Chapter 106 - The Church's Other Purpose

The following day, a subtle shift occurred in the missionary work. The leaflets continued to be printed—without them, there would be no audience—but Lu Ruohua’s sermons began to change. He glossed over the grim realities of original sin and hell, focusing instead on tales of “miracles” and “resurrections.”

After a few days, this new approach began to bear fruit. An old woman approached Bai Duolu, inquiring about the location of their “temple.” Lu Ruohua was ecstatic. He personally escorted her to the third courtyard, fussing over her with the zeal of a man about to save a soul. But the old woman’s needs were more corporeal than spiritual; her health had been failing for some time, and she was hoping for a tangible remedy, a pinch of incense ash, perhaps, or a talisman to dissolve in water.

Lu Ruohua, a true Jesuit, did not so much as flinch. He seized the opportunity to launch into a lengthy sermon on the power of faith to bring salvation, leaving the old woman so bewildered that she eventually wandered off, clutching a small wooden crucifix.

A few days later—whether God had chosen this barren land to reveal His power, or whether it was simply the power of suggestion—the old woman returned. This time, she respectfully requested a larger “cross” to take home. Lu Ruohua was moved to tears. Matteo Ricci had spent years in China without a single convert, yet he had achieved a breakthrough with such ease. He began to see Bai Duolu in a new light, and the content of his sermons drifted further and further “in line with China’s national conditions.” In the end, he baptized the dazed old woman, though whether it was to wash away “original sin” or the “root of her illness” was a matter of personal interpretation.

From that day forward, Lu Ruohua’s missionary work flourished. Bai Duolu discovered what history had long proven: that middle-aged and elderly women are an inexhaustible wellspring of vitality, a gold mine for any social movement. Under the enthusiastic promotion of this first convert, a stream of other women and elderly folk began to attend the “teachings.” Though no one else was immediately baptized, a crowd began to gather in the evenings to listen to Father Lu’s sermons. The long nights were tedious, and this provided a welcome diversion. Besides, the red-haired man was something of a curiosity.

Lu Ruohua was a quick study. In addition to his usual tales of miracles, he began to intersperse stories from the Bible—carefully “suggested” by Bai Duolu, of course, to avoid any material that might prove too shocking for local sensibilities.

“Father,” Bai Duolu said one day, with his customary humility, “now that people are attending the sermons, perhaps we could alter the layout of the chapel.”

“How so?”

“I recall that in Europe, the church was always a place for public gathering, for conversation and socializing…”

“You are quite right,” Lu Ruohua exclaimed, his excitement palpable. “In the rural churches of France, one might even find people conducting business. This is a village, after all, with no distractions, no entertainment, and no proper place to gather.”

There had once been such a place. The large banyan tree at the village entrance had been a natural meeting spot, but over a decade ago, during the back-and-forth fighting between Dang Namen and the government forces, both sides had chosen that very spot for their executions. To this day, the flagstones beneath the tree were stained with old blood, and the villagers gave it a wide berth.

At Bai Duolu’s suggestion, Lu Ruohua added more tables and chairs to the hall of the third courtyard, which had been converted into a chapel. He procured a large number of torches, tea bowls, and teapots from Lin’gao, and even installed a stove for boiling water, transforming the space into an evening social hub.

The crucifix on display was also changed. At Bai Duolu’s urging, the terrifying image of the Passion was replaced with a plain cross. A picture of the Madonna and Child was added, a nod to the same principle that made Guanyin so popular in Chinese Buddhism; in Catholic Europe, the veneration of the Virgin Mary was equally widespread.

After this careful renovation, the church became the de facto social center of the village. The priest generously lit a multitude of lanterns each night—so many that Bai Duolu had to make several trips back to Bairen for candles. Most farming families were loath to light lamps at night, to conserve oil. The church, brightly lit and welcoming, immediately attracted women with evening chores and young people with no desire for an early bedtime. They gathered to chat, to listen to the red-haired priest’s Western tales, and to hear his words of moral exhortation. Gradually, they developed an interest in his “preaching.” The postal censorship department of the General Administration of Security began to receive a letter from Lu Ruohua to the Jesuit Superior in Macau nearly every three or four days, each one filled with passionate prose.

Bai Duolu knew that missionary work in the countryside was a slow and arduous process. But once a breakthrough was made, it could sweep through a village with surprising speed. He advised Lu Ruohua to be patient, to focus his efforts on the family of the first convert, to secure one household as a “fortress.” Lu Ruohua now relied on Bai Duolu as his right-hand man, following his every suggestion and showing great care for the family of Grandma Mei, the first to be baptized.

The bustling church, however, was a source of great irritation for Du Wen. On several occasions, she railed at Dong Weiwei for suggesting the idea to Bai Duolu.

“Look what you’ve done! The masses have been seduced by a foreign religion! How are we supposed to do our work now?”

“If we can’t win them over, let the church win them over first. It’s better than this state of limbo,” replied Dong Weiwei, drawing on her experience with township work. She knew that in areas where the church had successfully established itself, the social order generally improved, and government work became much easier.

“Besides,” she added, “Wen Zong himself said this is not a foreign religion, but a church with Chinese characteristics.”

Du Wen remained unconvinced. “I am fundamentally opposed to this method of using religion to confuse and deceive the people.”

“Let’s not get bogged down in grand principles,” Dong Weiwei said. “Now that the people are gathered, now that they have something to do in the evenings, it’s much easier to understand the social dynamics.”

With a central gathering place, the members of the training institute could easily blend in with the crowd. “Making friends” and gathering intelligence became far more convenient than before. Soon, their work with the masses began to show progress, and the team collected a wealth of basic information.

Unfortunately, Du Wen and Dong Weiwei, the two transmigrators, found themselves on the outside looking in. Even the work with women, which should have been their forte, proved difficult. This was not Yanchang Village, where, with the introduction of the Tan family elders, Du Wen could easily engage Tan Xiaoqin in conversations about women’s liberation. Here, they knew nothing of sewing or spinning, couldn’t speak the Lin’gao dialect, and simply couldn’t connect with the local women. Their attempts to chat with people in the church were equally unsuccessful; everyone was a little intimidated by the “female officials.”

After much thought, Dong Weiwei decided to use her knowledge of traditional Chinese medicine to bridge the gap. She had several handbooks on common Chinese medical treatments and came from a family of traditional Chinese doctors. She had also learned a little about massage and acupuncture, skills she could now put to use.

Du Wen, unable to think of any other way to contribute, became her assistant. She might have lacked special skills, but she had strength, and learning massage was not a problem. The two women set up a stall in the church and began to practice medicine. The response was immediate and overwhelming. Rural areas were generally devoid of doctors and medicine, and women, in particular, rarely had the opportunity to seek medical care. Many of them suffered from a variety of ailments. Dong Weiwei found herself playing the role of a general practitioner, practicing medicine with the meager knowledge she possessed. She saw several female patients every day, a responsibility that often left her in a state of panic, terrified of causing harm.

But she couldn’t back down now. She penned a sincere letter to the Ministry of Health, pleading for them to send their only traditional Chinese medicine expert, Liu San, to help, or at least to solve the problem of medicine. For now, her prescriptions were almost useless—the peasants had to travel to the county town to get the medicine, and they rarely had cash on hand.

Even so, the local people were deeply grateful. At last, they were able to have direct contact with the local masses.

The two women worked tirelessly, often burning the kerosene lamp late into the night as they pored over the information they had collected. The box Du Wen used as a file cabinet was beginning to overflow. Her notebook was filled with entries like:

“Liu Dazhu, poor peasant, wavering.”

“Wang Wu, rich peasant, despises the bandits. Lacks resolve.”

…

Most importantly, they had gathered a great deal of information about the bandits’ families in the village. Through the students of the training institute, they had also secretly contacted many of the bandits’ victims. Every night, people would sneak in through the back of the church to have secret talks in the second courtyard. When they spoke of their sorrows, tears would inevitably fall. The two women, soft-hearted and easily moved, found that this unexpected display of emotion helped them win the people’s trust. The word spread that the two female officials were kind-hearted.

These victims were carefully selected by the trainees, who only engaged in deep conversations with those who had a blood feud with the bandits. When they spoke of the bandits, their words were laced with a mixture of hatred and grief. Yet, despite this, Du Wen’s hope of mobilizing them to form a core militia and then rallying the masses remained a distant dream.

Most of the young and able-bodied men in the victims’ families had been killed; the bandits, too, understood the principle of cutting the weeds and digging up the roots. Those who remained were either elderly or women and children. In the few families that still had young men, the elderly, fearing for the lives of their only heirs, were hesitant to act.

Half a month passed with little progress. Daolu Village maintained a fragile peace, but in the other villages of the Thirteen Villages area, a group of bandits had returned to replenish their supplies.

Although this group was quickly eliminated by a pursuing bandit suppression team, the precarious situation in the Thirteen Villages was undeniable. The news appeared in the internal bulletin, and Du Wen’s anxiety grew. A telegram from Ma Qianzhu merely instructed them to be careful, with no words of blame, but the two women still felt the immense weight of their responsibility.