The Border Crossing

 by Claudia J. Porter

The irritated Chinese passport official frowned as he pointed out an error on my entrance card. My shoulders tightened with the pressure of the moment. I clumsily entered the right information and after another scowl, was dismissed on my way.

“Help me not to blow this, God, because these Bibles need to get to your suffering people here in China,” I prayed, as if He needed to be reminded. I nervously recalled my instructions. “After they inspect your passport, proceed. Ignore the “scan all bags here” sign. Do not have eye-contact with any guards. Pretend to be fiddling with your passport and if anyone calls to you, act like you don’t hear him. Unless a guard physically restrains you, just keep walking.” “Just keep walking,” I rehearsed to myself as my heart was pounding like drums at a rock concert.

 “Just keep walking” I repeated to myself over and over as I passed each uniformed guard and potential stopping place, anxious about being stopped. How inane that I had to hide not illegal drugs or laundered black market money, but copies of the Bible inside my bags. I imagined groups of Chinese believers huddled in a secret house gathering praying for the honor of someday touching, let alone possessing this banned love letter from heaven. My thoughts drifted to those at that moment enduring torture in prison cells for simply being caught with one. I wanted to serve these true believers… so unlike the varied flavors of chocolate soldiers I have known in my country, pampered and consumed with comfortable living, melting with the slightest bit of adversity.

Twenty excruciatingly long and unhindered steps past the last guard, an incredible rush of relief came with the realization that I had completed a safe crossing. An adrenaline high better than a double espresso shot at Starbucks kicked in. It only increased as I realized that one by one, each courier from our team successfully repeated the same scene in this drama. Standing at our meeting place together, a knowing look passed between us that implied our mutual but hidden elation. Expressions of satisfaction like cats that had just swallowed canaries emerged as we got further away from scrutiny. 

Just thinking about how grateful the recipients of these gifts would be gave me pause. Each Bible would impact at least ten people in the underground church. Although they risk imprisonment and torture for receiving them, they are not deterred. Stories of their bravery and sacrifice to live out their faith no matter the cost flashed through my mind. Women younger than me arrested and beaten for sharing Christ with children under 18; or for hosting a church gathering in their humble home later bulldozed down as a punishment, compelled me action.  I felt overwhelmed and honored to be able to be a small part in touching the lives of these hidden heroes. We deposited our treasure in a secret place for a future pick up by these true disciples. I was filled with a tangible warmth inside, knowing that someday I would see their faces…somewhere beyond this earthly life in a place where suffering and injustice will be no more.

* Approximately 30,000 people are born again a day in China. The underground church is estimated to be close to 100 million. The need for Bibles is urgent. Those of us who live in freedom have a debt to pay. The least we can do is supply the bread of life…they already have the zeal and courage!

The Train

Several heavy bags of the forbidden Book were quickly shoved under the lower bunks of our public sleeper sections of the train. We had twenty-eight hours to fill trying not to draw attention to ourselves, a rowdy group of clearly American passengers. We were instructed to speak in a strict code, eliminating God, Jesus, Church, Bibles completely from our vocabulary. That was easier said than done. Coming from the land of free speech and blabber mouths, this was nothing we’d ever practiced before. God became “dad”, Bibles “bread”, church was “club” and Jesus was called “Jose”.

Undercover policemen traveled in the very next open sleeper section and planted themselves in chairs less than 3 feet from us, eves dropping for long periods of time. Our contact alerted us to them, pointing out the nicer clothes they wore that gave them away. Our loose lips continued to transgress and we had to constantly police one another with disapproving looks. It was amazing to realize how often our speech naturally wanted to center on the presently taboo topics.

Outside the landscape became a safe and impressive diversion. Terraced, jade-green mountains covered with manicured rice crops, misty mountains and stone villages captured our imaginations. Herds of water buffalo and limestone forests reminded us that we were indeed in a foreign, but intriguing part of our world. The majesty of these views truly reflected the Chinese master paintings I had studied in Art History college classes. The black, blurry, brush strokes outlining fog covered mountains were accurate depictions of the scenes before us.  These reveries were jarred by the rickety noodle and snack cart vendor yelling something in Chinese as he shoved it through the tiny aisle of the train. We reticently sampled the green tea beverages and the bright red, packaged ramen noodle cups, adding hot water and spices to them. Mostly we lived off squished protein or candy bars we had brought from home.

Bedtime was imposed by all lights turning off at 10pm. Crammed in our triple layered bunks, the consistent banging rhythm of the railroad tracks rocked most of us to sleep.

Pondering the illicit bundles beneath me kept me semi-conscious like a new mother listening for her newborn’s call, until all that remained were the sounds of snores and the railroad tracks and I could relax and drift into a deep sleep.

Soft, Asian, flute music kindly teased us out of our dreams at dawn. Louder and more lively, high-pitched tunes followed to announce that sleep time was definitely over. Armed with our own toilet paper and antibacterial hand wash, we all took the dreaded trip to the Chinese version of a toilet: a hole in the ground in a freezing compartment between rail cars. Another exciting day was before us.

“This is our exit station,” announced our guide, “get ready to grab everything and go.”

Joy erupted at the thought of escaping our cramped quarters and bringing our “bread” bags to their destination. Within minutes we were all off the train and piling our bags on luggage trolleys headed through the crowded station. A tall set of steps leading up to the exit loomed before us. We rallied together some pulling the tops and others grabbing the bottom of the trolleys to lift them up the long staircase and through the mob of people pressing in around us.

Our contact eyed someone familiar, a woman standing with a group of young men who beckoned us over and then led us through a tunnel to the outside streets. Shy smiles and nods were exchanged. A perceptible glint of gratitude flashed from their eyes. Quickly, bags were divided and within moments disappeared into the crowds in different directions. We all felt the incredible relief of once again safely delivering our sacred, banned goods to these elusive champions of the underground church inChina. I wanted to follow them, be with them, learn from them the secret of their sacrificial lifestyle but stood silently, relishing that I had glimpsed their radiant faces, if only for a few seconds. Any more than that would only further endanger them.

Suffice it to say we felt incredibly small having been crowned with the honor of being a part of the Father’s private Fed Ex network. He, through the loving prayers and financial love gifts of so many, had sent us over 10,000 miles from our secure homes to hand deliver His timeless words of life to His beloved body there. Extravagant love, indeed.

“Ask of Me,
and I shall give you the heathen
for your inheritance,
even the remotest parts of the earth as your possession.
Psalm 2:8

Years ago I began to take God up on His offer in this promise. I simply asked Him to use my life to reach the unreached men, women and children who lived all around the world…even in the uttermost parts of it! More recently, I have been sensing a stronger need to seriously apply myself to this priority, having grown somewhat weary only telling the told, feeding the fat, and comforting the comforted. Yes, I am not ashamed to admit that we are spoiled in America; I’m only ashamed if I don’t intentionally share what I’ve been so blessed to receive. During thisChina mission, our Lord fulfilled those desires in a spectacular way.

Our first priority in planning this venture was to be inconspicuous couriers to deliver His desperately needed Word to the persecuted church inChina. Accustomed to very public pulpit and performance arts ministry, (many on the team are dancers, musicians, and teachers), we were content to simply be “donkeys” laden with secret gifts, dropping them off, discreetly disappearing and quietly returning home. Devotion to completing that noble task was more than worth every dollar invested and 20,000 miles traveled. But our Dream-Fulfiller Father had even more in store.

China is the home to over 55 general nationalities with hundreds of minority, ethnic, people groups, many of which have no witness for Christ. These are those referred to when Jesus said, “This gospel shall be preached to every nation (people group) and then the end shall come.”  I was stunned by the news that our group was being sent to join hands with those in the southwest Yunnan province (near the borders of Burma, Laos and Vietnam) who were, yes, working directly with these tribal people. Chills went up my spine to learn that at least 25 or half of the minority ethnic groups of China live in the very province we were sovereignly being sent to! This was truly the “uttermost parts of the earth” I had prayed about.  That profound sense that I was “walking in the works He predestined for me before the foundation of the world” (Eph.2:10) was exhilaratingly over the top.

Strolling through the first remote and very primitive mountain village, gaudy Buddha statues and animist banyan tree altars, not museum pieces, but present places of worship, reinforced the realization that these dear people desperately needed the light of the gospel. Their futile paper, fruit and good deed offerings strewn freshly to false gods were tokens of their sincere cry for help. Barefoot, brown-eyed children snickered at us, shyly wondering what we were doing in their dusty, village streets. They giggled at our “nee-how’s” (Chinese hellos) and screamed with glee when we wanted to play and take their pictures.

In the spacious, dirt courtyard outside their ancient temple built to house a statue of Buddha; three tall poles were erected with ornate boxes on the top. These were built to be houses for Satan to live in so as to not bother the people. Long, brightly-colored ribbons streamed down from these three “Satan houses”. It was in this place that we felt spontaneously inspired to increase what was our silent prayer walk to an open worship service to the living God, believing for an outpouring of His presence and light upon this stronghold of darkness and idolatry.

The dancers converged and began to worship using movement as we singers sang songs filled with His Word and declaring His glory. Word spread like fire to other villagers who quickly rushed out to watch and listen. Women wearing woven, tribal headdresses, many with babies tied to their backs with silk fabric, smiled with acceptance as we sang and danced for them. Dark-skinned men, chain smoking and equally fascinated, gathered to watch our unexpected performance. Little boys and girls, Asian-eyed beauties, flocked around us and clapped as we finished and sought to teach them how to give high fives.

The chief of the village then invited us all to walk to his home. Our Chinese contact had met and prayed for the chief of the village on an earlier visit. This explained the favor we were experiencing. It all seemed surreal, like we had stepped into a page of a National Geographic issue where the characters, smells and scenes came alive. Water buffaloes, fat hogs, squawking chickens, barrels of onions and sugarcane and an antique, wooden loom used for weaving beautiful tribal fabrics all shared a space in the malodorous barn leading to the bungalow above. One of the wives complied shyly with our request for a demonstration on the loom. We oohed and ahhed at the intricacy required as she blended each thread mathematically to form a distinct pattern. She reached for the hidden comb in her sweaty headdress to prepare for her first photo ever. (All women are alike.)

The throng of eager children followed and surrounded us on the chief’s wooden porch that I hoped would not collapse. Adam and Naomi instantly began to entertain the children by teaching them English greetings, body parts and nursery rhymes. Before we left this amazing step back in time experience, all the children were doing the chicken dance and singing “Head and shoulders, knees and toes” at the top of their lungs. As we exited the vibrant village, they followed us out, adding shouts of “Hallelujah” and “Thank You, Jesus” to their repertoire.  As we drove away through the sugarcane and mustard-flowered fields, we marveled at the miracle of it all. May our prayers, the effulgence of His Spirit in us and the love we openly shared be living seeds planted for a future harvest in this precious Dai tribe. Images of their faces are etched forever in my heart.