I am Mizo. I am tribal; descended from a lineage of warriors who were once headhunters. My great-grandfather was one of the last Hualngo chiefs among the Chin people, whose ancestral lands are now part of Myanmar. When missionaries came, they brought a foreign concept of faith. At that time, my people knew Khuanu- a divine being. The missionaries introduced a Christian God in her place. They spoke of Jesus dying for our sins. But our people had not understood themselves as sinful in the way missionaries described.
Isn’t that bewildering? But it was so.
The missionaries also told my people that many cultural practices were forms of devil worship. Until then, these practices had been sacred to us. But they called them sin, and over time, they came to be seen that way. For reasons I still do not fully understand, my great-grandfather gave up his chieftainship so Christianity could flourish in his village. The missionaries happened to be Catholic priests, and Catholicism became part of our family identity.
And so it must be, right? That is what I thought, too.
I was born and raised Catholic, and boy, was I ready to defend my faith with all my might! Then, one day, my apa (father) said, “God’s not real.” Imagine an eleven-year-old, deeply religious Catholic girl hearing that from her own father! He continued, “God might not be real. Go seek Him, and you tell me if I am wrong.”
I was stunned. This was my apa, a man who wouldn’t even open his photo studio without first kneeling and making the sign of the cross, challenging everything I believed. For the first time, the ground beneath my faith shifted. I felt doubt.
From then on, I stopped simply accepting. I began asking questions. Sometimes, I returned to my apa declaring, “You’re right! There is no God!” Other times, I’d insist, “Dad, you’re wrong! There is God!”
Looking back, I realize that in his own unconventional way, my apa was teaching his stubborn daughter to seek a faith of her own, not one she simply inherited. He invited me to the concept that faith could be more than something I defended; it could be something I discovered for myself.
So, where has this journey led me?
I am still a sojourner.
There are times when God feels absent, especially in the grief of losing my apa. I wonder how the Christian faith fits into our tribal communities, particularly when things we once held sacred were dismissed as paganistic or savage. I wrestle with inheriting a faith central to my identity while reckoning with its history.
And yet, I continue to walk.
Mine is a journey of faith intertwined with doubt, joy, wonder, grief, and all the things that accompany being human. I am learning that making faith my own does not necessarily mean having all the answers. Perhaps it means being willing to ask difficult questions, sit with uncertainties, and keep seeking even in the midst of doubt.