While figuring out how to navigate the subway system in Chicago, my mind wonders, "Will I be able to recognize the kanji for O'Hare International Airport if that's all that's on the signs?"
*chuckle*
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
I want to tell 1000 stories
But I really do try not to do that in blog entries. I've had an exciting past couple weeks!
But today I'm not going to blog about my train ride. I will not tell you my story about accidentally renting a car with a black leather interior, climate control system, two gps systems, and so many buttons I was afraid I would break it.
I won't tell you about Amtrak sticking us on buses from Reno to Sacramento and how annoyed it makes me that people shout at Amtrak employees when the reason for the change is that three people died when they drove through a guard railing into a train.
I will not tell you my train evangelism stories.
I will not tell you about Sachiko, wonderful Japanese hamburger chef wannabe and her notebook of American hamburger sketches. I will most definitely not spend two whole paragraphs raving about how I got to talk to Sachiko in Japanese for five hours on the train.
I won't tell you about meeting with good old friends, about picking 15 some pounds of cherries, braving territory where a homicidal turkey was out on a revenge mission to get my friend, cooking Indian food with freshly butchered lamb, picking 10 pounds of raspberries, hiking to one of the most beautiful views I've ever seen, sitting quietly watching the sunset with a good friend who will soon enter a convent, renting a kayak, or eating tapas.
I won't tell you what it felt like to show up at my new apartment with next to no sleep after the train ride only to find no landlord and no key into the building. (It worked out)
I won't tell you about seeing Liz again, and I won't go off for twenty pages on just how much better short distance relationships are to long distance ones.
I won't talk about Woodland Hills church (at least today), and getting to meet Greg Boyd, and the 100,000 reflections on megachurches that I gathered from one church service.
But I do have one story that I really want to tell today. And now that I've told you all the things I'm not going to tell you, I'm ready to write that blog. ;-)
But today I'm not going to blog about my train ride. I will not tell you my story about accidentally renting a car with a black leather interior, climate control system, two gps systems, and so many buttons I was afraid I would break it.
I won't tell you about Amtrak sticking us on buses from Reno to Sacramento and how annoyed it makes me that people shout at Amtrak employees when the reason for the change is that three people died when they drove through a guard railing into a train.I will not tell you my train evangelism stories.
I will not tell you about Sachiko, wonderful Japanese hamburger chef wannabe and her notebook of American hamburger sketches. I will most definitely not spend two whole paragraphs raving about how I got to talk to Sachiko in Japanese for five hours on the train.
I won't tell you about meeting with good old friends, about picking 15 some pounds of cherries, braving territory where a homicidal turkey was out on a revenge mission to get my friend, cooking Indian food with freshly butchered lamb, picking 10 pounds of raspberries, hiking to one of the most beautiful views I've ever seen, sitting quietly watching the sunset with a good friend who will soon enter a convent, renting a kayak, or eating tapas.
I won't tell you what it felt like to show up at my new apartment with next to no sleep after the train ride only to find no landlord and no key into the building. (It worked out)I won't tell you about seeing Liz again, and I won't go off for twenty pages on just how much better short distance relationships are to long distance ones.
I won't talk about Woodland Hills church (at least today), and getting to meet Greg Boyd, and the 100,000 reflections on megachurches that I gathered from one church service.
But I do have one story that I really want to tell today. And now that I've told you all the things I'm not going to tell you, I'm ready to write that blog. ;-)
A Happy Surprise
I was walking from the missionary apartments to Roseville yesterday to buy a bus pass. It's about an hour walk, and about halfway through, I stumble on a church with a sign that says: "Christian Alliance Church. Worship in English and Japanese, 9:30". I was shocked and thrilled to see it so close to my new home. I'd planned on trying to find a Japanese church to attend every once in awhile, but never expected one to just show up on my doorstep.
The view upon walking in the next morning was definitely not what I expected, though. The crowd was distinctly 98% Caucasian with gray hair. I couldn't see a single Japanese person. I introduced myself to one of the greeters and was immediately introduced to another elderly lady who had been a missionary in Indonesia. Normally that would have been fun, but my brain is just racing on the topic, "Where are the Japanese people?" I went in and sat down, skimming the bulletin. The topic for this Sunday was something along the lines of "Countering Attacks on Biblical Interpretation!!!" With a small sigh, I kept reading. And saw at the bottom, "All English worship: 9:30. Japanese worship: 9:30".
I slid across the pew to the nearest person, who led me out of the large sanctuary and pointed down a hallway to a small room. Warm familiarity. In this room there were only 20 chairs, and three Japanese women with hymn books, practicing singing a hymn because it would be sung for the first time that day. As worship started we were joined by two bi-cultural families with and a couple more individuals. We sang, and then they closed the shades and played a video of a Japanese church for the sermon.
The subject of the Japanese side of things was Jesus the Great High Priest who understands our weaknesses. I spent most of the 45 minute sermon not quite understanding the Japanese and wondering what part of my heart wants to subject itself to this. My love for the Japanese people has never been a rational thing.
I spent last evening talking to a girl at Woodland Hills who is involved in ministry in the Philips neighborhood--one of the poorest in Minneapolis, and the place I did an internship another lifetime ago before Japan. People connected to her church that she knows do undercover mission work in the middle east. They've started riots and risked their lives. "Is there persecution in Japan?" she wants to know. I don't know how to answer. I tell her it's very physically safe, and then try to explain what it's like with rather awkward words. I leave feeling somehow inferior. And my mind strayed back to this as I was sitting through the sermon.
I don't like formal situations. I'm not a fan of politeness for politeness sake (though occasionally I am a hypocrite about not being a fan of that one). I like to be able to believe what people tell me and not have to intuit very deeply to figure out where they're actually at. Some of the Japanese people who look the most open to God on the surface are no where near actually open to him...which I suppose is true many places, but sometimes I get tired of that. People tell me I am a patient person, but in Japan I feel impatient all the time. I find the stereotypical church services there to be somewhat dry...and the church service this morning was similar except for the songs at the beginning.
My favorite cultures can be found in Africa...India...South America...places where people are community oriented and emotionally free. Places where need is a part of life and so the people are somehow more real.
I dream of a ministry that is exciting. I would be afraid sometimes, but part of me longs for a situation where I would need to be undercover. Or in danger. Or struggling just to get food because Jesus had called me out with the poorest of the poor. All of this is much to the dismay of my mother. But no...with all that longing, somehow the greatest longing of all is still this safe, nice, wealthy, educated, polite, slow and yet steadily moving, mission field of Japan.
I conclude that I have no way to explain myself about Japan.
Chatting with people after the church service, members discover that I graduated from St. Olaf. They excitedly motion to the two young women sitting apart from us and say that they attend St. Olaf. I'm stunned...I'm in Minnesota, but not a Lutheran Church. And St. Olaf is hardly something I expect to bond with people over. One of them has lived in the States since she was an infant, and she laughs at me that I can't help but speak "English Teacher English" to her just because she's Japanese. I'll have to work on that one.
A woman asks me if I am interested in connecting with Japanese exchange students while I'm here and gets my email address.
I notice that this is the first church service I've attended where people actually seem to stick around afterward to talk. Just like in Japan, a small box of senbei is passed around, and they insist on giving me the leftovers.
I leave the church with a smile I can't suppress and a skip in my step. I may never understand why, but I love these people. I suspect God could be found the culprit. ;-)
The view upon walking in the next morning was definitely not what I expected, though. The crowd was distinctly 98% Caucasian with gray hair. I couldn't see a single Japanese person. I introduced myself to one of the greeters and was immediately introduced to another elderly lady who had been a missionary in Indonesia. Normally that would have been fun, but my brain is just racing on the topic, "Where are the Japanese people?" I went in and sat down, skimming the bulletin. The topic for this Sunday was something along the lines of "Countering Attacks on Biblical Interpretation!!!" With a small sigh, I kept reading. And saw at the bottom, "All English worship: 9:30. Japanese worship: 9:30".
I slid across the pew to the nearest person, who led me out of the large sanctuary and pointed down a hallway to a small room. Warm familiarity. In this room there were only 20 chairs, and three Japanese women with hymn books, practicing singing a hymn because it would be sung for the first time that day. As worship started we were joined by two bi-cultural families with and a couple more individuals. We sang, and then they closed the shades and played a video of a Japanese church for the sermon.
The subject of the Japanese side of things was Jesus the Great High Priest who understands our weaknesses. I spent most of the 45 minute sermon not quite understanding the Japanese and wondering what part of my heart wants to subject itself to this. My love for the Japanese people has never been a rational thing.
I spent last evening talking to a girl at Woodland Hills who is involved in ministry in the Philips neighborhood--one of the poorest in Minneapolis, and the place I did an internship another lifetime ago before Japan. People connected to her church that she knows do undercover mission work in the middle east. They've started riots and risked their lives. "Is there persecution in Japan?" she wants to know. I don't know how to answer. I tell her it's very physically safe, and then try to explain what it's like with rather awkward words. I leave feeling somehow inferior. And my mind strayed back to this as I was sitting through the sermon.
I don't like formal situations. I'm not a fan of politeness for politeness sake (though occasionally I am a hypocrite about not being a fan of that one). I like to be able to believe what people tell me and not have to intuit very deeply to figure out where they're actually at. Some of the Japanese people who look the most open to God on the surface are no where near actually open to him...which I suppose is true many places, but sometimes I get tired of that. People tell me I am a patient person, but in Japan I feel impatient all the time. I find the stereotypical church services there to be somewhat dry...and the church service this morning was similar except for the songs at the beginning.
My favorite cultures can be found in Africa...India...South America...places where people are community oriented and emotionally free. Places where need is a part of life and so the people are somehow more real.
I dream of a ministry that is exciting. I would be afraid sometimes, but part of me longs for a situation where I would need to be undercover. Or in danger. Or struggling just to get food because Jesus had called me out with the poorest of the poor. All of this is much to the dismay of my mother. But no...with all that longing, somehow the greatest longing of all is still this safe, nice, wealthy, educated, polite, slow and yet steadily moving, mission field of Japan.
I conclude that I have no way to explain myself about Japan.
Chatting with people after the church service, members discover that I graduated from St. Olaf. They excitedly motion to the two young women sitting apart from us and say that they attend St. Olaf. I'm stunned...I'm in Minnesota, but not a Lutheran Church. And St. Olaf is hardly something I expect to bond with people over. One of them has lived in the States since she was an infant, and she laughs at me that I can't help but speak "English Teacher English" to her just because she's Japanese. I'll have to work on that one.
A woman asks me if I am interested in connecting with Japanese exchange students while I'm here and gets my email address.
I notice that this is the first church service I've attended where people actually seem to stick around afterward to talk. Just like in Japan, a small box of senbei is passed around, and they insist on giving me the leftovers.
I leave the church with a smile I can't suppress and a skip in my step. I may never understand why, but I love these people. I suspect God could be found the culprit. ;-)
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