Did I really want to get on this train?I didn’t want freshly squeezed orange juice for breakfast this morning, but I almost had it anyway. It wouldn’t have been at the breakfast table, however, but all inside my backpack and not the last bit drinkable.
Jiyugaoka Station during rush hour seemed more packed than usual. I would have preferred to have stepped out of the ever-lengthening lines of people all waiting for the same Toyoko Line express commuter train bound for Shibuya. After all, a local was sitting on the other side of the platform and would depart only a minute behind the express train. But I was afraid I was going to be late for an important appointment.
Everyone had the same thought—no other train would do. With a surprising surge of power that came from somewhere, I pressed forward and made it onto the train. Amazingly, so did everyone else, although not without the help of three train line employees who turned their shoulders into the crowd and pushed until the doors of our car finally inched shut. But I’d forgotten about the mikans in my backpack. They were squarely between me and what seemed like at least half the population of Tokyo. (According to 2006 statistics from the United Nations Population Division, 12 million people live in Tokyo proper, and over 35 million reside in the greater Tokyo area.)
This is absolutely inhuman, I complained bitterly to myself as I struggled to breathe. I felt trapped in a human vice and shuddered at the thought that some Tokyoites ride like this every single day simply because this is life in the world’s most populated city. (An estimated 3.5 million passengers ride every day on the Yamanote Line that services 29 stations, including Shinjuku, through which over 1 million people pass daily. For comparison, the New York City Subway carries 4.8 million passengers a day on its 26 lines linking 468 stations.) Unbelievably, there are no passenger limits imposed on commuter trains. If you can get on, you can ride.
And ride we did, uncomfortably and completely at the mercy of the train. As it picked up speed, everyone was thrown back on top of those behind them; as it slowed, we all fell forward onto those in front. My feet never touched the floor; I was either in the air or on top of someone else’s feet. I was getting madder by the moment until suddenly, from out of nowhere, I was startled by a question: “I wonder how many of these people have ever heard of Jesus Christ?” I heard no voice, but it was as clear a question as if I had.
And the questions continued: “How about that man next to you sending a text message on his cell phone? Do you think he’s ever heard?” (More than anything, I was amazed that he could possibly be using his cell phone.) “Or how about that businessman asleep on his feet? What about the woman in the red coat with the fur collar or the school uniform-clad girl managing some last-minute studying? Or the slouching teenage boy shutting out the world with his head phones? Has even one of these heard of me?”
Suddenly the questions became a command: “Look at these people around you and see them one by one. It is how I see them; it is how I love them. It is how you must love them, too.”
Truthfully, I cannot say that I am eager to return to Shibuya later this week. But I am confident I will never ride another commuter train without remembering my morning epiphany. And as I do, I pray for eyes to see and a heart to love as Jesus does.
Jiyugaoka Station during rush hour seemed more packed than usual. I would have preferred to have stepped out of the ever-lengthening lines of people all waiting for the same Toyoko Line express commuter train bound for Shibuya. After all, a local was sitting on the other side of the platform and would depart only a minute behind the express train. But I was afraid I was going to be late for an important appointment.
Everyone had the same thought—no other train would do. With a surprising surge of power that came from somewhere, I pressed forward and made it onto the train. Amazingly, so did everyone else, although not without the help of three train line employees who turned their shoulders into the crowd and pushed until the doors of our car finally inched shut. But I’d forgotten about the mikans in my backpack. They were squarely between me and what seemed like at least half the population of Tokyo. (According to 2006 statistics from the United Nations Population Division, 12 million people live in Tokyo proper, and over 35 million reside in the greater Tokyo area.)
This is absolutely inhuman, I complained bitterly to myself as I struggled to breathe. I felt trapped in a human vice and shuddered at the thought that some Tokyoites ride like this every single day simply because this is life in the world’s most populated city. (An estimated 3.5 million passengers ride every day on the Yamanote Line that services 29 stations, including Shinjuku, through which over 1 million people pass daily. For comparison, the New York City Subway carries 4.8 million passengers a day on its 26 lines linking 468 stations.) Unbelievably, there are no passenger limits imposed on commuter trains. If you can get on, you can ride.
And ride we did, uncomfortably and completely at the mercy of the train. As it picked up speed, everyone was thrown back on top of those behind them; as it slowed, we all fell forward onto those in front. My feet never touched the floor; I was either in the air or on top of someone else’s feet. I was getting madder by the moment until suddenly, from out of nowhere, I was startled by a question: “I wonder how many of these people have ever heard of Jesus Christ?” I heard no voice, but it was as clear a question as if I had.
And the questions continued: “How about that man next to you sending a text message on his cell phone? Do you think he’s ever heard?” (More than anything, I was amazed that he could possibly be using his cell phone.) “Or how about that businessman asleep on his feet? What about the woman in the red coat with the fur collar or the school uniform-clad girl managing some last-minute studying? Or the slouching teenage boy shutting out the world with his head phones? Has even one of these heard of me?”
Suddenly the questions became a command: “Look at these people around you and see them one by one. It is how I see them; it is how I love them. It is how you must love them, too.”
Truthfully, I cannot say that I am eager to return to Shibuya later this week. But I am confident I will never ride another commuter train without remembering my morning epiphany. And as I do, I pray for eyes to see and a heart to love as Jesus does.
