God Is Red - Liao Yiwu [63]
It was approaching noontime and the flies were out and about. When the villagers around me made a gesture or laughed or shook hands in greeting, flies would rise and swirl around them. When they stopped, the flies would drop back on their heads, shoulders, arms, and legs. Little clouds of flies hovered over the more animated of conversations.
Zhang beckoned to me, and I went inside the house, where it was cooler and there were fewer flies. He introduced me to several pastors from other villages, but our conversations in Mandarin were of the simple kind and limited to common phrases. They all looked tanned, crimson like the red soil of the Yunnan-Guizhou Plateau, their faces exuding kindness and nobility. When we ran out of words, we sipped our tea and smiled at one another.
Outside, four tables were being set up for food. Growing up in the rural areas of Sichuan province, I had attended all sorts of banquets—weddings, funerals, birthday celebrations—but none quite like this one. People in Yunnan were accustomed to low benches and short tables, whereas folks in Sichuan preferred higher benches and long tables. But the banquet customs were the same. From ancient to modern times, people in every province have maintained celebratory traditions—slaughtering pigs and goats and filling big plates and bowls with meticulously prepared meat and vegetable dishes.
The cooks rushed in and out of the kitchen. The hostess invited Zhang and the other pastors and preachers to step out to the yard. Everyone got up and bowed to one another. “Please, you go first, I can wait.” Nobody moved. A few minutes later, the hostess appeared again, urging Zhang outside. “Please, you go first, I can wait.” After a third such exchange, Zhang grabbed my wrist and said to everyone, “Let’s all go outside and start.” Zhang led the other church leaders down the steps, waving to the crowd, exchanging a few words here and there as he headed for the tables. Each was occupied by eight to ten villagers; more lingered outside the courtyard waiting to join the second sitting.
Pork, lamb, chicken, duck, tofu, peanuts, and vegetables, stir-fried, steamed, stewed, and raw—most of the dishes looked and smelled as if they were heavily spiced with hot chili peppers. Within minutes, the table was covered by a dozen or so dishes. The sun was now overhead. I was very hungry. The flies seemed more like ravens, trying to snatch up the food. At other banquets, people would clink their glasses and toast each other with loud yelling. On this day, the courtyard was silent, save for the buzzing of flies. The mountain loomed large in the distance, glorious in the sunlight.
Zhang stood, gazed into the distance, and lowered his head to lead a prayer. He towered above us on the low benches. Every Yi word he uttered sounded melodic and beautiful.
Zhang was praying.
I felt overcome by an entirely different set of emotions. The damp solitary darkness in my dream evaporated around me. His voice, deep and thick, and the melodic words made me think of the beautiful uplifting gospel music of the American blacks or the soul-grabbing chanting of the ancient African tribes.
Zhang was praying.
As his “Amen” was chorused by everyone present, my ears returned to the normal sounds and activities of life as chopsticks began clicking through the food. More dishes were served. Zhang engaged in some lively conversations with his neighbors around the table. They laughed, openly and freely and with happiness.
At that moment, I remembered a passage from the Bible, which I had read before the trip. “On this mountain, the Lord of hosts will make for all people a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines” (Isa. 25:7). It was truly a memorable feast and a celebration