9

In the pre-internet age, English literature majors were at a serious disadvantage when it came to figuring out how to build bombs. Had I paid more attention in high school chemistry class, perhaps, I could’ve known the basic science, how to mix this chemical with that to make the perfect, deadly mix. However, my academic specialty provided precious few clues on how to get the job done. Shakespeare killed his characters in rather gruesome ways—smothering, stabbing, beheading, hanging, plague. Too messy. I needed something faster that could take both President Ming and me out at once.

I began to dream about death and murder all the time. During the day, I looked out for the agents, dutifully sat in my isolated room, wrote my so-called confession, and dreamed about revenge. Sometimes an hour would pass, and I’d look down at my paper and find it blank. Instead of scurrying to fill the page, I’d simply start again. I no longer cared enough to give the impression of effort. Without college and post-graduate options, I no longer had any incentive to please my deputy. In fact, I no longer tried to impress anyone. In the evenings, as I sat in the back of the class while my papers were graded, I laid my head on the desk and cried.

One day, as I sat in the back of the classroom, something unexpected happened. The guy who sat in front of me, who’d drawn the English name “Jack,” finally turned around and spoke.

“Here,” he whispered. “This might help you.” He laid a booklet on my desk. It was a biography of a Chinese intellectual.

I looked at the cover, and then flipped it over. “Why would this help?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said, a little exasperated. “Lao Wu gave it to me.”

“Thank you,” I said, touched by his compassion, even though I didn’t see the use of it.

“Maybe it will help you stop being so . . . weepy.”

Reluctantly, I flipped through the pages of the booklet, which was the story of a Confucian scholar from the Western Zhang village near Linfen, Shanxi Province. He was known far and wide for his wisdom, but when he was alone, he was sad and very depressed.

I can identify with that, I thought as I turned the page. Though I wasn’t really in the mood to read a new book, I didn’t have anything to do as I sat there in silence waiting for my papers to be graded. Plus, I found it interesting that Jack would think this might be a solution for me. I readjusted myself in my chair and began reading about this tortured scholar.

His name was Xi Zizhi, and Confucianism and the Chinese classics couldn’t calm his troubled soul. When he was thirty, the sorrow took its toll and his health deteriorated. At one point, his wife and friends dressed him in his finest clothes, laid him on his bed, and waited for him to die. He didn’t, much to his own chagrin. One day, his friends suggested opium might brighten his mood. The drug provided an immediate—yet short-lived—relief. The temporary thrill was replaced by a deep depression, even worse than he’d had before.

“This is a terribly sad story,” I said, hitting Jack in the back with the pamphlet. “Why would you give me this? Do you want to make me cry even more?”

“Lao Wu said it was inspirational.” Jack shrugged.

I reopened the book and started reading again. By the time Xi realized opium wasn’t going to solve his problems, he was already addicted. His health began to deteriorate at an even faster rate. In 1877, when his province was hit by a famine, two British missionaries from Hudson Taylor’s group went to a nearby city to offer assistance. Thousands died from starvation, suicide, and disease, so the two missionaries brought food, money, and a new religion. When the famine finally ended, the missionaries used a very clever way to get the community thinking about this new faith. They conducted an essay contest in their newspaper, asking people to answer the question, “What’s the most effective way to get rid of an addiction to opium?” This got Xi’s attention. He knew a thing or two about opium, and he desperately needed money to buy more of it. He decided to enter the contest four times, under four different names. He won three out of the four prizes.

Reluctantly, he and his brother-in-law went to one of the missionary’s houses in Pingyang to collect his money from a Mr. Hill. He’d heard all sorts of rumors about the missionaries and their new religion.

“As daylight banished darkness, so did Mr. Hill’s presence dissipate all the idle rumors I had heard,” he said. “All sense of fear was gone; my mind was at rest. I beheld his kindly eye and remembered the words of Mencius: ‘If a man’s heart is not right, his eye will certainly bespeak it.’ That face told me I was in the presence of a true, good man.”

I stopped reading for a moment, and rubbed my hands over my face. When I was a child, I’d heard of people my father described as being of the “Jesus religion.” In fact, there was an old, abandoned church where they’d met in a nearby village about two miles from my home. I remember walking by it for the first time and saying, “Oh, what is this?”

Though it was beautiful, it was deserted and one of the walls had fallen in. My friends made fun of it, but I never went in. It seemed dangerous and very mysterious.

“Some foreigners used to be there,” they told me. Of course, anything related to foreigners was infinitely fascinating. As the Chinese term for foreigners, yang guizi, literally means “foreign devil,” the first Christian church I ever saw was automatically related to devils because it was related to Americans. We went near it and looked at it with as much curiosity as if it had been a spacecraft from another planet.

I smiled as I thought of that old building, perhaps the only smile I hadn’t faked in months. I put the book down and stretched as I looked at the backs of my classmates. They were working diligently while I was reading about an opium addict. This is how far I’ve fallen, I thought.

Nevertheless, I turned the page and kept reading. Xi took his prize money, and even began working for the missionaries, translating the New Testament into Chinese to use as religious tracts. When he got to the story of the crucifixion, he fell on his knees and wept. He felt he’d finally found the answer he’d been searching for his entire life. It wasn’t found in Confucianism or the Chinese classics. Mysteriously, it was found in the story of a man named Jesus, who had been punished and killed by the government for something he didn’t do.

A chill came over me and I looked up from the book. I felt like it was written specifically for me, like it was whispering deep truths to me with each new page. There were so many beautiful sentences in it, phrases I’d never heard used together, and ideas I’d never contemplated.

I reached down into my backpack and grabbed a notebook I used to use for my English studies. I opened it, drew a dark line after my old English notes, and wrote, “Notes from the Xi Zizhi Book.” Then I began to copy some of the beautiful sentences I’d been reading.

I copied a couple of pages of the quotes and then went back to the book. I was eager to discover what would happen to Xi after he converted to Christianity. After all, he was a drug addict. Would Christianity be enough to help him finally escape both his sadness and his addiction?

“I tried to break it off by means of native medicine, but could not; by use of foreign medicine, but failed,” I read. “At last I saw, in reading the New Testament, that there was a Holy Spirit who could help men. I prayed to God to give me His Holy Spirit. He did what man and medicine could not do; He enabled me to break off opium smoking.”

A tear trickled down my cheek, and a student sitting a few rows in front of me turned around at the sound of me sniffling. When she saw me, she rolled her eyes and turned back around quickly. My crying in the back of the classroom was no longer interesting. This time, however, I was not crying from the desperation that had become my constant companion. Instead, I cried in relief. There was hope. His name was Jesus? The Holy Spirit? How did they relate to the “Heavenly Grandpa” I’d prayed to in my youth? I jotted down some notes, wiping the tears from my eyes so they wouldn’t land on my notebook. I was so overcome with emotion and confusion, I couldn’t write quickly enough to get back to the story.

After Xi believed, he was so much of a changed man that he changed his name to Shengmo, which meant “conqueror of demons.” He stopped using drugs, he set up gospel drug prevention centers, and he helped rescue hundreds of thousands of people.

I was in awe. This man had created real, lasting change—not just for himself but for others. That’s all I had ever wanted to do. When I was a poor elementary school kid being ridiculed, I wanted equality and respect, and I figured the only way to effect change was to become wealthy. When I was in high school, I wanted fairness and equal opportunity for all people, so I figured the only way to pull that off was to become prime minister. When I made it to college, I wanted democracy and freedom. By this time, I figured the force of my own ambition and personality would be enough to transform my community into a better place.

But none of my grand plans worked. In fact, the people I had supposedly changed had betrayed me! That was the real reason I felt so desperate. That was the real reason I’d been scheming on the best way to kill President Ming and then myself. Nothing changed. It never changed. My life, my nation, and my community were going to be the same forever. And it didn’t matter how much I tried or how much inequality, unfairness, or injustice existed in this world. I’d never see anything actually change.

Up until that moment, I had thought, Wow, I am the man who can lead China. I’m a good guy, a righteous man who can lead people in a better direction. But the beautiful sentences in the book I’d been reading had penetrated me to my core. Suddenly, I felt the weight of the darkness in my own heart.

I shut the booklet, laid it on my notebook, and glanced at the deputy secretary who was still grading my work. Just the sight of him—this Communist official—pierced my heart. I’d proclaimed to everyone that I was against corruption, but I had also previously tried to bribe the deputy party secretary. I thought I was working for freedom, but I had also sealed the classrooms in my college, forbidding others the liberty to choose whether to join us. I was for fairness, but I had stolen food as a very young child. I was for kindness, but I had decided to murder someone.

Reading the book was like taking a bright light and shining it on my life. The invisible man had become visible, and I didn’t like what I saw. I wasn’t a righteous leader; I wasn’t even really a good guy. In fact, I was days and maybe one chemistry lesson away from committing murder.

I looked at the clock and realized my time in the classroom was coming to a close. I’d spent my entire time reading and copying the “beautiful sentences” into my notebook.

“Do you need this back?” I tapped Jack on the back. “Or can I keep it for a while?”

“I don’t want it back,” he said, waving me off. “I don’t believe in that stuff.”

The next morning I scurried through campus. The sun had already been up for an hour, but the dew still stubbornly clung to the blades of grass like tiny crystals. In a plaza near a fountain, dozens of students were beginning their day with tai chi and qi gong, moving together like a flock of geese as they stretched a new day into being. Two students lugged heavy backpacks into a teashop as the store owner swept the steps, preparing for the day.

“Lao Wu,” I said, knocking on the door of his apartment in the foreign expert regiment building. The foreigners were a privileged group of professors because the university provided a laundry service as well as cooks for them. Their building was also nicer than the others, newer, and with more accommodations.

“What’s gotten you out of bed so early?” He smiled as he opened the door. “Come to see if I had any more bananas?”

He was dressed but his hair was mussed, and he held a steaming cup of coffee.

“I’m sorry I came so early, but I need to talk to you,” I said.

He motioned toward his couch, and I plopped down onto it. “I need to talk to you about the biography of Xi Zizhi.”

His voice lowered like we were suddenly in a library. “Oh? Where’d you get it?”

As an American, he’d signed an agreement not to evangelize the students, though he was allowed to answer any questions honestly. Because the students were interested in all things American, Lao Wu created opportunities to arouse curiosity among the students about Christianity. He hosted Christmas and Easter celebrations and always discreetly answered any questions that came up.

“Jack gave it to me last night,” I said. “He said you gave it to him.”

“Oh, right,” Lao Wu responded. “I remember giving that to him. Want some coffee? I made a fresh pot.” He jumped out of his seat and disappeared into the kitchen area. I’d never talked to him about Christianity because I’d bought into Karl Marx’s theory, which I had been taught my entire life: religion was the opiate of the masses.

“He thought it might help me.”

“It might help you do what?” Lao Wu asked, cautiously.

“To be happy, to be less depressed!” I exclaimed.

“So, you’re saying,” he prompted, “it worked?”

I laughed when I responded. “It worked! I’ve seen the light!”

Lao Wu came out of the kitchen and handed me a cup of coffee. “What exactly do you mean?” he asked when he sat back down. “Tell me about this ‘light.’” He took a sip of his own coffee.

“I believe in Jesus!” I gushed. “I feel like the birds are singing just for me. I feel like God Himself is putting His arms around me. I feel joy where there used to be only sorrow.”

Lao Wu’s eyes narrowed. He’d known me for over a year, but he’d only seen me raid his pantry and play moderately good defense on the basketball court. I’d never shown an interest in spiritual things.

“Well, that certainly is interesting news,” he said, noncommittally. I suppose he wondered whether I had actually undergone a conversion to Christianity or if I was some sort of spy working for the government.

“How do I sign up?”

“You mean, how do you join Christianity?” Lao Wu laughed in spite of himself.

“Yes, how do I formally become a Christian?” I asked, very earnestly. “To join the Communist League, you have ceremonies. First you join the youth party, and then you’re sworn into the Communist Party. Is there some sort of ceremony?”

“Let’s don’t get ahead of ourselves,” he said, still very calm. “Why don’t you write down what you’re feeling? Just take a moment to reflect on what happened as you read the book.”

Lao Wu flashed a wary smile, but I didn’t really notice his hesitance. Because I wasn’t familiar with Christianity, I didn’t understand the inherent dangers that came with being a Christian in China. I simply knew I’d been bitter, sad, and ready to commit murder. Then, after I believed in Jesus, I wasn’t.

“Great idea,” I said as I grabbed my satchel and stood up. As I walked toward the door, I noticed bananas sitting on his counter. I grabbed one, peeled back the skin and took a bite, then looked at Lao Wu.

“May I?” I said, my mouth full of the fruit. I’d never had such exotic fruit in my hometown growing up.

“Sure,” he said, as he opened the door for me.

“When I’m done, I’ll come right back!”

I walked across the campus, my head spinning with thoughts of my new faith. Even though I’d made that journey many times, the stroll felt different now. I wasn’t alone. A loving God was aware of me.

“Good morning.” I beamed at my two special agents whom I noticed lurking behind a bush next to the building. They’d been waiting for me. “How are you today?”

They looked completely shocked that I would acknowledge them. They were supposed to immobilize me with fear, but they didn’t have that kind of power over me anymore. When I arrived back at my room of confinement, my deputy was already there waiting.

“Glad you finally decided to make it,” he said. “Quit delaying, and get in there to write your confession.”

“Sure!”

The deputy tilted his head, completely baffled at my quick agreement. I slipped into the room, got out my stack of paper, and began writing. I would have plenty of time to write my so-called apology for my time as a student protestor. But first, I had to write something else.

“Last night, while reading a book, I believed in God,” I wrote. Even as I wrote the sentence, my heart felt like it was going to leap out of my chest. My pencil flew over the paper, recording all of my many thoughts about my whole world, now that it had become more vibrant. Suddenly I had become aware there was a supernatural power, and that knowledge had miraculously replaced the hatred and anger I’d previously harbored against so many people. I smiled as I thought of the Communist special agent standing outside my door. He just doesn’t know about Jesus, I thought, as I continued to write. Even the animosity I had for President Ming disappeared. And I even felt compassion for my former friend Joseph, who had publicly advocated that I be killed. As I finished my first page, I realized I was humming.

The guard knocked on my door and barked, “What are you doing in there?”

“Sorry!” I said, and continued scrawling out my spiritual thoughts. Pretty soon, I’d need to continue my forced confession so my agent would have something to grade. I’d been under surveillance for three months now, but a joy bubbled in my soul that couldn’t be quenched by any government guard.

When dinnertime came, I almost sprinted to the cafeteria to find Heidi. I couldn’t wait to talk to her about my conversion. When I came through the door, my eyes found her. She was sitting at the table where we usually sat, alone. She waited for me every night, in a solemnly sweet ritual.

“Hello!” I said warmly as I sat down beside her.

“What happened to you?” she immediately asked. She was used to me oozing around the campus, head down, shoulders slumped.

“You won’t believe it,” I answered. “I am a Jesus follower.”

She looked at me blankly. “Really?”

“Yes, I feel like a mountain has been removed from my chest,” I explained. “Instead of sorrow, I feel joy.”

“Are you sure it’s ‘joy’ and not a fever?” She laughed. “I can take you to the infirmary, if you like.” I could tell by her sarcasm that she’d rather talk about anything else. But I persisted. “I’ve never felt better in my life!”

“Religion’s for the weak, the vulnerable,” she said, more seriously. “You’re much smarter than that.”

“I read this book,” I said as I pulled it out and laid it on the cafeteria table. “It’s about a man whose life was changed. He used to be sad and depressed too, but then he believed in Jesus.”

“Don’t you see?” Heidi said, with as much gentleness as she could muster. “People who are full of angst are not strong-minded. This man was weak, so he accepted this crazy religion.” She looked at me like I was sick, lying in a hospital bed and clinging to a false hope of recovery. “You don’t have to follow his path.”

“But I have so much love in my heart now,” I explained. “I don’t feel any bad feelings toward President Ming or Joseph.”

“Why not?” She practically spat out the words. “They ruined your life!” Implicit was the very distinct message that they’d ruined her life as well. After all, she and I had grown closer over the past few months, even as my other friends moved away from me. “The President has no backbone, and Joseph is an opportunist. The smoke over Tiananmen Square hadn’t even blown away by the time he had betrayed you, taken your position as a student leader, and advocated for your death in the newspaper!”

“These guys also need to find a new life in Christ. God can help them,” I said. “He can save them too.”

“Xiqiu, listen to me.” She slammed her hand against the table, and the water in my glass rippled. She picked up my book. “You are an intelligent man. You don’t need this kind of intellectual crutch, and you don’t need to love people who want you dead.”

“So . . . you’re saying you’ll read it?” I asked, with a sly smile.

“You believed in Jesus last night, and already you’re an evangelist?”

Reluctantly, she dropped the book into her backpack.

“Let’s just eat,” she said, rolling her eyes, and we ate our meal in silence.

The next day, I knocked on the door to Lao Wu’s home after one of his classes. When he opened the door, he motioned for me to come in. “I was expecting you.” He smiled.

“I wrote it all down,” I said, plopping five pages onto his coffee table. “Just like you asked.”

Lao Wu sighed, put on his reading glasses, and picked up the papers. I felt nervous as he turned the first page, then the second. Were my feelings enough to justify a conversion? Was I, as Heidi claimed, simply being emotional because I’d gotten so lonely? But by the time my teacher flipped over the last page, he looked up at me with tears in his eyes.

“So, can I join?” I asked.

“Sure,” he responded, as he knelt down on the floor. “The first thing is to ask for God’s help—for God’s guidance.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “We need to ask for a directive from God.” I understood what I needed to do, but I didn’t have the right language to wrap around my ideas.

I spoke of spiritual things using the only language I knew. Because communism demanded we ask for “directives,” or authoritative instruction, from our government, I wanted a directive from God Himself. I wanted to be saved.

There, in his apartment, Lao Wu led me in a prayer.

“God,” I said. “This is life to me. I want to become a follower. I want to become Your child.”

I remembered one of the beautiful sentences in Xi Zizhi’s book.

“If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation, the old has gone, the new has come.”

The “Heavenly Grandpa” I prayed to years ago was the one who made new creations.