When I moved to Fukuoka, I brought with me a whole stack of theological frameworks:
TULIP, literal inspiration of the Bible, a strict view of divine justice, and human depravity.
Looking back, much of my faith had become something to be defended.
I could argue anyone into a corner. And sometimes—I did.
We started attending the Fukuoka International Church,
led by Larry and June Seat, who were deeply respected and loved in the community.
They were connected to Seinan Gakuin University, which I viewed with suspicion at the time
because I equated 'liberal' with 'dangerous.'
So yes… I argued with the Seats. A lot.
'The Bible is the inspired Word of God, and it must always be interpreted literally!'
That was my mantra. And I preached it with passion.
Looking back, I’m a little embarrassed.
But the Seats never mocked me. They listened—deeply, kindly, respectfully.
And then one day during worship, something shifted in me.
It wasn’t the sermon. It wasn’t a debate. It was… a song.
Something in the harmony, the air, the presence—
something melted a hardness I didn’t know I had.
For once, I wasn’t debating. I wasn’t proving.
I was… worshipping.
And I sensed something I hadn’t allowed myself to believe:
This Presence—this Holy, quiet, radiant Presence—was for everyone.
Maybe God doesn’t desire to exclude. Maybe God is longing to gather.
And that thought—that maybe the arms of God are wider than we imagine—
that thought undid me.
It didn’t defeat me.
It gifted me… with awe.