God Is Red (5 page)

Now I was alone and felt very sad. I would sometimes catch myself looking for them inside the church, in the courtyard, and in places where they had spent time. One day, I closed my eyes. I felt that they were touching my hands. I was so happy. I woke up and saw it was a dog, licking my hands.

In 1998 things changed. We had a new bishop. A new generation of nuns, such as Sister Tao, arrived. I feel more relaxed now. I will continue to press them to have the government return the remaining church property. Even if we can't get it back, we need to record it in the church history. Future generations should know what happened.

I've been waiting for the Lord to take me. I'm looking forward to reuniting with Bishop Liu and my aunt. While I was not looking, another ten years have passed. I'm going on 101 now. People around here are thirty, forty years younger than I am. What can I do?

Liao:
What would you like to do?

Zhang:
I would like to continue to praise the Lord. I would like to continue to make sure that our church gets back our land. I would like to continue . . .

B
ars and nightclubs on Foreigner Street in Dali look different in the daylight without their flattering neon signs and the hypnotic thump thump thump of their music; I imagine a model woken up too early, without her makeup and glamorous outfits. The smell was different, too, in the fresh morning air: body odor and stale marijuana smoke. Beyond were the vegetable vendors, Bai women in their colorful dress calling attention to the fruits and vegetables from their land, their displays smelling earthy and real, leaves unusually lush and thick. I stopped to admire the bok choy and, out of mischief, asked if it was genetically engineered. The Bai woman looked at me through narrowed eyes, smiled toothlessly, and scolded: “You damn ghost from Sichuan.”

At a little after nine o'clock on August 3, 2009, I turned right on Renmin Avenue into a small stone-paved lane, following the directional signs for “The Catholic Church.” The door to one courtyard was open, and, from the lane, the “church” within appeared at first glance no different from any of the other old residential houses in the neighborhood. Though its eaves were carved with the birds and animals of Bai legends, reaching into the sky was a steeple topped by a cross painted gold. Inside, the ceiling arched several stories high, and the building took the shape of a butterfly, its wings stretched ready for flight.

Sunday Mass had just started as I slipped quietly through the waves of singing from the hundred or so parishioners and eased along a pew to join my friend Kun Peng. Not knowing how to sing hymns, I hummed the melody. At the altar, against the background of four big Chinese characters proclaiming God Is Love, a middle-aged priest and two young acolytes were immersed in an ancient ceremony. “For Jesus had known from the beginning which of them did not believe and who would betray him,” the priest intoned. I felt a little self-conscious about my presence in the church, a nonbeliever here to observe the behavior of believers. I knew the passage the priest was reading and hoped they did not think the betrayer was me.

The service had a rhythm of rising and falling, like the wash of the tide against a beach: standing to sing the hymn, sitting to hear the sermon, kneeling to pray, standing again to sing another hymn. Kun Peng had told me that with the repetition of each act, the heart became purer, more pious and more passionate. We all stood again when the organ began to play, and the congregation made a line in the aisle to receive Holy Communion, the wafer and wine that were the body and blood of Christ.

I was not alone in remaining seated; there was a smattering of other nonbelievers here out of curiosity or simply to enjoy the music. By eleven o'clock, the Mass was over, and Kun Peng took me to see the monastery next door. High walls divided the views of two traditional Bai-style courtyard houses, where plants and flowers grew in the garden, lush and in full bloom. The houses looked dilapidated. Nuns and monks shuffled in and out, some in robes, others not, going about their Sunday business. Among them was a young man who said he was twenty-four, Tibetan, Catholic, and a seminarian. Like most Chinese, I was under the impression that every Tibetan was a devout follower of Tibetan Buddhism.

Jia Bo-er was squatting under the eaves, washing his robe in a basin, his shiny, black, curly hair bobbing up and down in the sun as he pressed and kneaded the black cloth. He said his Christian name was Gabriel, and when he was done with his washing, we found some shade to talk. He said he was from Shangri-La:

Liao Yiwu:
Shangri-La? Isn't that the famous paradise described in James Hilton's novel
Lost Horizon
?

Jia Bo-er:
Yes, yes. Most of my friends have read the novel. It was written in 1933, I think. The paradise that Hilton described in the book was supposed to be in the Cizhong region, Diqing Prefecture, part of Yunnan province. In the 1990s, leaders of the prefecture officially certified that our village was the “lost Shangri-La.” I think it was a stunt to attract tourists. I'm quite proud that my hometown is so well known.

Generations of my family have lived in the Cizhong area. In the old days, we were all Buddhists. About two hundred years ago, soldiers from the Lamaseries constantly engaged in fights against the Chinese troops. The war lasted many years and left many villages in poverty and chaos. Old folks would tell me that in the war-torn region, people died all the time. In the mid-nineteenth century, several priests with a Catholic organization called Foreign Missions of Paris arrived. They changed the lives of many ordinary people.

Liao:
Are there more Buddhists or Christians in the Cizhong area?

Jia:
I think it's half and half. We all live in the same village, share the same skin color, wear similar goatskin coats, and herd goats and farm together. So it's quite harmonious. When we get together for dinner with our friends or neighbors, they chant their Buddhist sutras and we say our prayers to seek God's blessing. Then we toast each other with liquor. Occasionally, we would take off our necklaces and compare whose pendants are prettier, the cross or the miniatures of Buddha. You have probably read about the meeting between Pope John Paul II and the Dalai Lama? They praised each other warmly during their meeting. It is good to promote interfaith harmony, don't you think? Four generations of my family have been Christians. I've been a Christian all my life.

Liao:
Your name doesn't sound Tibetan.

Jia:
You are right. It's a Western name. I was baptized in a church. The priest named me “Gabriel.” Gabriel is one of God's angels, and the name means “man of God.” As you know, we Tibetans name our children quite spontaneously. A father is supposed to come up with a name immediately upon the birth of his child. Many times, he gets his inspiration from whatever he sees first when he steps outside the house. If it's a Kalsang flower blooming on the grassland, he will name his baby girl Kal Sang, or Ge Sang. If it's a windy morning, he's very likely to name his baby boy Anil, which means “wind” or “air.” I like my biblical name a lot.

Liao:
Where were you baptized?

Jia:
In the Cizhong church, which was built by French missionaries about 150 years ago.

Liao:
Is it the oldest church in Yunnan province?

Jia:
Probably. When you are in the valley area, you can see from a distance its Western-style steeple against the snow-covered mountain peaks, surrounded by Buddhist temples. The Lancang River flows by and then curves around the villages there. Old folks in my village used to say that Cizhong was a borderland for Christian missionaries. From the mid-nineteenth to the early twentieth centuries, missionaries hoped that the gospel would filter into Tibet, but the lamas didn't like religious competition and many priests were killed. The Kashag, or the governing council of Tibet, placed thousands of troops at key mountain passes to prevent outsiders from entering Tibet. It didn't matter whether you were a Han or a Westerner, and it didn't matter if you carried a gun or a Bible. The troops would arrest you or kill you. Many people went and never returned. In the end, the missionaries established bases in Cizhong from which to serve the Tibetan villages.

Liao:
Are there many Christians in Tibet?

Jia:
No. I think there are only about seven hundred or so. In Cizhong, the Catholic missionaries were the first to arrive, but as travel has become easier the Protestant churches have also been expanding. In recent years, Cizhong has become a popular destination for tourists from France, America, Britain, Canada, Australia, Sweden, and New Zealand. On their way to climb the Meili Snow Mountain, many stop and worship at the Cizhong church.

Liao:
Have you heard any stories about early Western missionaries in the region?

Jia:
Yes. I've seen their tombstones. Some of them were damaged during the Cultural Revolution, but now they have been restored and are protected. I've also seen trees planted by foreign missionaries at the beginning of the last century. The missionaries picked mountain slopes that faced the sun to plant grapes. We call them “rose honey.” They have a strong, thick, and sweet taste. They are part of an ancient variety in France. The missionaries brought winemaking techniques to the region.

Liao:
I have tasted rose-honey wine. It is red and mild.

Jia:
It doesn't scratch your throat like barley wine does. The French missionaries originally intended it just for Holy Communion. But after they had settled in our village and built a church there, people easily overcame cultural difference and treated them like family. The Tibetans would offer highland barley wine to their French friends, who offered their red rose-honey wine in return. Tibetan traders and farmers would go to the church not to pray or sing hymns—they were still Buddhists—but to visit their French friends and drink wine with them. I'm told that sometimes a local farmer would enjoy too many glasses of wine and the priests would find him a bed to sleep it off.

During harvest seasons, the French priests would bring their wine to the barley field and help farmers with harvesting and planting. They also tried to teach them how to sing hymns. You know, Tibetans are good at bellowing out loud mountain tunes. They open their mouths and howl. The priest would stop them, saying: “Amen; God bless your voice. But you don't have to howl. God is not deaf. He can hear you.” The French priests made lots of adjustments to the hymns. Nowadays, psalms are sung with Tibetan highland melodies. Sunday Mass will sometimes feature a dance around a bonfire. Christmas is celebrated with dancing around bonfires.

Relations between local Tibetans and foreign missionaries have not always been easy though. We Tibetans suffered deeply, sometimes ravaged by war, other times by pandemics, at times both war and pandemics.

I was told that in my great-great-grandfather's time, the region was hit by a severe drought. For several consecutive years, there was no rain or snow. The riverbed lay exposed. Goats and cattle died of starvation because there was no grass to feed them. Crops withered to sticks. People's lives were in danger. The lamas chanted and prayed for rain. It didn't help. People burned incense to local gods and deities. Nothing. Some Tibetans began to vent their frustrations on the foreign missionaries. Some claimed that Tibetans had offended their ancestors because they had invited foreigners to their villages and allowed them to change their faith. In one area, local villagers surrounded a church and captured the lone priest. They tied him up and carried him up to the mountains where they planned to sacrifice him to their ancestors. When the knife fell on the priest's neck, his head turned into a piece of blue rock. From his neck spurted not blood but milk, which streamed down the mountain and into the village. Everyone hastened out. They jumped into the stream to drink the nurturing liquid. Just like that, the blighted land was rejuvenated. People were grateful and carried the priest's body down the mountain and buried him at the back of his church. Ever since, they pray in front of the priest's tomb to seek God's protection when disaster hits.

Liao:
History and legends are only separated by a thin wall. Sometimes, it's okay to climb over.

Jia:
Let me share with you another one, “The story of the golden needles.” Bubonic plague and cholera struck our region many decades ago. A large swath of the population died. Survivors escaped to other places. Village after village became empty. Even the Han and Tibetan troops had to stop their protracted war against each other. There was silence everywhere. Fortunately, the missionaries arrived with many golden needles. It was vaccine for the plague, and they had pills for cholera. Some recovered fast, some more slowly, but soon everyone became better.

Liao:
I've heard many stories about how Western missionaries saved lives through their medical services. They played a big role in stopping the spread of epidemics in many parts of China.

Jia:
As a child, I remember seeing adults sitting around a bonfire at night. After downing shots of liquor, they would start telling such stories, but I was too young to remember them all. My parents had seven children; several of my siblings have much better memories than I.

Liao:
Seven children?

Jia:
I have three elder sisters and three younger brothers. I'm in the middle, but the eldest son. I'm very lucky they sent me to Chengdu to study theology. I've always been attracted to the church. Whatever the Lord wants me to do, I obey his plan.

But sometimes I'm not as determined as I should be. Many of my elders, such as Sister Tao and Father Ding, are much more devoted. Many of my fellow seminarians renew their commitment vows every three years. Three times three is nine. After nine years, they will make a final vow to remain celibate and serve the Lord for the rest of their lives. I'm still hesitating and pondering my future. I'm not as devoted as my elders.

Liao:
You are only twenty-four. Are you still hesitant about your future with the church because you want to get married?

Jia:
No. I'm not thinking about the issue now.

Liao:
Are you planning to go back to Cizhong after seminary?

Jia:
No.

Liao:
Why not? Cizhong is your hometown and it's a great place.

Jia:
I belong to the church. I will go wherever the church sends me. The Bible says that Jesus left his hometown and wandered around the world for many years. So since I've already left, I'm not going back. I'm ready to travel the country and serve God.

Liao:
The Catholic Church holds you to the rule of celibacy. The Protestant churches are different.

Jia:
Some people think the Catholics are more conservative. It might be true. That's why the secular government feels more threatened by the Catholics.