As she places her open hand against my shoulder to lead me towards Christ, I wonder, can this be true? Can I have traveled all the way across the world from the God-fearing American South to an island known more for its electronics, its love of stately rituals like tea ceremony and flower arranging, and its raging Lolita complex than its faith in Jesus Christ, only to be witnessed to in broken English about the Good News?
“We all God
Yes, I guess I have.
When I envisioned my first jaunt through vast Shinjuku, it went something like this: I would first circle the city on the Yamanote Line, starting at Tokyo Station in the east and making my way westward, through Hamamatsucho, Shinagawa, Gotanda, Ebisu, and the hot-to-trot districts of Shibuya and Harajuku. Along the way I might pick up a pair of Harajuku girls dressed fashionably in fitted burlap sacks, ten-inch heels, and Mouseketeer hats, and we would walk through Yoyogi Park arm in arm as a band of Taiko drummers followed behind us on a dolly and beat out a rhythm for us to swagger to. We would arrive in Shinjuku and immediately go for a few cocktails at a place called Hello Highballs. The cocktails would be neon blue, and they would turn our lips a fetching shade of fuchsia. After drinks we would spill back out onto the street and hitch rides with a clan of bosozoku motorcycle bandits. They would escort us into the next club, which would have a name like Stark Raving Suzuki. There, we’d have more cocktails-these smoking and gasoline-scented-and befriend the DJ, who would be in the midst of a world tour that had taken him to Paris, Berlin, Rome, Moscow, Hong Kong, Bangkok, and Jersey City. After his set, he’d offer us some magic mushrooms, and we’d gladly accept them. Then we’d take turns at the turntable rocking the worlds of the club kids. As the night slowly came to an end and the crowds dispersed, we’d elegantly take our leave, lock arms again, and step out into the crisp morning air hand in hand, escorting each other to the station, secure in the knowledge that we’d done a little bit of Shinjuku.
Nowhere in my wild imaginings did I consider that the first Japanese person I spoke to socially would be a forceful born-again Christian with nothing but time on her hands and a quota to meet. Because I must say that, all due respect to my parents, who tried their hardest to raise me right, realizing a closer relationship with Jesus is not what I’ve come to Tokyo for.
“Thank you so much, but I’m really not…able.” Not unless your church sells
Either she sees through my lie or she doesn’t care.
“We have meeting right now, please, you can come and we food and drink and talk and enjoy with other of Jesus people. We sing about Good News and praise God and Jesus Messiah. You bring your friend. You call from there.”
It hits me right then how important correct intonation and word choice are to evangelism. You absolutely must put the right stress on the right words or you’ll sound unemotional and disembodied, like Ira, the chatty computer screen consultant on
“You come? You come? It just this way.”
“I’m sorry, thank you, but I’m not interested.”
She appears confused, disbelieving. I decide to break it down into the simplest possible terms.
“Thank you, I no interest. No can do. Can’t. Must with friend and eat.” I figure the less sense I make to myself the more I make to her. Wrong again.
“No, please, you must not go tempting! God watching you!”
I see. And what does that mean, exactly?
“It safe in my church. Safe from tempting.”
“Thank you soooo much,” I say, backing away. “But I meet friend now. I see Jesus later.” Then she rushes me.
“Please, take this, you can visit anytime you like.” And with this she drops into my hand a flyer and her church’s business card with address and directions in English. “You no go tempting,” she says with a worried smile.
“Thank you,” I say again before turning around and getting the hell out of there. I walk briskly, lest Ms. Johnson should decide to approach again, this time with a bigger, beefier member of her church less inclined to take no for an answer. A rotund black belt named Akira O’Donnell, say. I cross the street and, since I have no idea where I am or what I’m doing, walk towards whatever is ahead of me. I stop under another giant television screen and take a look at the flyer Miho had given me.
On one side is a collection of illustrations seemingly drawn by the good folks at Marvel Comics. In the center is Planet Earth, above which stands-I’m assuming here-God, wrapped in angelic white robes, His arms outstretched, His smile twinkling, His long white hair and beard nicely highlighted by the halo suspended above His head. He stands in the center of what appears to be a meteor shower, but He’s unaffected because He’s God, and He
On the back of the flyer is a lengthy piece of hysteria titled “The Final Signs of the End.” I read through it quickly, stumbling through the arbitrary and relentless use of underlined passages and all-caps text. (“ONE MAJOR
Let’s see, what’s next? A-ha! Straight ahead is a narrow shopping street peppered with groups of sharply dressed, incredibly oily looking young men wearing collared white shirts open nearly to their navels, smoking cigarettes, and looking like they’re in training for the International Sleaze Olympics. Let’s go this way!
I notice that every so often, one of these men will see an attractive girl in the throngs of passersby, run up to her, and, walking alongside her, offer her some sort of proposition. He bends down and speaks directly into her ear as she passes, and more often than not, she tries to lose him. Eventually, she’ll hold up her hand politely, shielding her face from the guy, and decline his offer, speeding up her step to outrun him. He doesn’t give up easily, but, as if he’s being kept on an invisible leash by his greasy compadres, he eventually halts, takes a drag of his cigarette, and swaggers back to his post.
Being naturally curious and, yes, even nosy, I walk the length of the street up to the next block, turn around, and walk back from where I’ve come, just to watch this ritual a few more times from different angles.
As I expect, every time a particularly attractive or otherwise qualified young lady passes by, one of the greasers jumps up and chases her down like a little puppy, speaking softly into her ear, getting the same polite but unequivocal “no” from the woman each time. Eventually he backs off and rejoins his boys.
What’s going on here? Was he asking her out for an ice cream soda? Complimenting her on her knee-high socks? Challenging her to find his one and only chest hair? Frustratingly, I can’t find out. Even if I could speak good Japanese, these guys are obviously young gangsters-in-training. Come on, would
So I give up and keep walking. While waiting at an intersection with half a million other people, I think about my encounter with Miho Johnson. Did she see in me someone who looked lonely and desperate? A lost, malleable soul? A kid who’s treading down the wrong path and needs to be brought back to the Alley of the Almighty? Or did I just look like an easy target? When it comes to the devoutly religious, there’s a fine line between those who bow their heads in humble supplication and those who can be convinced to puncture bags of sarin on the Tokyo subway. Which camp is Miho in? The literature she gave me is hysterical, but is she?
They say people are put in your path for a reason. If so, Miho’s reason must be to lead me to an entire street of
