Stranger in a strange land

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

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

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