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Good morning. I understand you have been expecting me for some time now. When I accepted Kate’s invitation to cover for her while she was on sabbatical, she told me she planned to announce that I would be covering for her at your Annual Meeting. Well, I’m finally here. Last week, I received such a warm welcome from so many of you. I instantly felt included in this amazing community with your warm greetings. And you asked me so many questions! Where else have you served? What did you do before ordination? Are you from Seattle? I have answered these questions individually so many times, it occurred to me that perhaps I should answer these questions for everyone today as I introduce myself to you.
I was ordained by Bishop Rickel in 2011 and served my first two years as a priest at St. Mark’s Cathedral. From there, I served as an Associate to the Rector at St. Stephens, Laurelhurst. In 2014, I was called to serve as Rector at Epiphany Church in Honolulu, Hawaii, and in 2019, I went to the Anglican Church of Japan where I was Rector of All Souls Church, Okinawa, and English speaking church using our Book of Common Prayer and the 1982 Hymnal. I finally retired – way past mandatory retirement — last summer and came back to my home just north of Seward Park. I also have a home in Tokyo, so I spend quite a bit of time there, too.
Before going to seminary, I practiced law in Denver and Seattle. In Seattle, I worked as a criminal defense attorney. When I was asked to discern a call to the priesthood, I was serving as a Judge Pro Tempore in Seattle and King County Courts. I mention this not to boast about sitting on the bench, but the exact opposite, for I was slacking big time. Being a pro tempore meant I worked only when I felt like accepting the work – work that didn’t involve any deep study or late night preparation. I was enjoying this pace after a grueling life of a public defender. I was definitely not interested in going back to school so that I could enter a vocation with so much commitment and responsibility.
Truth be told, I loved being a public defender. When friends would ask me how I could do this kind of work, I would tell them it was because I was the only one in the courtroom who believed in my client. Even if I might have harbored doubts about their exact “story,” I believed that every individual is entitled to dignity and respect, and I fiercely ensured they got it. I agreed to join the discernment group, all the while kicking and screaming that I was NOT being called to Holy Orders. In the two years I spent in discernment, I came to see that the law ensures a civil society, whereas followers of Jesus envision a transformed society. I decided to sign up for the transformation thing.
But am I from Seattle? Sort of. My grandparents immigrated to Seattle, and my father grew up here, but I was born in Tokyo. I am not a Japanese national because I was born to a United States citizen at a US Army Hospital. I am a third-generation Japanese American. The reason I was born in Tokyo is because after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in December of 1941, all people of Japanese descent on the west coast were incarcerated in detention camps. My grandparents, my father and every Japanese in their Seattle community were sent to a camp in Eastern Washington. It was possible to get released from the camps if one enlisted in the US Army. So, my father, anxious to show that he was a loyal American, enlisted. Because of his language ability, he was assigned to a Military Intelligence Unit and served in the India/Burma Theater. At the end of the war, he served in Tokyo as part of the Allied Occupation of Japan.
My father never gave up on returning to Seattle. But when he finally did (when I was in first grade), it didn’t take him long to realize that he missed the kind of work he was doing in Japan. After only a year in Seattle, we returned to Japan where my father worked as part of the US Administration of Okinawa. On Okinawa, I grew up in a gated community – US Forces bases – and came back to hometown Seattle, where I have lived for most of the years except for the time I left for undergraduate and graduate degrees and various work assignments. I have probably lived more years elsewhere than here, but I have always considered Seattle my home. I don’t know if that means I am from Seattle, but I consider myself a Seattlelite!
My family’s history is a story of trying to find a home—of trying to find a welcome in a world that so often draws hard, unforgiving lines. And that reality bring us directly to the end of Matthew, Chapter 10, where Jesus sent out his twelve disciples.
Up to this point, Jesus has been sending his disciples out into a hostile world, warning them to prepare for persecution, division, and rejection. But he concludes this intense missionary discourse with a shift to gentle, comforting words: “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me.”
To understand how radical this is, we need only look at the ancient Mediterranean world. Back then, identity wasn’t individualistic; it was entirely tied to one’s family and community. To “welcome” or “receive” a traveler wasn’t just basic politeness. The Greek word, dechomai, means “to take with the hand,” “to take up, to receive.” But it’s more than an act of high hospitality. Perhaps a more accurate translation is to take someone into one’s life.
Moreover, whenever you welcomed a messenger, you welcomed their entire community, their country, and everything they represented. In a world obsessed with strict boundaries—who’s in and who’s out, who is righteous and who is impure—Jesus shattered the walls. He laid out a beautiful chain of connection: God, out of love, sends Jesus. Jesus sends the messengers and prophets. And anyone—anyone—who welcomes the messenger, welcomes God. Everyone has a part to play, and the parts make the whole.
This is a gospel of radical inclusion. Jesus challenged the disciples, and each of us, to be transformed by welcoming not just the people we already like or identify with, but by radically including “the other.”
But what does radical inclusion look like? Think of Doyt’s last couple of sermons where he repeatedly reminded us that the kingdom of God is a way of acting; that care of a stranger is specific and particular and that the particular act reveals the universal, inclusive love of God. Jesus promises us that even a simple cup of cold water given to a “little one”—to the vulnerable, the overlooked, the outsider—reveals the kingdom. Because when we extend that small mercy, the indiscriminate love of God showers blesings on the giver and receiver alike. A transforming welcome is radical, and it is contagious.
During my first year in seminary, I was given an assignment to intentionally “close social distance.” We were told to break out of our comfort zones and engage with someone from another culture. I happened to spend a lot of time throwing balls for my Labrador retriever near Seward Park. The lakeshore is a favorite recreational place for residents from many different nations. Often, people would stop and ask about my goofy dog, but I would just be polite and not really engage. I never took the time to ask them about their stories.
So, with this assignment in mind, I went to the lakeshore and noticed a young African man watching us play. I asked him if he would like to throw the ball for my dog to retrieve. He did, and we began to talk. I learned that he had arrived from Ethiopia just three years ago. He told me that in his home country, people didn’t keep dogs as pets. He confessed that he came to America with very high expectations but found that life here was incredibly hard. Even so, he told me he was determined to stay and build a life.
As we talked, I felt compelled to share a piece of my own story. I told him that I am a third-generation Japanese American. I told him that my immigrant grandparents and my father also found life incredibly difficult when they first arrived on these shores, and that my generation only benefitted because of the sacrifices they made. We stood there and chatted for nearly an hour, speaking of what he missed in Ethiopia and what he hoped for in America.
When we finally parted ways, my eyes filled with tears. I realized that in talking to this young man, it was as if I had been granted a chance to talk to my own grandfather as a young man. My grandfather passed away without ever sharing his stories of those grueling first years in this country. By ignoring the immigrants around me, I had been ignoring the opportunity to connect with my own family’s history and struggles.
I went to the park thinking I was the one offering a seminary assignment of “welcome” to him. But what a magnificent gift I received instead. Without even realizing it, the moment I extended a hand, I was the one who was transformed.
Transforming welcome is pure grace. For you seem when you welcome radically, you have stepped into the Kingdom of God. And when you step into the Kingdom of God, you step into God’s time and space. In God’s Kingdom, there are no barriers, including time and space. With the barriers of time and space fallen away, the Ethiopian man introduced me to my grandfather.
When we extend ourselves to the outsider, the chain of divine connection stays unbroken. We open ourselves up to be changed by the very people we thought we were helping. I think this might be what Doyt was telling us when he told us that our fundamental identity is as souls connected to God by grace.
Epiphany, you already know how to be welcoming. I learned firsthand last week. But are you willing to step out of your comfort zone and practice radical welcome? It’s hard to step outside of your comfort zone, but I noticed that Epiphany has some upcoming events that would be wonderful practice venues. You won’t be alone, if you attend the lunch with Ukrainian neighbors, or the families served by Ronald McDonald House, or the Angeline Day Center, all events coming up in the next few weeks. Take part and experience the transforming power of radical welcome. Beware, it’s contagious!