My understanding of the Christian faith underwent a near 180-degree turn.
Having grown up with an atheist education, I long regarded Christianity as just another form of superstition. It was not until my first year of university that this assumption began to waver.
During that year, one of my professors—an ethnic Mongolian—recommended The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism by Max Weber in class. I read the book in the university library. When I closed it, I realized for the first time that my earlier understanding of Christianity had been overly simplistic.
Before that, I had placed Christianity alongside Buddhism and Daoism, assuming that religious believers merely relied on supernatural forces and had little reason to engage seriously with ordinary life. But Weber’s description of the Protestant idea of “calling” presented a radically different picture: diligence, restraint, and responsibility within one’s secular vocation were understood not as a retreat from reality, but as a response to God.
During that period, I often found myself pondering a question while walking back to my dorm at night: Does a person really need faith? And if so, what exactly is faith?
Learning to Revere What I Could Not Control
As my reading expanded, these questions did not find quick answers. Instead, they deepened.
While studying political science, I was introduced systematically to conservative thought for the first time. A professor explained that conservatism’s emphasis on prudence and humility is inseparable from its Christian foundations. At that moment, I realized that reverence is not a sign of weakness, but an acknowledgment of human limitation.
Later, while reading the history of science, I was surprised to discover that many of the scientists I had long admired were Christians. I had assumed that the task of science was to dismantle the world piece by piece. Gradually, however, I began to notice a recurring tone in their writings—an awe toward order and beauty. That sense of wonder led me to consider, for the first time, that the world might not be a product of chance alone.
I also remember reading Peter Drucker’s work on management and feeling especially drawn to the chapters on human-centered leadership. Some of the systems he described—such as long-term employment relationships—felt unfamiliar and even puzzling to me. Why would a company be willing to show such patience toward its employees? Over time, I realized that behind such practices lay an idea I had rarely considered seriously: love and responsibility are not necessarily opposed to efficiency.
A Place I Longed to See
In my third year of university, I attended a lecture given by the Chinese scholar Chen Haowu (陈浩武).
The lecture recounted the story of Samuel Pollard, a British missionary who traveled to the Wumeng Mountains of southwestern China more than a century ago. According to Professor Chen, educational access in the region at that time was extremely limited. Pollard helped create a written script for the Miao people, established schools, taught academic subjects, and introduced new ways of life. As I sat in the back row taking notes, I repeatedly glanced up at the photographs projected on the screen.
When the lecture ended, a thought quietly formed in my mind: One day, I want to see this place for myself.
That thought did not immediately turn into action. It was not until 2024 that I began seriously planning the trip. I originally intended to go during the May Day holiday, but unexpected matters intervened. Shortly before the Dragon Boat Festival, an online acquaintance suddenly sent me several photos, mentioning that he was preparing to travel to Guizhou. I recognized the images almost instantly—it was Shimenkan.
On the day of the Dragon Boat Festival, as I stood on the land of Shimenkan, I felt a strong conviction that none of this was accidental. Reflecting on the repeated postponements, the appearance of traveling companions, and the changes in plans, I became aware—clearly for the first time—that I was being led forward. In that moment, I was certain that without such guidance, this journey would not have unfolded so smoothly.
Learning to Read My Life Through Scripture
It was after this experience that I began to face faith seriously.
Toward the end of 2024, through the introduction of an online acquaintance, I attended a gathering for the first time. The brothers and sisters there did not rush to explain doctrines to me. Instead, they listened quietly and offered companionship. I began reading the Bible and slowly learned to reinterpret my life through the language of faith.
Throughout my childhood and years of growth, I had been trapped for a long time by certain experiences. Those memories repeatedly stirred resentment and inner conflict, shaping my sense that the world was deeply unjust. One day, I read the verse: “We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope” (Romans 5:3–4, ESV). It was not an instant release, but it helped me realize that pain may not simply be something to deny or escape.
Later, as I read the story of Joseph, I gained a new understanding of my own experiences. Compared to his, my sufferings were not extraordinary—but they, too, needed to be entrusted. I began to believe that these experiences were not meaningless, but formative.
Now, when I confront sin, guilt, and weakness, I have learned to pause—to pray, to read Scripture, and to seek strength from God, rather than remain trapped in self-blame or avoidance. I am still learning, and I still struggle, but I am increasingly convinced that only in Christ can I gradually let go of resentment toward the past.
Today, I attend gatherings regularly, study alongside my brothers and sisters, read Scripture daily, and seek to let God’s word guide my life.
