I USED TO THINK I WAS HAUNTED
Photo from Unsplash.
I used to think I was haunted
by the holy ghost of Rev. Shimada
who pastored the Japanese Methodist Church
for twenty years, back when the few
remaining baby boomers were young
and there were so many people
in the annual church photo
the photographer had to stand
across the street.
I heard so many stories
from the living members
of his severe seriousness
that when the beams
creaked and groaned
in Butler Chapel
and when the lights flickered
in Ellis Hall
I thought it must be him.
How could I not be haunted
by a man who was beaten
and almost killed
for his faith in Japan
then imprisoned
in an internment camp
while I cry like a baby
after bad council meetings
in which I have to apologize
that the minimum salary standard
is so high
for a church of 20 people
who cannot afford
to fix the furnace.
One day I heard a colleague
from Seattle reference
his old pastor Shigeo Shimada,
Shig for short, and
then I could see him
relaxing with a cup
of green tea
in the meeting room
they named for him
as a parting gift
in 1970.
The couches in there
are terrible
but sometimes on Sundays
I think he keeps the door open
just enough
to listen to my sermon
and see the kids
he baptized
complain about Medicare
and Social Security.
I wondered if I had imagined
the shadows of judgment,
the feelings of being watched
with coldly appraising eyes
until I opened the archives
and stared into the hollow faces
of Mrs. John Butler
and Mrs. David Ellis
white women
from Central Methodist downtown
who volunteered to organize
a Bible study
English classes
American cooking lessons
Sunday services
for these immigrants
from Japan
who did not yet have
a pastor of their own.
I felt their resentment
hiss from the filing cabinet drawers
to see me
ordained and paid
and presiding
over disaster.
I could not find
their first names
anywhere. I cannot
invoke them
to help me.
