Asian Religions, page 11
The Ritual Calendar
We have examined one dimension of religious time: the myths of origins, or of the beginning of time. Another dimension is that of movement through time, especially the annual calendar of religious festivals and holidays. Here, too, we see the operations of yang and yin, the constant interplay of positive and negative energies, activity and quiescence, heat and cold. And in this annual cycle humans do play a vital role.
The oscillating pattern of the Dao, while assuring a cosmic balance and harmony over the course of time, is characterized by ebb and flow, seasons where yin is dominant (winter), where yang is dominant (summer), and where they are in equilibrium (the spring and autumn equinoxes). As in European cultures, winter is traditionally associated with death, spring with rebirth, summer with life; so spring is the time of renewal, bridging the worlds of death and life. In the Chinese lunar calendar the most celebrated festival of the year is the Spring Festival (春節, chunjie – or New Year's Festival). Unlike the Western new year, which comes in the dead of winter, the Chinese New Year Festival is celebrated on the first day of the first lunar month, which can fall as early as January 22 and as late as February 19, that is, on the second new moon after the winter solstice (the first day of a lunar month is a new moon, and the fifteenth day is a full moon). While this is still winter – still the cold season in a northern climate – nevertheless the first stirrings of spring are present: the winter ice is beginning to thaw, the soil is beginning to soften, new life is beginning to emerge from the ground. Humans encourage this re-emergence by counterbalancing the yin forces of darkness and quiescence with yang forces of brightness and activity. This is why, on the Chinese New Year's eve, lights are blazing and children try to stay up all night, a great feast is served, and fireworks are set off to waken the sleeping world to the coming of spring. The staple food of Spring Festival is dumplings, which are perhaps reminiscent of the hundun “soup” at the beginning of time, and people stay up much of the night, preparing the wonton skins and fillings and wrapping the dumplings as a family activity.
Clearly, then, humans have a role to play in the harmonizing or re-balancing of yin and yang forces. This is evident again in mid-summer, when yang reaches its peak on the fifth day of the fifth lunar month (May 26 to June 23, corresponding roughly to the summer solstice on June 21 – this is the date when the Earth's axial tilt brings the northern half of the Earth closest to the sun). Today this festival is called the Double-Five (端午, duanwu) or the Double-Yang (重陽, chongyang) Festival, but in ancient times it was called the Cold Food Festival (寒食節, hanshi jie), because, since there was already “too much yang” (the heat of the summer sun), cooking fires should be extinguished. To compensate for the excess of yang energy and simply to escape the heat, the Double-Five Festival celebrates yin with water activities such as splashing contests, spraying water jets, and boat races. In English, this festival is known as the Dragon Boat Festival, on account of the dragon boat races taking place throughout the day and into the night.
A final illustration of the relationship between human actions and the balancing of yin and yang are the festivals associated with the spring and autumn equinoxes, when day and night are in perfect balance. The first of these falls on the fifteenth day after the spring equinox, that is, on April 5, and is called the Pure Brightness (清明, qingming) Festival. The second falls on the fifteenth day of the seventh lunar month (usually in August) and is called the Ghost Festival or the Ullambana Festival (盂蘭, yulan), after a Buddhist rite for the dead. These two festivals parallel each other in the performance of rituals for the dead: in the first, the family dead (that is, the ancestors); in the second, the non-family or unvenerated dead (that is, “hungry ghosts” having no descendents). While momentarily in balance, Chinese cosmological concepts recognize the equinoxes in dynamic terms: whereas in spring yin has completed its six months of ascendency and yang will begin its six months of ascendency, in fall it is the opposite: yang has completed its six months of ascendency and yin will begin its six months of ascendency. Yin is associated with death: the ancestors are “welcomed” at the end of the yin-dominant fall and winter, to remain close to the family and not to depart during the yang-dominant spring and summer; by contrast, the ghosts are “sent off” at the beginning of the yin- or death-dominant fall and winter and asked not to return. On the Ghost Festival, offerings normally reserved for ancestors are provided to the ghosts, but with two significant differences: first, they are placed outside the main gate (rather than within the house); second, they are left uncooked, consisting of dry rice and raw meats, and are discarded at the end of the day (as opposed to the offerings to ancestors, which are cooked and consumed by the family).
Festivals to the many Taoist gods of Chinese popular religion also demonstrate yin and yang cosmological conceptions. These holidays are also perennial, but not necessarily annual: some temples celebrate significant festivals only every three years, or every ten. I have heard of one major temple festival that is celebrated only once every 19 years, for reasons having to do with the particular god who is worshipped there. Indeed Chinese religion recognizes tens of thousands of gods, ghosts, and ancestors, and the spirit world is present within the human and natural world of everyday life. Just as yin penetrates yang and vice versa, the world of the dead penetrates the world of the living, forming one cosmological whole. This is why, in Chinese religion, there is no concept of “supernaturalism” – of another world, separate from that of everyday life. We will explore these themes further in Chapter 12, which deals with the personal dimensions of yin–yang cosmology.
Notes
1 A creation myth is called a cosmogonic myth. It should be noted that this is a term of comparative analysis: the word “myth” does not designate a “false story.” For scholars of religion, a “myth” is a narrative with symbolic meaning, containing themes of cosmic importance. A myth is never merely historical.
2 Wilfred Cantwell Smith, Patterns of Faith around the World (Oxford: Oneworld Publications, 1998), p. 72.
3 Creation myths are present in virtually every religious system in the world, but they are not of equal importance. Hindu creation myths are virtually “meaningless,” as the cyclical nature of creation and destruction means that creations are perennial, endless, even infinite in number. The Abrahamic traditions place an especially heavy emphasis on the story of creation.
11
Spatial Dimensions of Yin–Yang Cosmology
The characters yin (陰) and yang (陽) are etymologically related to space, that is, to topography: they refer literally to the “shady” side and the “sunny” side of a mountain. This fits our theme of complementarity: there can be no shade without sun, and thus the two dimensions of reality are interdependent. Moreover, since the sun appears to move across the sky, sunshine and shade are shifting and alternating, like the cosmic breath of creation. That is, sunshine and shade are dynamic states of light and darkness.
Fengshui
Since humans participate in the balancing of yin and yang forces, their interventions in space have a causative relationship of pattern and response. Humans intervene in the natural world by constructing homes, villages, cities, roads, and bridges. Their interaction with nature and with the “veins and arteries” of natural energies is the object of geomantic prognostication, that is, of fengshui (風水). Fengshui is the art of “wind and water,” whereby humans seek to understand, both practically and aesthetically, the impact of their activities on the natural landscape. It is, to put it in more modern terms, a traditional form of ecological architecture. How should a town or city be situated? On which side of a river or mountain? Which direction should my house be facing? How high should it be, of what materials, and how should the entrance and rooms be configured for cooking, sleeping, dining, and entertaining? Where should I bury a beloved parent or grandparent? What is the optimal shape and size of the tomb, and in which direction should it be oriented? These questions are all addressed by fengshui and demonstrate a traditional environmental awareness. Though there are fengshui experts who are consulted and paid handsomely for major construction projects, it is safe to generalize that every Chinese has an intuitive appreciation for the aesthetic interaction between human habitations and the natural environment, an appreciation grounded in many centuries of fengshui practice.
Not surprisingly, Western missionaries and modernizers in the nineteenth century found fengshui to be pointless and irrational: “a mere chaos of childish absurdities and refined mysticism, cemented together, by sophistic reasonings, into a system, which is in reality a ridiculous caricature of science”; “an abyss of insane vagaries”; “a perverse application of physical and meteorological knowledge”; “the biggest of all bugbears.”1 Certainly, if fengshui opposes the construction of steeples and towers, the blasting of tunnels and passes, and the straight line efficiency of train tracks and telegraph lines, then it can easily be perceived to be standing in the way of progress. But fengshui is born out of a keen sensitivity to the natural makeup of the land, to the flow of “wind and water,” and to the interplay of prominences and mountains (yang) with recessions and valleys (yin). It is this effort – not to disturb the natural balance, or even to augment the harmonizing of opposites – that distinguishes urban planning based on fengshui principles from the construction methods of rapid industrialization, which sees nature as a force to be “conquered” rather than harnessed.
Fengshui does not depend upon antiquated thinking or design. Contemporary Chinese architecture also seeks to integrate human spaces into their larger environments. When I was living in Hong Kong as a visiting professor at Lingnan University, I frequently passed the apartment block in the New Territories represented in Figure 11.1. Notice the undulating form of the building (not only in height, but even in its serpentine shape), mimicking the contours of the mountain behind it. A touch of yin emptiness is also seen in the 10-story opening at the 5th floor, which allows a glimpse of the natural terrain behind it.
Figure 11.1 Apartment complex, New Territories, Hong Kong. Photo by the author (May 2003).
Even ultra-modern buildings, such as the Bank of China Building on Hong Kong island, unite sea and sky by blending creatively into the background (see Figure 11.2). The vast glass panels of the building are so reflective that at times they seem to “disappear” into the sky.
Figure 11.2 Bank of China Tower, Hong Kong. © Norman Chan / Shutterstock.
For a final example, look at the design work of I. M. Pei, perhaps the best known Chinese architect in the world, in his construction of the East Wing of the National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC (Figure 11.3). Here it is not so much the natural environment that is emphasized, but the uniquely spoke-shaped urban design of the nation's capital, a design dating to the late eighteenth century. Pei has ingeniously created a building that blends into its artificial landscape, mimicking its distinctive geometry.
Figure 11.3 Aerial view of the National Gallery of Art's new East Building. © James A. Sugar / National Geographic Stock.
Fengshui is not superstition as much as an acute sensitivity for the interaction between the natural and the artificial – that is, for the impact of human handiwork on the natural landscape. It expresses these Taoist values:
a conception of nature as a living, complementary force;
an appreciation for natural beauty and form;
architectural design based upon natural topography, forms, and elements;
an ideal of cosmic, social, and ecological harmony.
Chinese “Elemental” Theory
A marvelous illustration of the dynamic quality of existence – what philosophers would describe as a metaphysics of becoming rather than a metaphysics of being – can be found in early Chinese understandings of the constituent elements of the natural world, the so-called “five phases” (五行, wuxing), traditionally represented as fire (火), earth (土), metal (金), water (水), and wood (木).
The early Greeks also had an elemental theory based on the idea that all things could be analyzed in terms of a few constituents that could be isolated from one another in the mind. One of the key characteristics of these elements was that, one way or another, they were indestructible at the most basic level. The Chinese “phases” cannot be isolated in the mind and are not indestructible; they are interactive and dynamic. In fact, it is more accurate to define them not as elements at all, but as “activities”: burning, enveloping, hardening, moistening, and growing (the active characteristics of the elements).
Moreover, the five phases produce “the ten thousand things” by virtue of their interactions – as opposed to their combinations (as in molecular theory). These interactions are described as the “yang order of production” and the “yin order of overcoming.” The yang order of production can be represented as in Figure 11.4:
Figure 11.4 Yang order of production. Drawn by author.
The yin order of overcoming can be represented as in Figure 11.5:
Figure 11.5 Yin order of overcoming. Drawn by author.
It is the dynamic and interactive dimensions of the phases that are emphasized. Notably, human activity is also part of this process; we make use of the natural way of things to harness their power – a basic Taoist theme. Humans are active participants in yin–yang cosmological balancing, not in a way that violates the basic nature of things, but in a way that harmonizes with it.
Spatial Dimensions of Liturgical Taoism
Taoism has evolved historically and has interacted in complex ways with Chinese popular religion or what Chinese scholars now call shendao (神道), the religion of spiritual beings.2 Some scholars have been insistent that Taoism represents a completely separate tradition, with very elite forms of expression (written scriptures, liturgical manuals that are reserved for Taoist priests and their disciples, secret formulas, and esoteric symbols), but in terms of practice religious Taoism is very much the religion of the people, tied to local temples dedicated to a wide range of gods and spirits, all having distinct, local characteristics. So it is not unreasonable to use Taoism and shendao synonymously.
All religions have both temporal and spatial dimensions. Borrowing from the work of Mircea Eliade (see Chapter 2), all religions distinguish between a “sacred time” and a “profane time” and between a “sacred space” and a “profane space.” Whereas profane time and space are ordinary and unremarkable and can be measured in minutes and meters, sacred time and space are in some ways “outside” time and space, insofar as our participation or immersion in sacred times and places creates experiences that seem to suspend, contract, or expand our time–space perceptions. A holiday is not just a day of the year; rather it is an occasion of family gathering, of religious remembrance, and of spiritual self-cultivation that suspends our ordinary sense of the passage of time. Similarly, a sacred mountain is not just a hill of certain physical dimensions, measured from base to top; it is rather a separate world, a place of mystery and spirituality, evoking an experience of encounter with sacred reality.
With respect to these two dimensions – of space and time – it is safe to say that Chinese religion is, primarily, spatially oriented. The Chinese landscape is full of sacred significance. The Chinese word for “society,” shehui (社會), refers to a “gathering around a she (社), or sacred altar,” traditionally a tree at the center of the village. Today most towns and villages have a temple dedicated to both local and more widely worshipped gods and goddesses, and the centerpiece of the temple is an incense burner where worshippers offer incense and prayers. The temple courtyard is a gathering place for the community, and the architectural shape of a temple is that of an imperial palace, linking the community to its cultural history. In this sense the temple is the place where the community comes together, where past and present meet, and where the yang world of the living joins the yin world of the dead.
Temples represent not only cultural centers, but also nodes of inter-regional contact, done on a local, ad hoc basis (there is no overarching ecclesiastical authority in Chinese religion). Ritually, these contacts take the form of periodic visitations, whereby the local deity of one temple is brought to “call upon” the local deity of another temple and to receive some of its spiritual power (靈, ling). In some temples these visits have been going on for decades or centuries and represent “parent–child” relationships between the two temples or trade alliances between the two communities. Pilgrimages between temples are a major event of the festival year. Since 2000, pilgrimages between temples on Taiwan and in Mainland China contributed to the thawing of relations between the two governments and are now a regular occurrence.
The most recent temple fair I visited, in spring 2012, involved the transfer of a god's image from one temple to another, about 50 kilometers away; the image was initially located in a village that had seen some miraculous events. The visit would last three months, and the god's image was welcomed by the host temple in a “god's invitation” (神迎 shenying) rite. To display the god's presence, a shaman was possessed by a martial god named San Taizi (三太子, “the Third Prince”). The shaman inhabited by the Third Prince, also known as Nezha (哪吒), demonstrated his spiritual power by drawing blood from his own body with a sword and nail-studded club.
From this example we can see that Chinese religion – whether in its Confucian or Taoist forms – recognizes a close, immediate, and intimate relationship between humans and the divine. Gods, ghosts, and ancestors are primarily spirits of the dead, but the dead remain close; they do not occupy some distant, inaccessible world. In fact the gods – and the shamans or priests who interact with them so closely – move between the yin realm (the spirit realm) and the yang realm (the realm of everyday life) freely and quite readily. Our ancestors, too, are near to us and stay close to home. This is why Chinese who have migrated abroad see it as their responsibility to return home to visit their deceased parents. After the disruptive Communist Revolution ending in 1949 and leading to migrations to Hong Kong, Taiwan, and the rest of the world, tens of thousands of Chinese have been sure to visit their ancestral homes as they themselves have aged.
