I was born and raised in China, and I was trained, as most Chinese children of the time, to be an atheist. This training successfully kept me from any religious thinking, except an unexpected encounter with a Bible verse when I was 10. As I read a novel titled A Tale of Two Cities, a line from the book captured my mind: “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die.” What a strange saying, and what a bold claim! I was confused, shocked, and burned with the question, “Who spoke these words?”

I had been taught to believe that everyone would die and never come back to life, and yet here was one man who promised resurrection and eternal life to whoever believed in him. The sharp contrast between this claim and my belief led me into an excruciating internal conflict concerning the existence of God. On the one hand, my education and personal experiences denied the existence of God because there was no sure evidence to prove it. On the other hand, this simple statement conveyed to me with overwhelming authority that God’s existence was self-evident and beyond dispute. I concluded that it was highly probable that there was a God, but that I should continue to be an atheist until He revealed Himself to me.

After 8 years of pretending that God did not exist, I could not go on. The absence of God in my life left me feeling meaningless, which led to depression and despair. Suicide seemed to be the only meaningful action I could take in this meaningless life.

On a moonless spring night when I was 18, I made my way to the roof of my sixth-floor apartment, seeking liberation from the claws of depression. One step forward and my tragic fate would meet its end in less than two seconds. I thought I would be calm, or perhaps excited, to embrace death, but, standing by the edge of the roof, my whole body trembled. As I examined the darkness beneath me, the certainty of the future gave way to unknowns. I would die, but was death really the end?

At that moment, a verse echoed in my mind: “Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live.” I was convinced by this verse that death could not be the end, because these words implied with certainty that the speaker Himself had passed from death to life. This person claimed to be the resurrection and the life. When I applied this claim to myself, I acknowledged that my life did not belong to me and that life was meaningless apart from Him. This might be terrible news to others, but it was a comforting message to me. I despised my life, I treated it as trash, and I wanted to dispose of it. But here was one person who told me that He was the owner of this piece of trash and that He had a purpose for it. The only response I could give was, “I am all yours!”

When I left the roof that night, I realized one thing: as long as I did not know God, though I live, yet I was dead. I did not commit suicide because I realized that I was dead already. Nevertheless, there was a life reserved for me and a resurrection waiting for me. With this confident hope, I came to Pittsburgh in 2010 to go to graduate school. In Pittsburgh, I received help from a local Chinese church. I joined their cell group activities, went to their Sunday service, and made friends with many people in the church. But it was when I opened the Bible to that familiar verse that God revealed Himself to me with overwhelming persuasion. I had been like Lazarus lying dead in the tomb and waiting anxiously for the resurrection. I heard the irresistible calling—“Come out!”—and so I arose from the death and came to Christ. Two months later, I was baptized.

Christ not only gave me a new life, but also a new purpose. At the end of 2010, I went to a missions conference in Philadelphia. Though I had no idea what missions meant, I registered with the simple expectation of a wonderful time with Christians in a big city.

It was a wonderful time, but not what I expected. I started to feel bored when I learned that the theme of this conference was to send out missionaries all over the world. A friend who came with me shared that she was scared by the idea that she might be called to be a missionary. It meant giving up her ambition, career, family, and everything else she treasured. I sympathized with her, but I did not share those worries. “I am safe from the risk,” I thought. “I was just baptized. It’s too early for God to call me.”

However, my expectation did not limit God. My heart was cut by the messages on the first night of the conference. In the following days, the calling grew stronger and the visions grew clearer. Throughout the conference I could not stop weeping. I was not in control of my emotions. Every word from the speakers resounded in my ears, raising a storm in my brain. The call was like a seed sprouting within my heart, growing rapidly and taking possession of every part of my body.

By the end of the conference, I realized that God was calling me to be a missionary to Japan. I cannot articulate why I am so sure about the calling. There was no sign or supernatural experience. I also cannot explain why I was called to Japan. There is no special bond between me and that country, but I am sure that God desires every person in Japan to hear the gospel, and that He has given me a strong affection for the people of Japan.

Receiving the call took only a few days, but living out the call will cost my whole life. During the two years after the mission conference, I was actively involved with the ministry in my church: teaching Sunday school, leading a small group, and serving in the mission committee. My spirit matured, my skill was sharpened, my knowledge increased, yet my heart became more burdened. Though I labored diligently in the church, I was losing the vision of my calling.

Content with my present situation, I failed to prepare my future ministry, and I consciously avoided taking the next step. I felt guilty for suppressing my calling and used my involvement in the church to relieve me of that guilt. When I could no longer bear it, I decided to take seminary classes as the next step to work out my calling.

However, making the decision was thousands of miles away from taking the real action. In order to attend seminary, I had to quit my graduate program at the University of Pittsburgh. If I had done well in my studies, I could have left the school with a clear conscience in the name of sacrificing for God’s kingdom. However, this was not the case: I struggled in my research. Ever since I made the decision, I have had to confront the accusation: “You want to go to the seminary because you don’t want to remain in graduate school.” Moreover, I could not answer the practical question: If I could not finish my graduate program, what was my chance of surviving the seminary?

For a whole year, self-condemnation and pessimism held me back from applying for seminary. Then I began to seek the will of God. For three days I fasted, with many regrets and tears, asking for forgiveness and guidance like Jonah praying in the belly of the fish. I was relieved and overjoyed when God confirmed my calling and assured me that He would sustain me. As a paralytic miraculously healed, I jumped to my feet and started my application for the Reformed Presbyterian Theological Seminary (RPTS). At the end of 2013, I received my acceptance letter and started my study at RPTS in spring 2014.

My life at seminary is full of humbling experiences and struggles. I am appalled by how ignorant and heretical I was before. I flush at my previous illusion that I was a master of theology. My knowledge was deficient, and I perceived many defects in my character. My lack of discipline, compassion, and leadership makes me a disqualified soldier for God’s battle to win souls. I appreciate the seminary life that helps me evaluate my qualification in the light of truth instead of delusion.

The reality is disappointing, but I have hope. In order to keep up with the intense course schedules, I have to go through many days without eating and nights without sleeping. Yet I rejoice in these sufferings, for I consider them as a foretaste of my life on the mission field. God is using the difficult circumstances to train and prepare me for future ministry. My suffering is a sign that God remembers His plan for me and that He will never give up on me.

Author Hao Lu is a student at the Reformed Presbyterian Theological Seminary and is married to Amy.