Japan's Unrecognized Ambassador

We are therefore Christ's ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us. We implore you on Christ's behalf: Be reconciled to God.

- 2 Corinthians 5:20

It was our family's first exhilarating night in our cramped tatami mat apartment in Japan. I had never lived outside my frozen corner of Western Canada, and here we were, according to my Western-centred map, at the very end of the earth breathing in the ephemerality of the exotic Far East. 

The vibrant energy of the frenetic neon Pachinko parlour lights across the street were flooding into our room, the rush of noise calling us out into the crisp evening air and onto crowded city streets animated by hundreds of brightly-lit signs competing for our attention. 

We set our feet down on unfamiliar territory, crossing paths with bustling salary men and OL's (office ladies) staggering out of high-speed trains at the end of another break-neck exhausting day, rushing without end to who-knows-where placelessness; past the young people elusively hunting for "coolness"; restless street buskers strumming their guitars in hand and singing resolutely for a clustered group of kids staring vacantly at them while huddled in a perfect circle of uniformity; senior citizens sitting lifelessly at the bus stop with no one in particular to talk to and nowhere in particular to go; young mothers shopping recreationally to occupy time while text-messaging with their cell-phones in one hand and pushing a stroller in the other. And so on.

        

We were acquainting ourselves with the train station market hub when we heard the distinctive voice of an endearingly eccentric snack-vendor, "irasshaimase!" ("May I help you?"). We were later to learn that he belonged to a community collective for people with developmental disabilities. They made simple packaged snacks in a factory and then distributed them through the service of snack vendors at high-density locations.  

I had passed through crowds and crowds of faceless people, but he was the first person I was to truly meet in our neighbourhood of Japan, and the first person in our little corner of Japan who was, in turn, sincerely enthused to meet me. He was thrilled to talk to a real flesh-and-blood "gaijin" ("foreigner": a contraction of gaikokujin, which literally means "outside country person"), but was soon to welcome me in no uncertain terms as "oniisan" (term of endearment for an older brother or close friend).  After all, I was his brother that night, welcomed into his circle of family, no longer an "outside country person", not on his familiar ground anyways.  

From then on, each day as I was off to work and running for the train, dutifully rushing with the crowds so as not to bump against the flow, I'd hear him from a distance making his appeal at the top of his lungs, "irasshaimase!". Through the masses he'd catch my eyes from afar and motion excitedly to me, "oniisan! Come and see". I'd browse through his latest featured snacks, catch my breath and talk about the weather. Then I'd rush off again into the facelessness of the crowd.

Some say that Japan's point of entry is marked by its torii gateways, the imposing, gated entrance of its sacred shrines defining the pronounced in-group/out-group boundaries of Japan, clearly marking who's in and who's out. For myself, though, I hadn't really entered Japan until I heard the irrepressible voice of a snack vendor, calling me to cross a threshold and set foot in the tender love of home, a place where all are welcome.