Jim Rogers

Even though my major is in creative writing, I haven''t really done much of my own personal writing in a while now. Just check the post dates on this blog and you should be able to see how irregular it has been. I used to write more often, but I've lost track of it for a while. Even my paper journals on my bookshelf have gotten a little dusty. I do kind of miss writing, so, it's time to get back into it.

I decided to get back into the habit by trying to type out a journal entry for at least ten minutes every day when I'm on the train into Chicago. One of the best ways to sort though your thoughts is to simply sit down and type them out, or get a journal and write them down. It's surprising how well you can find out what is in your own mind, and even being to sort through some difficult conflicts by just simply writing your way through it. It's almost like having a conversation.

Many of the old famous American authors (Walden, Franklin, Thoreau) assembled their greatest works by skimming through old journal entries and eventually developing them into an entire series of books. So, I would encourage everyone to set aside ten minutes, at least a few times a week, and just write whatever comes to mind. Use the whole time to write and think, even if you run out of things to say. Don't worry if you don't already have some ideas when you first sit down. You don't have to write an entire book, and it doesn't have to be fancy either. Just write!

After you have done that for a few weeks, look back on your entries and see if there are any themes that seem to repeat themselves. Doing this could even help you find out what kind of things you love and are passionate about if you aren't already very clear in that area.

If you need a little motivation, a friend of mine recommended a tool called Write or Die! Write or die is a web application (there is also an iPad and Desktop version) that you can use to get yourself writing. A word goal and time goal can both be set. If you get distracted, WoD will start implementing consequences from a friendly popup reminder, up to automatically deleting words, to keep you thinking and writing. I'm using WoD right now to finish this post. :)

Get writing. Try Write or Die. Let's see what we can come up with.
www.writeordie.com

It's five in the evening as I sit at my desk; a small metal desk with a black scratched, flat surface. The kind of desk that might have once been used in an old classroom. On the desk are loose piles of old papers and projects, and a pile of books I have stacked off to the side in an attempt to make room. On each side of the desk is a tall, black bookcase. Each shelf is completely filled with books which, along with the humidity of this basement, have caused the shelves to become bowed at the middle where the shelf bears the heaviest load. One rectangular window, about three feet across, lets in some white sunlight, or a rusty colored glow at the end of the day. Other than that, there is one bare light-bulb on a tall lamp stand behind me. Besides for the faint sound of the TV upstairs – it is quiet. Whenever I notice that a room is quiet, the silence becomes the most noticeable thing there is. Sometimes the quiet sounds less like peace, and more like a voice that is saying something that I don't want to hear. I try to keep busy, or at least distract myself, because sometimes silence can be the most terrifying sound there is. When everything is quiet, the only thing I have to listen to is my own soul. That is a hard thing to do, especially if it has been a long time since I have really listened.

In my experience with Christian faith, I have become familiar with a verse of scripture that is well-known within this community: “Whatever you do, do for the glory of God”. I have always struggled to know exactly what this looks like, and what kinds of things in life really matter. I don't always take the time to appreciate my own life. I suppose I have done more than the average person has by the age of twenty-six, but it is sometimes difficult to appreciate the beauty that I have in front of me right now. This is why I like to sit at this small desk, slightly too tall, on a chair that is slightly too short, and write. I get to tell all the stories that I didn't notice as they happened. I get to share the details that I rushed right past and didn't take the time to notice. I get to appreciate the people I've met that I regretfully held my heart back from when we were face to face.

I have noticed that the most important things that have ever happened to me are the things that I didn't even notice when they happened. Dirty hands from hard work, a pen to paper, a simple action well done. There is an idea in East Asian thinking that excellence can happen in the smallest of actions and details. Any apparently routine action can be turned into an art form - even making a simple cup of tea.

***

I had met my friend Anthony Miyafuji at a Japanese Bible study in Chicago. He had been an English and Japanese teacher both in the USA and in Japan. I had been interested in East Asian culture for some time now, and Anthony was the person who took my interest, and guided me to learn almost everything I now know about East Asia. He eventually convinced me that I would make a good English teacher, as well. In the summer of 2008, we decided to go to a Japanese cultural event at the Japanese Consulate Center in downtown Chicago. The Consulate Center has regularly held events like these to present some of the traditional aspects of Japanese culture to interested attendees. Today we would be viewing a demonstration of chadou (茶道), which translates to “the way of tea” - a tea ceremony.

Anthony and I walked out of the elevator and into the basement room where the other people were gathering for the event. Everything looked like a typical hotel meeting room – gray carpets, pillars coming down from the ceiling in regular intervals around the room, and dim lighting – except for the woven-grass tatami mat in the middle of the room that set apart the place where the ceremony would be held. The act of performing a tea ceremony is called otemae (お手前 ), and was heavily influenced by Zen Buddhism. Powdered green tea, called matcha (抹茶), is carefully prepared and presented to the guests. Depending on the type of ceremony, light confections are also sometimes served, or a full course meal that can last up to four hours. Tea is said to have first been brought into Japan by Buddhist monks returning from China. Over time, tea came to be used in religious rituals and developed a unique set of aesthetic techniques and philosophies. Aspects like one's interior refinement, humility, and simplicity were emphasized in both the practitioners of the ceremony, and in the actual location in which they were held. The perfection required of the ceremony was a reminder of one's own emptiness, and need for continual personal development.

Anthony motioned that the ceremony was about to begin. Two small wooden tables made out of dark wood sat on the tatami mat. A ceramic jar of matcha, the bowl that would be used to serve the tea, and a thin bamboo scoop used for the tea powder, all lay in their proper places on the tables. A man wearing a simple blue kimono, white tabi socks with the split toe, and woven bamboo sandals walked slowly up to the tatami mat. He knelt down on his knees on the tatami mat, and bowed to the woman on the other side of the mat, who would be the guest for the ceremony. The woman returned the gesture, after which the man moved up towards the implements, and reached his hand out towards the tea pot.

***

It was May of 2011, and my second time going to El Salvador. Myself, and nine other men and women from a church in the Chicago suburb of Aurora had come to help out with the construction of a long-awaited medical clinic in the poor city of Santo Tomas, about a twenty minute car ride outside the capital city of San Salvador, which still has serious problems with gangs, drugs, and violence. Every building has a security guard with at least a machete, some with shotguns or assault rifles. The organization we would be spending the week with, Harvesting in Spanish, had been trying to secure the land rights to be able to build this clinic, but the efforts were constantly impeded by the owner of the neighboring property. Why he was so opposed to this project was unknown to me. After some court battles, the rights had finally been secured to build on the land. The project was being funded by various donors who had knew about the work of Harvesting in Spanish, and thought the project would be a worthwhile cause considering the other nearest medical clinic was about twenty-five miles out of town, and for some people, that could mean walking.

I walked out the door of the dorm we were staying in. Some of the group had already gone out front, and some were still getting ready in the room. The alley ran past all of the other dorms, some of which were for visitors, and some that were for the permanent workers who lived in the compound. There was a iron fence that surrounded this half of the compound on top of a stone wall. Ivy and flowers grew across the fence and along the ground. Looking past the fence, there were tall hills and palm trees as far back as I could see. Makeshift houses and a church were interspersed between within them, and a dirt path led out to somewhere I couldn't see. A piece of fruit fell from one of the tall trees and and made a metallic ding as it hit the corrugated tin roof that covered the alley.

After we had all loaded into the flatbed pickup truck, that we had affectionately dubbed “The Truck of Death”. If you had been standing in back hanging onto the metal framework, that I assume must have been meant for a canvas cover, and going about 40MPH in the cold monsoon season rain, on a mountain road with sharp curves, and about a one-thousand foot drop down on each side – you would understand why we chose that name. I should probably also mention that The Truck of Death had bad brakes, which sounded like the metal on metal screech of a locomotive whenever they were slammed down as we were going down a hill so that we would not crash through a fence or something else. The security guard opened the gates and we started out up the hill, over the stone driveway. You could make in through the small town outside the compound in just a few minutes, but it was filled with character. Those who had never come here before were talking to among themselves, and some of them were trying not to fall out of the back of the truck by hanging onto the metal frame that covered us, though the canvas cover was missing. I looked around and tried to take in the scene. I made eye contact with a young girl in a school uniform waiting on the corner for the bus to arrive. She didn't show any emotion back, just followed the truck with her eyes has we turned the corner. Her mother and some other girls stood and waited with her. A few tiendas lined the side of the road. North American stomachs can't handle raw Salvadorian food, so we only bought things that had been vacuum-sealed whenever we visited them during our stay. Every window and door is barred and locked, even during daytime hours. Robbery is not uncommon here, especially towards visitors. If you want to buy something, you hand your money through the bars and the girl will pass your items through a rectangular opening. Her mother and family can usually be seen inside of the shop, which often doubles as the family's house. A used tired shop, which was essentially three walls of tires with a sign hung across them on a metal pole, and bars lined the side of the road. There was plenty of prostitution and drunkenness at night.

We arrived at the front of the construction site, and our driver honked the horn enough times to attract the attention of everyone within hearing distance. A stone wall surrounded the site, with a corrugated tin gateway in front, which could be locked and unlocked. The latch was opened, and a security guard opened both of the doors. The half-built clinic stood in the middle of the site, the small mountains of dirt, discarded construction supplies, broken cinder blocks, and a few tool shacks. Rebar framework stretched up into the sky, and the second floor of the compound was held up by countless adjustable pillars. We would be pouring the concrete foundation on the far side of the building.

We all jumped out of the pickup truck as it backed towards the large hill of mud that we would be using as part of the mix for the construction. We unloaded all the shovels, five-gallon buckets, pick axes and water bottles, and started our work as a small colony of manual backhoes. Some were at the top of the hill, which was about ten feet high, using the pickaxe to tumble down large chunks of sand and dirt, while others were at the bottom filling up buckets and handing them to me and Matt, who were standing in the flatbed scooping it all towards the front. Matt adjusted his blue bandana and wiped his forehead after a momentary delay with the buckets, “I could do this all day.”

After we had loaded the truck to capacity with the dirt, our driver took the truck to the back of the clinic where the cement mixer was. The group walked behind, since there was no longer room for us in the back of the truck. “I bet this is what they have for us all week”, Dave, the organizer of our group, said. Everyone was wiping their foreheads or drinking from their water bottles, but still talking and joking with each other. We all reached the cement mixer, with all of our shovels and buckets, and took down the metal flaps on the side of the pickup. Reuben had to slam one of the metal pegs out with a wrench. The weight of all the dirt and the old metal didn't make unloading the dirt easy. Alfredo, our driver and also the one who would be supervising us during our work. He was Salvadorian and had been working with the organization for some time. He was probably in his early fourties and will still able to work hard. He wore a tan military type of cap on his head. Alfredo yanked the starting cord on the gas-powered mixer a few times. The handle for the cord had fallen off and all that was left was a knot you had to get between your fingers and pull without letting it slip. Bob held down the mixer so it wouldn't slip and fall down into the pit we would be filling that week – which was about ten feet deep, five wide, and one hundred long. The cinder block sides of the clinic were exposed on the other side.

Alfredo motioned to the group. “Ten buckets dirt. One water. Two scoops cement.” And that was essentially what we would be repeating for the rest of the week. The crew divided into tasks – some on the truck shoveling down the dirt into a pile, some at a water pit filling the buckets for the cement mix, and I stood next to the mixer to shovel it down into the pit when it was ready. There was a makeshift chute made out of corrugated tin that was tied onto the cement mixer with a wire that pointed down into the pit. Matt crawled down onto the bottom to spread the cement when it came down. I looked down and he made a thumbs up, and picked up his shovel. The rest of the crew started dumping the buckets into the mixer, which was spinning and ready to go. Ten buckets of dirt. One bucket of water. One scoops of cement. I looked around at the landscape after the last bucket was mixing. There were houses and shops that were mostly randomly built and scattered throughout the surrounding mountains. Some looked more sturdy. Some were made out of random junk and looked like that could topple like a house of cards. The denser city of San Salvador could be seen far off in the distance. Everything was calm except for the loud engine of the cement mixer.

***

The man leading the tea ceremony picked up the empty ceramic tea pot. Nothing was done quickly or carelessly. Every movement was intentional. Tea tea pot was filled with water, and placed carefully onto the portable stove that was set in the corner of the tatami mat, and left until it was ready to boil. The guest waited silently. She waited in the rei position, feet tucked under her legs, with hands flat on the legs. Even after spending a few years studying Japanese martial arts, I was still never never able to find any way to make this position comfortable, and would usually switch my legs slightly to the side while the teacher wasn't looking to take some of the pressure off of my muscles. The water began to boil, so the man reached for the small bowl that would be used to serve the tea. He placed it carefully into front of him on one of the wooden stools. He reached again for the small jar of powdered tea, and the delicate bamboo scoop carefully balanced on the lid of the jar. Two or three small scoops were put into the bowl. The boiling tea pot was picked up, and water was slowly poured onto the dried tea, and then placed back onto the stove. A bamboo whisk was used to stir the tea into the boiling water. These whisks are made of out one piece of bamboo, with one end cut into very thin strips, then folded back on each other and fastened together to make the shape of the whisk. The hot water became slightly foamy as air was beaten into it. The whisk was placed back with the other implements, and the man used both handed to take the bowl up from the table. Turning the bowl around so that it's front would face the proper direction, he held it out towards the guest, who also took with with two hands and held it up to her lips. The water continued to boil in the tea pot, the air bubbles against the inside of the ceramic made a crackling sound – like the kind you hear when you step onto the ice of a pond in winter and realize that the ice hasn't yet frozen all the way. I kept watching the pot, thinking that it would break any second.

***

The dirt and concrete continued to spin in the mixer. The rocks that been mixed with the sand and dirt crackled against the metal drum in a rhythmic time. We had been working for a few days now and it was beginning to take its toll. The buckets of dirt were not as bad as the 120lbs bags of cement that had to be carried up the hill that led to the cement mixer, and I lost track of how many loads we had done. This load was ready to pour, so Alfredo snapped the latch out of the gears that held the drum in place, and the the weight of the mixture turn the drum onto the tin chute we had made. The cement mix must have had slightly too much water because it splashed onto my jeans, and ricocheted onto Matt's blue bandana as it pour down the chute into the ditch. He turned his head and shielded his face. I began to use my shovel to scrape the rest of the cement mix into the ditch, so that it wouldn't dry and cause us problems later. Metal on metal, and the shovel would sometimes get stuck on a tag of metal that had broken off of the bottom of the chute from wear. Alfredo pulled the drum back into position for the next load. I wiped some sweat from my forehead as the crew began to fill the next load into the mixer. I took off my glove and put some more sunscreen on my face – I always get easily sunburned. We were pretty close to the equator and I could feel it. My work had breaks in between loads of concrete, so I spent most of the time thinking. I looked around at the construction scene. The last of the dirt was being shoveled off of the flatbed truck. The pit of water was now almost empty, and Alfredo was trying to reach towards the bottom to fill up another bucket for the concrete. Some of the mor worn out members were leaning against a wall from an adjacent building. Bob was sitting on an upside-down bucket taking a drinking from his water bottle, and Reuben was leaning against his shovel next to the truck.

Not too many people knew I was in El Salvador. I had only told my plans to my immediate family, and a few friends and relatives. People in the town knew the clinic was being built, but they would never know that I helped build it. We had only filled the ditched a few feet high, and it would probably have to be completed by another group. Some members of the group were on the far end of the ditch, were the concrete still has not been laid. They painted the sides of the brick with white paint to protect it from moisture. Most people in the world probably don't even know that Santo Tomas even exists. As the cement splashed down onto the chute again, I started thinking about the town around me. Giovanni came to mind. His house had been nearly wiped out from the mudslide last year that came down from the surrounding mountains. Half his house went down with the onslaught of dirt and rocks. He had was just about finished rebuilding it. Old truck tires mixed with sand and dirt were used for the foundation. Cinder blocks and rebar for the walls. A tarp was stretched over the section of the house that still didn't have a roof. Last I heard, his son was in the hospital with malaria. I started trying to force myself to be happy thinking of the people that would be helped by this clinic – which would hopefully be completed within the next year, if the funds kept coming in, and I did start to feel a new attitude building. As a finishing touch, one of women that was painting the inside of the brickes painted “OVCC” on the side of the wall, for Orchard Valley Community Church. It would eventually be covered with cement and dirt. The mixer engine spun loudly, waiting for one of the last loads to the day to be finished.

***

The woman finished drinking the tea. “How do you think of it?” “It's perfect, I'm sure” she replied. With two hands, she held it out to the man, who took it with two hands and placed it on the small stool next to him. They both put their hands on the floor in front of them, and bowed to each other. The man put the tea jar back in it's place, and carefully balanced the bamboo scoop on top of the lid. The bowl was placed next to the jar, along with all the other implements. They bowed to each other again, and the woman slowly got up, and walked away from the tatami. The man in his blue kimono bowed again, and by this signaled that the ceremony was completed. “You said you have never seen a tea ceremony before, right?” Anthony asked. “This is my first time seeing one.” Some of the crowd started walking back towards the stairs, and some of them walked around to look at the ikebana flower arrangements. Me and Anthony started walking towards the door. I left the brochure for the program on one of the tables that didn't have flowers on it. I was already carrying too much in my shoulder back to want anything more. The tea pot was still boiling when we started walking out the door. And I still thought it might crack any second. 

Below is a draft of a paper engaging with an idea I have been considering much more recently: what does it mean to live an excellent life? What does "meaningful" really mean? I decided to use a moment I had when I was on a missions trip to El Salvador in May 2012. I realized that small things are what Jesus considers at the end of days when he will say, "well done, good and faithful sevant". I also used some examples from East Asian culture. This paper is not fully developed and still lack some necessary scene and clarity, but this is what I have as of right now.  Comments and questions are appreciated.

Read the rest of this post »

Things have been going well in El Salvador. On day two, we spend most of the day visiting some of the Spanish-speaking churches in the capital, and another one at the Shalom Home children's home. Last year, a few of the kids decided they would like to start their own worship band and, after a year of practice, we got to see them this year and they have improved quite a bit since they first started. I was excited to see that they took the initiative in that and have come so far. It will be good to see how that all goes if I get another chance to come again next year. 

Today, we mostly did construction work for the future clinic. This will be the only clinic within 25 miles of its location in Santiago Texacuangos. We mostly did work on the foundation around the outer wall before the dirt gets poured in. This involves filling up a flatbed truck with dirt, driving the truck up a hill, then uploading it in front of the cement mixer - all by hand, of course. 

Lately, I have been re-evaluating what it means to really live for God. In Matthew 25, there is a verse that says, "and the righteous said to him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry, or naked, or homeless and feed you, clothe you, or give you a place to stay?'" I have been wondering if our "live for God/full time ministry" culture we have within the church can sometimes be detremental if understood the wrong way. Today, God wasn't in a superministry or megachurch - God was in the hands of men and women who were on the corner of an intersection of a small town most of the world does not even know exists. Because He was, lives will be saved and improved for years to come as people begin to come to the clinic to get care they would have never been able to receive before. Even many of the Salvadorian people in this small town may never know they were here. The righteous in the parable did not even realize they have been serving God all along. That seems to be how God does many of His important things. 

After a long day of travel, we are finally at the end of our first day in El Salvador. There were no major delays in travel, except for a minor luggage problem which set us back about 45 minutes, but it's better than the few hours we were set back last year. 

There are some photos posted up here, and I will try to post some video and photos every day. I will not have time to edit too many of them, so they will be a little rough and I will put together a more decent collection after I return home on 8/6. 

We are mostly here to work on a new medical clinic that Shalom Home is putting up for the local community. Easily solved health issues are one of the biggest concerns in this area of El Salvador. You can see my previous entry on El Salvador for a quick overview of the country. The work days will be shorter than last year, so we will have more time to spend with the kids. Not being able to spend enough time with them was one of the slightly disappointing aspects of last year's trip. Besides the clinic, there are also numerous minor projects that we will get to as we can.

Today was the orientation and travel day. Tomorrow, we will be spending some time doing sunday school with the kids, then heading off to the church in the capital. After that, we will spend some time at one of the better shopping malls in the country for lunch, and give us a chance to pick up anything we might have forgotten from Chicago. We are here with one larger group from Arizona, mostly younger students, and there will be one more group coming in tomorrow. Our construction work on the clinic will begin on Monday morning.

As for personal concerns, I want to make sure I am completely other focused during the course of this trip and just make sure that I display the character of Jesus in everything that I do. I am pretty involved with multicultural settings and have been overseas a few times now. There is a danger to me that my trips can become routine and that I don't engage to the level that I could. Remembering that "God's story is not all about me" is always helpful in getting my focus right. I hope that I will grow in love and grow in the knowledge that the things God notices most the simple acts of love that we have the opportunity to display everyday in any setting.

There is a change in the El Salvadorian government right now that will make it possible for the kids to be sent back to their parents away from the children's homes - even if their parents are homeless, drug addicts, or prostitutes. Pray that they will be allowed to stay in the orphanages and children's homes where they can have much more opportunity available than they would on the street - where they are likely to also become prostitutes and gang members.

I will post pictures, video, and a blog entry everyday. They are unedited and more freeform, which is a bit of a challenge for me since I like my writing to be more polished and organized. Feel free to leave your comments and questions.

Sadao Watanabe (1913 – 1996) was a Japanese print-maker from Tokyo, Japan. Watanabe is best known for his Mingei (common people's art) style prints of various Biblical scenes and figures, such as Adam and Eve, Abraham, Moses, and The Last Supper. Although he was a student of Serizawa Keisuke, one of the key artists in the Mingei folk art movement, Watanabe never achieved the same level of fame as other key figures in this movement. Watanabe was held is special regard by the Christian church in Japan, though, where he was considered to be one of their “claim(s) to fame”¹.

Before the Meiji era, Japan was a feudal society. The emperor ruled over all Japanese territory and regional warlords, called daimyo, ruled over districts which were given to them by the authority of the emperor². Despite this, Japan was still divided by not only geography, but also by wars between rival clans and factions of these regional warlords. Because of the separation between regions in Japan, each area of Japan developed its own unique crafts and skills³. Okinawa was famous for its textile dying process and artist style called bingata. This style of dying textiles is what later influenced Serizawa Keisuke in his development of the katazome process of textile dying, and later, and artist from Tokyo, Japan named Sadao Watanabe. Watanabe was famous for his mingei representations of Biblical scenes. Even though the Christian faith has gone through various degrees of acceptance and persecution in Japanese history, it has, for the most part, not been a large part of Japanese culture. Artists like Watanabe are interesting, in that, they were able to meld together a style of artistic expression which was considered to have an established history and acceptance within Japanese culture, and use it to express the themes, ideas, and histories of a foreign Christian faith within a Japanese context and in a way that Japanese people would be able to relate to and understand.

Mingei art was first conceived at the end of the Taisho era⁴ around 1912-26, although factors that led to the eventual development of this movement were in play long before this time. Soetsu Yanagi is generally recognized as the key figure in the advent of Mingei art⁵. Mingei art was unique in the Japanese world in that it was generally made by anonymous artists, inexpensive, easily produced in mass quantity by hand, and meant to be used in everyday life. Before 1871, the concept of fine art did not exist in Japanese thought⁶. This can be shown by the fact that two new Japanese words were coined during this time in order to describe this new concept, bijutsu (art) and geijutsu (the fine arts)⁷. The objects which are now included in this category (primarily textiles and ceramics) were considered to be purely utilitarian, and objects were considered to be beautiful only so much as they were useful⁸.

Before the Meiji era, Japan closed itself off to the rest of the world for a period of about two hundred years⁹, with some special exceptions made to Chinese and Dutch traders who were permitted to come to port in Nagasaki. After the emperor Meiji reopened Japan to the rest of the world, there was a craze for all things Western. Japan also experienced its own industrial revolution, which resulted in the cheap and efficient manufacturing of goods. Many traditional craftsmen families were forced to take jobs in factories¹⁰. These, and other factors, resulted in traditional Japanese cultural heritage being put aside for the Victorian Western tastes of the time.

Soetsu Yanagi was one of the first Japanese artists to understand the views of traditional Japanese craftsmanship and the new aesthetic theories which were being imported into Japan from the Western world. Yanagi thought that the traditional, spontaneous, and anonymous aspects of traditional craftsmanship were superior to highly stylized formal artistic theories and founded the Japan Folk Art Association to begin the promotion of Mingei folk art in Japan¹¹.

Throughout human history, the process of dying and decorating crafts is among one of the oldest arts. Within the Mingei movement, one of the best known textile dyers is Serizawa Keisuke. Serizawa used a method of textile dying called katazome. As mentioned above, each region of Japan was famous for its own crafts and skills. Katazome style was influenced by a much older artist process called bingata, which came from Okinawa. Okinawa is most famous for its textile dying. In this process, stencils are used along with a resist paste to determine where color will be applied onto the fabric. The use of stencils is considered to be a key aspect in the integration of this process with the mingei movement as the stencil work allows pieces to be crafted in large production and allow the creation of multiple copies of a single design¹². One year after Yanagi founded the Japanese Folk Art Museum, Serizawa exhibited his textile art. One of Serizawa's key students was Sadao Watanabe.

Watanabe was born and raised in Tokyo, Japan. Dropping out of school early because of the death of his father, Watanabe began work in a fabric dyer's shop. Watanabe had attended the exhibition of Serizawa's art, which was a key point in Watanabe pursuing further artistic studies. A few years after this, Watanabe attended Serizawa's lectures on the katazome technique, and became a life-long student of Serizawa¹³.

Christianity is generally said to have been introduced to Japan in the mid-16th century by missionaries from Portugal, the most famous of these being Francis Xavier, though there is some evidence in converted Shinto shrines that it may have been brought to Japan much earlier (around the year 500CE) through the efforts of the Nestorian Christians who came East through China and eventually to Japan¹⁴. The efforts of the Portuguese missionaries were very successful until the Tokugawa government feared that these missionary efforts would threaten the stability of Japanese society and open doors for a foreign conquest of Japan. Christianity was banned by the Tokugawa government and all foreign missionaries were forced to leave Japan.¹⁵ Much of the church went underground, but the Tokugawa government did not stop at merely banning Christianity. Thousands of Christians and missionaries were persecuted and tortured, some renouncing their Christian faith and many being martyred.

Although Japan has since reopened its borders to the rest of the world, and there is no prohibition on the practice of any specific religion, the Christian church in Japan never seems to have returned to what it was in the days of Xavier. The cause of this lack of popularity is a social issue that is far beyond the topic of this article, but one of the main causes is that being a Japanese Christian sets one apart in a culture where unity and community are a key aspect in society. John Sagers, professor of East Asian history at Linfield College says, “It is very difficult to be Japanese and Christian at the same time. You can be Shinto and Buddhist at the same time, but Christianity requires absolute obedience to the one true God to the exclusion of all others. That becomes a real break with the Japanese Christian and his or her family”¹⁶

Even Watanabe was at first reluctant about becoming a Christian, as he thought it, “had the smell of butter”, which was a Japanese expression used for something that might be too foreign for comfort. Watanabe's prints are done in katazome style on crumpled paper instead of on fabric, like Serizawa. This paper was called momogami and was made from the mulberry tree by craftsmen who had specialized in this paper-making technique. Watanabe's paper prints are influenced a style of fabric dying from Okinawa called bingata. Okinawa is the region in Japan that is most well-known for its fabric dying style and color schemes – which were primarily composed of yellow, green, blue, and always included red. Eventually, Watanabe married Harue Yoshimizu, who came from a paper-making family herself. She made the paper Watanabe used for his prints, as well as prepared the soy milk for her husband's pigments.

Watanabe felt that the characteristics of Jesus Christian also corresponded well with the Mingei style of art. Watanabe said of his prints, “I would most like to see them hanging where people ordinarily gather, because Jesus brought the gospel for the people.”¹⁷

One of Watanabe's most famous prints is a mingei-style rendition of The Last Supper. Many variations of this subject were created by Watanabe, some excluding or including Judas, possibly Mary Magdalene, and some in vertical format with or without a background.

This print The Last Supper was created in a horizontal composition, similar to the painting of the same subject many people are familiar with by Leonardo DaVinci, with the table arranged horizontally across the print and Christ with his disciples arranged in two horizontal rows of six people each. The first thing we notice is the bold colors, particularly in the background. As mingei was influenced by the bingata style of textile dying from Okinawa, it includes the colors yellow, green, blue, and always red, which is the color of the background. There is no information shown to us in the background and this composition focuses strictly on the subject matter itself, without giving us much information about the setting in which this scene might have taken place.

One of the ways in which we can see that this print has been “made Japanese” is by the food that Jesus Christ and his disciples are eating – small bowls of sake and sushi, rather than bread and wine. Jesus and his disciples are also wearing kimono clothing rather than robes, as might be depicted in a painting done by an artist from the West. The kimono includes the colors which were always included in the bingata style, and are decorated in various patterns.

Let us move on to the subjects themselves. Jesus Christ is easy to discern in this print as he is the central figure at the table and is also differentiated from the other people at the table by a small halo which has been placed behind his head. It is difficult to discern which specific disciple each on of the people in this print are, but based on references to the Gospel accounts, I think it is possible to make at least a few conclusions. The faces of all the disciples can be seen, except for the face of Judas, which has interestingly been turned in the other direction so that we can see nothing except for the back of his head. Judas is also depicted holding what we can assume to be a bag of “thirty pieces of silver”, which was the price he was said to have been given for the betrayal of Jesus to the religious authorities¹⁸. The figure to Christ's left appears to be John, which I would conclude based on the text, “One of them, the disciple whom Jesus loved, was reclining next to him.”¹⁹ Two or three of the disciples on Christ's right appear to be engaged in some sort of discussion. Perhaps, this is related to Christ's statement, “Truly I tell you, one of you will betray me”²⁰ to which the disciples replied, “Surely you don’t mean me, Lord?”²¹ The hands of all the figures in this print seem to be arranged in meaningful positions. Some of the hands are crossed over the chests of the disciples, some appear to be making gestures at each other as one might do in a more animated discussion, and some of the disciples in the lower left corner of the print are folded in prayer.

The medium of the print is vegetable dye on crumpled momogami paper, which was made from a Japanese mulberry tree. The texture of the paper is visible in this photograph as wrinkles under the red dye. The objects and figures in this painting are created by heavy, black lines, and the faces of the figures in this painting are simple and do not contain many individual details.

Title: Last Supper (Horizontal Composition With Judas In Lower Right)
Artist: Sadao Watanabe
Year: 1978
Medium: Color Stencil
Size: 23 x 26 inches

“The line I often quote from Paula D’Arcy is:  “God comes to you disguised as your life.” Why didn’t someone tell me that earlier—that this life is the raw material that I need to take seriously?

Every day, what’s right in front of me is the agenda.  And even more, the natural world all around us has all the lessons that we need for life, love, death, and salvation.  Really!  Just look and listen,
and note how Jesus himself seems to have looked and listened to lilies, birds, hens, sheep,
“red sky in the morning,” green and dry wood, moth and worm, etc.

You can see how merely believing doctrines and practicing rituals is very often a clever diversionary tactic to avoid my actual life—to avoid the agenda that is right in front of me every day, which is always messy,
always muddy, always mundane, always ordinary—and all around me.”

Fr. Richard Rohr.  Adapted from Emerging Church Conference, Swannick, England, 2010

[From: Aaron Niequist] 

What are your initial impressions reading this quote?

How does what D'Arcy state related to how you live your own life?

In May of 2010, I went with Orchard Valley Community Church based in Aurora, Illinois to the city of Santo Tomas, El Salvador – about twenty minutes outside of the capital city, San Salvador. This church had been going to El Salvador for many years previously, but this was the first time I had gotten to be a part of it. There were about ten of us, guys and girls, who had made it through all the information meetings, managed to get our finances together, and snag some cheap airfare before the prices rose for the summer. Dave was our group leader and had been to this country many times before. I only knew one other person, Reuben, and the rest I was meeting for the first time.

We would be working with an organization called Harvesting in Spanish, which ran an orphanage, bookstore, K-12 school, and a feeding program for the local poor around the area. They have also been in the long process of acquiring land to build a medical clinic for the local residents, forty percent of which do not have access to any medical care whatsoever. Harvest does have regular employees, but also accepts the help of outside groups who feel the desire to help them accomplish their work.

Harvesting in Spanish was founded in 1977 by Don and Rose Anne Benner. Don was working as an executive in an international corporation in Denver, Colorado, with an unlimited expense account, company cars, and a good retirement deal. He had never cared much about religion during the course of his life and became religious only by chance. A friend of the family had asked him to take their kids to Sunday school since they would be out of town that weekend. Turning on the radio while waiting in the parking lot, what he heard from the old time radio preacher challenged him to change his life and the direction he was living. Rose Anne had previously spent time as a missionary in Costa Rica, so both of them flew there for some immersion and information. Don and Rose Anne both had a friend in El Salvador and, after visiting and seeing the conditions that many of the Salvadorian people had to face, sold their house, most of their belongings, Don's position at his company, and made the long drive to El Salvador.

Brief History Of El Salvador and War

From 1979 to 1992, El Salvador was a country wrecked with violence of the Salvadorian Civil War, which was a conflict between the military government of El Salvador and the Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front (FMLN) - an organization of militias. Before the war, long held tensions had already existed from over-population and class struggles. In the 1880s, coffee had brought in 95% of the country's income – which was held by only 2% of the county's population.

Any village suspected of supporting the guerilla's government was completely wiped out by the El Salvadorian military. Not even clergy were spared. Archbishop Oscaro Romero was shot to death while raising the chalice of the Eucharist at a mass he was conducting in 1980. San Romero (As he was later called after his beatification) was considered a threat for encouraging people not to cooperate with the human rights violations of the government's actions and the guerrilla's acts. At the end of it all, over 70,000 people had been killed in the war – depending on who's numbers you are using.

El Salvador has improved since the war thirty years ago, but the effects of it can still be seen. There is not much of a middle class – you are either rich or poor. San Salvador is beginning to develop more, but there is still a long road ahead. There is not as much violence as their used to be, but you should still watch yourself. Dave had warned me a few times during the trip, “If you want to look around, that's fine, but don't go by yourself” he said with some sense of uneasiness in his voice.

Tin Shack Houses And Cinder Blocks

After getting ourselves together that morning, we all walked out of our dorms and gathered in front of the main building of the compound. Casa Milagro was a Spanish-style house made of concrete and painted a shade of pale yellow. The floors were tile and a red archway stood above the old wrought iron fence that served as the front door. This was the first time I had ever been to a Latin American country and the scenery and situation were such that I would never forget. Even though it was technically summer, it was not nearly as hot and humid as my dad (who had been to Central America a few times during his military career) said it would be, probably because we were up in the mountains at a higher elevation. Looking up, there was nothing but palm trees with small patches of blue sky interspersed throughout their leaves. A coconut and other fruit could be heard falling onto a rooftop or the asphalt pathways occasionally.

Tony, the project manager, came out to share the details of what we would be doing that day. Tony was young, probably not older than thirty, had a dark complexion and black hair neatly slicked back. He always had a friendly tone of voice, even when talking about the difficult situations in El Salvador. “Today we will be driving to Santo Tomas. You will all get to see the Oasis program”

Our driver came out and motioned for us to get into the pickup truck we would be taking down the road to where we would be spending most of the day. A small shanty town somewhere in Santo Tomas. We made our way to an old pickup truck, which we later dubbed “the truck of death”. It was a small miracle every time, after we had all climbed into the truck bed or were hanging onto the framework where a canvas must have been, that old truck choked and struggled itself to life again. It was another miracle that we survived driving 45KPH on slick mountain roads, dodging pedestrians, sleeping dogs, and other cars coming in our direction on the narrow, one lane roads. I should also mention that the truck of death had bad brakes.

The truck came to a stop and made a sharp turn onto a narrow dirt road that was obviously not very well kept up. This was the small slum town we would be spending most of the day at, where the main organization ran its outreach feeding program called Oasis. This collection of what were basically shacks was built in a sort of gorge in the mountains. You could drive right past it and not even know about all the people who were living their lives there. The truck made its way over the small hills of dirt and deep ditches in the road, our driver beeping the horn again and again to let the residents know we were there.

We arrived at the building that the outreach program used – a somewhat large building with a concrete foundation, tin roof, and walls made entirely out of chain link fence. A mini van drove up behind us a few minutes after we arrived which was carrying all the plastic chairs along with the rice, beans, and tortillas that had been made for the residents. Tony had cleared up some time from his schedule and decided to come with us.

I looked around while set-up was being done. The chain link building was built on an overhanging area with more houses that filled the gorge below. Right next to the chain link building, there was a small house made of planks of wood with a small fire burning in the front. A woman came out briefly to put more wood on the fire, glanced at me, and went back inside. A few roosters were calling back and forth to each other, and could occasionally be seen roaming the grounds. I looked down into the gorge. Cinder block houses with foundations made from discarded truck tires (which were somewhat prized there) filled with concrete, sand, or dirt. Some had tin roofs, some had tarps or planks of wood. Some houses had TV antennas attached on the tops of long bamboo poles, which somehow made the scene look somewhat surreal.

Children, with their mothers and grandmothers, had begun to gather in the building, sitting on the small plastic chairs or leaning against the wall. One of the women, began to pass out small booklets with a Sunday school type lesson in it. She talked in a loud voice and explained the story to the children. I could not understand most of what she said, since I do not speak Spanish, but I heard Moises mentioned a few times, so I assume it was a lesson from the Old Testament of the Bible. Tony led the children and their families in a couple songs which everyone already seemed to know the words to. There was no music or guitar, so he kept time by clapping loudly and everyone else followed – singling loudly and excitedly.

The women who had some with then unwrapped a massive bowl of rice and beans, with a couple baskets of tortillas to go with them. Everyone lined up and held out bowls or Tupperware containers. Some of the children came alone and brought back extra food for the rest of their families who did not wish to come. I was told later that, for many of these people, the only food they ate was from the program three times a week.

After the rice had been passed out and most of the people had returned back to their homes, we began to stack up all the plastic chairs and put them back into the pickup truck. The women and the empty bowls went back into the mini van and the building was swept up and locked up.

Back To So-Called Reality

As the pickup truck groaned up dirt hills and sharp turns, I looked at everything from the back from the truck. I looked at every detail. I don't even really know why. I looked at every shack. The river of sewage that flowed through the middle of the town. The kids and their mothers watch us from the side of the road. The occasional chicken or dog walking in the dirt. I wanted to make sure I saw everything with the hope that maybe it would somehow impact me at a deep level. Being in this little town that you could drive past and not notice was something I had never experienced in my life before, and I wanted to make sure I saw everything. I am not sure that I felt any obvious emotions, but they do come and surprise me from time to time when I think about what I experienced in El Salvador.

It was 9am on Monday morning and I was on the inbound Metra Commuter train to Union Station in Chicago. I was sitting in the uncomfortable seat when the automated conductor announced the next stop over the loudspeaker, “Next stop, Cicero”, which is the final stop before I get off the train. I looked out the window and saw the Sears Tower rising over the horizon of skyscrapers. It had been a few months since I came back from El Salvador, and everything was back into its usual routine. Work. School. Get whatever precious sleep I could, before it needs to be done again the next day.

I walked off the train with the rest of the commuters. The express train, its bell ringing to serve as a warning to behind the yellow line, always ends up being standing room only and the line of people going to their jobs, taxis, errands, or whatever else seems endless as everyone files out the automatic sliding doors. Most of them will never have any idea that there are places like Santo Tomas and things like tin shack houses – at least not beyond their brief existence in the imagination on the off-chance that they see a humanitarian commercial on TV.

I sometimes wonder if normal life has a way of making all the places you have been, all the extraordinary things you have done, and all the lives you have been a part of seem as though they had never even happened.

It is amazing, and maybe slightly scary, how easy it is to see without seeing; to hear without really hearing; and to exist without really feeling. How often have you had a day filled with rush and “getting things done” but, at the end of the day, you don't even really remember what it was that you did? And, becoming numb to our surroundings becomes easier the longer we have been in one place, or doing the same things.

My own personal interests and personality has helped me to avoid this to some degree. Being an amateur photographer has helped me to spend more time noticing the smallest details – how the light hits something or small details of composition. I remember an acquaintance of mine once telling me that I, “saw something that no one else ever even noticed”. This is certainly not easy, though. Many times I have kicked myself for some detail I missed but should have noticed, and I still have to force myself to look up from the sidewalk as I am rushing through my day and notice the sky, people, and buildings more often than I should. It is hard to really see.

While I am not sure of the reasons, I have always been a very reflective and introspective individual. I love being with people, but I generally find myself just sitting in the group, watching and listening to what is happening. I always find myself asking, “why did this person say that?”, or, “what does that statement really mean?” I generally spend much time observing myself, as well. Isn't it interesting that even though we homo sapiens are probably the most advanced creatures on earth, we spend so much time just trying to understand our own minds and souls? I do not remember who said it, maybe it was Confucius, but I once heard, “A man's greatest duty is to know himself.” Even though, as far as I can tell, I seem to understand myself and others at least a little above average, it is still much easier for me to sit in front of the TV or waste time on the internet rather than take the hard, and generally, unpleasant work of sorting through my soul. I think one of my greatest desires is to just know and be whoever I really am.

Becoming a musician has helped me to really know how to listen. Playing with others, I constantly move my ears around, so to speak. First I listen to the drums, then the guitars, then the piano, then the vocals. Then everyone altogether. Then just me. I can tell if I am out of tune by just a fraction of a step. But, even so, it is so hard to just sit down in silence and just listen to silence. It is almost uncomfortable, even dreaded by many of us. Silence might be one of the most horrifying sounds there is. When you hear nothing, you have to hear your own soul. And, many of us don't like to hear what is in there, especially if it has been years since you have really listened.

Even though I have lived in the Chicago suburbs my whole life, it is only recently that I have come to love it and taken the time to explore it. I came to Chicago with my siblings about ten years ago with my aunt for a day trip, but that was the only time I have ever been here.

* * *

The walk signal changes to green and I begin to cross the street. Macy's. Ghirardelli. Tiffany's. Surrounded by shops and sky scrapers. Even though there is always someone on Michigan Avenue, no matter what time it is, I can walk by a thousand people in one day and have no one notice me and I can take notice of no one else. The sun is barely beginning to set, and the shadows lengthen, and the colors take on a slightly golden cast. The road is bumper to bumper with cars and you can feel the tension of everyone just wanting to get home.

I step off of the curb and am carried with the crowd into the road. The other side does the same. A hundred, maybe two hundred, people merge together in the middle of the road. Two young businessmen joking about their girlfriends and coworkers. A woman wearing 80s sunglasses and a short skirt listening to her iPod. A student walking off a bus not quite sure where she is going. We both reach the other side and keep going our separate ways.

* * *

I am probably the only person I know who get excited to be at an airport, even if there are delays and crowds. I carry one single suitcase or shoulder bag. I always pack light, and even what little I do pack usually turns out to be more than what I needed. As I wait for my flight, I look out the window and admire the Boeing jets and watch as their engines come to speed.

* * *

I wake up at 5:30 am and pick up the shoulder bag I prepared the night before with a few books and an extra shirt. Everyone in the house is still asleep. I carefully open the garage door and quietly shut it behind me. I grab onto the handlebar of my bicycle and try to remove it from the tangle of the exercise machine, sleeping bags, and whatever other objects might be there. This is the only time today I will be frustrated. I finally make it out of the fence and begin to ride off to the train station. I slowly ride through the fog, being careful for potholes and broken glass that might be on the road. There are no lights and the sun is still barely rising.

* * *

My heart always feels a desire – no, a need – to wander. I always feel like there is some place that I need to be. And that place is not here. In my life, I have traveled thousands of miles, even to the other side of the world, and it is still with me. My life is filled with the presence of beckoning. I cannot describe this feeling, but it is always with me. No matter where I have been, it is still there.

Wandering in Chicago is a sort of temporary walking meditation. A way to remind me that I am going somewhere, even if I don't know where. There is some place I need to be, and that place is not here.