New Every Morning

When I told a friend this summer that I was going to start blogging, he was gracious enough to tell me that he would read it, as long as I didn't become "one of those annoying bloggers who just write about what they had for breakfast and stuff like that." While I fully appreciate his standard of quality for online writing, sometimes you just have a really good breakfast. And so it is at the risk of estranging a devoted reader that I write to you about my foray into the world of artisan bread.

Over Thanksgiving, my sister introduced me to a simple bread recipe, and I was excited to discover that the dough keeps for up to two weeks, allowing for delicious fresh bread on demand. Thus the breakfast in question happened as follows: get up at 7:00, set out dough. Go for a 20 minute run while bread rises and oven preheats. Bake bread in oven for 30 minutes while showering and getting dressed. Allow bread to cool while brewing coffee (freshly ground, in a french press), cooking eggs, and preparing Greek yogurt. Slice bread and spread generously with butter and jam to taste. Enjoy.

There is something somehow right about baking bread fresh. The biblical metaphors are of course replete: give us this day our daily bread, the ravens that brought Elijah bread twice a day, the manna that comes sufficient for the day. There is a picture of perfect provision, but also of perfect timing. Bread without preservatives must be baked fresh; neither can we reheat yesterday's manna. How often we enter the day strong in the strength the Lord provided yesterday, that we have begun to think of as our own. But if even our righteousness is tainted by pride and our repentance by pretense, we are much in need of new mercies daily.

A World Upside-Down

Editor's Note: I wrote the following piece several years ago after reading Chesterton's biography on St. Francis. I thought it might be appropriate for the season, especially given the Chestertonian theme of this blog.

We need thanksgiving. Yes, I enjoy turkey and mashed potatoes as much as the next man, but that’s not what I mean right now. We, American society—we, the Church around the world—we, you and I—need thanksgiving. Thanksgiving is what keeps sharp the ever-blurring lines between creation and Creator, gift and Giver. It’s what keeps our hearts from becoming hard. It’s what separates icons, which direct us to God, from idols, which take his place. Thanksgiving is the discipline which enables us to see all things as coming from God and to bless him for it.

When I think of thanksgiving in this way, I can’t help but think of St. Francis, for whom everything pointed to God. The sun and the moon, the cold and the fire, each made him clap his hands in delight and call them “sister” and “brother,” for he and they shared one Creator. What he had he gave freely, for he himself had received it as a gift. What he did not give away, he kept freely, for, again, he had received it as a gift. The Church says St. Francis was a mendicant; his father said he was a beggar. He did know how to work, and worked harder than anyone around him, but it was in the sacrament of begging that he learned to receive, to give thanks, and to see all things as coming from the hand of God.

In this way thanksgiving makes you a little bit crazy. What could possess the son of a wealthy textile merchant to go off, clad only in sackcloth, and live on the road, in the wild, or in a worn-down church? Yet he might answer that the sackcloth and the leaky roof were both gifts from one who loved him, and so to him they were as precious as any fine silk. Francis (they didn’t call him “Saint” back then) was known to stand on his head in order to see the world from a different angle. No self-respecting gentleman would do such a thing, yet do we not carefully and lovingly turn a well-received gift over and over in our hands to examine every side and show our appreciation to the giver? Gratitude overwhelmed him, and he turned the world upside down in his holy acrobatics.

Francis lived irrespective of self. A troubadour—a reckless romantic—for him there was only his Lover. Lovers don’t worry about appearances. Surely he knew that normal people don’t talk to birds or ferocious wolves. Surely he knew that normal people don’t embrace their own death and call it “brother.” But for him, all of these things were gifts, for they pointed him towards, and ultimately took him to, his Lover. Thanksgiving places our gifts, our burdens, our surroundings, even our very selves, in proper subordination to the One who gives us all things.

During a difficult season in my life recently, I started each day by praying the Prayer of St. Francis. Make me an instrument of your peace. Where there is hatred let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon... O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console, to be understood as to understand, to be loved as to love. Little by little I noticed how selfless that prayer was—how selfless my prayers were becoming. Little by little I was coming to God, not to be heard, but first to hear him. I never stopped bringing petitions, but as I took my eyes off of myself, I began to see that all around me was grace, and I fell into gratitude—even gratitude for the discipline that proved my sonship. A self-absorbed life can give only a satisfaction as hollow as the idols we fill it with. But a life of prayer and thanksgiving turns our idols on their heads, turns the world upside down, and makes everything point to God.

We have been given much, and we are faced with much. We have much to mourn, much to repent of, much to petition for, and much to be grateful for. We have many questions to ask, even many objections to raise. But somehow, in a mystery that is itself a gift, we know that all things come from the hand of the One who loves us. And so, in joy and sorrow, we give thanks.

November

I find November

settled into her favorite rocker

where it has been sitting all year,

as if she'd never left.

I'd offer her tea,

but she took the liberty

of brewing a pot, thank you,

and would I like some?

She is comfortably dressed

in browns and tans

with the old familiarity

of a close neighbor just dropping by,

but in no hurry.

Her scarf rustles and gusts

behind her as the chair

rocks back and forth,

back and forth,

like the passing of time.

One of the things I enjoy most about my job is the relative freedom I have to study whatever interests me. Poetry has been a part of my life to greater and lesser degrees for some time, but never have I had as much freedom to work my poetic pursuits into everything else that I do. I began preaching a series on the Psalms with the college students, largely as a way to improve my Hebrew, but I have been finding my literary skills in my own language stretched as well. Most English translations are very good at giving a faithful rendition of the content of the Hebrew Psalms, even making the English translation aesthetically pleasing. But part of the beauty of poetry is that the partnership between form and content is far more intimate than it is with prose. Which words are chosen to rhyme together affects which ideas are emphasized. The rhythm and meter of verse will affect the feeling one gets in reading. Even the kinds of sounds used--hard consonants versus soft--can create an atmosphere of dissonance or tranquility.

As I study the poetic devices utilized in these Hebrew poems, I have begun asking myself, "How might this have been written had it originally been in English?" While this is generally a very subjective process, I have found it helpful in my understanding of each psalm. Psalm 8, for example, incorporates wordplay that draws attention to the word "name" (the word for "your heavens" can sound like "your name"), emphasizing the importance of God's reputation or fame. The poem is also written in a symmetrical form (what scholars call a "chiasm"), so that each line in the first half corresponds to a line in the second half. This draws attention to "man" at the center. At several places, internal rhyme also drives the poem, making the question in v. 4 ("what is man?") all the more powerful. Noticing these things has helped me understand where to focus attention in my preaching. I have also tried to replicate them in my own translations, staying as faithful as possible to the content, but trying even more to utilize form in such a way as to recreate the same sort of effect that reading it in Hebrew might.

Psalm 8

O Master Yahweh, all the earth magnifies your great name!

You, who drape majestic fame across the skies;

Infants’ victory songs rise as vengeful foes are vanquished under foot;

Skies scream out, lunar and celestial luminaries—all your handiwork.

And what, then, is the son of Adam?

Insignificant, unremarkable, you humble him

to be just under yourself. You glorify him

and crown with honor your son Adam.

You stand him, crowned ruler over all your handiwork:

Flocks and cattle, beasts that work—all things are placed under his foot

You raise and put his claim over the hosts of the seas and skies

O Master Yahweh, all the earth magnifies your great name!

Pig Roast: I get paid for this...

"And there came a voice to him: 'Rise, Peter; kill and eat.' But Peter said, 'By no means, Lord; for I have never eaten anything that is common or unclean.' And the voice came to him again a second time: 'What God has made clean, do not call common'" (Acts 10:13-15).

Our church celebrates the truth that the gospel has been extended to the gentiles. We also celebrate the freedom in Christ that extends even to dietary restrictions. In light of that freedom, we planned a pig roast.

First we dug a deep hole.

Then we lit a huge fire. (Yes, that's a leaf blower we're using to fan the flames.)

We got a small (read: 103 lb.) pig, filled it with apples, covered it in seasoning, and wrapped it in three rolls of aluminum foil.

We threw the pig on the hot coals, buried it, and let bake. 24 hours later we came back to dig it up and eat it. However, as we unwrapped the foil, we were greeted with a smell that communicated that our pig (we named it Antiochus Epiphanes) was only half-baked. Apparently, we hadn't gotten the rocks in the coals hot enough. Nowhere near safe to eat, we had to chop it up with a hatchet, wrap it in garbage bags, and throw it away. (Not a pretty procedure, nor pleasing to the nose.)

We ordered a dozen pizzas (sausage and pepperoni, in keeping with the theme), and everyone had a great time anyway. One of the highlights was an impromptu dance party in the pit as we filled it in. (We had to pack in the dirt somehow!) Yeah, I get paid for this!

Is my Halo Showing?

The last few weeks have pushed me into a world of board meetings, coffee shops, homeless shelters, sport coats, frisbees, commentaries, and Facebook. Life as a pastor--and particularly a college pastor--is so filled with otherwise utterly unconnectable elements, that at the end of the day I sometimes wonder if I've worn out my mental clutch from changing gears so rapidly. A typical day consists of an in-depth study of Hebrew poetry punctuated by interactions with people requesting financial assistance, staff meetings, and conversations with students about auto mechanics, recent movies, and their favorite preachers.

A few highlights of the job so far:

* A special budget for buying coffee with students

* Clergy parking spaces at the hospital (see picture above--and yes, I did go out of my way in the parking deck just so I could use one!)

* Getting to read Greek and Hebrew as part of my job

* Antics with my roommates

Next Stop: Wheaton

Several days into my new life in Wheaton, I'm quite pleased with my new house and housemates, I'm excited about my new church, and I can't wait to get started on my job on Sunday. Yet, I'm also finding that adjusting to life here in Wheaton is taking at least as much, if not more effort than adjusting to any of the places I visited in Japan. Maybe it's because I expected to be a foreigner there. Or maybe because I knew I was leaving again soon. Regardless, the prospect of entering into a new place, forming new relationships, even adapting to a new culture, is somewhat daunting.

Below is a poem I wrote along these lines. The form is a modified quatrina--the four lines of each stanza end in the same four words, like themes, though their place is shifted each time. I found the constant movement and the discordant familiarity of the repetition reminiscent of the feelings of moving to a new place.


"So this is home now"

So this is home now:
re-paint what were another's walls,
enclose in them my things and then call "home"
where moments ago was only "here."

My posters there, my favorite mug goes here,
old textbooks stacked (they seem less urgent now).
My life a mosaic of former homes
like the farrago of photos hanging on the walls.

Outside hang other lives on other walls
who lay a longer, stronger claim to here.
Our paths, though separate, intersect us now,
though for the traveler, any "here" is home.

Yet I, though foreign, may be most at home,
who still must learn this city's unseen walls.
Another language, culture to learn now,
in homelessness I make my home here.

For where is home but where God puts me now
and the jasper walls I'll find when I leave here?

From Russia, with Growth

In cleaning out my closet this week, I found a box of souvenirs, photographs, and a journal from a two-week missions trip I took to Russia in high school. Having just returned from a month-long trip to Japan, I couldn't help but not some interesting contrasts:

· We used film cameras back then! And instead of just tagging people on Facebook, we made duplicates to give to our friends. I even paid extra to have all my photos scanned onto a floppy disk (now completely useless since I don't have a floppy drive!)

· Wow. I actually went out in public with hair and clothes like that.

· Ten years of ministry, life experiences, and theological education has paid off, giving me far more opportunities than I thought possible.

· It's interesting to note that in my journal I struggled with how this missions trip felt more like a vacation. On the other hand, my recent trip to Japan was purely personal but felt more like missions than anything I've done in years. I think the major difference is the relationships I've formed in Japan. (The Russia trips also became much more fruitful in later years as relationships developed.)

· My sense of humor has not matured much.

· Then, as now, the Holy Spirit does what he wills, and it is his presence that makes ministry fruitful. On both trips I noted that the things I thought I had to offer, whether teaching or preaching or evangelistic dramas, were not the things that people most appreciated. While they were glad for what I had to say, it was things like attitude, personal testimony, and a willingness to listen and pray—in short, the day-to-do workings of the Holy Spirit in our lives, which we have little conscious control over—that really reached people.

Waiting, Sadness, Joy – Three Movements on Place

First Movement: Waiting

I’m out of Japan, but only by a few feet, sitting in the no-man’s-land of an empty terminal, unable to physically leave the country, but equally unable to legally reenter it. This trip to Japan was only possible thanks to God’s provision in opening a way for me to fly cheaply on standby. The only catch is that on days like today when all the planes are full, I have to go back and try again another day. However, because I legally left the country when my passport was stamped at immigration, it’s not as simple as just leaving the airport to go back to the place where I’m staying. Canceling my departure stamp should be an easy enough process, even here in the country of red tape, but apparently one of our number (there are several of us stranded here) never technically entered the country (there’s no entry stamp in his passport). All of us are perplexed at how he managed to leave if he never came. And more to the point, what harm there is in letting him back into a place he obviously couldn’t have left, having never been in (or so they say) in the first place. This dizzying logic has bottlenecked the system, leaving me in international limbo with nothing but a laptop and my thoughts. The interesting dilemma of the situation is that while physically I’m in a very real place (Gate 31, on the fourth floor of the south wing of an airport just outside of the city of Narita on the island of Honshu in Japan) legally, I’m nowhere—not in Japan anymore, but certainly not back in the States.

Second Movement: Sadness

While I have heard spiritual warfare described in terms of a sense of oppression or a foreboding of evil, what I have sensed here in Japan regarding dark spirits is just that: darkness. While they are oppressive against the gospel and bent on the destruction of all that God loves, they do so enshrouded in darkness, hiding even their own existence, and from darkness they blind the eyes and numb the hearts of the people. I have sensed this in various places around the country, but I am coming to sense it most strongly in the temples and shrines. Some of these ancient sites have been under the control of demonic powers for well over a thousand years, and there is great spiritual darkness there. Two days ago I visited Asakusa-jingu, another famous shrine, with my former Japanese tutor, and I began to feel an inkling of this darkness, like a passing shadow over my own spirit. It was not hostility as such, or evil, but simply numbness: the kind of numbness that brings thousands of Japanese to these sacred sites to perform rituals they themselves barely believe in, without stopping to ask why. As we walked through the grounds of the shrine, I found myself praying under my breath, reclaiming that territory for God in the name of Jesus. In the transience of our modern culture, we have come to forget the importance of place, yet I am becoming increasingly convinced that a real geographic place—an island nation in the middle of the Pacific, a hilltop just north of Tokyo, a tiny church in a rice field in Okayama—can become a locus of spiritual power. As we read the Bible, both Old and New Testaments, we do in fact see that God himself is intimately concerned with geography.

Third Movement: Joy

That same evening, I met with three dear sisters and brothers in the Lord for dinner. The four of us represent four different countries (Japan, Korea, Taiwan, and the US), yet the Lord brought us together at a tiny church in rural Japan four years ago, and then allowed us a reunion here in Tokyo. As we shared together what God had done for us over the past four years, and then prayed for his continued guidance and provision as we again go our separate ways, I was given a strong sense of a spiritual power that transcends geography. As one of my friends prayed, though we are each going separate directions, we are following the same God, and we are bound together by his love. Or as the Psalmist put it: “Even if I settle on the far side of the sea, you are there.” We serve a God who transcends geographical limitations, and his truth and love are universally imminent.

Coda: Hope

We live in a world of place and time, geography and history, flesh and blood. And in the mystery of God’s economy of the universe, what happens here in the material world truly matters in the spiritual world. Places matter to God, and to the other spirits, because they matter to us, and we are missing out on a blessing when we fail to recognize the spiritual atmosphere of places, whether a church sanctuary or a city street where we pray on the way to work. Yet, as important as location is, its value is determined by a higher authority. The south wing of Narita Airport is only Japan if my passport is stamped by the government. The hilltop of Asakusa is only dark because there, as in places all around the world, mankind has exchanged the glory of God for a lie. Someday even that hilltop will be bathed in radiant light, for a higher authority yet will claim it for himself. Thus, as I am pulled away from my brothers and sisters here to return to the US, I am joyful. Not because the 6,000 miles of earth and sea don’t matter, or the places we will go are unimportant, but because they are very important, and the God whose love echoes from the mountains of Japan to the plains of Illinois goes with each of us and binds us together. We live in a world in which every inch of rock and sea proclaims the glory of God, and Christ plays from a thousand places. And we live in the hope that even the dark places have been reclaimed as Christ’s in his death, and will be fully revealed as his in his return, for even the darkness is as light to him.

Interesting Sleeping Arrangements

While some my find sleeping on a straw mat on the second story of a scary old Japanese farmhouse unusual accommodations, that's just another day living with Steve. In canvassing two major islands in this country, I've also had the chance to sleep in a church sanctuary and on a couch in a storage closet. Runner-up for most interesting sleeping arrangement was the night train I took to Hokkaido, the northernmost island of Japan.

But by far the most unusual has been in Sapporo, in the capsule hotel (yes, it's exactly what it sounds like). Always concerned with economizing space, the Japanese have found an accommodating solution. Why pay for a full-sized hotel room, when all you really wanted was the bed? It's only about 20 bucks a night, but I would have paid twice that much just for the experience.

Here's how it works:

There's no space for luggage, so put all your stuff in one of these (I had to really wrestle to get my big hiking bag in.)

Then change into a set of these bad boys. This is what you get to wear inside the building.

Next, go soak in the public bath (no photos here! Don't worry, it's males-only, and only awkward if you stop to think about it.)

Forget something? Everything you think you might need (and a few things you don't) is provided. Toothbrushes come with toothpaste already applied. Just add water!

Room service.

Nope, those aren't washing machines... That's your home for the night!

TVs come with headphones so you don't disturb your neighbors.

And good night!

Altars at Bethel

I recently had a conversation with my friend Sonoko about a sermon she had prepared on Genesis 35, Jacob's return to Bethel and the importance of place. Jacob had first passed through Bethel while running for his life from Esau. It was there that he saw the ladder ascending into heaven and made a somewhat self-serving vow to follow the Lord. His return to Bethel years later had some similarities--again there was an altar and a vision of God. Yet it is the differences that are more striking. Rather than all alone with nothing but his staff, he has great wealth, a large family, and many servants. Rather that fleeing for his life from Esau's wrath, he had reconciled with his brother, and come to settle his flocks. Rather than a first encounter with the Lord, he had come recognize and trust God's voice. Even his name was different. Bethel for him was a place for reflection on God's blessings, and rededication to his service (Gen. 35:2-4). And the place became so significant to his relationship with God, that the Lord even revealed himself as "the God of Bethel" (Gen. 31:13).

In some ways, Japan has become a sort of Bethel for me. When I left the first time, at the age of 13, I was merely beginning my discipleship. Each subsequent return marked a significant phase in my discipleship, and now I am at the point of making disciples of others. When I left Okayama four years ago, it was to receive more training. Now I am at the point of training others. God has provided in many ways. Visits to the river where I played as a boy or the place where I lived as a missionary have been like tiny altars scattered across the landscape of my discipleship.

Yet even a greater testimony to God's goodness has been the way in which the places themselves have changed. When I left Okayama four years ago, our church was meeting in a tiny room above a coffee shop. Now, what was then nothing but rice fields has become an attractive, two-story church building. I had tried to start a coffee ministry when I was there, but with little success. But now they convert the sanctuary into a fashionable cafe every weekend. The fact that a church can be both fashionable and welcoming has so surprised the Japanese public that our pastor was interviewed on local television by national celebrities as tasted the church's wares.

As I worshiped together with this growing congregation, my charge to them was to stay faithful. Yet I myself was reminded of how faithful God has been. He has brought me through many joys and hardships in the last four years alone. He has built me up in America while building up the Church in Japan. He has used me even in my absence, as several ladies in the church told me exactly what I had preached on over five years ago, and how it was still impacting them. From this altar of thanks I move forward with the flocks and herds I have to serve the Lord in other places yet.

Happy Father's Day

Father's Day is actually a pretty big deal in Japan, at least in the shops. Another interesting cultural tidbit is that fruit makes a nice gift on any occasion. And it's not size or taste that counts, but appearance. A quick walk through a local department store reviewed the following fruits for Father's Day. I've included the prices for your convenience.

Box of Red Grapes (single cluster): $84

Box of Green Grapes (single cluster): $105

Single Red Mango: $105

Perhaps the sign says it best.

At these prices I'm afraid I can only afford a slice of eggplant for you, Dad. Hope you like the card at least. Happy Father's Day!

A Rare Opportunity

As I travel up and the main island of Japan, I've been offering to help out in whatever ministries the friends I visit are involved in. Up until now, this has been limited to talking with church members, hanging out with youth, and occasionally giving my testimony. However, my friend Madoka's church takes their Bible studies very seriously, and right from the beginning I've had the opportunity to help out, not only with fellowship, but also teaching a Bible study and even teaching and encouraging some of the leaders. These opportunities come at most a day in advance, so I've been kept on my toes the whole time.

The most unexpected (and by far the most fun) opportunity was to teach Greek to the ladies' prayer group. This group of about 20 women meets weekly for prayer and a lengthy Bible study, and when they found out that a "Greek professor from America's finest Evangelical seminary" was in their midst, I was quickly recruited to come and join them. Madoka (also a Trinity grad) had taught some of them the alphabet and a few words during a summer camp a year or so ago, and apparently some of the ladies (and even several children) became quite enthusiastic about keeping up the study on their own. I was able to dig up a few of my old Greek handouts and translate them into Japanese, and together we translated a short passage from Greek into Japanese, and discussing the nuances and exegetical significance of the grammar. They all took this quite seriously, and you'll notice in the photo above that they even had me wear two microphones so that both the audio and video of this historic lecture could be preserved for the posterity of the church.

I'm thrilled to see a church that is so excited about God's word that they're willing to commit this much time and energy into study, and I encouraged them to keep up their study of the Bible, as well as of the Greek language. At the same time, I also discussed with them some of the theological implications of the New Testament's being written in Greek. Namely, that God spoke to real people in the everyday language of an actual era of history. Our God is a God who works in human history, and comes to us at our level. The curse of Babel, unlike the other punishments and curses in the Bible, is never undone. Rather, the various languages of the world are blessed at Pentecost and preserved even into eternity (Rev. 7:9). Though other religions require that we go to where God is, whether by good works or religious rites or even a change in culture and language, the heart of the gospel is just the opposite. Our God came to us where we are--actually in space time and history. He meets us as we are, and then from there, by the grace of the cross, he transforms us into what we ought to be. Thus, even the study of Greek reminds us of the kind of God we worship--one who translated himself into flesh to dwell among us--and of the privilege we have of worshiping him in our mother tongues for all eternity.

Mr. Shimoyama, and other encounters with grace

Of the many people and places I was hoping to visit, one of the non-negotiables was a tiny shop, not much bigger than some walk-in closets, crammed between an octopus stand and an antique store in the rural town of Okayama. Barrels of coffee beans line either side, making it almost impossible to enter, let alone move around. I stumbled across Shimoyama-san's coffee shop when I got lost one day when I lived in Okayama, but I soon became a regular customer. Despite the language barrier at the time, he and I became fast friends through our shared love of good coffee. As my Japanese abilities increased, we began to discuss coffee, philosophy, politics, and religion over a cup or two as he custom-roasted some of the best coffee beans I've found anywhere in the world. I've had the opportunity to share the gospel with him piecemeal over my two years in Okayama, but it still hasn't quite sunk in yet. However, I had become quite close to him and his family, and we had even kept in touch somewhat over the last four years I've been at Trinity.

I wasn't able to contact Shimoyama-san to let him know that I was in Japan, so I decided to just walk into his shop instead. The look on his face was priceless as midway through his welcome he realized who I was. We enjoyed several cups of coffee together as he roasted my usual order and caught up over the past four years. Because of the heavy rain (rainy season just started), there were hardly any customers, so we were able to talk for quite a long time. Right in the middle of the conversation he asked me a question that lead into a full-blown explanation of the gospel from start to finish. Knowing that my time here is so limited, I was thrilled to have the chance to share my faith clearly one more time. I'm certain that he understood it. I'll be having dinner with him and his family this Saturday, so please pray for this next encounter.

Before I left the shop, I asked for some of the chaff left over from roasting the beans (the roasting process produces a lot of chaff), to use as a visual aid for the lesson I was preparing to teach the high school students at Madoka's church. The lesson is on Psalm 1, which says that the wicked are blown away like chaff, in contrast to the tree planted by streams of water, which stands firm. This afforded the opportunity to briefly share this Psalm with him as well.

I left the shop, exuding gratitude and the smell of coffee, and as the rain grew worse, I found a bench under an awning to sit and work on my lesson. However, before to long a woman approached me and asked what I was reading. I said it was a Bible and to my surprise, rather than being scared off, she sat down and asked me what it said. I read her Psalm 1, and she told me it brought tears to her eyes. We talked for a while about this Psalm and about the gospel. She was very moved, and told me that today was her birthday, and that she thought God must have sent me to meet her.

Bible study with the youth group went very well tonight (they loved the illustration of the chaff), and I had the chance to encourage some others in their study of the Bible after that. But what sticks out to me most at the end of the day is how well today's encounters illustrate the main point of my lesson from Psalm 1--that all of us have chosen to walk in the way of the wicked, and that it is by the grace of Jesus Christ alone that we are not only set on the path of the righteous again, but also made to bear fruit. God used the rain and other coincidences to direct my path to these chance encounters, and though I have little to offer on my own, he has given me a profound and powerfully moving story--the story of his gospel--to share with all who ask. Somehow he transformed this less-than-worthless chaff into a deeply rooted tree, and I am grateful to be the one through whom he chose to work today.

Echoes of Truth

After four years, I was able to see my old friend Kazu again. Here is a picture of us in a Japanese market, and yes, that is a chilled cucumber on a stick that we're eating like it's a popsicle.

Kazu had been a great encouragement to me when I was in Okayama, and had been extremely involved in our church. Though he had not expressed complete faith in Jesus yet, we had talked several times about when he would like to confess faith and be baptized. A lot has changed in four years, and he has since graduated, found a job, moved to a new area, gotten married, and is now expecting his first child. We enjoyed catching up over the past years and reminiscing about old times. I fear, however, that what seed the birds have not snatched up, the thorns, that is, the cares of the world, have crowded out.

Kazu took me to visit Ise-jingu, one of Japan's most famous shrines, dedicated to the Sun God, Amaterasu. This ancient shrine is surrounded by forest and rivers, with a breathtaking view of the mountains. As spacious as the grounds leading up to the shrine are, it is always crowded with people. When we finally made our way up to the altar, where there was a long line of people waiting to toss a few coins into the offering box and then offer up their prayers, I was surprised at what I saw. Most shinto shrines have an ornate offering box set in gold, with a huge, colorful altar behind it. However, at this most holy shrine, there was nothing but a white curtain. The shrine itself was only ever opened every couple of years, and the altar is completely hidden from view.

I have to admit that after three hours of driving followed by a long hike to the top of the hill, I was a little disappointed. However, during the three-hour drive back, the chance I had been praying for share the gospel with my friend one more time finally occurred to me. I was reminded of another curtain that was likewise put in place to separate the secular from the Most Holy. Separated as we are, all our best works, like the worthless coins tossed into the open mouth of an empty crate, bring us no closer to our object or the presence of the one who can truly hear our prayers and help us. So long as the curtain is in place, our prayers fall on deaf ears, and we remain outside with all that is unclean and utterly powerless to change our state. But one who belonged inside came outside to be with us. He made an offering, not of coins, which are of little value and are themselves tainted by the secular world, but of the most precious thing in the world--himself. And at the moment of his death, the curtain was torn from top to bottom.

"Therefore, brothers, since we have confidence to enter the Most Holy Place by the blood of Jesus, by a new and living way opened for us through the curtain, that is, his body, and since we have a great priest over the house of God, let us draw near to God with a sincere heart in full assurance of faith, having our hearts sprinkled to cleanse us from a guilty conscience and having our bodies washed with pure water" (Heb. 10:19-22).

Yet my words were heard with polite interest, and little more. Please pray that more and more in Japan would come in through the new and living way. Both in the US and in Japan, a shroud remains over the hearts of many, blocking out both law and gospel. How many here have everything they could want from the world, yet forfeit their souls in the bargain!

SonRise Cafe

Last week I was able to meet several Japanese friends from a Japanese prayer group we had at Trinity. Though I had hoped to encourage them in their work back in Japan, I found that overwhelmingly I was the one being encouraged. Steve and I met Sonoko (pictured above) at SonRise Cafe, a coffee shop that the missionaries I worked with in Okayama are now helping to run in the Tokyo area. I had tried to start an evangelistic coffee house ministry when I was serving with them, but it never quite took off. It was a real privilege to see this dream of mine finally realized by these partners in ministry.

Getting Started

The past few days have seen me following Steve around in his work and ministry as I recover from jetlag and a cold and reenter the rhythm (circadian and otherwise) of Japanese life. Highlights include joining the Wednesday night prayer meeting (directly from the airport, luggage and all), sitting in on English classes, talking with students, and sharing my testimony during Bible studies. Sharing my testimony was something Steve sprang on me the morning of, as we were walking to the train station. My Japanese still feels pretty rusty, and I wasn't sure I had done a very good job, but something I said must have struck the Bible study leader, because she commented on it afterwards, and then the next asked me if I would share again for a different class. I shared about the sense of homelessness I feel as an American raised in Japan—whichever country I'm in, I feel like a gaijin, or foreigner. But in Jesus Christ I have found my true home and a sense of belonging.

Here are a few snapshots of life and ministry with Steve:

A quick trip to the local ramen shop was a top priority!

And no visit to Japan is complete without a trip to Mister Donuts. The flyer under my plate is advertising strawberry sherbet sauce on cold noodles. I defy you to find that at your local donut shop!!

Baseball and frisbee in the park with some of the youth from the church.

The one picture I wish I had is of something that happened as Steve and I were walking home from church last night. As we walked by a Shinto shrine on our way to the train station, two sumo wrestlers passed us on their bicycles, heading for the local convenience store (I'm not making this up!). The only thing that could make this scene more stereotypically Japanese is that Steve had just bought some manga (Japanese comics).

Next Stop: Japan

For well over a year, I have been praying about the timing of a trip back to Japan to visit my old church and reconnect with some old friends. Now, with seminary just behind me and ministry in Wheaton just ahead, the way has finally opened up for me to return. There are many things I'm anticipating from this trip, but two in particular come to mind.

Since I left Okayama in 2004, the church there has bought property, built its own building, and begun operating without a permanent missionary. I am thrilled to finally see the fruits of the work that God has done there. It's a joy to know that I had a hand in this work, but an even greater joy to know that God has never needed me to do it. I can truly say, "I planted a seed, another watered it, but God made it grow!"

I will be visiting several friends who used to attend church with me but have since lost their interest in both church and God. While it was clear when I left that God was calling me back to the States for seminary, sometimes I can't help but wonder what would have happened if I had been able to stay a bit longer and encourage them more. The prospect of reconnecting with these friends stirs up very mixed feelings. I'm eager to share the gospel with them one more time. I feel intense sorrow at the way the cares of the world have choked their budding faith. And I have a strong sense of my own finitude--I simply can't be in both places. Again, I must place my trust in the only one who can make seeds grow.

Stay tuned for these and more adventures in the upcoming weeks. In the mean time, please be praying for my departure on Tuesday morning.