And a surreal Christmas to you, too

Two years ago, it was on a Friday. We had re-scheduled our classes in late morning to take the subway downtown. Rush-hour was long past. There were only two other foreigners among the crowd. We exchanged greetings, then short, conspiratorial introductions: outsiders on the same mission. Did it matter if no one else seemed to know or care? One, an "old China hand," signaled us when to get off, how to find the entrance into the baroque façade of the South Cathedral, home to Beijing's tiny community of Christians.

Inside, large red streamers rose from the walls to a centre, fixed over the nave by a kind of gold crown. At each side electronic smart-boards posted the words of the hymns. They marched past our eyes as we began to sing: "O come, O ye faithful…" Just as we were settling into the familiar sequence, the words evaporated in the middle of the second chorus: "O come let us…." The electronic organ squeaked and died. Snubbed, we sat. Before us appeared a Chinese priest, robed in a rich yellow silk chasuble. He stepped up to the podium. The microphone let out a long electronic screech as he intoned: "My dear flends, welcome here today." A shuffling of paper, then another screech. "I want to tell you about last night." He looked up abruptly. "My dear fliends, last night I lay awake all hours … thinking about the baby Jesus."

"Oh, no. Not babies…." the old China hand beside me whispered. It was as he feared. Little baby Jesus washed over us in a bath of sentiment as we studied the congregation. Mostly other foreigners, some obviously students; others looking a bit the worse for what may have been years living between worlds. Before surmise could take over, the smart board again leapt to life. "Hark the Herald Angels Sing," the board commanded. We sang loudly to keep other thoughts at bay.

After the readings – in English, French, and what we thought sounded like Polish – and a final triumphant rendering of the last mutilated verses of Adeste Fideles, we spilled out again onto the road with the crowd, heading towards the best Peking duck restaurant in the city. A member of the congregation, Chinese, caught up with us, obviously curious.

"Are you Catholic?" he asked, looking at us earnestly. "Or are you Christian."

"Neither," said the old China hand, with an air of finality. And then, "Merry Christmas," as he dragged us off smartly.

"What was that all about?" we wanted to know.

"I don't know where they get that," he confessed. "All the years I've been in China, I've come up against this confusion. They think Protestants are Christians – and Catholics something else. Who knows the origins of their confusion? Maybe Protestant missionaries? Maybe Catholics insisting on their identity as the One True Church?" He stopped with a gesture of despair. "Ever try explaining the Reformation to non-Christians?"

"Only when I try to explain Northern Ireland," I responded. "It's a head-banger." We considered our metaphorically bruised heads as my companion stepped in: "Why don't you join us for lunch?"

"Just as long as you don't ask me to explain Chinese confusions," he laughed. "Non-Christian country, don't you know?"

As if to vindicate him, as we approached the restaurant, an apparition in green skirt and embroidered ethnic top advanced to welcome us. On her head, at a tipsy angle, was a red Santa-Claus hat. "Melly Chlistmas!" she chimed as we entered the door, festooned with festive plastic greenery.

Jerusha McCormack is a visiting professor at the foreign university in Beijing