Guided by the Divine in the Shadowed Valley

A Life Absent of Christian Believers

Many believers find their way to Christ through trials, through zealous missionaries, or by the gentle invitation of other believers. But for me, it was the shattering tragedy of 1989 that plunged the nation into despair, which quietly led me into the embrace of God.

God’s hand guided me, weaving through the fabric of my unique past. From the moment I stepped into Peking University in the early 1980s, through my pursuit of a doctoral degree at the University of Hong Kong in the early 1990s, and as I began to wander, I was drawn inexplicably to churches. I spent 12 years in Peking University (seven as a student and five and a half as a teacher), untouched by the presence of Christians or the faithful. Not once did I realize that just beyond the south gate of Peking University, a short walk away, in the quiet alley of Xieshuikou Hutong, stood the Haidian Church. For God intended to lead me himself, into “his gates” and into “his courts” (Psalm 100:4).

Awakened by God through the Social Tragedy

God’s choosing of me was a journey long in the making. Yet, the direct spark, the catalyst for his call, was the social protest that ended in military force in 1989. The disillusionment it caused was deep, closely entwined with my social role identity and specific context.

At that time, my scholarly pursuit was Western political philosophy, the very foundation of the ideals of democracy and freedom for which the protests stood. My classmates and senior colleagues at Peking University, driven by their professional calling, were active participants in this social upheaval, and I was no exception.

But when the movement was crushed, the government’s response was swift and merciless. Beyond the 21 nationally wanted individuals, many others vanished, including three who were closely connected to me: a student from my spring course, a senior alumnus from my department who was a research fellow at the Institute of Political Science of the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences, and a fellow teacher in my department at Peking University. It was not until two decades later, after I arrived in the United States, that I found their names in Prison Memoir of Wang Dan.

The aftermath of the tragedy left Peking University, a bastion of intellectual thought, in the crosshairs of government restructuring. The number of new students admitted to Peking University plummeted, from around 2,500 to a mere 700 in 1989. For four years, incoming students were subjected to a year of military training before they could begin their studies. The fall semester of 1989 was postponed until November, and before classes began, we teachers had to undergo intense political indoctrination to align our understanding of the protest and its tragic outcome.

The devastation of the protest led many young academics in the humanities and social sciences to abandon their ideals and resign their posts, fleeing to the business world in search of material comfort. In this atmosphere, I began to question the meaning of my scholarly pursuits and my role as a young university teacher. Should I, like others, abandon my post and seek fortune in the marketplace?

Guided by God in Silence

With the disillusionment brought by the social tragedy and my own introspection, God began his patient and subtle guidance in the darkness of my heart. His first step was to use the tragedy of 1989 to prompt a profound reflection on my own life and its meaning. What was the purpose of my academic field, my social identity as a teacher, and the allure of the business world?

God’s answer was clear—tragedy is not the final word; justice cannot be erased; and the tides of commerce hold no true value for me. This clear guidance granted me peace, allowing me to remain steadfast in my humble teaching position, surrounded by the millions of books in the Peking University library, where I continued my search for meaning, receiving God’s silent and gentle leading.

Through the tragic end of the 1989 protests, God showed me that all human power is ultimately helpless. This included the intellectual elite of the world’s most populous nation gathered at Peking University, whose minds were powerless; the political authority of the government, which was powerless; and the military might, shown in the army and tanks, which could destroy bodies but could not solve the deep-rooted social issues, was also powerless.

To solve China’s social problems, a force beyond human power was needed. What was this transcendent force, or who was it? Through these questions, God drew me into the realm of religion, into the domain of faith. He used the fragmented and vague knowledge I had gained from Western literature, philosophy, films, and courses like “The Western World and Christianity” and gradually led me to focus on Christianity. The Peking University library, the cinema on the campus, and the rare courses on religion became channels through which God led me to know him.

Yet in Beijing, a city where all authentic voices had been silenced, I could not discuss these stirrings of faith with anyone. Until the end of 1993, when God brought me to the University of Hong Kong to pursue my PhD, he continued to lead me silently, and I followed, step by step, in his silent guidance.

In pre-handover Hong Kong, where freedom still reigned, I found myself drawn into God’s house—the Anglican St. Andrew’s Church. There, God finally led me through his gates and into his courts, where I came to understand that he is not only the answer to the social issues I sought to resolve but also my personal Savior, my eternal Father in heaven, my dearest friend in spirit, and I, his beloved child.

Editor’s note: This post was originally written in Chinese and was translated and edited by the ChinaSource team.

Are you enjoying a cup of good coffee or fragrant tea while reading the latest ChinaSource post? Consider donating the cost of that “cuppa” to support our content so we can continue to serve you with the latest on Christianity in China.

Donate