Unlikely Papists

In addition to challenging our ideas about acceptable food condiments (mayonnaise on pizza) and cold medication (Chinese herbs instead of NyQuil), living in Japan has forced us to rethink the North American notion of church shopping. A couple weeks ago, Kellyn and I decided to resume our search for a church home. Previous Sunday mornings spent trying to bumble our way through sermons and praise choruses in Japanese caused us to opt for the only English language church service in Sapporo: 12:30 mass at the downtown Roman Catholic cathedral.

Despite our attempt at an inconspicuous entrance, a 6’6’’ African acolyte approached us less than 45 seconds after we sat down in a pew near the back. After a warm hello, he asked if we would lead the Old Testament and Epistle readings for the day. Our perplexed stares caused him to open our service bulletins for us, point to the passages in Isaiah and Thessalonians, and repeat his question. We sheepishly consented and moments later found ourselves processing toward the altar in the company of the priest and said acolyte. Kellyn and I now made up two of the four people leading the mass. Wondering how we ended up here, I remembered someone once saying that we don’t find Jesus, he finds us. It must be roughly the same with Catholicism.
We stood altarside awaiting our cue. I glanced out at the pews and tried to guess how many of the 40 or so congregants knew that Kellyn and I had no idea what we were doing. Following the opening lines of the liturgy, Kellyn read from Isaiah and led the repository psalm as if she’d been a papist since birth. I then voiced my best rendition of Pauline prose into the microphone, after which we scurried back to our distant pew and spent the remainder of the service comfortably out of sight.

At the conclusion of the service, we were called to the front, asked to introduce ourselves to the congregation, and invited to practice Christmas carols with the international choir for Christmas Eve mass. Our acceptance of this invitation led to a meal and a three-hour practice during which I learned that I don’t know how to sing any other part but the melody, which isn’t helpful because I’m a baritone. We left the cathedral not sure if we were fully prepared to sing in the Christmas Eve mass, but, then again, we weren’t prepared to help lead the mass on our first visit either.

I’ve often heard that churches outside North America function more like families than country clubs, but, until two weeks ago, I didn’t understand that this might make church shopping a little more difficult. Our friends at the cathedral viewed us more as participants than onlookers, and I don’t think it would make much sense to them for us not to come back. This is perhaps a much-needed challenge to our conception of church hunting.