I've needed you, God,
and the words the Christians tell us
are what I've wanted to believe--
that there is an emperor for the universe--
you--and you made it
and will rule it till the end of all the ages,
that you are good even if you cannot be kind,
that you listen to us,
that you on your everlasting throne are dark to us
because you wear brightness of the morning star
as grass wears shadow,
and stand in light as if it were your sandal.
I've needed to speak with someone I trust who stays silent.
I've needed to hold quiet inside myself,
to kneel down before the spirit of all things.
That is why I went to the hall where the Christians go--
to find you.
But the cross in a restless balance
strains one way and then the other,
pushes apart, pulls the mind from its center.
I cannot sleep my way into it.
Neither can I find any peace
in how the Christians tell their stories about Jesus.
Their voices are feverish
As if they've scratched over stones flame-roasted to scarlet
or smoldering dull vermilion in the dark.
Surely a plain and possible good underlies such riches,
but I cannot get close enough to know it.
Gold ornaments glow dust-covered behind glass in the museums--
bee, beetle, dragonfly, peony, twig--
and I understand the artisan's happiness as if I myself handled the tools,
held the gold warm in my fingers, molded to the form.
I am sure that what is underneath is simple,
and that I can find it.
But what the Christians celebrate lies behind a screen
of filigreed language, silk
woven upon stories they ask us to repeat and believe,
throb of a nightingale's song under ill-blown horns.
Moreover, in the Christian's insistence on their mission
they do not acknowledge our danger,
innocently imagining that creeds do not matter to the government,
or that, if they do, no one can recognize what is not spoken aloud.
And because they laugh together almost naturally at the open markets,
speak in riddles at the railroad station, act healthy,
wear wholesome clothes in the temple of their faith,
they think no one knows who they are.
Naive. Everyone knows.
They ignore the informers among us.
Their common answer to peril is a hearty praise of martyrs
in songs always given imperial gilding.
I think they have never seen the cruel racks
or the beautiful body of a comrade dead, studded with bullets.
Nowhere in China can I praise you freely, God.
I honor the Law, and Law forbids the missions.
Truthfully I am a coward.
I have no courage to go back among the Christians.
But now, because of them,
working or wandering, I can talk with you all my days.
For that gift, I will all my life offer the Christians silent
thanksgiving.
Spirit of all that is, I kneel to you in my heart.
**
Based on actual letters written by a young woman from
Shandong trying to find a
place for herself in Beijing,
Part I, the "Letters" section, illuminates contemporary
life in urban
China. Part II records significant fragments of
history and culture in the imagined voices
of Chinese people from
many various walks of life.