Incense in China

On my first morning in Communist China, a country with no official need for deity, I woke up to the smell of incense. In the hall between apartment doors, one of my sister’s neighbors faithfully lit her joss sticks every morning. Meant to waken some god in his celestial abode, and remind him of the supplicant’s need for money or a good score or health, its sweet, earthy scent crept, instead, under closed doors and into my nostrils and reminded me that I was no longer in Wheaton, Illinois.
    The day before I had boarded a plane at O’Hare and flown for 16 hours across a large enough portion of the globe that I get slightly dizzy when I look at a map and think about it. We hurtled above the Artic Sea and its frozen, floating, flotsam and the outermost parts of Russia, whose lakes left a distinct impression of being spots on the rump of a Pinto pony, before landing in Hong Kong, where I was pleasantly surprised to see that much of this province was green and not dotted with concrete and 1 million people per square inch as I had feared. Jet-lagged and dazed I followed my sister through the airport and onto a bus and a ferry and some other mode of transportation to her apartment where she insisted I stay awake longer and where I woke the next morning to the smell of incense.
    Macau, where my sister lives, is technically still a “Self Autonomous Region”, or SAR, if you will, of The People’s Republic of China. Prior to 2000 it was a Portuguese colony and because of this, it missed out on the Cultural Revolution. In stark contrast to what I saw of the mainland its temples and shrines remain intact. No red army came and wiped out the homes of the Macanese deities. They still stand on virtually every corner- links in an ages long chain that fetters the people to themselves and their demons.

    One glimpse at the ancient temple to A-Ma, the namesake of the region, and I observed a form of beauty made of majestic architecture and celebratory red paint. Saturated hues adorned well-carved storybooks on the side of beams that criss-crossed above striking deities who dance across the frescoed walls of cave-like rooms. But, when I glanced a second longer I noticed the face of the deity on the wall and realized it looked like the nameless, faceless, Fear I have met in nightmares. Features twisted with sadistic power, its expression is mirrored on the idols above and below shop doors, entrances to homes, and tucked in between buildings on the street everywhere in Macau.

            Untouched by policies in the rest of the country, the residents of Macau still come and prostrate themselves at these altars. While I stood in the temple with my sister, an old man had come and  is bowing with his forehead to the cold, wet floor. It is raining hard and the sun is obliterated in gray. He bows again and again and again. In another corner of the temple some others are buying hanging vortexes of incense. “What request do these offerings, represent?” I find myself wondering, “what is the pressing event in their life for which they are seeking the blessing of this deity? Is it protection? Healing? Success in school? Do they even know?” and I am conscious of a deep sadness in my soul, so vaguely overwhelming that it makes me begin to feel sick.

            These are the images that stuck to the sides of my brain for the next several days. I floundered emotionally in a sea of faces who lived lives from which I felt wholly cut off. Linguistically, I was limited to hello and “mm goy” a helpful phrase that means virtually everything between the English phrases “excuse me” and “waiter”, but which was not going to get me far in making friends or hearing the heartbeat of the bodies I passed everyday on the streets. And so I found that I begat I began to wonder what I had in common with these men and women and whether or not Jesus was really the answer to their problems of which I could only guess. Beyond this, I was struggling to get my own spiritual feet back underneath me and felt disconnected from Christ. Perhaps, I doubted, Jesus doesn’t apply on the other sidnues to prayld, in places I have never known bd in the transforming blood of Jesus. SS, Ha., GK, C, and many others are gracious, kind, and personable women with whom my sister is becoming friends. They are intent on unrelentingly seeking out students in their neighborhood  and boldly introducing them to Jesus. Undeterred by the hard soil, they persevere.
    Elsewhere in the city, is a group of ex-patriot Americans who have moved their lives to China for the cause of the Kingdom. Here Show me my need for you and their need for you and Your sufficiency for our needs and let me know your Presence in this place.” And slowly, my eyes began to see again.     I saw myself in the images of the men and women cringing before wooden and plastic figthing between the English phrases “excuse me” and “waiter”, but which was not going to get me far in making friends or hearing the heartbeat of the bodies I passed everyday on the streets. And so I found that I began to wonder what I had in common with these men and women and whether or not Jesus was really the answer to their problems of which I could only guess. Beyond thisand then bashed down the walls of our hearts to give us new ones so that we could really love Him and not just appease Him. He came as a suffering Savior, a crucified Kingnues to pray that his parents will also be washed in the transforming blood of Jesus. SS, Ha., GK, C, and many others are gracious, kind, and personable women with whom my sister is becoming friends. They are intent on unrelentingly seeking out students in their neighborhood  and boldly introducing them to Jesus. Undeterred by the hard soil, they persevere.
    Elsewhere in the city, is a group of ex-patriot Americans who have moved their lives to China for the cause of the Kingdom. Her, they work with students from the mainland studying at universities in Macau. These are students who are coming from, in many ways, a completely different world. In general, they have not grown up around temples and churches, joss sticks and icons. They have not been taught anything abures. I saw my own heart echoed in the redundant prayers that only knew how to function within rituals. And I rejoiced again that Jesus came into the world in ways that I would not have chosen. He didn’t come according to our human philosophies of religion, with thunder and lightning and another law that I could keep breaking and promising to keep, but in the form of a baby who cried and spit up and then bashed down the walls of our hearts to give us new ones so that we could really love Him and not just appease Him. He came as a suffering Savior, a crucified Kingnues to pray that his parents will also be washed in the transforming blood of Jesus. SS, Ha., GK, C, and many others are gracious, kind, and personable women with whom my sister is becoming friends. They are intent on unrelentingly seeking out students in their neighborhood  and boldly introducing them to Jesus. Undeterred by the hard soil, they persevere.
    Elsewhere in the city, is a group of ex-patriot Americans who have moved their lives to China for the cause of the Kingdom. Here, they work with students from the mainland studying at universities in Macau. These are students who are coming from, in many ways, a completely different world. In general, they have not grown up around temples and churches, joss sticks and icons. They have not been taught anything abrested in spiritual pursuits.
    500 years of Portuguese Catholic presence had also left a deadening impression. True, as my sister points out, there are genuine, Christ followers within the Catholic church in Macau. But historically, the Roman church had been eager enough to win converts that they’d focused more on Mary and, even symbolically, had started to merge the mother of our Savior with goddesses like Ti Kuan Yin. This is perhaps one of many reasons why my sister prays that there will be more fervent, passionate, that meeting in awe of the way that the Lord woos people to Himself, confident that some of those hearts are being called to Him. Communism couldn’t keep a desire to know God out of the hearts of the people He had made for His glory. In fact, their efforts were a ticking time bomb working against them.
    The next morning, one of my last mornings in China, I woke up and hurried to the feet of the ruins of St. Paul, a Catholic church that was built by Japanese monks, or was it priests, fleeing persecution in Japan a few hundred years ago. They built an education center for Catholicism in Macau. Some time later a lightning storm hit the church and burnt the wooden shell, leaving only the stone façade standing. This has become a must-see for mainland tourists. I happened to bim in relationship.
    When Christ said, some 2000 years ago, that He would build His church He didn’t just mean in Jerusalem, He meant in modern day Macau too. And it is being built. Among the faces I began to put names and personalities too were genuine followers of Christ whose lives have been changed by the gospel of Grace. Aw. is the main pastor at the church of which my sister is a part. He is young, only in his early thirties, and was brought to saving faith while watching a Billy Graham crusade on television, he continues to pray that his parents will also be washed in the transforming blood of Jesus. SS, Ha., GK, C, and many others are gracious, kind, and personable women with whom my sister is becoming friends. They are intent on unrelentingly seeking out students in their neighborhood  and boldly introducing them to Jesus. Undeterred by the hard soil, they persevere.
    Elsewhere in the city, is a group of ex-patriot Americans who have moved their lives to China for the cause of the Kingdom. Here, they work with students from the mainland studying at universities in Macau. These are students who are coming from, in many ways, a completely different world. In general, they have not grown up around temples and churches, joss sticks and icons. They have not been taught anything about religion and they are starving. I was asked to give a presentation at their weekly English club about my unusual life- you know, the basics- having 8 siblings and the nature of being home schooled. That was to get their attentios forehead to the cold, wet floor. It is raining hard and the sun is obliterated in gray. He bows again and again and again. In another corner of the temple some others are buying hanging vortexes of incense. “What request do these offerings, represent?” I find myself wondering, “what is the pressing event in their life for which they are seeking the blessing of this deity? Is it protection? Healing? Success in school? Do they even know?” and I am conscious of a deep sadness in my soul, so vaguely overwhelming that it makes me begin to feel sick.            Th you ever heard of Baha’i?” Yes. “Are the rules between Christianity and Baha’ism different?” I paused a little longer in answering this question. “No,” I replied, “not really. The kind of person that a person wants to become is probably very similar …the biggest difference would be in how one is able to obtain this goal.” And so we launched off into a discussion of works righteousness vs. Christ-based righteousness that led into a full presentation of the gospel and more genuine, honest seeking questions. They wanted to know if I thought that God was a person. And when I started to attempt to explain the Trinity to them, their eyes didn’t glaze over, but gleamed with curiosity. They really wanted to understand. They were hungr to take one copy across the border for their “personal use”. And, generally, most would be able to do so.
    Standing in the hot mid-morning, sun, beneath the shadowy, grottoed stone walls we handed out over 1500 New Testaments in three hours. Some men and women expressed their disinterest in succinct, frantic motions of the head. But most people heard us say, or attempt to say in terrible intonations, “Free Bible” and looked at us inquisitively. Then a head would turn and look a little longer. Feet would follow and they would come and take it. Sometimes a representative from a group would come and receive a New Testament and return to their friends. There, in a circle they would open it,  read, talk, and then some of the others would come to ask for their own copy. One man hovered one in China for “Golden Week” the period following their largest political holiday “National Day” and their largest cultural holiday “Mid-Autumn Festival”. Here other believers, [foreigners], nationals, and [short term travelers] met regularly to hand out Chinese language New Testaments to these tourists. In the States we often here that Chinese nationals are sometimes brutally treated for owning Bibles. This is true, but technically, every Chinese citizen is allowed to take one copy across the border for their “personal use”. And, generally, most would be able to do so.
    Standing in the hot mid-morning, sun, beneath the shadowy, grottoed stone walls we handed out over 1500 New Testaments in three hours. Some men and women expressed their disinterest in succinct, frantic motions of the head. But most people heard us say, or attempt to say in terrible intonations, “Free Bible” and looked at us inquisitively. Then a head would turn and look a little longer. Feet would follow and they would come and take it. Sometimes a representative from a group would come and receive a New Testament and return to their friends. There, in a circle they would open it,  read, talk, and then some of the others would come to ask for their own copy. One man hovered on the edges of the area. Pacing back and forth in pretended dis-interest until finally, nervously, he darted over and gratefully received a copy before disappearing. There were groups of school children in colorful uniforms who all wanted a copy, tour guides who encouraged their groups to take them and the one guide who told us that he often saw the men and women reading the Bibles on their trips home- that his sister and parents had all come to Christ that way. “Are you a believer?” he was asked. “Not yet,” he replied.
    From a historical point in the old city of Macau, the seed of the word of God radiated across numerous provinces to the outer edges of the country. To a province where there had been recent and violent rioting, to a town where there was a church, I was told, but no Chinese language Bible. Nearing the end of the morning, I overheard, if overhearing is the right word when most of the conversation is in a language you cannot comprehend, a conversation that I will always remember.
    An ex-pat spoke in Mandarin to a man about my father’s age. They were evidently discussing the book and the question seemed to be about its contents. They talked back and forth, a question, an explanation and though they stood practically at my elbow and just behind me, I didn’t know what they were saying. Then I heard a word I recognized. “Yesua?” the Chinese man asked with marked eagerness, seeking to confirm the answer to his question. “Yesua,” affirmed the ex-pat. With decided excitement and joy the man then turned to his companions, having found the only information he wanted to know about this book before  he took it, and said to them, I knew, while only understanding one word, “This book is about Yesua!”  That one word was said with such sweetness and awe that the Name hung in the air like bold perfume before it wafted off into the afternoon air and settled with joy on my heart.
    Yesua. Jesus. The Name that calms our fears, that bids our sorrows cease, tis music in the sinners ears, tis life and joy and peace. Even in China.

But thanks be to God, who in Christ always leads us in triumphal procession, and through us spreads the fragrance of the knowledge of him everywhere. For we are the aroma of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing,to one a fragrance from death to death,to the other a fragrance from life to life. (2 Cor 2:14-16)