Volume One, Chapter Forty-Eight: Foreign Religions

The flying squirrel certainly had no intention of actually staying at the Golden Shield Hotel that Lu Lin had arranged. He left all his "luggage" in Lu Lin's car and drove into the streets of Yadu City.

During the few hours that woman stayed in Amie's cabin, she left behind a matchbox stamped with "Surprise Hotel" and a tin lunchbox distributed by a church, its lid bearing a prominent cross.

Since 1881, when two missionaries entered Saro from Burma to spread their faith, this remote province had become the region in China with the largest number of Christians and Catholics. It not only introduced the soon-to-be-renowned “Saro Small Bean Coffee” but also saw churches across the province tirelessly proclaiming the doctrines of Puritanism to their congregations.

At first, clergy were called “Father” in local Chinese rather than “Pastor.” The Fathers spread Calvinist predestination, teaching that one cannot alter one's fate, that God has already “predestined” who shall be saved, who will be among the “elect,” and who will be forever forsaken, the “reprobate,” with worldly success or failure, virtue or crime, wealth or poverty serving as signs of election or abandonment.

Puritan preachers also often emphasized sanctification.

They believed that Christians must follow Christ, learn gratitude, service, obedience, charity, and self-sacrifice, walking the path of holiness; that one must come to a genuine understanding of faith and repentance—these two great graces—through personal experience and constant practice in daily life; must learn the art of meditation, how to revere God, and pray like a child; and must, by God’s grace, continuously strive for progress and growth.

To Puritan preachers, theology was a practical discipline, and Puritan evangelism also preached Christ’s doctrine: “Preaching is a chariot, and Christ rides this chariot galloping through the world.”

In November 1929, the Holy See declared the separation of the Lanshao Prefecture from the Xelan Prefecture, placing it under the care of Father Yemeizhang of the French Berthalan Sacred Heart Society. In April 1946, Pope Pius XII issued the decree establishing the ecclesiastical hierarchy in China, dividing the country into twenty provinces and officially elevating the Lanshao Diocese to a bishopric.

Its jurisdiction covered the eight regions of Lanshao, Lijiang, Diqing, Yadu, Deze, Nujiang, Simao, and Linchang in western Yunnan.

In 1952, foreign priests and bishops were expelled, and the Catholic Lanshao Diocese came under the leadership of Father Liu Hanchen.

To understand these “heretics,” the authorities conducted a survey in 1954: Saro Province already had nearly 140,000 followers and close to a thousand churches. The newly established government, not wishing to act rashly, allowed priests to swear allegiance to the new regime and continue their ministry under fresh rules.

But as the faith of the new society grew ever stronger, believers deserted the churches in droves, and the churches fell into decline. When the national campaign to “Smash the Four Olds” began, the blows to religion intensified. Compared to indigenous Buddhism, Daoism, and the Islam of the northwest, the local forms of Christianity and Catholicism, with their universal values and mild exclusivity, suffered less severely.

During the Great Leap Forward, ordinary people cared more for the communal canteen than for the church. As the great famine descended and corpses littered the land, even God could not manifest and provide sustenance. The faithful returned to their villages to survive; even local clergy were forced to flee their sanctuaries, begging or even stealing in the big cities.

The Cultural Revolution that followed brought annihilation to Christianity and Catholicism, as it did to all religions. Every church in the Lanshao Diocese was seized, and all religious activity was criminalized. Most churches were smashed by peasants with hoes and hammers, and if necessary, the military’s Liberation trucks were used to ram them down.

To avoid being labeled criminals, clergy stood on the small stage of the commune, weeping and publicly severing ties with the “hypocritical cult” and the reactionary forces it represented. Some priests, deeply versed in doctrine, simply changed course, donned faded uniforms or Mao suits with metal buttons, and became radical revolutionaries dedicated to “down with all reactionary religions.” Former believers dared not admit to their past faith, becoming mere spectators in the wheat fields.

In September 1976, the Great Leader died—the only god all Chinese were compelled to worship had perished. The officially acknowledged “ten years of catastrophe” awakened the masses, and faith, rooted in history, not only rekindled but spread like wildfire into the mountains along the Nu and Jinsha rivers. New churches swiftly rose beside impoverished mountain villages, creating a rare landscape in twentieth-century China. Once more, “Father” became the sacred representative of God.

The flying squirrel recalled that the church marked on the map was on Jiulong Road.

It had been rebuilt on its original site a few years prior. The cross atop its steeple stood out like a crane among the ramshackle buildings of the city. The flying squirrel drove straight up and parked on the east side of the church.

Getting out, he noticed that the road encircling the church was unlike any other in town. It was neither asphalt like the main thoroughfares nor dusty dirt. Nearly a century ago, the church’s first Father had led a small group of believers to haul countless river stones from the canyon below the city to pave the exquisite, straight little path before him. Ancient banyan trees lined the road, their emerald shade gently stroking the well-worn stones in the summer breeze.

It was already two in the afternoon. Leaning against his car, a cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes narrowed, the flying squirrel gazed up at the towering cross silhouetted against the light. He held no religious faith, considering all religions to be branches of philosophy, but this did not diminish his respect for their teachings of kindness.

He understood the universal human longing for faith—so long as it did not turn into fanaticism or bigotry. In this cruel, wicked world, everyone has the right to keep, deep within, a patch of pure land untouched by the dust of life.

Not far to the north of the church, a glint of golden light shimmered—a painted Theravada Buddhist stupa. This area was home to both the Tai and Han peoples, church and stupa standing in harmony. Every Tai household adhered to Theravada Buddhism, the traditional mainline faith, which taught people to cultivate virtue, seek harmony with heaven, earth, and nature.

The Tai people were gentle and honest, living peacefully with all local ethnic groups—an outcome entirely due to the teachings of gods and Buddhas. Their Buddhist faith led them to pursue eternal happiness in a heavenly realm, to believe in reincarnation and karmic retribution, and to care little for worldly glory and pleasure. Yet today, this once simple, secluded Buddhist society had degenerated into a sprawling red-light district, a city of sin overrun by drug lords.

You lot? The flying squirrel’s lips curled in a cold sneer.

After these days teetering between life and death, gazing at the humble yet sacred church, the flying squirrel was suddenly moved. The Tai and Ang people followed Buddhism, the Han of Yadu and the Bai of Lanshao were largely Christian, and the arms dealer, an imam, practiced Islam.

Whether it was the Diamond Sutra, the Bible, or the Quran, all these faiths, philosophically speaking, extolled a worldview of truth, goodness, and beauty. Only the gods they worshipped and the scriptures they followed differed, leading to distinct methodologies.

Strangely, people of different faiths lived side by side, neither hating nor fighting each other over religion. Why then, when faced with money, were they willing to kill cold-bloodedly for drugs?

The merciful gods exhorted mankind to love one another, yet what filled these hearts was anger and hate. As the saying goes, “Those who kill and rob wear golden belts, while those who build bridges and pave roads leave no corpse behind.” When did the lure of money begin to overpower their faith in the divine?

Why can sacred faith and wicked desire walk hand in hand? In these borderland mountains, demons like Yan Nuo used the blood of others as their sacrifice, all for the day they could ascend the altar of power.