SPIRITUAL PRAGMATISM

The Protestant Challenge

Fervor in South Korea

Bejingers celebrate Christmas

Fr. Tissa Balasuriya

ONE OF THE REALITIES of Christianity across China is that you see Catholic priests in their 70s and 80s and in their 30s. But you rarely see any in their middle years. When asked why, Shen Rongtian, the government's 50-ish religious affairs chief in the remote southern village of Meizhou, avoids answering the question. Instead, he gives Catholicism in China an official spin: "The late Deng Xiaoping built socialism with Chinese characteristics. What we are doing is perhaps to build Catholicism with Chinese characteristics." Bishop Zhong Quanzhang, a weary but still-vibrant 78-year-old Catholic priest, has a grimmer explanation: "There was a period I call the Dark Ages. Catholics across China were hard hit during the Cultural Revolution. But here in Meizhou, we are much better off."

Meizhou, where Zhong looks over a flock of about 700 parishioners, is tucked away high in the ridges of the Wuyi mountains in northern Guangdong province. It is a hard place to reach from the provincial capital of Guangzhou -- a six-hour haul by bus from lowlands through increasingly rugged countryside over steadily narrowing roads. Meizhou was the hometown of Hong Xiuquan, a religious leader in the Taiping Rebellion that almost brought down the Qing Dynasty in the 19th century. Claiming to be the brother of Jesus, Hong found a receptive audience in the local community of impoverished Hakka farmers. He committed suicide in 1864, but his religious fervor lives on with the villagers.

It was Meizhou's reputation as a base for firebrands that protected it from the worst ravages of the Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution of the late 1960s and early 1970s. Unlike many of his peers elsewhere, Zhong was never jailed. But, as a young priest, he was sent to the countryside to "reform his mind through labor." He lived as a shepherd for more than 20 years -- a period when all religious activities were banned -- but never stopped preaching. Risking imprisonment, he held underground masses in the countryside.

Ties between the Vatican and Beijing were severed during those years. But Zhong says the links never died, then or now. "We are not tied to the Vatican politically, but every day, we pray for the Pope," he says. Zhong has friends around the world. "Under the current religious policy, I am allowed to keep in touch with these people. They know that our religious belief is exactly the same as theirs, except for the political problems."

About 40 km from Meizhou is a small village called Jiaoling. Father Liao Hongqing, casually dressed and showing no outward evidence of his clerical responsibilities, is overseeing the construction of a new building to replace the 125-year-old church, named Shou Le (Elderly Delight), that was built by French missionaries during the Qing Dynasty. Before 1850, Jiaoling's countryside was sparsely populated. Around that time, as foreign powers insinuated themselves into China, the French began buying up land and building houses, offering them free to converts. A Catholic village soon sprung up. In 1872, the old Shou Le Church was built. Now, all but 100 of Jiaoling's 1,100 people are Catholic.

Liao, stocky and in his early 30s, was only recently ordained. The Meizhou diocese, which includes surrounding villages such as Jiaoling, is recognized by the Patriotic Catholic Association, the government-appointed body that handles relations between the government and the 70 or so Catholic diocese in China. The Vatican and its grandeur, 10,000 km away in Rome, might as well be on another planet.

To become a Catholic priest in China means six years of government-sanctioned theological education after high school. Liao attended Wuhan Monastery, one of six Catholic religious training centers in the country. This is followed by a formal selection process by a diocese. For Liao, as for many young priests around the world, taking on a religious vocation is a practical decision. "When Beijing decided to launch its program of economic reform and adopt an open-door policy back in the late '70s, all sectors were heading for recovery," he says. "As a child, I thought I would have a lot to contribute [to the nation], in promoting my religion in particular, so I decided to become a priest."

One of Liao's parishioners is Lin Zanlin, a teacher for 30 years who now puts all his effort into the construction of the new church. He remembers the dark days. "Not only was the church shut down, but the whole village took on a hugely political look," he says. " 'Long Live Chairman Mao' and 'Long Live the Cultural Revolution' slogans were everywhere. We got through it, but nothing was more worrying than the Cultural Revolution."

The activities surrounding Jiaoling's new church reflect the profound changes since then. For one thing, parishes can now accept direct donations from overseas. Hakka people were at the core of the late-19th-century migration from China, and provide a surprising network of links among Chinese communities throughout the world. "Never since 1949 has religious policy been so favorable to us," says Liao. While he might not have close links to the Church in Rome, he has international ties that are just as important for his church's survival.

The legacy of all this is a pragmatic type of Catholicism. Li Qingmei, a 20-year-old nurse working in Jiaoling's family planning bureau, is a perfect example. She sees no contradiction in believing in God as a higher force even as she works to become a member of the Communist Party. "The Church teaches me how to be a good person, and the Party will smooth my career path," she says. "The Church provides spiritual anchorage, but the Party is a real life endeavor." It is the sort of approach that has carried the Hakka, entrenched in their homeland, through centuries of poverty and social upheaval and one that looks capable of helping them adapt to whatever the future will bring.