would always be, in some sense, a stranger.  I could learn to wear the kimono and I could learn to speak Japanese well, but in so many ways, I would never fit in.  There is something lonely about that.  And it was tempting, at those times, to retreat into the missionary community, where understanding came somewhat easier, and where I felt I belonged.  But to do that would have been unfaithful.

It meant thinking outside the box.  I found that the missionaries I knew, whether pastors or lay missionaries, were some of the most creative people I knew.  They were interested in how theology and their own culture and the culture of the place they lived intersected.  They wondered about where the boundaries were:  what were the things that needed to stay constant and where did message of the gospel need to be creatively re-imagined so that the people could hear it?  What does "I am the bread of life" mean to people for whom bread is not a staple? What does the word "God" mean in a language where god is called "kami" -- and there are thousands of them?

It meant being transformed.  I know that I went to Japan thinking that I would transform lives.  I went bearing that hope.  But there were very few baptisms when I was there.  Instead, I came to believe that the Holy Spirit was planting seeds, and who knew what would happen?  Instead, the Holy Spirit was transforming me.  I was different kind of Christian when I left Japan than when I had arrived.

I remember one Sunday afternoon after returning home, that I sobbed with some kind of pain.  I'm not even sure all of what it was.  But I think that while I lived in Japan, I had a sense that I knew what my life was for.  I knew that every single thing I did had a purpose, even though I didn't know how God was using it.

I remember being sure, so sure, when I returned to the United States, that everyone was supposed to be a missionary, right where they were.

But I'll tell you what:  I wasn't sure exactly how anyone, including me, was supposed to do it.  People weren't going to come up to me on the street and ask me "what are you doing here?", like they did in Japan.  It was so obvious that I was a stranger.  Now, it was not.

Now, my congregation is reading a book about the church, and culture, right here in the United States.  The author makes no bones about the fact that we are called to be missionaries.   Fewer and fewer people know the language and the symbols and the images of faith.  People speak a different language.  That is not a bad thing.  But it means that the church needs to be curious, and bilingual, humble and creative.  It means that the church needs to be transformed.

That might be the hardest thing of all.

Sermon for Easter 4: The Gift of Community

Acts 2:42-47/John 10:1-10

            May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in your sight O Lord, our rock and our redeemer.  Amen.

            Back when I was living in Japan, my parents came to visit me. They spent three weeks with me, sightseeing and traveling around.

             We also toured the school where I taught and we met some people who gave them an idea of the mission of the Japanese Lutheran Churches. 

            I remember one day they met a man who wove hand-made baskets for a living.   

            What I remember about him was that he made these beautiful handmade baskets (My parents bought one – or maybe he gave them one), that he was disabled, and that he had a Christian testimony that he shared with them.

             If I remember right (and it has been many years now) someone gave him a Bible.

             He started reading the Bible, and he believed in Jesus and became a Christian just because of what he read. 

            That was amazing to me.

             Much as I believe that the Word of God has power, it is amazing that he came to Christ just by sitting in his room and reading it .

             He also said that for many years he had no way to get to church and didn’t know of any churches, so on Sundays he would read the Bible and pray in his house.

            That is a particular vision of what it means to be a Christian. 

            It is about our individual relationship with Christ. 

            It is about our own private devotion to Jesus.

             But it is not the vision that we have in Acts 2.  In this reading – which follows directly after Pentecost – one of the basic elements of being a Christian is being together. 

            And it is being a community in simple, but very particular ways.  They are:  devotion to the apostles teaching, to the community, to their shared meals, and to their prayers.  

            The church that formed on Pentecost found these the basic building blocks, the foundation, of their lives.  And it was a life together.

            So on Pentecost  the Spirit descended on the disciples who were gathered.  

            They spoke about God’s love and mighty acts in many languages.  Peter preached a powerful sermon.

             And on that day 3,000 people were baptized.  3,000!  

            So when I talk about Christian community as authentic community, please know that I am not necessarily talking about a small group.   

            But it is a group that sees devotion to Jesus as being about devotion to one another. 

            The community was one of true caring, learning and growing in Christ together, sharing their lives with one another, sharing meals – including Holy Communion – with one another –

             and praying with – and for – each other. 

            This community was not about ‘friendliness’ --- but about real friendship. 

            And one of the ways I see this manifested at Grace is in the fact that it is not just me that is willing to go and visit shut-ins and go to the hospital, but that we have a small group of visitors here who also go out with communion, with prayers and with friendship to visit. 

            One woman said this, after visitors from her congregation came to visit, “I wasn’t able to come to church, so the church came to me!” 

            Exactly. 

            That’s what community looks like. 

            In our Sunday morning class, we’ve been studying the Apostles Creed. 

            Last week we talked about the church.

             We might hear the word ‘church’ and immediately think about a building – this building – what a ‘church’ looks like to us. 

            But the word ‘church’ in Greek – the word is ‘ekklesia’ – really means a gathered people. 

            It is the people who have been called out and who have been gathered together. 

            It is the people who have heard their shepherd’s voice and who have been called together in community

            – to devote themselves to teaching, to share each other’s lives in deep commitment, to break bread together, and to pray – to experience the presence of God – and to share that with one another.   

            They are called out and they are called together, to share the mission of God, to share the love of God.

            And this – authentic community – is something that people are hungry for. 

            People want to be known.  Don’t get me wrong.  It is a little frightening to be known. 

            It’s vulnerable.  There is a downside.  We can be hurt, and we can hurt each other. 

            That’s why forgiveness is also essential for communities. 

            But there is also something powerful in this – in people who are willing to surround you with love in the middle of a crisis, -- in people who are willing to listen to you and pray with you,

            in people who are willing to roll up their sleeves and go out to serve with you

             – in people who are willing to crack open God’s word with you, and even admit that they don’t understand everything about it. 

            It’s powerful.  It’s life-giving.

            And there are two things that happen when we practice community – the first is that we become more generous. 

            Because we see that we belong to one another, and this is our community and we want to pool our resources so that we can do more things together. 

            We become generous with our time, and our gifts and our resources, so that everyone here – and people who are around us – can experience God’s generosity – God’s abundance.

            The second thing that happens is that we grow.  It’s true.  The early church grew.  The community was contagious.  People wanted to be a part of it. 

            Where have you experienced true community?  At Grace?  Somewhere else?

            How has it changed your life?

            How has this community been a gift to you?

            (write on an index card anonymously and put them in  the offering basket)

           

           

            The man my parents and I met in Japan – the one who became a Christian all alone by reading the Bible –his story has stuck with me in part I think because it seemed so unusual. 

            I can’t imagine coming to faith without people – witnesses – surrounding me, showing me the love of God, making those Bible stories real in my life. 

            But that’s what happened to him. 

            But of course, that’s not the end of his story.  When we met him, he was no longer alone.

             No, somehow a group of Christians found him – Lutherans from a place called Kosa Church. 

            They had a ministry to people who were disabled, and somehow they found him and invited him to come to church and worship with them. 

            They even offered to pick him up. 

            Of course he was eager to go and worship and study and pray with other Christians. 

            He became a member of Kosa Church – he was baptized there (even though he believed in Jesus he had never been baptized.) 

            The church often shared meals after worship on Sunday, and, just like that New Testament Church, they prayed together. 

            He met the woman who would become his wife.

             He continued to make his bamboo baskets, and he gave much of the proceeds of his work to the mission of his congregation. 

             He wanted people just like him to know the love of Jesus and not be alone. 

            In this world of isolation, in this world where we are so encouraged to go it alone and make it on our own – true community, authentic community – is a gift.

             It is a gift of the resurrection.  It is a gift of life – abundant life – life together. 

            And it is ours – to share.

            Amen

      Image by Vonda Drees.  Used by permission.      

Some Lessons Take A Long Time to Learn

Sometime this afternoon,  I got a "friend" request from someone on Facebook.  I did not recognize the name, for a variety of reasons, one of which was the name was written in Chinese script.  I saw that we had one friend in common, another missionary friend of mine from thirty years ago when I lived in Japan.  Still, I really did not recognize the name.  I couldn't pronounce the name.  I no longer read Japanese.

So, I sent this person a message, asking them this question, "Are you one of my former students from Japan?"

He sent me back a message, writing his name in English letters and saying that he was both a student at the high school, and that he also attended the church to which I was assigned.  Did I remember him?, he asked.

It was thirty years ago.

His name did sound familiar though, even after thirty years, and even though I don't have very many particularly vivid memories left.  I remember the 7th grader who taught me the Japanese word for "Thief", on the first day of school, when I picked up the pencil from his desk to use as a visual aid.  "This is a pencil", I said.  "This is a 'dorobo (thief)", he replied.   I remember a young girl who couldn't remember the difference between "Chicken" and "Kitchen" in English.  She would always sing the "Kentucky Fried Chicken" song to help in remembering.  I remember that I would have simple Bible Studies in English before church sometimes.

So, I accepted his friend request.  Then, he sent me a message back, thanking me, and telling me one thing, which was a gift.

He told me that a year after I left Japan, he was baptized, in another Lutheran church in Kumamoto, the city where I lived.  Another one of my students (I learned) is the pastor of this congregation.

I went to Japan, following the call of the Holy Spirit (so I thought).  Jesus wanted me to go and help him make disciples, so I thought.  I did not know how to do this, but I trusted Jesus, at least some of the time.

But we were not making conversions right and left while I was there.  Many people were interested in Christianity, but not so many seemed interested in actually becoming Christian.  Perhaps we were failures (so I thought).

When I found out that my former student had gotten baptized, I said, "That's wonderful!"  to which he replied, "Yes, God led me."

Thirty years ago I was a missionary in Japan.  I kept telling myself that I was planting seeds, and that God was changing lives, whether I could see it or not.

Thirty years later, I am a pastor, and I am in a new place.  I am impatient.  I want to see things happening in my new community.  I am looking around for signs of some kind or another.  A good old fashioned baptism would be just the ticket.  But I am planting seeds, and (the Holy Spirit reminds me), God is changing lives.

Thirty years later, I am a pastor, and God is reminding me again about what the church is for.  It's not for programs (although we may have them) or potlucks (although they are delicious), or just to add more people to do the work I want to get done.  The church is for changing lives, whether I can see it or not.

"Yes, God led me," he said.

God, lead me too, I will pray, tonight.

Human Being

It was a long time ago now -- but you don't forget some things, even after many years.  It was a long time ago that I lived and worked as a missionary in Japan.  I was a stranger there.  Although I worked very hard to know and to be known, to learn Japanese, to understand, there were also many other forces that made that difficult.  In some ways, I would always be a stranger.

I worked at a Lutheran boy's school, junior and senior high school - and I walked home from school every day, to my two-room Japanese apartment.  (One person should only need one room, in Japanese terms, but because I was a Westerner, the school thought it wise for me to have two rooms rather than one).

Every day i walked past a dress shop -- all of the dresses there were too expensive for me, but, even so, I used to stop in on the way home.  I would look at the dresses and talk to the woman who worked at the store.  Sometimes she would make me tea.  It was that time of the day for tea, usually.

She had a three-year-old daughter, who I also like to visit with when I stopped.

One day, we were visiting, and the little girl looked at me and said, "Are you a gaijin?"

The word "gaijin" is Japanese for foreigner.  So, indeed, I was a gaijin.  But the word "gaijin" literally means 'outsider', anyone who is not Japanese.  There is a more polite way to say it, but this is the word I usually heard.  One of the most frequent places I heard the word 'gaijin' was from small childen, unused to seeing outsiders.  I would be walking down the street, and a small child would be shocked to see me, someone who looked so un-Japanese, and would point at me and cry out "Gaijin!"  Sometimes a very small child might even burst into tears.

So when this little girl asked if I was a "gaijin", I was surprised, and so was her mother.

We both laughed, and I said that Yes, I was a gaijin, and her mother said that we were all "ningen" -- which is Japanese for 'human being.'

And then we forgot about it.

Sometime later I stopped in at the dress shop again.  The little girl was there with a friend of hers.  They were playing on the floor.  The friend looked up at me, pointed and said, loudly, "Gaijin!"    This was to be expected.

But the other little girl, my friend's daughter, replied, "She's not a gaijin.  She's a human being."

The Kingdom of God drew near for me that day and in that moment.  I was a stranger in Japan and I couldn't do a thing about it.  No matter how well I learned the language, no matter how well I learned to fit in, I would always be different, I would always stick out, I would always be strange.   It was so different than my whole experience growing up, where I was a member of the dominant culture.  I didn't think of myself as privileged, but I was.  I had the luxury of assuming that when people looked at me they would see a human being before they saw anything else.

Not everyone has that luxury.  I don't know how we can deny it.  That is why it is important to say that "Black Lives Matter."  Maybe it should go without saying, but it doesn't.  Maybe we should be able to say "All Lives Matter" because we are all human beings, but Dylann Roof did not treat those nine worshipers from Mother Emanuel like human beings, and the State Trooper did not treat Sandra Bland like a human being, when he pulled her over that day.

The 9 African Americans did treat Dylann Roof like a human being, though.  Was it simply because he was a member of the dominant culture?  Or was it because they were praying, because they had learned to see the way God sees, the value and humanity in all of us?  Was it because they knew that, since Jesus died for each one of us, we are, all of us,  in all of our diversity, in all of our strangeness, worth dying for?

It was a long time ago now -- but some things you never forget.  I will never forget being pointed and stared at.  And I will never forget being called a 'human being.'

Eating What Is Set Before You

I lived in Japan for three years and never ate raw horse meat, although I heard that it was a delicacy in the region where I lived.  It was called "basashi," I heard, and kept wondering if there would be a time when I would have to swallow my revulsion and taste it.  But it never happened.

There were new and strange foods, though, and I learned that it was part of being a missionary to learn to eat things I had never tasted before, to accept hospitality as well as to provide it.  Being a missionary was not about being in charge all of the time.  It was about learning to live in a strange place, and eat new things with chopsticks and humility.  I'll be honest, there were times when I would have identified with Peter -- being offered a meal, and wanting to shrink away and say, "Oh no, Lord, I would never eat that!  It can't be right to eat that!"

I remember the first time I bit down on something deep-fried, only to be told that it was "taco" -- octopus.  It was okay, actually, after the initial shock of picturing an octopus tentacle passed over me.  I also remember the surprise of tasting wasabi (Japanese horseradish) for the first time.  Many times I learned that a new food that I did not want to try was a gourmet dish and an act of extravagant hospitality.

But of course -- Peter's reticence was more than cultural.  These are foods that God had commanded him not to eat.  This was about obedience to God, not just cultural preference or being a 'picky eater.'  And the lesson here is not so much about the food as it is about people -- just as it was when I became a missionary in Japan.  It is about what we eat, but more than that, who we eat with -- who we allow ourselves to eat with, to associate with, to worship with -- to live with.

While we have learned to eat different kinds of ethnic foods these days, we are more divided than ever -- by race and class and language.  I remember the first time I helped serve a free meal through an organization called "Loaves and Fishes."  While I was very comfortable ladling the food, serving food, I became uncomfortable when someone told me to go and sit and eat with the people I was serving.  I have to ask myself why.  I don't like the answer.

I like to think that both Peter and Cornelius were transformed through their encounter:  both by the love of God.  I know that this was true of me, long ago in Japan:  though I thought I was going to serve in God's name and to tell of God's love, I ended up being expanded myself.  I ate what was set before me, with humility and chopsticks.  I learned to be loved at the same time I was learning more and more what it meant to love.

A Little Bit of Heaven, Here

Last week I was part of a meeting with our church Leadership Board and the mission developer who will be starting a new worship service and ministry in our building.  We worked out the nuts and bolts of the agreement, figured out who was responsible for what, who is accountable to whom, how we will support each other and what our next steps are.  We talked about many of the practical details that need to be worked out.  We also heard a little bit of the mission developer's vision and passion.

The new ministry will be called Tapestry.  It will be bilingual and seeks to welcome people into community across cultures and language.

As we were talking, I thought back many years, to the time long ago when I served as a missionary teacher in Japan.  I taught English as a second language to Junior and Senior High School boys at a school affiliated with my denomination.  At the same time, I worked to get better at speaking Japanese, and better at teaching English.  I worshipped at a local Japanese congregation, and taught some Bible studies in English, too.

There was one in particular, every Monday night.  It had been going on for centuries, it seemed.  All of the people who attended it were pretty fluent in English, and serious about their faith.  They were all ages, and some had been attending for many years.  The Monday night English Bible study took place at one of the large missionary houses across the street from the boys' school.  All of the short-term missionaries took turns leading it.  We worked our way through various Books of the Bible.

One thing we always did, every single week, before we started reading the assigned scripture reading, was ask a particular question, a question to make people think, but also a question to give everyone a chance to speak.  I remember one week, it was my turn to lead.  We were studying Acts 2, the story of Pentecost, and the coming of the Holy Spirit to the disciples.  My question was "Do you believe in ghosts?"

Some people said 'no.'  Some people said 'yes'.  Some said 'maybe'.

A funny thing happened the second year I was leading the Monday night English Bible study.

A young exchange student from Australia found us, and began attending the Bible study.

After a few weeks a couple more students, one from Germany and the other from Austria, also found our Bible study and became part of the conversation.  A little later a student from Central America also found us.

It was now the International Bible Study, with all of these voices and different perspectives, all gathered in a missionary's living room, having conversations.

All of my memories are old and fuzzy now, but I still remember gathering in the living room, and the students who came, from different parts of the world.  I remember thinking that the Kingdom of God is like this, and how seldom we see it, and how hard it is.  I remember thinking that we were all strangers, in one way or another.  The Japanese Christians because they were practicing a language and a faith not native to them, and the exchange students because they were sojourning in a strange land.  We were all strangers and sojourners, in one way or another, learning new geography, new languages, new practices.  Some of us believed in ghosts.  Some did not.  Some said 'maybe'.  But the Holy Spirit was weaving us together,  just for a short time, and forever.

I wanted the church to be like that.

So I was sitting in the church meeting last week, hearing the nuts and bolts and the visions and the dreams for this new ministry.  All of them are important.   I heard the visions and the dreams of the mission developer, who also taught English as a Second Language but also taught Spanish at a local high school.  "The hallways were integrated, but the classrooms were not," she shared.  But what if we did not stay separate?  What would it take?  I suspect it would be wonderful, and painful, and stumbling, like living in a foreign country, with all of the loneliness that comes along with the adventures and new experiences.

Still.  Even so.  I want the church to be like that.  

The Apostles Creed, redux

After my father died, we were going through old photo albums and scrapbooks together, and I found the bulletin from my commissioning service, just before I was going to Japan to be a missionary.

As part of the service, I wrote my own "creed" and interspersed my own confessions between the community's recitation of the three articles.  I hadn't yet been to seminary, and only had a couple of College religion classes under my belt, so I don't know which of the major heresies I committed.  

Anyway, for your perusal:

All:  I believe in God, the father almighty, creator of heaven and earth.

Candidate:  I believe is he always before me.  He created me before my birth, giving me unfolding individuality.  He knew and nurtured my ideas and thoughts, plans and dreams.  He knows all of the impossible things I want to do in my life.  He clears the way ahead of me.  He makes the roads I travel upon; he is the creator of all of the tasks that I undertake.  I believe in God the Father Almighty.

All:  I believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord.  He was conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit and born of the virgin Mary.  He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried.  He descended into hell.  On the third day he rose again.  He ascended into heaven, and is seated at the right hand of the Father.  He will come again to judge the living and the dead.

Candidate:  I believe he is always beside me.  We walk side by side in our Father's service, he, giving me strength, I, telling the story of his love.  He is the purpose behind all my plans; his story is theme behind all my life.  I believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord.

All:  I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.  Amen.

Candidate:  I believe he is always behind me.  He is the still small voice of God, who steers me along, whispering in my ears, telling me to have hope even when things look dark.  he calls me ahead daily into uncharted and unknown countries, while guarding me against too hasty retreats.  I believe in the Holy Spirit.

Inclusive Laments

Like everyone else, I heard the news about the terror at the Boston Marathon almost as it was happening, in real time.  Though I will admit, I did not spend the rest of the day glued to the TV, and I don't have many searing visual images in my mind, I'm still haunted by what happened, lamenting the lives lost, imagining the grief of those who lost limbs or lives of loved ones, not being able to imagine the mind of the one who did this.

I do not live in Boston.  I don't even live on the East Coast, so I'm far away from what happened.  I didn't even think I knew anyone who was there, although later I found out that the son of our former pastor was running that day.  He was one of the elite runners, and had already finished when the bombs went off.  But still.  My feelings are not true grief, not like the grief of those who were really there.

Still, I can't help but lament.  We can't help but lament, can we?  Every time we hear cruel things happen, we can't help but lament at the incomprehensible cruelty possible in God's good world.  Sometimes it's the cancer diagnosis of a good friend.  Sometimes it's terror in Boston.

But the problem is that there are terrible things happening all over the world, in places we don't even know exist.  For example, did you know that on the same day that bombs killed and maimed people in Boston, a US bomb killed thirty people who were celebrating at a wedding in Afghanistan?  We said it was a mistake.

Sometimes we excuse our inability to really lament for tragedies far from home.  "Those are violent places," we say.  But the truth is, the world is a violent place, from Boston to Afghanistan to Waco to Myanmar.  If every human life is valuable and beautiful and a creation of God, the ravages of cancer and the ravages of war and the ravages of tragedy are all worthy to be lamented.

I lived in Japan once, long ago.  It was so long ago that sometimes I never lived there, never saw Mount Fuji  rise in the background, never heard the voices of kindergarten children chattering and never smelled the skewered meat sizzling at the train stations.  It was so long ago, but once in awhile I can still imagine the God-beloved people I knew there, far away, across the world.

Here is the impossible thing:  to rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep, across boundaries, across ideologies.  To love the ones that God loves, somehow, to practice more inclusive lamenting.

Incomprehensible and Fascinating

When I lived in Japan, I often went to the movies.

I didn't go to Japanese movies; at my most fluent, I don't think I would have understood what was going on.  But there were many popular American movies showing in Japan, in English with Japanese subtitles.  Sometimes there would even be a double-feature, something that I had heard of but not experienced in my corner of the United States.  There were other cultural differences as well:  I remember being surprised -- no, shocked -- to find out sometimes that I would get a ticket to a movie and not be able to find a seat.  It was standing room only for a popular movie some days.

And then there were the previews of coming attractions.  I don't know if it's just because I am an inordinately curious person, but I started to really like to watch the previews of coming attractions.  These WERE actually Japanese movies, in Japanese, and they were full of color and actions and quick shots and sounds (most of which I did not understand), all of which conspired to make me feel that this movie was going to be the most incredibly experience ever.  What it was about, I had no clear idea.  But I really really wanted to find out.

So these movie previews were incomprehensible to me, for a number of reasons.  There wasn't just the language barrier, but there was also the barrier of just getting the snippets of exciting plot, the little flashes of actions, the hard cuts.  But even though (maybe even because) the previews were incomprehensible, they were also fascinating.  Endlessly fascinating.  There were things I possibly could find out here, and also things I would never, ever know.

This week I spent a little time at a conference called "Worship in a Time of Change."  Conveniently the conference was located in the week right before Transfiguration Sunday, an incomprehensible but fascinating story of Jesus' glowing appearance (with Moses and Elijah) on a mountain.  Not that we don't try to comprehend it, even year -- is it a mis-placed resurrection story?  does it have its roots in Hellenistic mystery religions?  or is it something else?  When have you ever seen someone's face glow, and their clothes turn white?  Even if you've had a mountaintop experience or two, I'll be nothing exactly like THIS has happened to you.

One thing I'm starting to realize, as well, is that for many people, worship is incomprehensible.  What is this?  Why do we do it?  What's going on?  My own niece, who is sort of unchurched, but goes with her grandmother on occasion, says, "I like to go, but I don't know what's going on."  Incomprehensible.  And not fully explainable if it is, indeed (as we say), an encounter with God.

If it is indeed (as we say) an encounter with God, we can even not worry too much if there's some incomprehension in there, as long as there is fascination too.  And if, indeed, Surely God is in this Place (as we say), it ought to be fascinating.  Not necessarily in a faces-glowing sort of way, but in an awe-ful sort of way.  For example -- strange, unexplainable things happen here, like the earthiness of tears and possibility of mercy, like hearing the words, "blood of Christ shed for you" and tasting it.  One of the most incomprehensible and fascinating things about faith is how ordinary things can be so holy, and perhaps there should be more ordinary, earthy things in our worship.

Worship in a time of change should be Incomprehensible and fascinating, because we worship a living God, who does not leave us alone.  Perhaps that's what we are seeking, in a time of change.  A living God, incomprehensible and fascinating, incomprehensibly loving, eternally fascinating, not leaving us alone, speaking words we desperately want to understand.

Maybe.  Maybe the first step to creating a bridge for people to come to worship is to admit that it begins by being incomprehensible.  Not too familiar.  But strange.  And (we hope and pray) fascinating.

Presents

I have a very old, very worn book called Bless My Growing.  It is a book of poems by a Lutheran pastor named Gerhard Frost.  It is long out of print.  It has tape on the edge.  The pages are loose.  I have used it many times since becoming a pastor.

But I lost track of the young woman who gave it to me, someone I attended college with.  I got to know her during my senior year.  She loved this little book, and gave me a copy, just because she loved it so much. 

***

Once, many many years ago, as a young woman just out of college and just working in an office, I was standing in line to eat in a downtown cafeteria.  I struck up a conversatsion with a woman standing in line next to me.  We were probably commiserating about the varieties of jellos and entrees, I can't really remember.  But in the end, she and her husband and I ended up sitting together and eating and talking. 

As it turned out, she and her husband owned a very small book publishing concern in Menomonie, Wisconsin.  Before we parted ways, she gave me three small hand-sewn booklets from their publishing company, called The Vagabond Press.  I still have them.

***

Of the many gifts I received when I was leaving Japan, perhaps the most prized was the porcelain doll I received from the 9th grade boys.  A number of them handed me the doll at the very last moment before my mother and I got on a train headed to Tokyo.  I remember them standing there in black school uniforms, and bowing  before one of them quickly handed me a bag with the doll inside.

The 9th grade boys were never my easiest class.  We tried everything to get them to pay attention in class, be more respectful, and learn English.  The gift of the doll was a great surprise, and somehow, humbling

She was a Hakata Ningyo, dressed in kimono, and it looked like she was kneeling in prayer. 

I carried her back with me on the plane, cradling her gently on my lap.  Then, several years later, while I was carelessly adjusting a shelf, she toppled and crashed to the floor.

***

When I arrived at my first parish in South Dakota, the whole congregation was there to welcome me.  Or so it seemed.  They helped me unpack the trucks, and left useful items like dishtowels, rugs, glasses and tableclothes.  Each church had a women's group; each of the women's groups also presented me with a hand-sewn quilt.

***

Today there came in the mail a package for me.  It was two skeins of yarn, hand-woven in another state.  It was sent to me by a friend I have never met, someone I only know through blogging.

"I Don't Know"

On Friday, an earthquake and then a tsunami hit the northeastern shores of the country I called home many years ago.  The news has only gotten worse after that.  My heart hurts as I keep seeing and hearing and seeing more devastation.

A preacher wants to say something at a time like this.  But honestly, there are some questions that I don't have the answers for.  If someone were to ask me "Why did this happen?", the most absolutely honest answer I would have to give is "I don't know."

That's not true in every aspect, of course.  I know just a little about geology and I know that this earthquake had to do with tectonic plates and fault lines and things like that.  The words "I don't know" also don't mean that I think human beings need to remain wilfully ignorant about the world.  The "fall" in Genesis 3, was not a fall into knowledge.  "I don't know" does not imply a kind of wilfull ignorance, that I think it's better to be 'know-nothings' about the world and how it works.

But theologically, I mean, I don't know why this happened.  Unlike Glenn Beck, I don't know that God was trying to tell us something.  I'm not even exactly sure what Glenn Beck might mean, except that I think he means to sound ominous. 

On the other hand, I don't want to go so far as to say, "God didn't have anything to do with this."  I don't want to say that because it seems to imply that God is absent in the face of tragedy.  And I know that God is not absent from Japan.   God is suffering, dying, redeeming, loving the people of Japan even now.  I believe this, just as I believe that God is present with the man I know who is living with cancer, the woman I know who has forgotten who she is, the man whose funeral we will hold on Thursday. 

On Sunday we heard Jesus reject the devil's temptations to use his power by making stones into bread, by jumping off the temple, by taking over the world.  "I'm not going to take the easy way out and do miracles just to make people believe in me," he seems to be saying.  But to be honest, when I see the kind of destruction I have seen this weekend, I wonder if that would have been so awful.  I am tempted too.

So Jesus is not using his power to stop tsunamis, or even swoop down like Superman and save people from them.  Once in awhile you hear of a miraculous cure for cancer, but most of the time Jesus does not swoop down then either.  But still,  He is there, yesterday, today, tomorrow.  Jesus is there in Japan, Jesus is at the funeral, walking among the people, touching them, loving them, weeping 

And I know that there is a miracle in there somewhere.

So Long Ago, It Seems it Was, and so Far Away

It was September 1 of 1981 that I remember stepping off a plane at Narita Airport in Tokyo.  I arrived with three other young people, all of us training to be short-term missionaries and teachers, set to go (eventually) to various places in Japan.  I arrived with three pieces of luggage, new wine-colored Samsonite soft-side luggage, quite a fine purchase for my family at that time.  I had also sent ahead a trunk.

A missionary couple from nearby Mitaka met us at the airport and helped us navigate the maze of customs and find out way to our Tokyo home at Hanegi-cho.  They arrived back the next day to give us lessons in reading train and subway maps, in navigating our neighborhood, letting us know when our first day of language school would be.

We found out where to get groceries, how to order noodles or rice in the restaurants, how to change money.  We located the public baths.  We were told that the first thing to do in the event of an earthquake:  turn off the gas.  We learned to use ohashi (chopsticks).  We were assigned to area churches, and got to know the parish members.   We went to a sumo match, took the train down to Kyoto, found the huge Kinokuniya bookstore (five stories high!) and the statue of the loyal dog at Shibuya station.

We took Japanese conversation classes every morning, where we practiced making mistakes.  I remember once, after having experienced a very slight earthquake, being in class and learning a sentence construction, "I hope that...."  So, I made the sentence, "I hope that there is not a big earthquake while I am in Japan."

The teacher smiled and replied, "But it is all right after you're gone, then?"

My sentence construction was awkward, but I realized the self-centered nature of my sentiment right away.  It is the human temptation, I suppose, to consider everything only from our own perspective. 

So today I am watching the news, seeing images of the country and the people I learned to love so well so many years ago.   I have wished to return many times, because it has become a faded memory for me -- walking the narrow streets, buying skewered meat from vendors, learning Japanese from the children, walking to church with two young women whose names I have now forgotten.  

I am praying for you, Japan. 

The Small Stuff

So we're finally on vacation here in the Cool Bay City -- and we've seen some of the Things That Everyone Should See -- been to City Lights Bookstore, Grace Cathedral, The Presidio near Golden Gate Bridge, Fisherman's Wharf, Chinatown...

Here's something I want to remember, though:

We were coming home on the cable car after dinner in Chinatown on Wednesday night. When I'm in Chinatown, I get this eerie feeling that I've been transported back in time and space, remembering a little of what it was like to walk through neighborhoods in Tokyo, peek in small shops, eat small pieces of roasted chicken on skewers.

After we jumped on the cable car, my husband gave up his seat to a woman. I heard her say "yokatta", when she sat down, so I knew she was Japanese.

I kept thinking I would like to talk to her in Japanese, but I couldn't even remember how to ask her if she was Japanese. Finally, I spoke to her in English. Between she and her husband, we could converse a little, and I did remember a few Japanese words. But I was frustrated by how much I had forgotten. I thought, "when I get back to Minnesota, I want to get a book and study up again, at least remember some basic phrases."

Anyway, she and her husband had been visiting Yosemite. They were from Tokyo and were in the United States for about a week. Before we got off the cable car, her husband took a picture of us. I remembered that these sorts of photos are called "kinen shashin."

The only thing I could think to tell her when we parted was, "Ki o tsukete", which means "Take care", or "Be careful."

It isn't often that I think about my experiences long ago as a missionary and teacher in Japan. Most of that time seems like it came from another life. I can't hold on to those memories and make them seem real and close. It's hard to remember that I walked those streets halfway across the world for a time. I am a Minnesota girl, and feel so parochial, so place-bound to the particular geography that has formed me.

Then, for a few moments, a shard of a bright memory will glisten. "I climbed Mount Fuji, once, you know." "I remember Shibuya station; there's a statue of a dog there." "Look -- there's a maneki-neko (a beckoning cat). All of the shops have them. It's for good luck."

"Natsukashii." (There's no place like home.)

(Corn) Bread Alone

One of the best gifts I ever got was a 60 minute cassette tape, sent to me in a small manila mailer bag.

I was living in Japan at the time, serving as a missionary teacher, and though I was enjoying the people and the sights and the things I was learning, I sometimes missed my family and friends back in the states.

I missed the Minnesota lakes. I missed ordering pizzas (although you can order a bowl of soba in Japan; it arrives in a beautiful bowl, steaming hot). I missed maraconi and cheese, and conversations with friends.

So one day I received this small package from my parents, just an unassuming little cassette. I stuck in in my tape player. The first words I heard were these:

Come Lord Jesus, be our guest
Let these gifts to us be blessed. Amen
(I think my friend from Japan then said: "itadakimasu!", which means: "Let's eat.")

My parents had invited three of my friends over for dinner, and turned on the tape recorder while they were eating. I got to listen in while they ate chili and munched corn bread (I still remember the menu, don't ask why), and discussed mundane and profound thoughts.

There were theological discussions (two of my friends were seminary students), updates on family activities, jokes (probably from my dad) and laughter. I remember feeling both sadness and joy, listening in our their conversation, feeling like I was almost there with them as they passed the corn bread and asked for more coffee, please.

I leaned into the tape recorder, wanting to get closer, and I thought, it's true. one does not live by bread alone.

There's more to eating than the food. I wasn't just hungry for bread, I was hungry for words, for voices, and for the intimacy that words brought.

Come Lord Jesus, be our guest
let these gifts to us be blessed.
the gift of laughter, tears and words
the gift of bread and wine and meat
Come Lord Jesus, be our host
give us the gift that feeds us most.
Amen.

A Good Friday image that has stayed with me

"Surely he has borne our infirmities and carried our diseases."

Many years ago now,I taught school in southern Japan. I taught junior and senior high at a Boys' School. I was the only woman teacher there, and many of the boys in high school were taller than I. There were big strong strapping boys and they all wore black uniforms and they all loved to play sports.

One day one of these big strong boys fell ill. He had been complaining of headaches, I remembered -- and we found out that he had those headaches because he had developed a brain tumor. He ha a very complicated operation to remove the tumor, and then he came back to school. He seemed to be all right, except that the operation had left him blind. I remember seeing him day after day, putting his hand on the shoulder of one of his classmates and following him to his classes. But he would still joke around and he seemed to be in good spirits.

But he wasn't really all right. The operation removed most of his tumor, but not all of it. And after awhile it began to grow again. This time there was nothing they could do, and he began to weaken. He saw many of his dreams for the future disappear. He always spoke about wanting to travel (he wanted to go to America), and now it seemed that he would never have the opportunity. He would never go to college. He would never have a family. The only dream he had left was to graduate from high school. But as he grew weaker, even that dream seemed to fade. He was too weak even to walk up the stairs to his classes.

It was about this time that I began to see a sight that I will never forget. A car would drive up to the front of the school. He and his mother would get out. She would help him and support him as he walked through the front door. When they got to the bottom of the stairs, she put him on her back, and she carried him. She was much smaller and much shorter than he, a tiny Japanese woman, and she carried her big strong 17-year-old son on her back.

"Surely he has borne our infirmities and carried our diseases."

I couldn't help it. When I saw her, I thought of Jesus, and she has remained in my mind and my heart, a picture of his strength -- the strength of God. When I think of Jesus at his arrest, telling his captors, "Take me, but let these men go," I think of this woman, willingly bearing the burden of her son, who would do anything to make his one last dream come true. When I think of Jesus, bent over from the weight of the cross, I think of this woman, bent over with the weight of her son on her back. When I think of Jesus, sagging under the weight of our sins, I think of this woman, slowly trudging up the stairs, stronger than she looks, with the strength of love. When I think of Jesus, who looked so small and weak at his crucifixion, I think of this woman, and I know that his weakness is stronger than my strength. Thirsty, he offers us the water of life. Abandoned, he reunites us with one another and with God. Bruised and broken, he heals us. Dying, he gives us life. There is no burden he cannot bear. There is no weight he cannot carry.

"Surely he has borne our infirmities and carried our diseases"

Around the Web

It's getting to Lent, and I have quite a few posts simmering around in my head, but they aren't quite done yet. So, in the meantime, I'd like to direct you to some people and places I have found fascinating lately:

I keep coming back to Gartenfische's recent post on Thomas Merton and the desert. Is it because I just came from the desert or because Wednesday is Ash Wednesday? Maybe a little of both.

I really enjoyed this story/joke over at Katherine's Meaning and Authenticity. I know it's been awhile ago! It took me this long to get around to linking!

I have been enjoying both the serious posts and the laughter over at Paul's place lately. Check out his insightful post on his "emergent" theology (or is it simply classical Christianity, believing in a living God?) Plus, he thinks my dog is beautiful.

My friend Eric (who, by the way, lives in one of my favorite towns) has started an Evangelism blog.

I love Crimson Rambler's way with words, and her descriptions of the cold where she lives. (Ah, somewhere colder than where I live.) P. S. She has posted a great poem by Marie Howe today.

Lindy has a great picture of Rowan sleeping over at her place.

Grendel's mom wrote a sonnet about him recently! I'm so impressed! I can't believe I got through all that English Literature and I never attempted to write a sonnet! Could it be that I'm chicken? Or just untalented?

And occasional reader Nancy pointed me to her friend in Japan Tanya, who has lived there for thirty years. If you are longing for some cultural exchange (or, like me, nostalgic for memories from my youth), check out this post. (I have eaten squid, but never never never cooked it.)

Happy reading!

and yes, I know that I used this photo before, but I couldn't resist!

It Was a Very Good Year...

A while back Wyldth1ng tagged me for this challenging meme, regarding the year I was 25. This has been quite a challenge for me, since I was 25 about a quarter of a century ago. One thing that helped: I lived in Japan during my 25th year, so that helped me to remember a few things. (I hope to add pictures to this post later.)


I turned 25 on April 16, 1982. Here are 5 things I remember from April 16 of that year to April 16th of 1983.

1. I had just moved from Tokyo, the urban center of Honshu, to the "little" town of Kumamoto, on the island of Kyushu. The school year in Japan runs from April to March, and I moved to teach junior and senior high school at a Lutheran School called Kyushu Gakuin. By the way, it was (and I believe still is) a Boys' School.

2. The first day of teaching 7th grade boys was extremely challenging for me. There were fifty boys in the class; the first thing the other teacher and I did was divide the boys into two groups. They didn't know any English. In theory, I knew some Japanese. But I realized just then that I didn't know "classroom English." After taking roll, it was touch and go. I was trying to ask them to write their names and one of the boys was trying valiantly to ask me whether I wanted them to write in capital letters or small letters. I didn't know the Japanese word for "capital letters" so I had no idea what he was asking. He ended up jumping up and down to signify "big" until I figured out what he was talking about. I will also remember the day I picked up a pencil from a student's desk and said, "This is a pencil." to which he replied, "This is a dorobou." (Dorobou, it turns out, is Japanese for "thief.")


3. I remember shortly after the school year began, getting a school break for what was called "Golden Week" back then. It was called Golden Week because there were three national holidays within about a week and a half. One of them was the Emperor's Birthday. Since there has been a new emperor since I left Japan, I wonder if there is still a "Golden Week". Perhaps my new friend Tanya, who lives in Japan, can tell. Anyway, during Golden Week we took a train and went to a famous pottery festival in Arita, where we bought lots of bowls, teacups and other essentials -- cheap. It was wonderful! P.S. yes, there still is a Golden Week.


4. During the summer break, (mid-July through August) I traveled with a group of young people to Kagoshima prefecture for summer fun and relaxation. If there weren't pictures, I don't think I would remember much except having fun by the seashore. For this midwestern girl, being near both mountains and oceans was quite an experience.

5. In March, my parents arrived for a two week tour of Japan. They visited Tokyo, the old capital of Kyoto, my town of Kumamoto, and also visited Hiroshima, where the missionaries were having their annual meeting. I also took them for an overnight stay in a ryokan, which is a Japanese-style inn. My parents recently told me they remembered the night I told them I was too tired to translate for them any more; they were on their own! So they got a little supper in Kyoto without any help.

The picture is of "Kinkakuji", the Golden Pavilion, in Kyoto, one of the many places I visited with my parents.