Fifty-five: Hymn

At the inauguration ceremony of the Holy Mother Church, after explaining to the assembled crowd why Jinan was chosen as the birthplace of the faith, Luan Yi began to expound upon the Holy Mother’s Scripture. This time, however, he set aside the historical context, as the attendants had already been briefed on such matters by the church attendants who guided newcomers. Instead, Luan Yi focused on the teachings concerning morality and ethics.

“I believe everyone here has received a copy of the Holy Mother’s Scripture,” Luan Yi said, holding up a pristine copy for all to see. “Please turn to page five, chapter eight, sections eleven and twelve.”

No sooner had he spoken than the attendants set about teaching the newcomers how to navigate the scripture, explaining that the page numbers were indicated in the lower left of the left page and the lower right of the right page. The darker lines of text signified chapter titles, with bold numbers before them denoting the chapter sequence. At the end of each sentence in the main text, a circled number indicated its order within the chapter.

They explained that this arrangement was to make scripture study easier and more convenient. By citing the page, chapter, and section, one could immediately find the passage in question.

The congregation tried it for themselves and found, just as the attendants claimed, that it was remarkably simple. Many privately guessed that such a clever idea must have come from the Holy Mother herself, passed down to the Master Ziqi. Surely, it was a marvel.

Some even wished that other classical texts might one day be arranged and published in such an accessible manner.

Soon, Luan Yi saw that everyone had found the right page and began to recite in a clear voice: “Whoever delights in giving, their deeds shall be recorded in the book of Heaven. On the day of their death, they shall pass through Heaven’s gate. There, the Holy Mother will reward their actions, bestowing upon them gold and land multiplied many times over what they have given.”

Throughout the millennia of national civilization, religion had always occupied an awkward, fleeting place. People wandered through temples, praying to the Buddha, Daoist deities, and various gods, appearing devout, but in truth, very few truly devoted themselves with all their heart.

Genuine faith, in essence, is the pursuit of selfless giving. Yet, those who followed the Buddhist and Daoist faiths throughout Chinese history mostly did so seeking reward. They would spend a few coins on incense, offering it to the gods in hopes of protection or a way through hardship. This was charity motivated by expectation of return—a desire to exchange a small sum for great benefit. At heart, it was not the gods they loved, but themselves.

Thus, it could be said that, from ancient times, the Chinese people have been a nation without true faith. If one were to forcibly designate a faith, it would be the moral system rooted in Confucian thought. Yet, morality is insubstantial, lacking any binding force; there are no rules or commandments to reward or punish either virtue or vice.

Religious belief, on the other hand, is the embodiment of a moral system. It uses divine laws, aligned with core societal values, to restrain people. Those who obey such laws ascend to Heaven or enter eternal bliss; those who transgress fall into Hell, condemned to everlasting torment without reincarnation.

Therefore, the absence of faith means a lack of compassion and a spirit of giving—one of the deep-seated flaws of the Chinese people. This also explains why, in later generations, though China produced so many wealthy individuals, the annual sum of charitable donations remained paltry. People would rather hoard their wealth in banks than give to the needy because, for most, donating brought no tangible benefit—at most, a good reputation. Yet fame is intangible, and as society grew ever more pragmatic, a good name became worthless to most.

Religious believers, especially Christians, are fundamentally different. After giving, they receive not only a good name but also the promise of Heaven. Their wealth is not lost but accompanies them, transformed into their riches in the next life.

This is precisely why so many in Western countries devote themselves to charity.

Luan Yi was keenly aware of the importance of religion to charity, and equally of charity’s vital role in the redistribution of income, second only to taxation, in fostering social prosperity.

Thus, on the very first day of the church’s opening, “charity” and “offering” became the central themes of his sermon. He repeatedly emphasized that only those who delight in goodness and generosity could ascend to Heaven.

He spoke at length for over an hour, until his mouth was dry and his tongue parched. He could not help but think of Xi Zhijai, wondering if, had that clever speaker been present, he might have spared himself the effort of such an exhaustive sermon. After all, Xi Zhijai was eloquent and persuasive, and perhaps the effect would have been even better.

Yet Luan Yi did not realize that, as the leader of the Holy Mother Church, his own words held greater weight than anyone else’s. Indeed, all who filled the hall listened raptly, their hearts deeply moved, gazes fixed upon him, yearning for more.

Smacking his parched lips, Luan Yi announced that today’s service would end here, and that next Sunday he would speak about the unity of the faithful. He raised his hands to quiet the murmurs and said, “Now, let us pray together to the Holy Mother!”

Below, more than twenty attendants rose in unison, closing their eyes and pressing their hands together before their chests. The rest, full of curiosity, mimicked their gestures.

Luan Yi, too, closed his eyes and proclaimed, “Holy Mother, I praise You. You are the supreme and mighty God. You clothe Yourself in honor and majesty, You are robed in radiant light, and You spread the heavens as a curtain. You are the Holy One who abhors evil and loves goodness. In You there is only light, no darkness. Your glorious light always shines within me and illuminates the path before me, leading me onward. Ah… Gate of Heaven.”

“Ah… Gate of Heaven!” the twenty-odd attendants shouted in unison, then opened their eyes. The rest of the congregation echoed, “Ah… Gate of Heaven!”

“Good!” Luan Yi nodded approvingly. “Now, let us welcome the choir to the stage.”

As soon as he finished, Xiaowu, Xiaobai, the songstress Yinglian, the lyre master Wang Bo, and the drum master Zhang Xu stepped onto the stage, followed by a dozen more attendants who brought the instruments.

Altogether, the choir, twenty-five strong, filled the high platform—five musicians and twenty singers.

At the clear sound of the drum, melodies began to ripple through the grand hall. The lead singer, Yinglian, parted her delicate lips and began to sing: “Our Mother in Heaven, hallowed be your name. May your kingdom come, may your kingdom come. May your will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For yours is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever and ever and ever. Gate of Heaven!”

Thus flowed a hymn Luan Yi had once heard in his previous life at a Christian church. The novel melody, the lilting notes, together with the murals, the sacred statues, and Luan Yi’s moving sermon, filled the hall with an overwhelming sense of the sacred.

As the choir sang the refrain for the second time, all members harmonizing together, some in the audience began to join in, unable to resist the pull of the music. One joined, then another, until more and more voices swelled, the once-chaotic singing gradually aligning into disciplined unison, the sound growing ever louder. By the fourth round, they sang as if they were a well-trained chorus.

Never before in the Eastern Han had anyone heard a choral performance—let alone one involving over three hundred voices. The powerful singing filled the entire hall, striking at the heart of every listener. A profound sense of awe and reverence arose in all who gazed upon the statue of the Holy Mother, their eyes unconsciously more devout.

At the same time, people could clearly sense that years of unhappiness and frustration seemed, in that moment, to melt away, replaced by genuine inner joy. They were secretly astonished, though they did not understand the reason, and so attributed their uplifted spirits to the miracle of the Holy Mother.

In reality, little did they know that, seventeen centuries later, there would be a therapy for psychological distress known as “shouting therapy”—whereby one finds an open space and shouts out their frustrations to feel better. In truth, singing hymns in the Holy Mother Church was a refined version of this—both in principle and effect. The difference was only that shouting therapy was chaotic, while the church’s method was harmonious song.

When the hymn ended, the crowd was left wanting more, eager to sing again. But now the choir withdrew, and Luan Yi, leaning on his lotus scepter, ascended the platform once more, his expression solemn. “Let us pray together…”

Just as everyone instinctively closed their eyes, a mocking voice rang out from the back, “Master, since the Holy Mother—oh, excuse me, Nüwa—is so powerful, she must possess boundless magic. As the leader of this so-called Nüwa Church, surely you have some divine arts to show us. Why not demonstrate them for our eyes?”

Others joined in, “That’s right! Let’s see if you’re the real deal.”

“What’s a godly church without miracles? Not worth believing in!”

All eyes turned toward the source of the commotion. At their head was a man well-known to all: Zhang Qian, once an idle ruffian about town, now the chief enforcer for the sorcerer Yang Mou. Skilled in martial arts, he spent his days bullying the locals and committing all manner of misdeeds.