St. Ignatius (Jesuit) / Xujiahui Catholic Church 7 July 2013

St. Ignatius (Jesuit) / Xujiahui Catholic Church                                                      7 July 2013

It was further than I'd thought.   It had looked like the church was one or one and a half miles from Rayfont Hotel where I was staying in Shanghai.  But after scaling the Yan'an Road overpass and following the elevated highway for about a mile, I came to another large overpass. 

These overpasses are like crosswalks making an "air square" about two flights of stairs above the hustling traffic of the street.  9:45 am on a Sunday in Spokane is sleepy and slow, but Shanghai looked like a regular Monday morning rush hour.  Bicycles, scooters, cars, buses--all zoomed by, weaving in and out of traffic and pedestrians.  I was all too aware, even after only a few days, that fearless scooter pilots often rode on the sidewalk right behind people on foot, scarcely avoiding contact (and possible hospital visits).

At this second overpass, I went to a map of the main roads of the city.  This map was about three feet by three feet.  Of course, the city was massive, and the map was mostly in Mandarin, but they did have pinyin for the main roads (north-south and east-west) that broke the map into quadrants.  Ditching my trek toward the east, I turned south toward Xujiahui.  It shouldn't be long now, I reckoned.  However, walking another 10 minutes or so didn't put me in a better mood.

It was only about 10:15 am but it was in the mid-80s, sunny, and the air was stickier and more polluted than New York City in August.  Imagine being misted with warm, slightly oily water in 90 degree heat while walking.  The skin on my arms and hands was as smooth as an infant's.  Sweat/condensation was rolling from my hair, my back, and my armpits all the way to the waistband of my shorts, soaking the material.  I was alone, and in spite of constant horns and bicycle bells all around, I could hear the blood rushing in my head.  I broke out my first water bottle and finished it, my head quieting a bit.

I slogged a little farther, and then, miraculously, I spotted a sign for a metro station.  The 1 line went straight to Xujiahui, two stops from where I was.

I'd already experienced the metro the day before.  The fact that the cars were all air conditioned, with stops announced in both Mandarin and English, sealed the deal:  I put my backpack went through the metal detector.  Then, I swiped my transportation card (good for buses and cabs, too).  One swiped again on the way out--two to four stops deducted three yuan (about 50 cents).

Exiting from the Xujiahui station, I walked less than a block before noticing two tall buildings with crosses--I'd found it!

The crickets in the trees were protesting the heat as loudly as I was feeling it, waves of sound flowing as heavily as jackhammers, ebbing into brief silences.  They were giving cicadas a run for their money in terms of volume.  The day before, a group of us (EF teachers new in Shanghai) had passed a man selling pet crickets in small individual cages--balls of woven reeds.  The crickets had seemed to call to us.  These were no quiet American country crickets.

Along the concrete block pathway was a flower garden and lawn, where two or three Chinese couples were having wedding photos taken.  One girl was in a heavy gown, not a drop of sweat on her face.  Her makeup and hair were impeccably pristine.  I couldn't believe it--I was a hot mess.

I found a Costa Coffee and ducked inside for a medium iced latte.  The cafe's A/C was supersonic, and I got feverish chills for about five minutes while my body adjusted.  I ended up having to leave the cafe about ten minutes later.

I was violating the church dress code on two counts:  my knees and shoulders were bare.  At least I was wearing sneakers (flip-flops were another no-no).  They still let me in, though, after I sucked down the rest of my (now no longer iced) drink.  I don't think super-touristy places can survive without letting some people break the rules.

The church had a vaulted ceiling, and ceiling fans dangled down like spiders on web thread, beating uselessly at the soggy air.  A few of the stained glass windows had bamboo motifs.  There were a few TV screens hanging purposelessly from columns, and oscillating fans doing their best to make the air bearable.  Under each wooden plaque signifying a Station of the Cross was a tiny room, each with a kneeler, a small altar, and a statue or painting--14 in all.  There were one or two people in nearly every cubbyhole, and I had been touched to see some older Chinese women praying reverently at a statue of the Virgin Mary just outside the church.  It seemed hard to believe that such loyal devotion to this foreign religion existed in the same country where, 25 years ago, we hadn't even been able to attend any kind of Christian service.  Xujiahui had been here a long time, however.

The lightweight, dark wood pews were scuffed and lacquered within an inch of their lives, but they were filled.  The congregation looked to be mostly Chinese and Filipino, with a few Americans, Europeans, and Africans tossed in for spice.  It was easy to spot the European men, as most carried shoulder bags.

The Chinese priest sprinkled holy water on us and burned incense throughout.  A strong, citronella-like odor filled the air.  I had thought that water-sprinkling and incense-burning were suspended during Ordinary Time, but perhaps I was wrong.

The choir was about 15 people; all looked to be under 50.  They were accompanied only by a piano, and even sang a few familiar songs:  "City of God" and "Here I Am, Lord", along with "Take and Receive", a pretty song with Mandarin characters printed on the other side of the hymnal page.

The offertory was led by a dozen toddlers of all races, each led by a parent.  In their little fingers were three roses apiece.  This seemed par for the course, and I thought this little procession should be added to every mass everywhere.  For communion, one woman sang a gorgeous version of "Amazing Grace" that raised the hair on my arms.

I did not envy the priest in his heavy robes as he spoke:  "The harvest is abundant but the laborers are few."  I was sitting down, unmoving in my shorts and ruffled tank top, and sweat was still rolling down my back.  I thought it was appropriate that a Chinese priest would talk about laborers in a Communist country, and I thought about the millions of people in this country--the "harvest" abundant, indeed--and how many of them were Christian--"few".  The priest emphasized we needed to follow Jesus, not in the ways of the world:  "We are the lamb of God."