Transfiguration

Transfiguration

December 2025

Luke 9:28-36 — John 14:6

 

Half brain-dead from the eleven-hour flight, worsened by running the customs gauntlet, Narita International’s Arrival Hall left me dumbstruck. Everyone seemed to know where they were going except me and Doug. Slack-jawed in the midst of the hurry-scurry wasn’t going to cut it. Deep breaths, muster-up the intrepid Yankee spirit and reliable explorer-ancestor genes, we shouldered our bags and bumbled our way to the JR Narita Express rail which would zip us to the Shimbashi Station in Tokyo. There, after another round of elbow and hip-bumps, we finally made our way to the sidewalk.

“Taxi!”

That it was a Kogata taxi, the smallest of the small, paired with the driver’s happy “Hey, dudes. I’m Taro. Where to?” should have given us a clue.

I fished the address out of my shirt pocket, handed it to him. He nodded. “Hai. Hope Mission, huh. So you guys are Kirishtans? Cool. Me, I’m Buddhist, just like everyone else here in Japan.” Taro’s English was flawless. His irony, not so much.

Doug and I piled in the back seat, squeezed our fat carryons between our bellies and the seat backs, wishing we’d whistled down one of the larger Ogata cabs that include leg and breathing room.

Taro pushed his foot to the accelerator once and never let up, demonstrating his summa cum loco phi beta whacko degree from Japan’s Crazy-Fearless-Yaha Driving School. He two-wheeled a forty-mile-an-hour corner, flea-hopped from one lane to another, squidged between trucks and busses all the way through the Roppongi, Shibuya and Shinjuku districts. I’m sure he thought Doug’s stifled gasps and my swallowed screams were for his amusement.

On the way, traffic jammed us up long enough to see a maze of shelters cobbled together with canvas, cardboard, tarps and ragged scrap wood. The jury-rigged settlement looked the like it had been pressed into a postage stamp park by a giant hand. People shambled, looked lost. One man lay on the ground. I hoped he was asleep.

“Whoa! Taro, we didn’t know homelessness was much of a deal in Tokyo.”

“Ah, yeah, man. That’s the Kunabuki, th’ homeless hangout. Tokyo’s homeless population is lower than in any other major city in the world, but yeah, we got em too. Tokyo’s got the most here in Kanagawa prefecture. Osaka’s got a bunch, too.”

Taro’s narrative was punctuated with his sudden crank of the wheel that spilled

Doug and me hard into each other. Angry horns blared like indignant geese. My “oof” told Doug to peel himself away so I could take a breath.

Taro gave us a “Sorry, dudes. Couldn’t hardly sideswipe the car in the next lane.”

Through all the wheel cranks and brake stomps, Taro didn’t blink once. I wondered if this was an everyday taxi ride.

Another twenty-two minutes, I welcomed the squeal of brakes. I checked the meter to see how many yen our trip of terror cost us. Doug poured some yen and I poured some more into Taro’s hand, relieved to have been delivered intact and alive.

“Hey! Nice tip, guys. Thanks.” I hoped I’d never see him again.

On the sidewalk, carry-on bag in hand and breathing hard, Doug asked, “Was he laughing as he drove away?”

The Hope Christian Mission – Kibō Kirisutokyō Dendō –– itself wasn’t much of a standout, just a plain two-story stucco building, blonde wood double door, four steps up from the sidewalk. Just as I was thinking this was a nice, quiet neighborhood, a high-pitched cry assaulted our ears. “Aiee! Gaijins! Gaijins! Weo-come! Weo-come!”

A short, stout teapot of a woman steamed down the stairs, hands a-wave. “Konbanwa. You hab arri ‘fo Vacasha By-bo Skoo, I know. I Chinatsu Hirai. I mama-san here, bery grad see you. You take you soo-case, come wit’ me. Ichi ban bery grad you here! Hai, dozo!”

Mama-san Chinatsu’s welcome went from inscrutable to scrutable once I remembered how a lot of the Japanese folk don’t pronounce the letter ‘L.’ Doug made the intros, I’m Doug, he’s Ed, which earned a gold-toothed smile and a duet of bows. Chinatsu-san pointed the way up the stairs. Her easy laughter was spring rain after our teeth-gritting taxi ride.

Inside the mission was a plain and simple as the outside. A large first floor auditorium, burnished hardwood floors, whiter-than-white stucco walls and lots of window backdropped happy posters in Kanji script and English let us know how much Jesus loves us and that Joy, Joy, Joy was God’s gift for the day. A floor-to-ceiling paper tree bore nine basketball-sized cherries labeled with Peace, Patience, Kindness, all the fruit of the Spirit. A crawl of roots inscribed Galatians 5:22. Stacks of folding chairs along the sides waited patiently for tomorrow’s VBS.

“You forrow me, prease. I take you men dorm. You res.’ We hab dinner ‘a ‘fi o-crok. Dozo.”

I eyed a lower bunk while my carry-on thudded to the floor. I checked my watch. “We have time for a nap, Douglas.”

“Um. Music to my ears, Edward. The flight-train-taxi ordeal has turned me to a block of wood.”

“You just described your head. You’re always like that.”

“Your keen observations astound me, as usual.”

We dropped and flopped, slept like a pair of stone statues until laughter woke us. With one eye, I saw Shelly poke her head in the doorway, beaming brightly under a thatch of sun-bleached hair. “You guys going to sleep through dinner?”

“We weary travelers felt deserving of catnaps. When did you get in?”

“We caught a red-eye, landed at Narita around six this morning. Took long naps too. Had lunch, saw some sights.”

Doug sat up. “Hey, Shelly. Hi. What’s for dinner.”

“Would you be surprised if I said ramen?”

“No. Not really. Disappointed. Not surprised.”

“No prob. Tempura. Chicken and veggies. And hard-boiled quail eggs. And purin.”

“Purim?” I asked. “We’re celebrating the book of Esther?” I’d had enough culture clash for a while.

“That’s purin with an n, Eddie. No Purim, no Esther. Think crème brûlée, Japanese style.”

“Great,” I said. “Love tempura, don’t know no purin, willing to learn. I’m hungry. Lead the way.”

In the cafeteria, our leader, Remy, chatted with Katie and Natalie, two other teammates. A Japanese man sat with them, welcoming us with a nod and a smile.

Remy stood. “Hi, guys. Let me introduce Mito Ogawa. He’s the director of the mission here, serves as pastor for Sunday services.”

I had picked up just enough of Japanese custom to make a courteous bow. “It is good to meet you, Ogawa-san. I am Edward Bengston.” Doug followed suit.

We got a polite bow in return along with, “Konichi-wa, Ed-san, Doug-san. Anata ga koko ni kitekurete tanoshīdesu. We are glad you are here. And call me Mike. I come from Half Moon Bay in California. Graduated from Western Seminary.”

Remy grinned like a Cheshire cat, tried not to laugh, failed. Funny guy, our T.L.

“Ah. Okay. Remy, I get it. Mike, glad to be here.” I reached, shook his hand.

I really was. glad This was just the thing to give me a change-up from my nine-to-five job. If that wasn’t enough, Doug had been prodding me to get more involved with volunteer work at church. When the opportunity for this short-term mission trip came up, I thought it was just the ticket. Sort of a mission-vacation-whatever.

“Just in time, guys. Have a seat, please. Mama-san says dinner is ichi-ban and ready to eat.”

I said, “Ichi-ban? Is that something to eat?”

Shelly, close enough to give me an elbow to the ribs, said, “No, dingdong. Ichi-ban means number one. You know, like the very best.”

“Ouch. Remind me not to sit next to you if I have more questions.”

The tempura was delicious, and so was the purin. After dinner, we all sat and chatted a while, reviewing who was going to do what and when. Along about nine local time, still pummeled by the too-long flight, I gratefully folded into my bunk.

Morning delivered a deluge of kodomo, pre-teen Japanese kids, who filled the mission with ear-popping exuberance. Our three team girls welcomed them and began with teaching a couple of group songs, followed by games, more singing, improv skits and, of course, our reason for coming, Bible stories.

I asked Mike why we were presenting Japanese kids our program in English, Mike assured me the youngster’s knew enough English to enjoy this. “Most kids in Japan begin English classes when they’re eight or nine.”

“Ah.”

“More appropriately, ah so. Sort of means I get it.”

“Ah. So.”

The girls were great at leading the kids while Doug and I helped out with logistics – set the chairs up, take the chairs down, set up the skit props, take the props down, get bottles of water, get bottles of apple juice, get bags of Pocky, clean up the empty Pocky bags.

Pocky – skinny pretzel-ish sticks dipped in chocolate, strawberry, or cookies-n-cream – were new to me. The kids gobbled them up like termites in a furniture factory.

Most days, Doug led worship songs with a borrowed guitar. We got a special treat on our third day when Chinatsu entertained us with Sakura, the Cherry Blossom song on her koto, a long thirteen-stringed instrument, a very distant relative of a zither.

The highlight of the first week was a trip to Otogi No Mori Park where the kids went wild on the playground gear, bouncing around the popular blue, earless robotic cat-figures named Doraemon and Nobita Nori, his BFF boy. Doraemon loves dorayaki, sweet-bean pancakes, and is afraid of mice. Good information for the memory banks.

During the second week, things were going smoothly enough not to need much of my help. I took the opportunity to ask Mike a question that had been bouncing around in my head. “Tell me, I’m curious. There are over twenty million Christians in China, but less than one percent of Japan profess faith in Christ. Why the big difference?”

“Ah, yes, indeed, the big question.”

He twiddled his hand like he was holding a cigar.

“If that was supposed to be W.C. Fields, it was pathetic.”

“Thank you. I’ll make a note. Now. Think back some four hundred years to the Meiji era, the time of the shoguns.”

“Heard of them, not all that sure what they were.”

“Shoguns were like military dictators. Each shogun was appointed by the emperor. Shoguns, in turn, appointed daimyos, feudal overlords and land-holders, who wielded political and civil influence. Samurais were kind of their private armies, enforcers, perhaps, loyal to their shoguns and daimyos. The system operated for 700 years or so. In the mid-1500s, world-wide exploration was blossoming. The Portuguese were the first Europeans to come knocking on Japan’s door, soon followed by Spaniards and later by the Dutch.

“The first wave was comprised of Jesuits, Franciscans and Dominicans, quasi-missionaries whose principal goal was to open the door for trade under the banner of the gospel. A few shoguns found Christianity appealing because they thought it would give them an edge on trade and greater control of the new market. They directed their daimyos and their fiefs to join them in making name-only conversions. Heavy-handed Jesuits forced conversion on Buddhist monks and Shinto priests, then destroyed their temples and shrines. What little evangelistic progress the Jesuits made was essentially destroyed by trying to spread the gospel by force.

“Japan’s political power was held by the majority of the shoguns who did not embrace Christianity, who saw through the sanctimonious missionary haze into the European’s real motive was to subjugate Japan and make it a colony, same as they had done in Indonesia and the Philippines.

“Politics, governance and injustice were in turmoil. For a variety of reasons, seeds of uprising were planted, nurtured and began to grow, finally erupting in the Shimbara Rebellion in 1638. The powerful Tokugawa Shogunate, bolstered by the other non-Christian shoguns, mobilized to defend their dominion. The conflict climaxed with Tokugawa taking 40,000 Japanese and Christians lives in the broad sweep of a massacre. Once that was done, he levied the Sakoku Edict which banned the practice of Catholicism in all of Japan. Trade rights were granted to the Dutch Republic alone, all other European countries were barred from trade. For the next fifty years under Tokogawa rule, Christians were persecuted and forced to renounce their faith. Some were even executed by crucifixion.

“Although Christianity was officially banished, a handful of kakure kirishitans, ‘secret Christians,’ persisted, mostly in Nagasaki where Catholicism persisted. Even today, there are three Catholic churches there, Urakami, Oura and Nakamachi.

“By 1840, Tokogawa rule was over, policies had relaxed, attitudes had changed. Christian missionaries were once again permitted but it was too late. That door hadn’t just shut, it had slammed, bolted, latched and sealed.

“Very tough for Christianity to get a toehold then, and it’s not a lot different now. Japanese people hear about Christ, say thanks but no thanks, we’ll stick with what we know. Today, maybe one percent of the population professes Christian faith. Everyone else? Buddhist or Shinto. Some Confucianists, a few offshoot splinter groups. For many, there’s not much belief at all. That’s my nutshell version.”

I gave my head a rub and asked, “Mike, how ‘bout you give me a thumbnail sketch about Buddhism and Shintoism. I’m afraid I’m pretty ignorant here. Most of what I know about Japan comes from movies.”

“You mean like Shogun and The Last Samurai?”

“This is embarrassing, but yeah.”

“Sure. Let’s start with Shinto, which is largely tradition rather than organized faith. There are no sacred writings. Guidance is provided by priests. Shinto reveres a multitude of kami, sacred spirits that are significant for life. Kami dwell in places like rivers and mountains. Mount Fujiyama, for example, hosts a major kami. Wind and rain have kamis, as do the seasons since they relate to crops and harvests. When a person dies, he becomes a kami and is received by his ancestral kami, hence the importance of ancestral worship. Shrines are built for people of note, those who have made significant accomplishments consistent with Shinto belief. The most important kami of all is Amaterasu, the Sun Goddess. She is the foremost deity of Ama, which is the Heavenly Realm. Next in line, perhaps – at least where Mount Fuji is concerned – is the Goddess of Dawn, Ame-no-Uzume.”

“Sounds mythological. Are there more gods?”

“Oh, goodness yes, hundreds. Japanese mythology is vast and complex. Anyway, Shinto sees human beings as fundamentally good but imperfect. Evil is the product of evil spirits. By making prayers and offerings to the various good kamis, evil is repelled.”

“So how does Buddhism differ?”

“Well, understand, I’m giving you the bare bones here.”

“Like Buddhism for Dummies?”

“Uh, well, yeah. You know, if the shoe fits.” Big smile. Thanks, Mike..

“Anyway, Buddhism came to Japan from India around the sixth century. Buddha himself told people not to worship him, said he was not a god, just a thoughtful man in search of nirvana, you know, the end of suffering. You want to achieve nirvana, he said, follow the Middle Way.”

“And that is?”

“Pursue neither luxurious living nor deliberate hardship. These days, Buddhism is a major influence on Japanese culture and society. Some sixty-five, seventy percent of the population are professing Buddhists. There are two major sects, Jōdo and Nichiren, but a bunch of sub-sects like Zen. I don’t know them all.”

“Sounds kind of like the denominations of Protestant Christianity.”

“Not an inaccurate comparison. So. Let me begin with Buddhism’s Three Universal Truths. One, everything is subject to change. Two, the accumulation of possessions does not produce happiness. Three, your soul is a product of how life impacts you.

“That leads to the Four Noble Truths. One, there is much suffering in life. Two, suffering is caused by greed. Three, as long as greed prevails, suffering will not end. And four, the way to end suffering is to follow the Middle Way.”

“Sort of reminds me how my grandmother drilled me with her personal motto, Eddie, y’ got to go along to get along.”

“Ah. Yeah. Passivity. Safe. Sort of like live and let live, think good thoughts but don’t stick your neck out.”

“Yep, that was Gramma.”

“Let me give you my abbreviated version of Buddha’s Eightfold Path. Might help your perspective.”

Mike closed his eyes for a moment. “Okay. Here it is. Sort of. Let your attitude be shaped by the right beliefs and attitude. Compassion is superior to selfishness. Speak the truth, do not gossip or criticize. Help people in need. Revere all life. Care for the environment. Engage in useful work. Don’t do anything that is harmful to others or the environment. Think positively, wholesomely. Be continually aware of your thoughts, your actions, and how they affect others. And meditation, which will lead you to nirvana. That pretty much covers it. I think.”

“Interesting. I’m hearing some echoes of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount there. That helps. Some. I mean, I know there’s a lot more to Buddhism. But I don’t get any sense of God, no higher power. It’s do-it-yourself. Be humble in thought and deed and you’ll eventually end up free of suffering. Not sure if Nirvana’s a place in your head or actual real estate, say like some sort of equivalent to Heaven.”

“That’s a tad sketchy but essentially correct. And you’ve put your finger on the basic difference between Christianity and all other beliefs.”

“You mean like they’re all based on performance contrasted with God’s grace, just because he loves us?”

“That’s kind of glib, but fair. You’ve got to acknowledge that Buddha’s planted deep roots in Japan.”

“’Kay. But I still don’t get how China’s got more than a hundred million Christians which also had pretty much the same exposure to Buddhism.”

“True. But don’t forget China has as many atheists as Christians and twice as many Buddhists.”

“Um. Seems like you’ve got a tough row to hoe here. And yet, here you are sharing the Gospel of Christ.”

“True. I do. But consider how Christianity began, Ed. Twelve guys were filled with the Holy Spirit and now, two thousand years later, there’s two billion faithful worldwide and counting. For me, it’s a privilege just to be a part of that.”

“Mike, you mentioned helping people in need as one of Buddhism’s tenets. On the way to the mission, I saw what looked like a strip filled with a bunch of makeshift shelters. The cab driver said that was for  homeless people, had a name for it. Don’t remember what it was.”

“Sure. Kunabuki.”

“Got to say I never thought about homelessness in Japan.”

“We have our homeless folks just like any other big city. Here, we call them homuresu which is sort of an overall umbrella term. The Japanese break it down some. There’s nojukushas, they’re the ones who sleep rough. Then there’s the nojuku rodosha’s, that’s kind of sub-category for laborers who have jobs but don’t earn enough for capsule hotels. A lot of them sleep rough, too. Then there’s the furoshas, wanderers, who go from city to city, town to town. And then there’s the kojiki, beggars. Panhandlers.”

“Do they get help? I mean, here we were talking about Buddha’s teaching about compassion, encouraging people to help others in need.”

“There are some charities that help. They set up what you’d call soup kitchens, provide free bento. Salvation Army, God bless ‘em, does a super job of providing food and clothes, some shelter. Doctors Of The World-Japan does a great job with free health care. They’re in the Ikebukuro prefecture, that’s close to the homeless camps.”

“Tell me, what’s bento?”

“Ah. Japanese version of a lunch box. Typically a bento box has an assortment of rice, grilled fish or sushi, a veggie or two. Something sweet, too.”

“Sounds tasty. Do you have any idea what the age and gender distribution is?”

“Well, there are some homeless women, but the majority are men. Some young men are homeless, but most homuresu are older men. Not many are middle-aged.”

“Does your mission have any outreach to the homeless?”

“Here and there. Situational. We don’t have a formal outreach. What we mostly do right now is share the gospel with kids. Some short-term mission groups from the U.S., South Korea show up, put together food give-aways, warm coats in the winter. Someday I hope we’ll broaden our outreach to the poor. We’re just not there yet.”

“Understand. Same story the world over. Seems like there’s more and more poor people worldwide every year.”

“True. Too true. Listen, Ed, I’ve enjoyed chatting with you, but I’ve got to take care of a couple things. Hope this gives you some things to ponder. By the way, while you’re here, think about climbing Mount Fuji. You can start in the afternoon, overnight in a bunk hut halfway up. That way, you can get up early enough to catch the sunrise at the top. The whole climb only takes six, seven hours. It’s a great trip. Worth the effort. I think you’d enjoy it.”

Climbing Fuji rang a chime somewhere inside. When I mentioned this to Doug, I could just about hear the clang of his chimes, too. “Sure!” he said. “Day after tomorrow is our last day of VBS. We can do it the day after!”

 

It was just after three in the afternoon when the train dropped us off at the head of the Yoshida trailhead. Donation of a couple yen got us a nod from a white-haired woman dressed in the traditional kimono. “Domo arigato,” she said. Thank you very much.

We gave her a courteous bow and tongue-fumbled doitashimaste, you’re welcome.

I took a long scan at what we were about to climb only to doubt the wisdom of what we were about to do. Pathways zigzagged up the mountainside, veered around a car-sized boulder or two, but most of Fuji’s surface was scree – small rocks, stones, pebbles, gravel, and chips as small as my thumbnail – all just right for slipping into my shoes. I wondered if some malevolent kami had prepared a trek of torment just for us. I wondered what Japan’s sacred mountain kami thought of gaijins – outside persons.

I eyeballed Doug, gave him a vinegar face. “Not quite what I was expecting.”

“It’s an extinct volcano, doofus. What did you expect?”

“Trees. Streams. Waterfalls. Pretty girls in kimonos offering us bento boxes, cups of tea.”

“Volcano, Ed. Extinct volcano. Deal with it. C’mon, let’s go.”

Doug was right. I tried to align my naïve expectation with reality, managed to park a brown cloud over my head. After a hundred yards of step, plod, step, plod, all I could think of was how climbing Mount Fuji-dooji was going to be one long, tedious trudge.

Doug hollered, “Ed! First station coming up. Hiking sticks!”

Mike had explained how there’s a series of station keeper huts on the way up, each one with a charcoal hibachi and small branding irons. “When you stop at a station, he said, “give the station keeper a couple yen, he’ll brand your sticks. By the time you get to the top, you’ll have sixteen different brands. Cool souvenirs.”

Sure. If you say so.

We selected our sticks, sturdy four feet of solid oak, suitable for guarding against untimely tumbles or fending off kamis with attitude problems.

Back on the trail of rocks and gravel, I thought about Mike’s revelation of how Fujiyama was an inspirational pilgrimage site for traditional Buddhists and Shintoists. They’re known as shugendos, he said, faithful believers in search of supernatural power gained only through religious rigors. Like climbing steep mountains. So far, we hadn’t seen any other hikers or shugendos, but how would you know the difference?

As I predicted, the hike, trek, whatever, became one, then two hours of step, plod, step, plod, step. I tried to still that complaining voice in my head, failed and failed again, and finally just let it run. By the time we arrived at the seventh, or was it the eighth, station, the sun was sinking past the horizon. One more brand on our sticks – mine seemed to be getting heavier with each brand – we kept on hiking through a haze-washed sunset and greying dusk until it was just about too dark to continue. Lighted windows at the overnight station were a blessing for which I gave thanks to God, didn’t think a kami had anything to do with it. A bowl of soba noodles in broth dotted with dainty chunks of mystery meat and carrot and a pot of hot tea later, I took off my shoes, lay down on a straw-filled mattress, pulled up the blanket and was asleep.

Four in the morning. My dream of home was shattered by a rude kami rambling through the bunk room, his, “Hai, hai! ‘Ty fo’ wake” … bong … “‘ty fo’ wake” … bong … “‘fo o’crok … ‘fo o’crok … wake now” … bong … “wake now,” accompanied by an small but irritating l gong.

Station keeper. Not a kami after all. I shook bits of rock and sand out of my sneakers, took forever to get them back on, wished I had my hiking boots.

By lantern light, eyes barely open, we gobbled quick bowls of nameless, tasteless porridge, slurped tea, got our sticks. A tinge of false dawn teased the edges of night. Hiking sticks in hand, we stepped out the door … and stopped.

“Doug! Good grief! Where did all these people come from?”

As far as we could see, the trail below and above was strung with the flicker of flashlights and glowsticks held by mountain pilgrims. The Japanese shugendos had arrived. Was anyone left in the cities? The hikers were men for the most part, but more than a few women, all clad in warm jackets and caps, all patiently joined in the step, plod, step, plod transverse of Mount Fujiyama. Most of them carried burdens of some sort, sacks or boxes or knapsacks, More than a few carried wooden statues of Buddha, others ceramic figures of Kwan Yin, who is said to ‘hear the cries of the world.’ Dozens carried small bowls of uncooked rice pegged with sticks of burning incense while they blinked away wisps of smoke.

More shugendos than I could count packed items of hardware, even furniture in their arms or on their backs. Heavy stuff, big stuff: chairs, benches, trash cans, auto tires. At least ten or fifteen carried hibachis, some complete with burning charcoal. One man horsed a cast-iron stove up the trail, its weight rocking him side to side like a drunken sailor.

One woman, all of five feet tall, had strapped a full-size wood-framed bed, complete with mattress, pillows and quilt, on her back. Bending at the waist, she kept tension on a broad canvas strap that looped around her forehead and the foot of the bed. Step, plod, step, plod, eyes ever on the rocky ground, grunting with every step as shuffled on by. I hoped she’d make use of it once she reached the summit.

Doug gave me a look and shook his head. I shrugged. In the grey pre-dawn light, we joined the step, plod, step, plod procession.

The higher the climb, the thinner the air. For the next two very dark and tedious hours, many were the times I stopped to catch my breath and wonder why I was doing this, wishing with every step that I had not. So many other ways to spend my time, places to go, sights to see. Like a comfy pillow and a warm quilt.

Then there came the time I looked at the shugendos loaded down with some weight thing and Jesus’ words, ‘Come to me, all who are weary and burdened and you will find rest for your souls,’ rattled around in my mind,

I thought of the woman with the bed strapped to her back. Talk about burdens!

With near-to-perfect timing, the eye of red dawn peeped over the horizon as Doug and I broached the top. Here-and-there patches of snow glowered at us, some white, most a soiled, dirty grey. The odor of damp dirt hovered in the air and I wondered if it was from some sort of kami itself, a soil-spirit that had made Fuji’s snowcap its home. On the far side of the crater, a research station turned its back, as if to make a ho-hum homage to what it had witnessed many times before.

All across the summit, shugendo pilgrims herded here and there, some queuing up at a hut for tea, others seeking a place to set their burdens aside and catch their breath. Gradually, people clustered at the eastern edge of the mountaintop, watching the horizon glow brightly. The sun was about to rise. Conversations were brief and subdued lest one disturbed the kamis.

The indigo sky softened to azure, then cornflower. Skeins of rose and coral clouds drifted to seashell pink; brassy gold smoothed to honey, then saffron, then butter until at last Ame-no-Uzume, the Dawn Goddess herself, clad in a gown of pale and powdery blue softly prepared the way for Amaterasu’s glory.

Heartbeats slowed. Breath became faint. Movement ceased. Time stopped. Joy unfolded in a multitude of smiles and gentle applause. Buddhist palms pressed together. Shintoist heads bowed, knees bent, foreheads touched the earth. Were those strains of Sakura I heard?

From her sun-star chariot, taking care not to ruffle dawn’s feathers, the shining orb of Amaterasu touched Mount Fujiyama with an eiderdown scepter and enfolded us in morning light. Gentle breezes danced among the worshippers on butterfly toes, their laughter brushing our souls.

Doug and I stood for a while, not speaking, taking in the sunrise anthem. Something – like anxiety, but different – trundled across my heart.

“Doug?”

“Yeah?”

“I … I’d like a little time alone. Okay with you?”

“Sure. Let’s meet over there at the tea house whatsis, say in half an hour.”

With everyone’s attention given to the east, I wandered off behind the huts and concessions to the empty western side of Fuji’s crown. A dozen yards or so down the slope, a tori gate looked lonely, waiting perhaps, for some vagabond kami to wander through.

I swept a few rocks aside with my foot and made a place to sit. Far below, five lakes spread like scattered sapphires across the flatlands, dazzled by the morning sun. Strands of mist began to rise from the water, drifting slowly at first, then ascending as if in a hurry to wrap Fuji in billowing clouds that looked sturdy enough to walk on.

Soon, all that remained in view was the mountain’s scree and the tori gate. I remembered how Moses whined about being a stranger in a strange land. I knew just how you felt. Here were Doug and I rubbing shoulders with a couple hundred Japanese. Talk about not fitting in.

The weariness from the hike up this mountain began to seep into my bones. I closed my eyes, rested my head on my knees. Eyes shut, I thought about how I was here in the midst of Japanese people, pilgrims, sincere, hard-working folks, faithful to Buddha, honoring Shinto precepts, seriously performing their acts of sacrifice and devotion, thinking good thoughts, speaking good words, positive words, encouraging words to their own hearts, to one another and, perhaps, to a cavalcade of invisible kamis.

To my mind, all their allegiance, their faithfulness, impressive as it was, missed the good stuff, the important stuff – the core, the essence of the gospel. They had assimilated the things of God – goodness, devotion, worship, sacrifice – without realizing these were His gifts to them, that He was the source, the Creator of all goodness and kindness, of love and grace, and of the deep, personal peace they coveted. They enjoyed at least some of his blessings – but not Him.

As with all other religions, Buddhism and Shintoism and whatever other -isms that existed to bear fruit in Japan were based on works, what people do, what they produce to earn favor of their god-of-choice.

I thought of another mountain where, some two thousand years ago, Peter, James and John saw Jesus’ appearance radiate with glory as he prayed … where they heard the voice of God saying, “This is my Son, whom I have chosen. Attend to what he says.”

Jesus, how is it you missed speaking to this island nation?

Or did you?

I opened my eyes and could have been surprised at how the clouds blanketing Mount Fuji now took on a glow, like they were illuminated from some inner source.

Under the tori gate, the mist parted and I saw a tent, then another, then eight, maybe ten or more. Japanese men and women milled about, looked around, searched for … something.

Was this another Kunabuki for the homeless, up here on the mountain? Why had I not seen this before?

Sunlight brightened. I shielded my eyes with my hand, blinked and looked again – every one of the tents were emblazoned with the sign of the cross.

This was … remarkable! It was wonderful! Japanese people living on this sacred mountain, sacred to followers of Buddha, where Shinto is revered! And all those faithful climbers, they were all looking to the east when this little settlement of Krishitans was right here, right before me!

Wait! Wait! I looked again: the tents … the people weren’t on the mountainside … they hovered in the air!

What … ?

Lord? What’s happening here?

In a voice, a knowing more than actual speech, these words came to me: I was hungry and you gave me something to eat … I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink … I had no place to lay my head and you sheltered me …

I wanted to run back to Fuji’s east rim where all the people were, to shout and holler and jump up and down, “Hey, everyone, come, come, he is here, come see, come see!”

Again, the voice came: Drink of the water of life and you will never thirst …

eat of the bread of life and you will never hunger …

Clouds billowed and roiled, cloaking the Kunabuki tents and people in mist.

What is going on? What’s happening?

Lord?

Jesus’ words came to me. I am the way, the truth, and the life …

God, is this you?

A new thought, memory, whatever, arrived, unbidden … the benediction our church recited every Sunday … Go forth into the world in peace … be generous with all that God has given you … freely have you received, freely give … minister to the poor and down-hearted … heal the sick … feed the hungry … give water to those who thirst … clothe the naked … shelter the homeless … provide for the widows and orphans … befriend the prisoners … teach the words of Jesus to all at home and those of foreign lands, baptize them in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit … Amen and amen.

Tattered clouds tumbled, roiled. Where tents and people were moments before, now there was only scree. And the tori gate.

The sun continued its rise into the sky, just like every day, everywhere. A little of the chill burned off. I was grateful.

Peace, as if from a heavenly pitcher, poured into my heart. I was wrapped in this phenomenon, this vision – whatever it was –  as if it was all perfectly natural … normal. Expected. And I was baffled by what I had experienced.

Words of one of my favorite praise songs drifted to mind. My voice was a cotton whisper as I sang.

Change my heart, O God,

make it ever true.

Change my heart, O God,

May I be like you …

I felt a hand on my shoulder.

Doug. He sat.

Together, we finished the song,

You are the Potter, I am the clay.

Mold me and make me,

this is what I pray.

 

Our descent from Mount Fuji’s peak was a three-hour series of skids and I gotta stop ‘and empty another load of rocks outta my shoes. On the train, Doug noted, “Ed, ‘ol pal, you’re unusually quiet. You okay?”

“Really, really tired, ‘ol pal.” That was true but it wasn’t the only reason. I had a lot going on inside.

At the mission, we flipped a coin for the first shower. I won. After, while Doug took his turn, I found Mike Ogawa in his office. I told him about my vision, whatever it was, up there on Fuji. I laid out what I had in my mind.

He listened to what I had to say, then asked, “Ed, you sure about this?”

“Yeah., Mike. Yeah. I’m sure. Thought about it all the way down the mountain.”

“Okay. We’ll find a way. With the Lord’s help, we’ll find a way.”

Clean Doug dressed in clean clothes came into the office. “Ready to go, Edward, my boy?”

I stood up and gave my friend a hug. “Changed my mind, bro. I’m going to stay here.”

“Here? In Tokyo?”

“Yeah. For a while. Got some work to do.”

 

Transfiguration © copyright 2023 Peter K. Schipper

Change My Heart, O God © Eddie Espinosa, 1982