the Philippines,” they might have said during their tenure of two years in Kobe. “Money is a given. The church needs to involve younger people more directly in service,” they intoned. “We need more potluck suppers.” And most emphatically, “This church should never invade principal. The endowment guarantees the long term survival of this effort. Good stewardship begins with husbanding resources for the future.” Store up not riches Owen often thought, hearing these sentiments, but never said out loud. The P & G VPs were, in fact, his preferred target audience. They were articulate, open to challenge, full of grace and guile—worthy sparring mates.
This particular Sunday Owen had resolved on a novel tack-—an exposition of not Christ but Judas.
“I thought we might embark on a kind of quest for the historical Judas,” Owen said and checked to see if anyone got his little joke. No one nodded, although Owen imagined there was some subterranean appreciation among the Hesseltines. “Notice what Christ says to Judas in various gospels—let’s try some reading. Could you?” “Owen pointed to a thick-waisted American at the far end of the oval table.
“Luke 22:47 says . . . He drew near to Jesus to kiss him; but Jesus said to him, ‘Judas, would you betray the Son of Man with a kiss?’ and Matthew 26: 47 says, “Judas said Hail Master’ and Jesus replied, ‘Friend, why are you here?’ Mark says Jesus said nothing to Judas, although he mentions to others that his betrayer is at hand when he sees Judas and the priests arriving; “
“Let’s stop there and compare, ‘Would you betray the son of man with a kiss,’ and ‘Friend, why are you here?’”
“Compare what?” the thick waisted reader said, easily, without a speck of hostility.
“Good question,” Owen countered—”maybe Christ’s state of knowledge about Judas at the time.”
“State of knowledge?”
“What was Christ thinking?”
Jena said, “In Luke he knows what’s going to happen, but in Matthew he doesn’t seem to know.”
“Yes,” Owen said, too loudly. “And what does that suggest?”
“That a part knew and a part didn’t.”
“Yes,” Owen answered, “a part knows and a part doesn’t—the part of Christ that knows we might call, what?”
“Maybe it means Matthew and Luke disagree about what happened.” Archie said.
“Yeah, maybe.” Owen answered,” But what can we do with that thought?”
“Do we have to do something with the thought?” the thick reader said, again without hostility.
Owen thought, he’s like a hillbilly philosopher. “I’d like to,” Owen answered, “but maybe we should consider why Judas acted as he did?”
“It was the money,” the husky American reader said. “The thirty pieces of silver.”
“Profit then?” Owen answered.
“He wanted to ingratiate himself with the Sanhedrin,” Archie said.
“He knew he was on the wrong side and he was going to avoid losing by betraying Christ,” Jena added.
2
Later the rector said, “You know Owen, Yasuko said you shouldn’t spend so much time on Judas, when most people don’t even know Christ.”
Owen watched the rector carefully—was there a trace of smile in his tone, a put-on, was that it? Or was there a message beyond the irony and the knowing comradeship of being evaluated by Yasuko.
“I wanted them to think about God’s will and Judas, God’s plan and Judas. Wasn’t Judas necessary?”
“Betrayal was necessary. Judas wasn’t necessary. And fully culpable.” The rector said, running a fat hand through his thinning hair, slicking it straight back off the red ellipse of his birth marked forehead. “Fully culpable.”
“I think it’s like being a Christian in Japan, isn’t it?”
“How so?”
“You have to reconceptualize it—in different terms, beyond the categories in the Gospel.”
“I don’t follow,” the rector answered, peering beyond Owen toward the French doors that blocked entrance to the wide circular room, for dining or meeting downstairs.
“Maybe we’re too hard on the Japanese Christian community—” Owen said.
“There is one?” the rector replied.
“Oh, I think so, but it’s not the same as we might like. It’s not had an easy time.”
“What’s the point?” the rector smiled “Maybe only that—I don’t know.” Owen answered.
“Pray on it, my boy,” the rector continued “Ask and it shall be given to you.”
“If you say so.”
“I don’t say anything.” the rector corrected him. “Now why don’t we get some coffee and rolls.” He motioned toward the doors.
“I only meant that I didn’t understand how hard it was to be Christian for Japanese, until I came here. How unusual it makes you, how vulnerable, how separated from the flows of life here.” Owen continued while the rector nipped slowly at a tiny cinnamon roll. They stood against the vast curving windows of the meeting room, looking down the hill past the train lines, past the accumulated concrete apartment complexes and small shops to the erector set, shipyard cranes in Kobe’s harbor.
“It’s no stand to be a Christian in the states,” Owen continued.
“Try it in the Navy” the rector said.
“It’s still within the norm, still permitted, admired even.”
“Admired?” the rector’s eyes sparkled.
“Still within the parameters.”
“Ah, parameters—there’s a recent concept.”
“I’m only saying that within the category of thinking, you could imagine all the Christian message and still feel as if you were normal, acceptable, worthy. There might be embarrassment, but surely no shame. No shame.”
“So what’s the point?” the rector said, still staring down the hill. The windows were thick and imposing, lined with bronze straps and ratcheted into chrome holders.
“The point, the point is that it’s not that way to be a Christian here—nothing provides for that decision. Nothing makes it all right. Everything makes it wrong.”
“Everything?”
“Yes, everything, and you have to admire any Japanese who does it.”
“Most do it to learn English,” the rector said, smiling at
