By Yuri Yamamoto

I am from Japan. Until I was fifty, I was running away from myself, my worst enemy. I didn’t know why but distinctly remember hating myself as a young child. I felt dirty, ugly, angry, and helpless. I did well in school and even had some friends. Still, deep inside, I knew my wretchedness and loneliness. It often exploded as anger against my mother.

I didn’t know of any divinities. My parents were anti-religious and rejected organized religions as the tool of oppressors, i.e., the opium of the masses. I heard and read about Shinto and Buddhist gods and deities but had no personal relationship with them. As a teenager, I began searching for gods in places where ancient people encountered them: temples and shrines, the woods, the ocean, the graveyards, and in fleeting relationships with strangers. I also sought refuge in European traditional sacred music and American pop music without understanding the language. 

At that time, I believed that when anyone heard a god’s voice, it came from within their heart. I liked Shinto beliefs in “eight million gods,” or seeing unique gods in everything everywhere. 

I was twenty-three when I came to the U.S., following my scientist husband. People looked and behaved differently. My husband wanted to listen to African American gospel music on the radio which was new to me. I couldn’t communicate in English but felt liberated from the suffocating Japanese hierarchical culture. Even when my husband had to go back to Japan, I insisted on staying here with our children. 

I was determined to succeed in my academic science career. I aspired to become a real American and unconsciously assimilated to the white upper middle class academic culture. I was trying to run away from myself as fast as I could and was willing to bulldoze over anything in my way, even the grief from our global separation.

When I was a post doc, I joined a choir and reunited with the sacred music I remembered from my childhood. This time, I understood the language. At first, the Christian God in such music felt like someone else’s God, a mere addition to the eight million gods of Shintoism. But the anguish, exuberant joy and serene peace expressed in the music and stories drew me in. One day, I had an epiphany: the Shinto belief in unique gods in everything everywhere and Christian belief in the omnipresent God were the opposite sides of the same coin. 

By then, I had learned the root of my anger. A stranger molested me when I was seven, and I sensed that my mother did not believe me. The man continued to stalk me, but I had to endure the fear alone. Sadly, this revelation happened after my mother’s death, so I could not reconcile with her. 

My parents have also passed down to me their shame about Japanese imperial colonial history. My anger, hate, and shame and the mask of a smart girl with plenty of friends that hid them were both my demons, my enemies that kept me from recognizing the goodness of God in anyone. 

In 2010, after a long immigration nightmare, my husband and I became naturalized U.S. citizens. I was serving as a music director of a Unitarian Universalist congregation, my first serious relationship with any organized religion, where I could explore many forms of spirituality. I, however, continued running away from myself and seeking approval from this predominantly white congregation.

When I was fifty in 2011, the Great East Japan Earthquake accompanied by a massive tsunami and nuclear accident turned everything upside down. Tens of thousands of my people were killed and so many more were displaced. Suddenly, I became obsessed with Japan and wanted to go back. I had a racial identity crisis and recognized my internalized racism. I didn’t want to become white anymore. 

Soon afterward, my father became terminally ill. Until he died in the summer of 2012, I traveled to Japan many times, spending time with him and volunteering in the disaster areas. I connected with my old friends and made new ones. Japanese culture comforted me. I met many Catholics at the front of the disaster relief. The distress unleashed my artistic creativity that became an essential part of my spiritual practice.

In 2015, I unexpectedly joined a Christian prison ministry where I met some of the most influential people in my life. I attended the 90-minute weekly meetings in a crowded cafeteria until the COVID-19 pandemic stopped everything in 2020. This life-changing experience led me to who I am today, a clinical chaplain in a state prison and a Christian minister. 

I recently turned sixty-four. For a long time, I was trying to run away from myself and hide under the layers of false masks. Each crisis ripped off such a mask and drew me closer to God. Today, I just want to be me. As I get to know myself deeper, I become opened up for more relationships. Faithfulness to me now means to continue my journey of knowing and loving myself and others in response to God’s abundant love.

Yuri Yamamoto (they/she) is a board-certified chaplain, ordained and endorsed by the Federation of Christian Ministries. After coming from Japan to the U.S., Yuri was a scientist (molecular biology/plant biology) and a church musician in a Unitarian Universalist congregation. Their theological education is from Shaw University Divinity School, and after two CPE residencies, Yuri is serving as a clinical chaplain in a close custody state prison. Yuri and their husband have six kids, four kids-in-law, four grand kids, and one dog.