Japanese.ver
English.ver
In August 2014, I was baptized. However, before that, I had a dream. But prior to the dream, I had been reading the story of the ten maidens in chapter 25 of the Gospel of Matthew in the New Testament. At the time, I wasn’t really concentrating—I probably just skimmed the surface of the story and didn’t grasp what it was about. I was sleepy and not paying attention, so I thought it hadn’t registered in my mind. I didn’t even remember the characters clearly, which I’m sure happens to everyone occasionally. I read it casually and closed the book. If this had been a modern literature test, it would have been fatal. That’s how little I understood.
I didn’t even think about rereading it the next day. Without any second thought, I simply wrote ‘Matthew 25’ and the last verse I had read on a post-it note, stuck it on my desk, closed the book, and went to sleep.
When I came to, I felt a heaviness, but I realized I had been woken in my dream. A man grabbed my arm and asked if I had it, or not, in a language I couldn’t identify—whether it was Japanese or another language. The lamp I was holding was about to go out, so I felt like I didn’t have it. Yet I remembered going back home to get it and bring it with me. The woman beside me laughed, but I began to think I did have it. So, I answered, “I have it.”
And indeed, I had the oil and lit the lamp. The moment the light shone, it was like a wheat field glowing under the night sky. I clearly remember that moment when the lamp was lit. It’s been ten years, so perhaps that memory isn’t entirely accurate. The night sky seemed eerie, but as soon as the light came on, I felt a sense of relief as if my life had been saved.
Together with the other women and the bridegroom, I was told, “You go in too,” and walked out of the gate. Then, behind me, I saw a few women who didn’t have oil and didn’t make it in time—they turned into shadows, unable to pass through the gate.
In the dream, I realized, “Ah, you always need to have fuel, or you won’t be saved in times of need.” While I felt elated at my salvation, I was also pained by the thought of those left behind as shadows.
When I woke up, I thought it was an unusual dream, but it quickly faded into my daily routine. When it was time to read the Bible again, I looked at the post-it note and realized that it was from the “Ten Maidens” passage I had read the night before. However, at that time, before falling asleep, I didn’t understand any of the story. Yet upon reading it again, I found that it mirrored almost exactly what I had dreamt. I thought I had grasped it better, but it never appeared in my dreams again.
A dream is not something that is supposed to be connected to another person who appears in it.
Even if the events align with true memories, a dream isn’t about spending time with others. It is a story shown to me based on my own “impressions”.
I wonder if there is truly something beyond the grasp of the conscious and unconscious mind. This is sometimes debated among different schools of psychology, but if this wasn’t the unconscious mind, it would be challenging to explain otherwise. Mystical experiences delve even deeper. For a time, I had a personal theory about why the dream interpreters like Joseph, who interpreted Pharaoh’s dreams in Genesis, and Daniel from the Book of Daniel appeared in the Old Testament, but seemed to disappear when Jesus came in the New Testament. However, in hindsight, I realized this theory didn’t resonate with many people（few people). That seemed like youthful thinking. Over the past ten years, I’ve come to understand that Christianity cannot sustain itself on such ‘wonders’ alone. There were times I felt it was foolish to even talk about it.
Nevertheless, the memory of this dream lingered, leaving a distinct sense of mystery in its wake. The past decade has been a journey of witnessing miracles, only to realise that such experiences alone aren’t sufficient for evangelism. There were moments of joy and others of discontent. That dream, however, left an indelible mark, prompting a sense of certainty amidst uncertainty. The miracle lies not merely in its occurrence, but in the privilege of recounting it—a story I now preserve for future telling.
The paramount lesson here is the daily commitment to the practice of Jesus’ teachings and the labour He undertook amongst people. As Benedict XVI articulated, “The Father and the Son engage in a mutual exchange of pure giving and receiving, in which both abound. This unity is their fruition, wholly one.” He further noted, “the mystery of the Trinity, in this world, must be transmuted into the mystery of the Cross.”
This profound beauty inherently encompasses suffering. The Holy Spirit, manifesting from abundance, does not solely symbolize human joy. Many believers aspire to discuss these mysteries, seeking companions to converse about the Scriptures. Yet such dialogues cannot rest on superficial enjoyment alone, for empathizing with the essence of the Trinity proves significantly challenging. Much like our experiences, which remain solitary ‘dreams,’ forging deeper connections with ‘others’ isn’t effortlessly achieved despite apparent ease in some respects. The narrative of faith, I surmise, involves the exchange of suffering, a pursuit I no longer actively seek. To comprehend each other’s faith, recognising its profound complexity, is a mature realization.
Discussing such matters amidst diverse backgrounds and destinies often brings discomfort. It’s indeed challenging to reconcile varying degrees of misfortune. A single word cannot offer salvation, though a considerate gesture might be a preliminary step towards it, with outcomes remaining perpetually uncertain. It would be disingenuous to speak of Jesus’ acts of compassion purely as sources of comfort, yet there is truth in the solace they bring. The intersection of shared poverty and mutual suffering is intensely painful. Faith, though seemingly dormant, is ever alive—requiring constant sustenance.
Until the day the unrecognised maiden and bridegroom unite, fuel is always needed.
Ten years ago, I regarded that dream as a good one. To still hold it as such implies a transformation in my heart. The vision of who I might become in another decade, when I may still say “it was a good dream,” eludes my imagination.
Reference
Benedict XVI.
Chris Kyogetu 
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