Faith In The Native Land

Sophia walked into the market before the sun was strong enough to burn her. The quiet paved road that had snaked out before her for about a kilometer suddenly became crowded with cars, trucks, people, and animals. Instead of the serene bucolic landscape, a collection of shakily constructed tin houses greeted her. It was a fray in every sense of the word. Sophia braced herself before entering it. She often daydreamed about being some highborn person of society that could make the people part like the Red Sea before the staff of Moses. It was going to be difficult to get through with all of her wares intact. The vegetables were not going to be a problem, but the eggs would be if she were jostled in the wrong place. If the eggs broke, how could she show Pastor Moon how to make an omelet for lunch? The glare from a metal roof was becoming brighter and brighter by the minute. Sophia held her head low under her hat. She walked off the asphalt into the wide area of red dirt, tables, blankets, and women towards the produce. It was seven o’clock in the morning, and she was already sweating profusely.

Sophia sang to herself while she maneuvered her way through the crowd. The words formed silent circles on her lips. “When morning comes to Morgantown…” rang out to no one except her. Trucks hauling manufactured goods buzzed by on the paved road and unloaded their wares in impromptu parking lots. Pigs that were drugged and strapped on their backs to motorcycles screamed their final breaths as they lay helplessly. Ladies in big straw hats set up their vegetable and egg stands in stalls, their wares hidden beneath large flowery skirts. A bullock cart was slowly making its way towards the center, plodding in the way it had for centuries. The oxen took no heed of the buzzing flies, nor of any of the noises that sprang forth from the confusion. There was a smell in the air; meat, mud, steam, and sweat all mixed together. It was putrid, but expected.

Sophia walked amongst the people, her people. She rubbed up against many of them while looking at the produce and wares. She smiled and chatted with the ladies as she picked out what she needed for lunch that day. The ladies smiled back. They were friendly with her, but still a little reserved. Her features put her as one of them, but her American clothes and accent did not. An apple here, an onion there; she felt each of the round objects and inspected them for defects before she bought them. Her mother had taught her how to do that in America before she died. She bought everything except meat, for the sight of butchered animals hung up on hooks frightened her. If she wanted it, someone else had to buy it for her. There was always smoke coming from somewhere in the market. Someone was always cooking. Sophia always left before she started sneezing and had to apologize because sneezing in the native land is extremely rude.

How long had she lived here? How many hours had she spent in the market? She calculated that at this point she had spent at least several days in total here. It was a desultory morning routine, yes, but it still gave her a thrill to do it. Among her own people, following her habits and customs and working for their benefit, it was a good life.

Sophia would be surprised to know that the women talked about her behind her back when she had left the market. They would be even more surprised to know what they said. “ I’ve heard of people going to America and making just pots of money,” one of them said to another. “She probably has a big house with one of those fancy toilets that looks like a chair.”

“Maybe she even has her own car!”

“Why would she give that up to live here?”

“I want to know how much she paid for her clothes.”

“Has she got a boyfriend?”

“I heard from her family’s neighbor that she doesn’t, and that she isn’t looking for one.”

“She’ll be an old maid soon with that attitude.”

“Disgraceful! It is indecent that she is not married by now.”

A murmur of indignation went through the ring of women, who turned the morning’s conversation towards other matters.

From the market, Sophia walked along a narrow dirt road towards the church at the other end of a field. The red, sandy earth made clouds as she walked. The road led east, and sun had risen to make its presence felt even more than before. She sweated more and more. Finally Sophia reached the yellow concrete building and walked around to the side. A giant red cross was painted above the big glass doors, which squeaked as she opened them. The condensation from her hands made the handle slippery, and the motion of the door was smooth in her hands. She walked into the dark space. Folding chairs were arranged in aisles, and a simple altar was set up at the far end of the space. The only light coming in was from little slits cut in the sides of walls, or from the door. The walls were barren, puritan. A fading yellow paint covered the walls and created a space that was more like a public school assembly room than a church.

Pastor Moon was there to meet her. He smiled slightly when he noticed how much she was sweating. Sophia noticed the smile and looked at herself briefly. Her skirt revealed nothing, it was not supposed to, but her blouse and hair did look like she had been through a rainstorm. She took off her hat and started to fan herself, laughing and began to say something about the heat in the native tongue. Pastor Moon started to laugh as well, and responded in the same language because he knew that she was trying to practice her skills. Pastor Moon kept pronouncing Sophia’s name in such a way that the “f” sound in the middle of her name was traded for a hard “p.” She smiled. She had corrected him several times when she had first met him, but he had paid no attention. She did not mind it so much after a while. They exchanged formal greetings, and chatted for a few minutes before they switched languages. For the most part it was easier for both of them if they simply spoke in English.

Pastor Moon’s face suddenly became grave. “I must tell you. Brother Joshua has decided not to come to church anymore,” he said.

“Oh no!” Sophia was very disappointed, and slightly agitated. “What did he tell you?”

“Yes, he said that his father would be very angry with him if he did not honor him in the correct way after he died. His father did not think that his son would be able to do that if he went to this church. He was afraid that they might bury him in the ground, and that his body would be eaten by evil spirits. The people believe that you cannot go to the Other Place if you are buried. He could not disagree with his father. So he has stopped coming to the church.”

Sophia sighed. It was a common problem for her work. She would explain the teachings of the gospel to those who wanted to listen, gather together some people who were interested in joining her at church, but many of them would turn away. The reasons they always gave were legitimate, of course. They would never lie to her. It was always something about family, ancestors, or anxiety about their status in the community. Once she had almost convinced the son of the district governor to join, but he had turned away. How was he ever going to grow up and become a district leader if he were a Christian? The people would never accept him. Little events like this made the work all the more frustrating. She believed, as many people do, that God revealed himself to all people in many different forms around the world. Whether this was in the form of idols or prophets, it was still His work. It was rational to believe that the commandment “honor thy mother and thy father” was also included in these teachings. She understood that, but it bothered her knowing that anyone who turned away from the gospel was condemned to hell. It was up to her to do whatever it took to save as many souls as she could. It was her own people whom she was saving too. She may have grown up in another country, but she was still one of them. She reminded herself of this more times than she would have liked to admit. After all, her mother had been an obstinate convert at one point in her life. She owed it to the memory of her mother to continue on with the work no matter how frustrating it became.

At nine o’clock, Sophia helped Pastor Moon wheel a big whiteboard into the church. A side door was opened to let in more light, and the pair arranged some of the folding chairs into a semi-circle around the board. Sophia pulled out some teaching materials from her book bag, and waited for the students to arrive. They usually arrived in groups, and today was no different. At several minutes past nine, she heard the squeak of bicycle brakes outside the main door. The students came in, dressed in uniforms and smiling. Sophia was ten years older than they were, but she still felt very close to them in age. They greeted her in the native way, with palms together and the nose dipped rapidly towards outward thumbs. She greeted them all by name, she had a talent for remembering names, as they sat down and opened their notebooks. Teaching English was not her calling, but she did it dutifully and with air of modest satisfaction. It was enough that students enjoyed themselves.

Sophia started the lesson. She placed an array of white note cards on the board behind her, each of them numbered. She taped them down so they would not fly away. Sophia explained to the students that each of these cards had a word written on the reverse side, and that each of the words had a matching pair. The students were instructed to find the matching pairs, and that the first one to do so would be rewarded with a prize. They smiled, but they looked confused. She did an example of what she wanted them to do. The smiles went away and were replaced by studious eyes and open mouths. They played the game quickly and easily, and the girl who always sat in the middle of the row of chairs was the first one to name all the pairs. Sophia smiled and clapped her hands in a kind of ostentatious delight. The prize was a piece of candy that Sophia had remembered to procure at the market that morning. She gave it to the girl, and clapped her hands to signal that the others should do the same. The girl, pleased with what she had won, put the candy to the side of her desk to be eaten later.

The lesson progressed onward. Sophia took each of the cards, and explained what they meant. She then walked over to her bag, pulled out a pile of paper handouts, and passed them out to each of the students. The document was a white piece of paper, written only on one side, with the words “A True Story” in large black letters at the top. The font was something one sees only in algebra textbooks or street pamphlets about the end of the world coming soon. She read the story aloud, and then had each of her students read it. The words that they had just gone over were highlighted in purple, and Sophia paused when she read over them.

The story was about a man named Jesus, who had died and was now alive again. After Sophia and the students had both read through all the words, Sophia asked the class what they thought of the story. Blank stares were the only reaction. She called on one by name. “Why do you think Jesus came back from the dead?” she asked him. The student smiled and said, “I don’t know, teacher.” She knew it was hard, but Sophia desperately wanted her students to think about everything in their reading, to analyze it, and to engage with her about it. She wanted passion, but she only got awkward confusion. For a moment or two, the class stood there, staring, not knowing what to do. Sophia sighed, looked down, and moved quickly to teach something else. Grammar! They always need more grammar, she thought, and pointed out several examples of the present perfect continuous that the text had used. Sophia had them practice a little more with it, and then dismissed the class.

The students stood up, collectively thanked the teacher, and said goodbye to her in the native way. Sophia did the same. As the class filed out, she caught the attention of the girl who had won the candy (the prize was safely tucked away in her shirt pocket). “Do you want to learn more about Jesus?” she asked, almost pleadingly. The girl bowed her head and giggled a little. “No, teacher,” she said. “My father says that all religions are the same.” The girl said goodbye again in the native way, and walked towards her friends who were waiting for her on the bicycles.

Sophia was crestfallen.

II

She began the letter the following morning.

Dear Sarah,

I wish that I could write to you in a happier state than this, but I really need to put my thoughts down on paper. It’s the best way to work them out.
I am troubled by the struggling souls I see around me. Everyday I work to save them, stubborn and unwilling to change though they might be. I want all of them to feel the joy that I do knowing that Jesus loves me, and that he holds me in his heart dearly. I often think about how my mother was once, before she met my father. She must have looked just like the young women I see around me. I think of her often now, and it is good to know that I have come back to the place where she was born. Now that I have returned to the native land, I often wish how that my mother were alive today just so I could ask her about what it was that made her see the light. Of course there was father’s charm, but there had to be just a little more than that. What was it? Oh, I wish I knew. It is extremely frustrating to know that many people in this community have heard the message of the Lord, and yet they turn away from it!
When I first came here, I was very nervous about living with family whom I had never met. I don’t think my aunt ever approved of her little sister running off with an American, but both my cousins and she welcomed me with open arms when I arrived. They took great pains to show me all the things about my culture that mother never had time to tell me. They are some of the kindest and gentlest people I know, but they refuse to come to the church with me. It really bothers me knowing that they will be eternally trapped and hidden away in the total absence of God’s love. A little girl whom I teach laughs when I ask her if she is interested in Jesus, but she is a great student and a good person. She studies hard to become a nurse so that she can take care of her family when they are older. Isn’t that fundamentally good? Does she really deserve to be trapped in Hell if she does not change?
I am confused and troubled Sarah. It would do me a world of good if you could offer me some advice.

Love,
-Sophia

The answer that she got back a few days later was not what Sophia had expected, nor what wanted to hear. In fact, she was very surprised that her friend could say so little and shatter her so completely.

Dear Sophia,

I think that you are right to say that you are confused. You have to remember those who follow the path of God are the righteous. Those who turn away from his love are no better than Satan and his evil servants despite whatever reason they might have. Filial obligation is simply just one of Satan’s tools to dissuade those who might otherwise follow the holy path that leads to Jesus. You must remain strong and not be troubled by these feelings that you have. I will pray for you.

Love and beauty always in God’s merciful presence,

-Sarah


Sophia read the letter multiple times, carefully dissecting the meaning of every word. The problem for her was that Sarah was right in every way. There was no way of getting around it, but the thought of her students, her host family, and the busy people all in boiling flames in some small pocket in Hell made her shudder. Would this really happen to them? It was easy for Sarah to pass judgment on Sophia’s people because she was far away and did not know them as well as Sophia did. The words on the paper ran wildly through her head, but she could not accept what they meant. It was driving her crazy, so she locked them in an upstairs desk drawer of her mind and went on with life, work, and the things that come in-between.

The English classes went on as usual, the students smiled, and Sophia had numerous meetings with Pastor Moon about how to increase membership in the church. She asked him how he had become a Christian, wondering why she had not simply asked him this when she first met him. “My parents died when I was a boy,” he told her. “I had no one to turn to, and then I met a man who called himself a “Christian.” I wondered what this meant, and I asked him. He introduced me to members at his church, and taught me about what Jesus had done for people everywhere; we would all be saved if we followed what He had taught us. I wanted to be saved. I wanted to belong.” Sophia pondered this. With no family, he had almost everything to gain and nothing to lose from joining the church. It was much easier that way.

III


Sophia’s family invited her to come to a ceremony. Was this part of the native religion? The thought of appearing in some sort bizarre ritual of which she knew nothing made her unsure about going. Her mother in America was a Christian when she knew her, and never spoke about what she was before. Sophia had read in books about killing animals as a sacrifice to the Gods. There were vivid descriptions in those books about buffalo being butchered with a machete, and then being skewered in some horrible fashion. There was gestured dancing and squawking noises involved, or was that simply her imagination run wild? In the end it was simple curiosity that convinced her to go. There was mystery in that word “ceremony.” Her younger cousin kept saying it repeatedly when Sophia pressed her for details.

After dinner, Sophia and her family left the house under a shining moon. They walked on a dirt path through the forest alongside other families who were all chattering quietly. However, all noise ceased when they found themselves under the temple gates. So this was where they were going! Sophia felt a shiver of disgust mixed with apprehension go through her, for the place contained all the evil that she was working against. Sophia managed to hide her revulsion only because the family had been so excited about taking her here. She relaxed a little when the younger cousin smiled at her, and took her hand.

The gate was a short stone structure wide enough to make it look more of a tunnel. Its face was covered in ornaments of various figures, but the roots of an ancient tree had hidden these away. An immense, sprawling tree sat on top of the gate, and its gnarly branches and roots sprang forth in every direction. From the dark it looked like the gate opened up a cavern in the tree itself. Sophia and the family entered the darkness, and came out the other side into a courtyard. A man in a bright red robe and shaved head greeted them in the native way and collected their shoes. He placed them on a bamboo rack and gave each of them soft white slippers out of a bag he carried on his shoulders. The man smiled at Sophia as she passed. Everyone put their slippers on, and the noises they made while walking all but ceased. In the dim light, they walked along a path lined with lotus flowers in clay pots. A tall, stone building loomed up before them. The surface was smooth and polished, and one wide entrance led to the inside. Another long dark hallway led to the main chamber, where they joined the other people who had come from the town.

Out of the darkness, the group finally came into the light. The roof was open, allowing the moonlight to shine in, and at least a thousand yellow candles of every shape and size burned intensely. The whole interior was lined with white marble, and the reflection increased the radiance of the light pouring into the room. A large sphere made of gold was lit up at the far end of the room, and was the only piece of decoration. In the center of the room was a spiral staircase made of silver that led up to a walkway on the edge of the wall. The people who came in through the entrance sat at the other end on the smooth surface, their legs tucked to one side. No one spoke or made any noise. When it looked as if two hundred people had arrived, a priest started to come down the spiral staircase. He walked through the crowd in the direction of the sphere. The people looked at him, and started to hum. When he reached the sphere, he turned and faced the crowd. Suddenly in the light, his robes of bright saffron and gold made him look radiant.

The priest instructed the people to rise, and they rose. They lifted their hands with open palms towards the ceiling and they clasped them together looking up. The people kneeled. The priest began to sing. Everyone listened intently as if a hypnotizing spell had been cast. The man looked upon the congregation and began one note; it was high, long and pure. There was no deviation in pitch, volume, or any other suggestion of change. He had mastered the art of circular breathing, and could maintain this note for as long as he wanted. The people knew when to join in. A chorus opened up several semitones higher than the man’s note, and lasted for a brief, tremulous response. They could not touch the priest’s note. It was sacred; only those who were deemed worthy of it could be allowed to raise their voices to its level.

Sophia looked at the people around here, everyone was crying and racked with emotion. She had not wanted to join in, to remain separated from this evil, but she felt more and more called to it. Whatever was going on was surely evoking a passionate response. Twice more the people responded with their own note, and twice more they shook when they sang. When the second had finished, it looked as if everyone had been spent. The priest stopped singing, and the people groaned quietly while doubling over. Some fell on the floor completely. The priest’s long arms were now outstretched, and the people began shuffling to the exits on either side of the room. They filed out until the only person left in the room was the priest, who finally relaxed when he was alone.

Outside in the courtyard, the people had assembled in a group facing a brick platform behind the main building. They could now talk amongst each other, and they did so loudly and without any reservation. Sophia thought the whole thing was over until the priest appeared out o darkness behind them. He walked through the crowd carrying a small torch, smiling and greeting the people he knew there. People lowered their heads as he passed. He walked over to the brick platform, and as he got nearer to it the light from the torch illuminated a neatly stacked pile of chopped wood. The priest bent over with the torch, and set fire to the mass. The priest stepped back as an explosion of sparks suddenly sprang forth from the pyre. When the flames had grown higher, Sophia could see that there was a body wrapped in white tissue placed on top of the pile. She gasped. Was that person dead? The consternation she felt made an obvious expression on her face. Sophia’s little cousin tugged at her sleeve, and smiled. “Do not worry! Grandmother is now in the place where light is eternal and happiness knows no bounds…the Other Place.”

“But…I don’t understand.”

“Her body died several days ago, but her soul is still trapped inside! This is only way we can release her. The ash from her bones will be carried into the Absolute.” She smiled a great smile, and turned her attention towards the pyre. With the others, she started to hum a low note of solemnity.

With the others, Sophia stood, hummed the one note, and watched the pyre burn to the ground with the others. For a brief moment, she could finally see how beautiful everything was. The fire blazed against the darkness under the protection of a full moon, and the people watched as the person’s soul was released from her body and carried into the afterlife. It was magnificent to behold, and a great feeling of awe swept through Sophia’s head. Whatever speculative fear she had about the native religion was largely put to rest.

Sophia walked home that evening with the family. She had been thinking about responding to Sarah’s letter before she went out that night, but she never got around to it in the morning. Nor did she the day after.