I have watched this scene play out more than once.
A young church planter arrives fresh out of Bible college, sent out with a ministry philosophy still warm from the classroom and a hunger to preach. His study is covered in commentaries. He has three alliterated points and what he is certain is a show-stopping illustration. He steps into the pulpit — and proceeds, for thirty-five minutes, to preach almost entirely to himself. The congregation is present, of course. Physically.
If you could describe the gospel in thirty-five words, what would you say? Jesus did it in two short parables. He spoke of a man who stumbled upon treasure hidden in a field and another who searched for a pearl of great price. Both men found something so valuable that they joyfully gave up everything to possess it.1
Every pastor in Japan knows this moment.
A church member approaches after the service, a little more formal than usual, and says quietly: “Pastor, today is my last Sunday.” The pastor pauses, surprised. “Why? What happened?” And then comes the answer that lands like a slow, heavy weight: “Well, actually, a few years ago something happened that really troubled me...”
“Obey your leaders and submit to them, for they are keeping watch over your souls, as those who will have to give an account. Let them do this with joy and not with groaning, for that would be of no advantage to you.” 1
In a world where spiritual abuse is a serious concern, the directive to "obey your leaders and submit to them" comes with certain risks. It’s easy to hesitate to draw attention to this verse for fear of being misunderstood. Yet this isn't a summons to blind compliance, but an invitation to a partnership that benefits both leaders and congregants.
There is a particular kind of pastor in Japan that everyone respects and no one truly knows.
He preaches faithfully. He visits the sick. He counsels the struggling. He is called sensei, and the weight of that title shapes everything about how he leads — and perhaps most dangerously, how honest he is allowed to be about his own inner life.
This is not a criticism. It is an observation about a trap the culture has set, and one that the gospel alone is capable of dismantling.
There is a cultural phenomenon in Japan that many people recognize but rarely name directly. A man works for years as a salaryman, moving through the ranks with characteristic Japanese humility: bowing lower than his colleagues, speaking carefully, deferring to those above him, apologizing without hesitation. He is, by almost every social measure, pleasant and approachable. Then he gets promoted.
Japanese culture is widely recognized for its extraordinary work ethic, yet this same dedication often comes at a devastating cost. Many workers find themselves exploited by their companies, gradually sacrificing their personal lives: time with friends, spouses, and their own children. For some, work becomes the sole source of meaning and identity, to the point that losing a job, or losing the ability to find purpose in work — can lead to taking their own life. At the other extreme, Japan is also known for hikikomori — people who withdraw entirely from society, shutting themselves away from the relentless expectations and pressures of work and public life.