Christianity in
China is booming. With 100 to 150 million believers, far more than the 74
million-member communist party, Jesus is a force to be reckoned with in
the People’s Republic. Jane Macartney
from The Times talks to the new faithful who love China – but
love God more.
A murmur of “Amen” echoes softly down a corridor in a luxury Beijing hotel.
Dozens of young Chinese are gathered in a beige-carpeted conference room to
listen to the word of God. After helping themselves to hot water or tea at
the back of the room, they find a seat and chatter with friends. They tuck
Louis Vuitton and Prada handbags under their seats, switch their mobile
phones to silent and turn to listen to a young woman who takes the
microphone to ask for silence and recite a prayer.
A casually dressed, grey-haired Chinese man takes to the podium. “Let us begin
with a look at the Gospel of Saint John.” There is a rustling of pages as
converts and curious open their Bibles. Almost everyone in the room is
scarcely a day over 30. Most look as if they are in their early twenties.
They are fashionably dressed – girls with high-heeled boots, men
sporting trendy knitted hats. This is Friday night Bible class in Beijing.
And it is a weekend venue of choice for growing numbers of well-off
middle-class city sophisticates.
The fact that this class is technically illegal, run by pastors lacking
approval from the state-sanctioned Protestant church, is not the attraction.
These are not young people seeking a frisson of excitement from some
underground activity. They are at the forefront of a movement sweeping China
– the search for spiritual satisfaction now that Marx is démodé.
No attempt is made to conceal what is, in effect, an underground religious
gathering. A sign in Chinese outside the conference room reads: “Hill of
Golgotha Church meeting”. A board outside the hotel lift directs visitors to
Hall 5. There is not a nod towards secrecy or even discretion. There is no
sense of anxiety, let alone fear, that officials could burst in to break up
this illegal assembly even though police do still frequently raid house
churches run by underground Protestant pastors.
A spectacular success
In fact, across China religion is undergoing a defiant and extraordinary
revival. Millions of Chinese are turning to familiar traditional faiths such
as Buddhism and Taoism – a mystical belief with about 400 million
adherents that is China’s only indigenous creed. Taoist believers, like
Buddhists, visit temples across the country to burn incense, present
offerings and request readings from fortune tellers. Others are finding
comfort in Confucius, but it is Christianity that is leading the battle for
China’s 1.3 billion souls.
Many regard religion as a new force, unaware that missionaries – Protestant
for the most part but also Roman Catholics – tried to spread Christianity
across China in the 19th century and met with fierce opposition during the
anti-Western Boxer Rebellion in the early 1900s. But it was former leader
Deng Xiaoping, who effectively endorsed freedom of worship, and gave
Christianity the chance to take hold, with his sweeping market reforms in
1978.
Today, two Christian faiths are allowed to operate within carefully prescribed
limits: the Catholics, who must worship in churches run by the State’s
Chinese Patriotic Catholic Association and number about six million, and the
Protestants, who operate under the aegis of their government-sanctioned
religious body, the Three-Self Patriotic Movement – standing for
self-governing, self-teaching and self-supporting. Their numbers are
estimated at 21 million – about the population of Australia. All other
Christian associations are illegal.
Those who participate in non-sanctioned churches run the risk of police raids,
a beating or even jail. The situation is more fraught for the underground
Catholic churches than it is for the Protestant get-togethers. An unknown
number of Catholic priests, and even bishops, languish in jail, serving
lengthy prison terms for their temerity in preaching allegiance to Rome.
Beijing’s Communist Party rulers are wary of an organisation that is so well
organised and also headed by a leader – the Pope – who can command the
loyalty of millions.
But that doesn’t seem to put off the growing congregations. Indeed, official
numbers fall far short of the actual total. Recent surveys calculate the
number of Christians worshipping independently of the State churches in
China to be as high as 100 million. That means that almost one in every ten
Chinese may now be a Christian, making Christianity bigger than the 74
million-member Communist Party.
Bring Christianity into the conversation and everyone seems to know someone
who is a convert. I heard how many of the executive staff at one smallish
Beijing hotel were keen Christians. A manager at an international bank
mentioned that many of his employees shared a common faith.
Visiting an elderly woman who had been taken as a child to serve as a “comfort
woman” to soldiers of the invading Japanese army in the Second World War, I
was astonished to see a cross hanging on the wall of the simple home she
shared with her son just across the road from the local Communist Party
offices. Without embarrassment or fear, her son explained how each Sunday he
attends services in a house church nearby. He proudly pulled out his hymnal
and sang for me, while curious neighbours peered through the window.
I learnt of the Communist Party secretary of a village not far from Qufu, the
home town of Confucius, who sleeps with a crucifix above his bed. His wife,
he explained, was a Christian, as were his sons. Indeed, he went on, pretty
much everyone in the village of about 3,000 was a believer. Almost all, it
seems, belong to illegal house churches, small congregations that come
together in private homes in cities, towns and villages across China.
Why Christianity has such a hold remains something of an enigma. Many Chinese
are looking to fill the chasm left by the collapse in Marxist ideology’s
credibility in the wake of the disastrous ultra-leftist 1966-76 Cultural
Revolution and the Tiananmen Square crackdown. It’s also possible that a
religion from the West holds a particular attraction for Chinese looking for
a more modern faith to complement the stunning success of capitalist-style
economic reforms. But the sense of belonging may be the best way to explain why
Christianity has been such a spectacular success story in China in the past
few years.
Finding a family far from home
Pastor Ezra Jin heads the Protestant Zion Church, based above a karaoke club
in one of the thousands of faceless apartment blocks that populate the
suburbs of Beijing.
He prefers not to see Zion as an illegal underground Church but rather as
private and independent, and in the two years since its inception, the
church has never suffered a police raid. “Our Church offers people a feeling
of belonging to a family,” explains Pastor Jin. “There are more and more
contradictions in our society as different interest groups emerge and gaps
open up between regions and between social groups. Christianity can help by
providing comfort and spiritual strength.”
Dressed in a sharply cut dark suit with a white shirt and gold silk tie,
Pastor Jin could be just another successful executive. Instead he runs a
house church so large he conducts at least three services every Sunday in a
room brimming with 300 to 400 people. Toddlers play in a glassed-off crèche
while their parents stand to sing hymns and to pray. A choir in hot-pink
robes leads the singing and a little band with an electric organ and two
guitar players keeps the congregation in tune.
Liu Huan has been playing the guitar in church for nine years. The slight
computer engineer in his thirties beams with delight at being asked to
explain why he attends a house church. Although in this case sprawling,
neon-lit office might be more appropriate. Apart from the main hall, the
Zion Church seems to occupy most of the floor of the building with smaller
offices and store rooms. “My wife introduced me to God and coming here gives
me strength.” He fits one of the models that Pastor Jin described: the
out-of-town worker who has found a place in a new community far from home
through Christianity.
With his spiky haircut and a single earring, Wang Ye cuts a dashing figure in
the congregation. The 21-year-old is a student graduating in online business
who hails from the northern coal-mining province of Shanxi. His mother, who
had moved to Beijing in search of a better job and was lonely, found comfort
when friends introduced her to the church. “She brought me as well. Many of
us have family problems and we find warmth here.” He strolls over to join a
group of friends gossiping about their plans to celebrate the Chinese New
Year.
“The future of Christianity in China is very different from in the West,”
believes Pastor Jin. “In the West, Christianity is in retreat, especially in
Europe, but in China it is growing by leaps and bounds.” He cites the
stability the church offers to a population buffeted by decades of wrenching
political change as one of most appealing aspects of the faith.
The first hymn on a wintry Sunday at his Zion Church echoes that refrain. A
lay preacher leads the congregation. Projected on a screen on the wall
behind him the words scroll down against a background of plum blossoms.
Voices are raised in song. “There are many things I don’t know in the
future. But I know who will hold my hand and who will be in charge.”
As readings from the Bible and prayers follow more hymns, the atmosphere in
the room is charged. A verse reaches a crescendo, women in the congregation
one after another raise their arms above their heads and sway. One or two
sob quietly. The lay preacher leads a prayer. Each time he mentions “Our
Lord”, a chorus of “Amen” swells up from the crowd. Nothing is allowed
to disturb their evangelical reverie and there is little sense among these
worshippers that they risk arrest.
Pastor Jin believes the most difficult times for house churches such as his
may soon be over. He recently took part in the first meeting between
government officials and leaders of the banned underground Protestant faith.
It was the most significant step towards reconciliation in decades, and could
mark a turning point in the Party’s attitudes.
“I wasn’t surprised,” he said. “It was clear to me
that sooner or later God would bring us to this.” In addition, the size of
the underground Protestant church has now reached such proportions that it
is an increasing challenge for the authorities or the police to control.
“China is a very big country so there will still be examples of persecution,
but the overall direction is gradually changing.”
He says the talks could be a sign that the Communist authorities have come to
recognise that the Protestant church at least can be a force for harmony –
the watchword of the administration of President Hu Jintao, the current head
of the Party. It was President Hu himself who told an unprecedented
Politburo study session on religion in late 2007 that “the knowledge of
religious people must be harnessed to build a prosperous society”.
“The Government is anxious to work out the way to go forward,” believes Pastor
Jin. “They have understood that the Protestant Church is not an opposition
force but a force for stability.”
A constant fugitive
But there are others who would disagree. Pastor Jin may operate in effect
outside the law, but he is grudgingly tolerated. Arranging to meet him
required little more than a couple of telephone calls. He chatted happily in
public over a lunch of spicy Sichuan food in his local restaurant across an
alley from the building housing his church.
Pastor Zhang Mingxuan falls into quite another category. Expelled from Beijing
before the Olympic Games last August, he is persona non grata in the
capital. He attracts police attention wherever he goes and his telephone is
constantly tapped. On his first return visit to the capital since his
eviction, he got off the overnight train from his home in central Henan
province and met me behind a department store near the railway station.
A short, blockish man dressed in a shiny suit and with a tie embroidered with
crosses, his first order of business was practical. “We’ve been on an
overnight train and we’re hungry. Let’s have lunch.” No sooner had he sat
down, intoned grace over the food and gulped down a glass of hot Coca-Cola
to counter the bitter chill on one of the coldest days of the winter than he
launched into an account of his confrontations with the police. Zhang, who
describes himself as a lay pastor, heads what he calls the Chinese House
Church Alliance, bringing together a number of diverse congregations. Any
form of organisation is anathema to the ruling Communist Party, jealous of
any rival power. Beyond the pale is a grouping of illegal underground
churches that could challenge its supremacy.
It is small wonder then that he recounts a convoluted tale of eviction from
his Beijing flat, from the homes of friends, suburban hotels, even from
guesthouses in the province that abuts the capital. Everywhere he tries to
lay his head, the police track him in their dozens, moving him out of their
jurisdiction. Zhang is undeterred. “My head is here. Let them take it if
they want it. But God is in Heaven and he won’t allow them to take my head.”
A poorly educated barber and the product of an atheist Communist system, he
had little time for the Christianity in which his wife believed. Or at least
that was until a business deal went wrong in 1986 and a failed court case
left him deeply in debt. He heard his brother-in-law recite Psalm 38: “They
also that seek after my life lay snares for me: and they that seek my hurt
speak mischievous things, and imagine deceits all the day long.” The words cut
to the heart. “I fell on my knees and in less than five minutes, I
became a Christian.”
He was an enthusiastic convert. He does not hide his conviction that his
mission now is to spread the word of God far and wide in China. His fervour
contrasts with the measured tones of Pastor Jin. Leaping to his feet, he
rolls up his trousers and points to scars on one leg. “Look! I was run over
and I have two metal pins in my leg. But after 15 days I could walk again
because of the Lord.” He spreads his arms wide and gestures to his stocky
frame. “When they arrested me I fasted for 25 days. Nothing happened
to me because God was with me.”
He does not bother to hide his contempt for the Communist Party. Fuelled with
passion, his voice rises. “They hate me but I don’t hate them.” God, he
says, is on his side and he will win. That passion must trigger anxiety
among officials who for 30 years have guaranteed freedom of worship – but
not worship conducted by unofficial ministers like Zhang.
The demolition three years ago of an illegally built Protestant church near
the southern city of Hangzhou draws Zhang’s wrath. The building had been
constructed on land intended for a commercial centre, and several hundred
faithful in the town that is home to tens of thousands of Christians tried
to stand in the way of the razing of the building. Secretly filmed video of
the incident shows scuffles between worshippers defending their church and
the police, with at least four people reportedly suffering broken bones as
police wielding batons pushed back the crowd. Several were arrested and
eight people were jailed for terms of up to three and a half years. For
Zhang, such actions are evidence of the Communist Party’s fear.
“China is a land that has been chosen by God. If the government did not
interfere then many more Chinese would become followers. Our hearts are
thirsty.” Disturbed to learn that my Chinese colleague remains firmly
atheist, Zhang leans forward across the table and tries to persuade her.
“You should find faith as soon as possible so that we can all be brothers
and sisters in God. God will save you. He makes so many miracles. He will
protect you.” A day later, he was picked up by the Beijing police and
shipped back to Henan province.
An understanding with the jailers Pastor Shen Quan was trained at an
officially approved seminary – as was Pastor Jin – but he too left the
government-sanctioned church in search of greater spiritual freedom. It has
been more than two years since police last carried out a raid on one his
services, during which members of his congregation were intimidated and
warned not to attend, while he was taken away and questioned. He is not as
optimistic as Pastor Jin that the recent inauguration of tentative talks
between government and house church luminaries heralds an end to the
persecution. “This is just not possible. As long as the house churches
exist, the government must want to try to control them.”
But government raids on house churches have proved somewhat counterproductive.
Underground Christians say that as soon as one house church is closed, its
members split up and found their own small congregations, further
multiplying the numbers.
One of the attractions of these churches is the personal care that a pastor
gives to his flock, which is a world away from the more rigid approach of
the state-sanctioned Three-Self Patriotic Church. One such – the Kuanjie
Church – was full by 9am for a Saturday morning service. A far higher
proportion of the congregation were middle-aged or elderly and one woman
made it her duty to patrol the aisles making sure that everyone, including
curious first-time visitors, fell to their knees on specially provided foam
cushions during the lengthy prayers. Even in this church, the tone was
evangelical. Two women with microphones on poles moved between the pews,
ensuring worshippers had a chance to offer aloud their prayers and to share
with the rest of the congregation their stories of individual communion with
God.
But such official churches lack the personal touch found in the small house
churches, and perhaps because of that are growing more slowly. The challenge
now for the government is to determine how it will handle the breakneck
spread of the underground churches.
Zhao Xiao is a prominent economist, a professor of the University of Science
and Technology and a one-time Communist Party member. He is also a Christian
and something of an optimist. He sees the recent groundbreaking talks
between the two sides as inevitable. As the Christian population has grown,
the Party has recognised that Protestants are making no attempt to form an
alternative organisation and are not questioning the rule of the party, he
says.
This may have given the leadership greater confidence to liaise with them. It
is also common knowledge that huge numbers of the volunteers who raced to
help with the aftermath of last year’s devastating earthquake in southwest
China were Christians. Many are still there, helping the survivors and,
sometimes, preaching.
Familiarity, Professor Zhao believes, is another important factor. “It has
taken many years to reach this point. Many meetings have taken place over
the years between imprisoned pastors and their police jailers and this has
bred a closer understanding. Those changes in attitude meant this day could
come.” He adds: “I think that one day the Communist Party will even allow
Christians to become members.”
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