Bells of Grace

The adventures have been exciting and many encounters sweet. Yet, being outside ones Court without the constant companionship of friends, advisors, and jesters can try even the most valiant of knights. There is much to love and embrace in Shanghai, yet there is also much forsakenness that lurks in the shadows, creeping out vampirically for the sake of destruction, masquerading in the guise of innocent happiness or offers of quality merchandise “very very cheap.” I was exhausted by being relentlessly pursued by various types of hucksters (I am a rather obvious target in the crowd, being that I tower over most people here). Also, I was a bit saddened by being King Chump for a day and then having to force myself to be cynical of human kindness. (I can see why pessimists and cynics are usually in such a foul mood all the time…and I don’t like it one bit.) My lodging provided a nice sanctuary of rest for a day or two.

Early this Sunday morning, I awoke to the last sound I ever expected to hear in China. Church bells. Earlier in the week I had walked past this large, beautiful cathedral that sits opposite the communist municipal building, adjacent to the People’s Square. It was gated and locked, with a large sign stating the church was an historical monument under the “protection” of the municipal government. I assumed it was closed and inoperative. The kindly old man with the poor eyesight I chatted with a few days earlier had mentioned in broken English a church with bells where people went to pray. I hoped that maybe he was talking about this cathedral, but I must admit, I had little faith of it being open (my cynicism was strong at work). Oh, ye of little faith. This morning, boldly and beautifully, the loudest church bell I have ever heard sang out a glorious call to worship that echoed off the communist municipal building and filled my room with promises of light and grace. Then, two hours later, the bell rang out again. After breakfast, I hurried over to see what I could see.

The solitude of my own room was but a dim foretaste of the sanctuary offered by this cathedral. The gate was open, and throngs of people were entering. A kind man welcomed me in the courtyard, informed me that a Chinese service was taking place, and ushered me to one of the few seats vacant in the balcony. The cathedral was filled to capacity (easily over 300 people), standing room only. I arrived during the sermon, which was delivered with apparent passion, conviction, and good humor. I wish I knew what the Pastor was saying, as she certainly had the room’s attention. Judging from where people had their Chinese Bibles open, she was speaking on a New Testament text. Though again separated by language, I felt the oneness and fellowship of the saints, and I quietly meditated upon my week, bringing the good and the bad before the Lord, offering up my private confessions and praises as fragrant incense before the Lord, and joyfully received the forgiveness, love, comfort, and grace of God. After the sermon, the congregants stood and sang out loudly and boldly a hymn in Chinese. I hummed along and stood in awe as their voices echoed through the cathedral just as the bell had earlier resounded across the People’s Square, recalling the promise that indeed every tongue and every nation will sing praises to the God of grace.

There was much I did not expect this week, but this was the most precious and blessed of them all.