Farmhouses nestled in the snow-covered Austrian countryside. Smoke rose from chimneys, making me think of hot cups of tea, apple strudel fresh out of the oven, and families gathering around warm fires. As the train sped toward Vienna, I stared out the window, trying to fight that familiar, lonely feeling of being a minority.

Along with two dozen other students, I was about to spend winter quarter in Vienna, Austria. The others in the program were chatting about their Christmas holidays and discussing concerts, balls and operas they were hoping to attend.

I sighed. They have so much in common, I thought. I was an immigrant from India; they’d all been born in America. I was paying for college with scholarships, loans, part-time work and my parents’ sacrifices; their wallets were probably full of platinum credit cards and money from mom and dad. I could imagine them playing tennis in country clubs, driving expensive cars, shopping for clothes in exclusive shops. The biggest difference between us, however, was that they were white and I had dark skin.

“Didn’t I see you at the Christmas service on campus?”

I turned around. A blonde girl with friendly blue eyes was smiling at me. “Uh-huh,” I said. It had been my one and only experience attending a Christian church.

“I’m Elizabeth,” the girl said. “My family drags me to a Christmas Eve service in our home church, but I like the one on campus better, don’t you?”

I mumbled something and went back to watching the scenery. The last thing I needed was another Christian friend. In fact, that was one reason I’d applied for the program in Vienna. I wanted to continue my search for truth far away from the influence of friends and family. I was tired of listening to the opinions of devout Christians, passionate atheists, and even spiritual Hindus like my parents. It was time to decide for myself whether or not I believed in God.

A friend back at school had asked me to take a closer look at Jesus. I’d agreed to read C.S. Lewis’s Mere Christianity as well as the Bible while I was in Vienna. But it still seemed to me that Christianity was for white-skinned Europeans and Americans. I was from the world of dark-skinned people, people who worshiped Hindu idols, or Allah and Muhammad, or Buddha and the eight-fold path. If Christianity were the only way to salvation, as my friend claimed, then the Christian heaven would be full of white people, just like the train I was riding. My beloved Hindu family would be nowhere in sight. How could I turn my back on my own people and heritage by accepting this white religion?

And I had other unanswered questions. A guy I’d liked in high school had died in a car accident involving a drunk driver. How could an almighty God allow this type of chaos and pain? I’d lived in India, Ghana, Cameroon, and Mexico; I’d seen people struggling to survive, children on the verge of starvation. How could a merciful God allow such suffering?

I decided I needed solitude and privacy to search for answers. Once we arrived in Vienna, I planned on keeping to myself, reading books about different religions and writing in my journal. Even though my friend had encouraged me to read the Gospels, I didn’t pick up the Bible he had given me. Instead, I read what others wrote about it; atheists and Christians alike. The Bible stayed safely on my bookshelf, unopened and unread.

In spite of my best attempts to stay aloof and pursue my solitary spiritual search, Vienna’s warm friendliness drew me in. The woman at the post office came from behind the counter to tie my scarf more securely against the cold. The vendor at the chocolate stand stuffed extra caramels in my bag. Austrian food seemed bland to my Asian taste buds, and the cheerful roast-potato seller generously sprinkled paprika on my steaming potatoes.

Elizabeth, one of several Christian students in the program, also refused to let me go my own way. She pulled me into the circle of her friends, inviting me to the opera, balls, and concerts in the evenings. Mornings were full of classes in art history, German, and music, but I managed to squeeze in a few lonely rambles in the afternoons. When the snowfall grew heavy, I ducked into a cathedral to warm my hands. Stained glass windows gathered light into the sanctuary, despite the snow. They glowed in soft patterns of mustard, saffron, indigo, and coral. Arches and vaults curved above me, soaring so high I could hardly see where they intersected. Often, bells tolled and then echoed somewhere in the distance. Always, the twisted, half-naked figure hanging on the cross in front shone as if it were sweating.

Why so much suffering? I asked silently, gazing up at him. Do you hear? Do you care? Or are you only a false god for white people, an idol that they worship in blind ignorance?

Despite my best efforts to stay away from the influence of Christians, every piece of art that caught my eye, whether in cathedrals or museums, seemed to be about Jesus. Every concert I attended mentioned his name, and all the books I read either disputed or supported his teachings. In Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis was making a compelling case for his faith. The last straw came when every conversation I had, whether with other students, the cleaning lady, or the newspaper boy, always ended up being about Christianity.

During winter break, because Vienna was a gateway city between Western and Eastern Europe, the university sponsored a trip to Russia. I decided I needed to visit an atheist country. Maybe once I’d left the domain of Christendom far behind, I’d be able to regain some intellectual perspective.

But the Russian tour led us through prisons and cemeteries. We listened to story after story of suffering and evil. We visited old churches with histories of massacres and torture, where ancient icons vividly displayed the crucifixion. Again, I felt completely overwhelmed by the evil in the world. How could God leave us alone to endure so much suffering? And if Jesus was the Son of God, why did he have to die so brutally?

One afternoon, we were scheduled for a tour of the Hermitage, a beautiful museum in St. Petersburg. The regular English-speaking guide was sick, but a higher-up museum official was assigned to take us from room to room. Once again, most of the paintings were of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection. I didn’t really listen to the tour, but stood at the edge of the group, questions racing through my mind.

Just before we were about to leave, the Russian official pulled me aside. “You are struggling with something, aren’t you?” he asked in a low voice. “What are you thinking about?”

I was surprised into telling the truth. “About God,” I told him. “And about suffering.”

“You are at an intersection of choice,” he said. “There is no turning back now. Either you decide that Jesus is the Son of God, or you turn your back on him forever. You must choose for yourself.”

I felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the icy Russian winter. Somebody was pursuing me, refusing to let me come to a private, rational conclusion about faith. Somebody was reaching out to love me, someone who was more than a system of beliefs, a credo or a philosophy. Slowly, it was dawning on me that I was being courted by a person, not a religion. I was seeking truth, and Truth himself was seeking me.

Back in Vienna, alone in my room, I pulled the Bible off my shelf. Flipping the pages, I found the Gospel of Mark and began to read. Suddenly, it seemed like I was hearing the story of Jesus for the first time. I wasn’t considering a Western religion anymore; I was encountering an amazing person with olive-colored skin, black hair, and dark eyes. Why had I waited so long to read this Middle Eastern book? This man had healed and blessed foreign women when others pushed them away; he knew what it was like to feel lonely and rejected because of his race.

I kept reading. When I read about Jesus’ crucifixion, tears filled my eyes. Finally, I understood why he had to die. God himself had entered into the heart of pain and grief and evil. In his resurrection, he had opened the door to freedom from all of it. His followers claimed that he was still alive. They wrote that his Spirit was available to us, full of order, beauty, truth, life, hope, peace. Suddenly I knew I wanted him more than I wanted any answers.

I closed my eyes and prayed out loud: “Jesus, I believe you are the Son of God. I believe you died for our sins and rose again from the dead. I want to follow you. I trust you with the lives of my loved ones. I know you have answers to all of my questions.”

I’ve traveled to many places since then, and realized that Christianity is not a white man’s religion at all. Christianity is and always has been about a person—Jesus of Nazareth. People of many cultures worship him in their own ways, and we’ll all be in heaven together.

I admit I still have questions. The world is unfair and full of suffering. Racism abounds, even in the church. How can Muslims, Hindus, and Buddhists who have never heard of Jesus be destined for hell? But in the midst of doubt and struggle, I remember a conversation he had with his disciples. “Do you, too, want to leave?” he asked them.

They answered with a question, followed by a declaration of faith. “Lord, where else would we go? You alone have the words of life.” I can still feel lonely in an all-white setting, just like I did on that train to Vienna. But now that I have a relationship with Jesus, it’s easier to forget about the barriers race can cause. Everyone’s blood is the same color, anyway—red, like his, spilling down from the cross. And that’s what counts.

Mitali Perkins was born in Kolkata, India and grew up in California. She studied political science at Stanford University, where she was baptized in a fountain at the foot of Hoover Tower. She points out that as she was attending Stanford University, “the InterVarsity people prayed for me constantly.” She’s the author of two novels for young adults, Monsoon Summer (Random House, August 2004) and Sunita! (Little Brown, Spring 2005), as well as articles, short stories, and poetry about life between cultures. Visit Mitali on the web at www.youngimmigrants.com. (This story was originally published in With magazine.)