SEOUL – “Do you have religion, Peter?” asks my young Taiwanese classmate as we stroll together down one of Seoul’s bustling streets. Young, handsome and stylishly dressed I just didn’t peg him as religious. But sure enough there it was.

I’ve been asked this question countless times since I’ve been in Korea, and my answers don’t seem to be getting any better. Young, old, Korean and non-Korean alike, this country is just saturated with religion, and for a believing non-believer like myself, it is both confounding and inspiring.

There is a religious tidal wave building, and it is gathering strength. From US presidential politics to angry Tibetan monks and now the Papal visit to the US, religion is growing. And while outwardly political, internally it is rooted in the depths of the individual.

My friend tells me in broken Korean and English how he converted to Christianity, and how prayer and faith have sustained him since then. I change the subject.

I am enrolled in a Korean class in one of Seoul’s larger universities. The class is half Japanese and half Chinese, all from Mainland China with the exception of my Taiwanese friend. I’m the lone American, a western Buddhist in a class full of East Asian Christians.

During the break I watch as they interact, each reverting back to their native language. The young Japanese giggle in hushed whispers while the Chinese yell to each other from across the hall. The contrasts between one group and the next are striking, and yet they are all bound by this common faith.

It inevitably comes up in discussions. The young woman from Beijing describes in halting Korean how she would love to meet a young Christian man. Another student, born in Japan to a Korean father and Japanese mother, describes her weekends at Church.

They’re a vibrant and optimistic group, but I just don’t get the religion part.

Standing on the platform as the train approaches I pull out my notebook to jot down a few stray ideas when I notice an elderly man in suit and tie reading over my shoulder. He smiles as we board the train and tells me he’s a Presbyterian minister.

Should I tell him my name’s Peter? Christ, I know where that will lead. I tell him anyway, and he beams as he reaches over to shake my hand. Since that day I have received regular weekly text messages telling me I am in his prayers and that God loves me. Though I still haven’t responded, the guy just won’t give up.

Some weeks back my wife sliced a part of her finger as she was baking cupcakes for the neighbor’s kid. The next morning the mother noticed the bandage and assured us it never would have happened if we believed in Jesus. I literally began to see red and went home fuming, cursing religion and the BS that surrounds it.

Later that day we took a short hike in the hills above our home and ended up in a small temple nestled on the mountainside. No matter how hot the day, prayer rooms of all faiths seem to be consistently cool and refreshing, and this one was no different.

I sat gazing at the Buddha, the paintings of saints and lit candles. Off in the corner was a young woman bowing towards the altar. A soft breeze blew in through the open door and, despite my morning rant, I too become a believer. —Peter Schurmann