Stretch, Matt. Just try and resituate yourself. There’s plenty of space between you and-
My train of thought was interrupted as I lost my balance, bumping into my girlfriend as we both kneeled in the crowded assembly. She glared at me, slightly irritated, but turned away, granting me a reprieve.
Before we both returned to Texas for classes, I had the opportunity last summer to visit her in her hometown of Mitsuke, Japan. One entente we made was that I would attend prayer services at her local Buddhist temple. To be honest, I hadn’t given it much thought. A Christian of no particular denomination, I saw no reason to pass up the opportunity. Now, here we were with what seemed like hundreds of worshipers in the middle of the day. I struggled to follow their rhythmic chanting, as the faithful bent down further in the cramped chamber, nearly prostrate before a large, ornate statue of the Reclining Buddha.
Spiritual moments often have a certain air about them; you feel as though you’re at the precipice of something far bigger than yourself, something beyond your worldly understanding. As I mentally whined about the ascetic position I found myself in, I was gifted with the clarity to reflect on the many such occurrences I had witnessed during my travels that year.
In Scandinavia, I touched an arcane Viking Rune stone and pondered about the old pagan artisan who crafted it. To what deity had his thoughts turned to as he labored?
The aged Lutheran parishes of Stockholm also gave reason for pause. The Church of Sweden was a direct product of the same forces that provided precedent for all Protestantism, including the denominations that claim most of my immediate family as adherents. A movement that started with a man nailing pieces of paper to a door somehow connected these old churches half a world away with the little Church of Christ in rural Comanche, Texas, where my great-grandparents took me as a child.
My mind returned to the present situation in Mitsuke. Though we had known one another for years and confided much, the woman who brought me to this congested, intensely focused room had never explained much about her own faith, and I was a bit surprised to see how devout she actually was. In contrast, I was always hesitant to establish roots within my own religion. Attending numerous churches in my life, it has been difficult to settle on just one that celebrated Christ in a way where I would feel comfortable. I envied her at that moment, her eyes closed in deep meditation, awash in her own unshaken sense of place with her temple. She knew the bedrock upon which her faith rested. By comparison, I was a wanderer without a home.
Sometime later, we were hiking through the small, scenic mountains which hugged the Japanese countryside. No sooner had we started to ascend, than a small stone box, perhaps knee-high, with a shabby, tiled roof came into view along the side of the road. Surrounding it were coins, unopened cans of soda, and other trinkets. Nonplussed, I sought an explanation.
“Yumiko-Chan, what’s this?”
“The house of a Yama no Kami, a mountain spirit. This is his road, and travelers give him donations out of respect.”
Admittedly, I knew little of Shinto, but at that moment, eyes drawn onto that web-encrusted little box, I found myself thumbing through my wallet. With a small smile, I noticed my fingers traced upon a purple-tinged bill of Swedish money that had been so commonplace on my person in the previous months.
Connections. Those old Nordic churches, a small Texas parish, a grand Buddhist temple…and now this little box.
I realized, then, that the world’s faiths, in their many incarnations, seemed to reach out to that elusive spark of the Divine. Maybe someday I could settle on my own choice of Christian doctrine and find a congregation to call home.
I set the money down near a bottle of what seemed to be citrus soda, bowed, and we went on our way.