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As antithetical as religion is to China's leadership, there is growing recognition these days that the nation's populace needs something to believe in. In a groundbreaking three-day meeting in Beijing last year, top Party officials including President Jiang—himself a purported templegoer—discussed for the first time the constructive role religion could play in a society increasingly bereft of morals. The warning signs are piling high: corruption, especially within the Party, is endemic; crime, particularly juvenile violence, is skyrocketing; unemployment is burgeoning as state enterprises hemorrhage jobs; prostitution and drug use are up; and families are dissolving as rural populations disperse into the cities, leaving citizens rootless. It may not be the apocalypse that Christian doomsayers invoke, but modern China is in trouble.
The meeting made waves because it was the first time the leadership admitted that religion, even of the underground variety, is a permanent fixture of society. The newfound tolerance helps explain why church and temple razings are continuing at a diminished pace—there have not been any major demolition campaigns this year. Then again, the destruction tends to be masterminded not by the central government but by rogue local officials who don't receive a big enough payoff to keep quiet about illicit spiritual activity. According to one underground Christian parishioner in central China's Henan province, the church's weekly collection is used mainly for police bribes. "As long as we pay," says the parishioner, "they allow us to do what we want. We can even put a cross on the outside of the building."
If anything, the central government appears to be going easy on mainstream religions—even illicit ones—in order to undercut the power of fringe groups. "Underground religions that just pray once a week, then lead a normal life for the other six days, are tolerated by the government," says the Beijing theologian. "But the ones that try to convince members to challenge the government, like Falun Gong, are not."
Recently, China's leaders have even discussed the need to reintroduce Confucianism, that most traditional of Chinese philosophies. For decades, the teachings of Confucius were ignored as outdated relics of the nation's feudal past. But lately, the sage has made a comeback. His moral maxims appear in state newspapers, which herald him as "the great Chinese wise man," and elementary school classes study his theories on hierarchical society. "Confucianism emphasizes morals without challenging the Party," says an observer who sat in on last year's Beijing meeting. "It is the perfect ideology to reintroduce to the Chinese people." Kong Qin, who lives in Confucius' hometown of Qufu in the northeast province of Shandong and is a distant descendant of the philosopher, isn't so sure. "I don't think Confucianism is really a religion," he says. "But if people are looking for morality, [Confucianism] is very effective."
Indeed, people are searching for something—anything—and 18-year-old Guo Yi is no exception. He has shopped around plenty in his search for inner peace. First, he experimented with Qi Gong—meditation exercises that are supposed to soothe your soul—and Buddhism. Then he began attending a Protestant church because an aunt in Boston whom he admired recommended it. Initially, he went just to fill time and avoid homework. But in September he began having dreams in which he communed with God, chatting about everything from heaven ("he said if you are a Christian, you can go to heaven") to girls ("he said I should just call them up and not be so scared"). Impressed by these startling reveries, Guo persuaded two classmates to attend the Kuanjie state church in Beijing. Even though it's an official house of worship, Kuanjie, too, has welcomed an influx of worshipers. On a recent Sunday, the church was so full that a video screen and loudspeakers had been set up on the second floor for the excess congregation, nearly a quarter of whom were youngsters. "My mother thinks all religion is evil, like Falun Gong," says Guo, who is a gardening major at Beijing Agricultural College. "But I tell her we need to find God. I feel sad for her, because I think she has lost meaning in her life."
As a recent Kuanjie service ended, the congregation—some in Mao suits and others in leopard-print miniskirts—shuffled out. On Monday they would go back to their jobs in state factories, private businesses, even the government itself. But for a few hours on Sunday, they had taken the time for spiritual sustenance. Guo stood at the church entrance, looking reverently at the cross on the wall, his upper lip covered with a faint trace of peach fuzz, his eyes shining through wire-rimmed glasses. "My greatest wish," he says, voice cracking, "is to be able to preach about God on every street corner without being afraid that I'm doing something wrong." China's religious revolution has just found another convert.
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