A couple of weeks ago, on a Sunday night, there was a funeral for a man in the building next to mine. Just after it started to get dark, I heard music playing that was an odd mix between a traditional minor key Chinese melody and (Buddhist?) chanting. Now, hearing dance or pop music playing loudly from a nearby store or even traditional Chinese music from a nearby park, is not unusual. But, when the chanting began, my ears perked up with my curiosity at the strange, eerie sound. When I looked out my kitchen-balcony window to find the source, I saw all the signs that someone had recently passed away—thirty or so people milling about (many wearing white linen head coverings and belts), large bouquets of flowers with black ribbons, a tent. Set up on a couple of parking spaces across from the entrance to the family’s building was a large, army-green, canvas tent. Typically, inside were large paper horses, a paper house, maybe even a paper washing machine that the family feels it is important to send with their loved one to the afterlife. These items would later be burned in the road, along with paper coins, the small fire and smoke being a gateway to the world beyond.
The music went on for several hours, sending its sad, telltale notes into the night. It ceased briefly when a man spoke reverberating words into a microphone—perhaps words of memory or blessing—for all to hear.The chanting was a bit emotionally disturbing to listen to, especially after I knew why it was playing. I desperately wanted to play my own music—lifting, happy, worshipful, Truth—to drown out the mourning, the lostness. But, I sensed the Spirit wanted me to dwell on the sadness for a while. I opened my window and let the notes float in and rest heavily on my soul.
“Baba!” A woman wailed. My heart broke at hearing her anguished, sorrowful voice calling out to gods with ears of stone and clay or, maybe worse, to absolutely nothing at all. No comfort for her. No hope.
The next morning, a large pick-up truck came and the flowers with black ribbons and the contents of the tent were loaded in. Two young men dressed in all white and perhaps sons of the one who died, were leading the process. Soon the truck was overflowing with flowers, boxes of food and stacks of paper coins. The procession could begin. A parade of mourners—close family members, relatives, maybe close friends all wearing white linen hats and belts—left the apartment complex on foot ahead of the truck. Firecrackers popped loudly behind them as they marched away.
As the sounds faded, I was reminded of the weight of that to which I have been called. A city of over 10 million. Over 60,000 people die in this city every year. Over 5000 funerals per month. All without Christ. They may have never even heard His Name.
"Open their eyes that they may turn from darkness to light and from the power of Satan to God, that they may receive forgiveness of sins and a place among those who are sanctified in Christ." ~ Acts 26.18 ~
"Ask of Me and I will make the nations your heritage, and the ends of the earth your possession."
~ Psalm 2.8 ~
