Concepts and Methods for the Study of Chinese Religions II: Intellectual History of Key Concepts 3110546442, 9783110546446

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Concepts and Methods for the Study of Chinese Religions II

Religion and Society

Edited by Gustavo Benavides, Frank J. Korom, Karen Ruffle and Kocku von Stuckrad

Volume 78

Concepts and Methods for the Study of Chinese Religions II Intellectual History of Key Concepts Edited by Gregory Adam Scott and Stefania Travagnin

ISBN 978-3-11-054644-6 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-054782-5 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-054713-9 ISSN 1437-5370 Library of Congress Control Number: 2019958027 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2020 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Typesetting: Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd. Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

永恆懷念 蔡彥仁老師 (1956–2019)

故人不可見, 漢水日東流。 借問襄陽老, 江山空蔡州。 ～唐 · 王維〈哭孟浩然〉

Preface Religion in late-Imperial and twentieth-century China has been the object of a large number of publications in the past few decades. These studies used archival and ethnographic research, but also relied upon an earlier generation of scholarship that had opened the field and created its methodological and theoretical foundations. Part of this early scholarship did not result from the work of traditional academics, but from explorers or photographers, and thus enriched the discourse of religion in modern China with different and less academic perspectives. Parallel to this publishing production, the organization of conferences, the establishment of research centers and the creation of international research networks on this theme have multiplied steadily. This flood of new research reflects the fact that the study of religions in modern China has emerged as a new and challenging field in both Asian and Western academia. Within this emerging rich field of study, however, there is still an ongoing debate regarding what methods and theories are appropriate to be employed in this new field. The three-volume publication Concepts and Methods for the Study of Chinese Religions contributes to this debate. It reviews the past history of the field, highlights challenges that the scholars in this field have encountered, reconsiders the present state of analytical and methodological theories, and finally opens up a new chapter in the history of concepts and methods for the field itself. These three volumes explore religion in the area known as greater China, which includes mainland China, Hong Kong, and Taiwan. Among the authors, some have been trained and have published in the fields of anthropology and sociology; others are historians, textual scholars, area studies scholars, and political scientists. The three volumes present the results of a constructive dialogue and mutual integration of various disciplines of humanities and social sciences. This publication also aims to contribute to a discussion on analytical and theoretical concepts that could potentially be applied to the study of religion in other contexts, including in Western societies. In other words, China is seen not as an exotic outlier, but as a global player in the overall academic study of religion. Such a framework responds to the current call for interdisciplinary and cross-tradition debates on a trans-regional horizon and globalization, and thus methodologies for the study of East Asian religions should be engaged with Western voices in a more active and constructive manner. The first volume, Concepts and Methods for the Study of Chinese Religions I: State of the Field and Disciplinary Approaches, starts with an assessment of the earliest works and individuals who initiated the study of religion in modern China. Those individuals include Western and Chinese religious practitioners, https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110547825-202

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academic figures, explorers and photographers. The earliest works are predominantly textual, historical and ethnographic studies: these form the foundation of the field. Questions addressed include: Who are the pioneers in the study of religion in modern China and Taiwan? What were the first disciplinary approaches, conceptual categories, and objects of research? How did those choices shape the beginning of the field as well as the academic output of today? What were their contributions and their limitations, and how can we work to overcome those shortcomings? The second part of the first volume discusses methodological and disciplinary approaches that are currently used in the study of religion in modern China and Taiwan, with constructive conclusions on potential changes in research trajectories, and thus works toward an overdue improvement of research methods. The chapters address methodological disciplines such as anthropology, sociology, political science, and history, in their own micro-contexts as well as in the ways they relate to macro-fields. The second and third volumes shift the focus from methodological concerns to critical reflections on analytical concepts, and include the re-evaluation of concepts and practices that inform the religious sphere and scholarship in the field. These two volumes look at endogenous Chinese concepts and exogenous ideas from the West and Japan that are foundational in thinking about the Chinese religious landscape. Some chapters address the introduction of new concepts or the reshaping of traditional ones in light of the intellectual, political, and social atmosphere of the late nineteenth century and the early Republican period in China, while others assess ideas that continue to permeate the religious sphere of China and Taiwan today. These key concepts are all interconnected because they participate in the same debates on traditional dichotomies and recent paradigm shifts. Concepts and Methods for the Study of Chinese Religions II: Intellectual History of Key Concepts analyzes key concepts in their intellectual history and development: these are concepts that have become core terms in Chinese religions but have each their own history of formation and use. Concepts and Methods for the Study of Chinese Religions III: Key Concepts in Practice analyses another set of concepts that form the foundations of the Chinese religious sphere. Adopting an approach that differs from that of the second volume, these concepts are studied through their praxis in lived religions. This project developed from the conference Framing the Study of Religion in Modern China and Taiwan: Concepts, Methods and New Research Paths, which was sponsored by the Chiang Ching-kuo Foundation for International Scholarly Exchange and the KNAW (Koninklijke Nederlandse Akademie van Wetenschappen), and was held at the University of Groningen in December 2015.

Acknowledgments Preliminary drafts of the chapters by Ester Bianchi, Adam Yuet Chau, Jason T. Clower, Erik Hammerstrom, Ya-pei Kuo, Gregory Adam Scott, and Stefania Travagnin were presented at the international conference Framing the Study of Religion in Modern China and Taiwan: Concepts, Methods and New Research Paths, held at the University of Groningen on December 9–12, 2015. We would like to express our heartfelt gratitude to the Chiang Ching-Kuo Foundation for International Scholarly Exchange and the KNAW (Koninklijke Nederlandse Akademie van Wetenschappen) for their sponsorship, which helped make the meeting possible. The discussions that took place during the conference were essential for authors as they revised their chapters. Each author has included specific acknowledgments in their own chapters. Here the volume editors would like to express their indebtedness to the anonymous reviewers of the manuscript, who offered significant and constructive feedback that helped all of the contributors enhance their studies. Last but not least, we are deeply thankful to the editors of the book series Religion and Society at De Gruyter for the unstinting guidance and support they provided for our project.

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Contents Preface

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Acknowledgments List of Contributors

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Note on Chinese Names, Terms and Transliteration

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Gregory Adam Scott and Stefania Travagnin Introduction 1 Yuan-lin Tsai Confucian Li-Rites and Muslim Shariah: Comparative Discourses in the Traditional Chinese Ulama 11 Jason T. Clower Jia 家: Lineage in Chinese Religion and New Confucianism as a “Humanistic Buddhist” Heresy 35 Ester Bianchi Understanding Jielü 戒律: The Resurgence and Reconfiguration of Vinaya-Related Concepts in Modern China 55 Gregory Adam Scott ‘Scripture’ as a Critical Term in Modern Chinese Buddhism

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Stefania Travagnin From Xue 學 to Jiaoyu 教育: Conceptual Understandings of ‘Education’ in Modern Chinese Buddhism 95 Erik Hammerstrom On Assessing the Use of Scientific Rhetoric in Modern Chinese Religion 121

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Ya-pei Kuo Two Conceptions of Religion in Modern China: Chen Duxiu on the Eve of the Anti-Religion/Anti-Christian Movement 135 Adam Yuet Chau The “Religion Sphere” (zongjiaojie 宗教界) in the Construction of Modern China 155 Annabella Pitkin Sustaining the Sacred Mountains: Tibetan Environmentalism and Sacred Landscape in a Time of Conflict 181 Index

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List of Contributors Ester Bianchi holds a Ph.D. in Indian and East-Asian Civilization from the University of Venice (joint Ph.D. received from the Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes, Section des Sciences Religieuses of Paris). She is currently Associate Professor of Chinese Religions and Philosophy and of Society and Culture of China and member of the research group Culture, Languages, Practices (CLIPRA) at the Philosophy Department of the University of Perugia (Italy), an external Associated Researcher of the Groupe Sociétés, Religions, Laïcités CNRS-EPHE, and Research Fellow of the Wutai International Institute of Buddhism and East Asian Cultures. Her studies focus on the religions of China, particularly Buddhism, in imperial and modern time; her research is centered on SinoTibetan Buddhism, Chinese Buddhist monasticism, the revival of Buddhist monastic discipline and, more recently, the spread of the Theravāda Buddhist model in modern Chinese Buddhism. Adam Yuet Chau is University Senior Lecturer in the Anthropology of Modern China in the Department of East Asian Studies, University of Cambridge, and a Fellow at St. John’s College. He is the author of Miraculous Response: Doing Popular Religion in Contemporary China (Stanford University Press, 2006), Religion in China: Ties That Bind (Polity Books, 2019), and editor of Religion in Contemporary China: Revitalization and Innovation (Routledge, 2011). His articles have appeared in various journals and edited volumes. He is currently working on projects investigating the rise of the “religion sphere” (zongjiaojie) in modern China; spirit mediumism in rural Shaanbei (northern Shaanxi Province in northcentral China); the idiom of hosting; and forms of powerful writing (“text acts”) in Chinese political and religious culture. Jason T. Clower holds a Ph.D. from Harvard (2008) and is currently Associate Professor at the California State University Chico. Many of his writings address Mou Zongsan, an influential and modern Chinese philosopher, see his monograph The Unlikely Buddhologist (Brill, 2010) and the edited volume Late Works of Mou Zongsan: Essays in Chinese Philosophy (Brill, 2014). Clower is also researching “Asian-inspired spirituality” scene in the New Age movement in California, and the so-called “lost world of Communism”, its art and material culture, its pieties, its intellectual and institutional life, and the shared remnants of Stalinist heritage that can still be found from Pyongyang to Prague. Erik Hammerstrom is Associate Professor in the Religion Department at Pacific Lutheran University in the US. His research focuses on Chinese Buddhism during the first half of the twentieth century, and he has written on Buddhist responses to modern science and the formation of modern Chinese Huayan. Hammerstrom is the author of The Science of Chinese Buddhism: Early Twentieth-Century Engagements (Columbia University Press, 2015). He also works in the field of educational games. Ya-pei Kuo is University Lecturer in the Department of History at the University of Groningen, the Netherlands. Her research focuses on the formation of “religion” concept in late nineteenth and early twentieth century China. She has published on the late-Qing reinvention of Confucius cult and the Chinese conception of Christianity. She is currently researching the intellectual debate on “religion” in the early 1920s.

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Annabella Pitkin is Assistant Professor of Buddhism and East Asian Religions at Lehigh University. Her research focuses on Tibetan Buddhist modernity and Buddhist biographies, and more broadly on transnational Buddhism, Buddhist lineage systems, and religion, pop culture, and gender in East Asia. She received her B.A. from Harvard and Ph.D. in Religion from Columbia, and has traveled extensively in the Himalayan region and China. She is currently preparing a book manuscript titled Beggar Modern: Memory, Asceticism and Love in the Lives of a 20th Century Tibetan Buddhist Saint. Gregory Adam Scott is Lecturer in Chinese Culture and History at the University of Manchester, UK. His research focuses on Buddhism in modern China. He is co-editor of Religious Publishing and Print Culture in Modern China (De Gruyter, 2015) and his monograph, Building the Buddhist Revival: Reconstructing Monasteries in Modern China, is due out in early 2020. Stefania Travagnin is the founding Director of the Centre for the Study of Religion and Culture in Asia at the University of Groningen, the Netherlands. Travagnin obtained a Ph.D. in the Study of Religions from SOAS (2009). Travagnin has done extensive fieldwork research among Buddhist communities in Taiwan and mainland China, and was visiting scholar in several institutions in Asia. Her research explores Buddhism and Buddhists in mainland China and Taiwan from the late Qing up to the present time, with a focus on three main themes: reception history of Buddhist texts in the Republican period, Buddhism and Chinese society (especially the themes of women, media and technology, education, religious diversity), concepts and methods for the study of religion. Her publications include the edited volume Religion and Media in China: Insights and Case Studies from the Mainland, Taiwan and Hong Kong (Routledge, 2016). She is also director of the three-year project ‘Mapping Religious Diversity in Modern Sichuan’ funded by the Chiang Ching-kuo Foundation for International Scholarly Exchange (2017–2020), with Elena Valussi as co-director. Yuan-lin Tsai is Associate Professor in the Graduate Institute of Religious Studies at National Cheng Chi University, Taipei, Taiwan, and the President of the Taiwan Association for Religious Studies (TARS). He received his Ph.D. in Religious Studies from Temple University in 1997, and had been one of the Board of Directors for TARS from 2001 to 2009. His academic areas include Islamic studies, theories of religious studies, religious-political relationship in Southeast Asia, and post-colonial studies. He has published numerous books and articles on issues from those areas and also translated Culture and Imperialism (2001) by Edward W. Said into Chinese.

Note on Chinese Names, Terms and Transliteration We have used pinyin transliteration throughout the volume, while adding traditional Chinese characters at their first occurrence. Chinese characters for well-known cities, institutions and individuals have not been provided. In certain instances related to Taiwan, Hong Kong, and overseas Chinese communities, pinyin has been replaced with local transliteration systems to maintain names and terms as they are commonly known in the Englishspeaking world.

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Gregory Adam Scott and Stefania Travagnin

Introduction In the last few decades, several academic fields have begun to devote attention to an analysis of their respective critical terms and concepts. Publishers including the University of Chicago Press and Routledge have initiated entire book series on ‘critical terms’ within various fields, and a number of volumes along these lines have been produced. This genre of critical-reflective scholarship on key terms first emerged within the academic domains of arts and literature,1 but was soon followed by volumes devoted to the study of religion,2 particular religious traditions,3 and other fields.4 The present volume seeks to add to this existing scholarship on analytical concepts; it presents studies on a selection of categories that have been recurrent in the religious discourses of China. It is thus part of an attempt to start a new detailed and critical vocabulary, one that is grounded in religious and intellectual history, and that helps facilitate the analysis of contemporary religious phenomena in China. This volume further builds on – and seeks to integrate – recent scholarship that has also assessed values and ideas, both those central to Chinese religious culture and those imported from other cultural contexts (see, for instance: Lackner, Amelung and Kurtz 2001; Gentz 2009; Yang and Lang 2011; Spira 2015; Goossaert, Kiely and Lagerway 2016). The ever-increasing number of published studies on Chinese religions (and religion in China) has created an urgent need for us to deepen our discussion about the field. This applies not only to the topics of study methodologies and research foci, which we mainly discuss in Volume I of this series, but also of the key categories and values that constitute the conceptual framework of the religious landscape in China. This volume takes as its focus one set of important concepts in Chinese religions, examining their intellectual histories within religious communities and among scholars in related academic fields. Methodologically, this volume also connects to the idea of ‘conceptual history’ (better known as Begriffsgeschichte) and the pioneering theoretical studies by Reinhart Koselleck (1979 and 2002, among others), which are

1 See Lentricchia and McLaughlin 1990; and Nelson and Shiff 1996. 2 The volume Critical Terms for Religious Studies, edited by Mark Taylor (1989) started this form of critical enquiry. 3 Like Lopez 2005. 4 For media studies, see Morgan 2008, Mitchell and Hansen 2010; for gender studies see Stimpson and Herdt 2014. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110547825-001

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also addressed critically; some authors in this volume (see for instance Ya-pei Kuo) refer directly to this trend of scholarship. In this introduction, we will explain why a study of the intellectual history of concepts and ideas such as this one is crucial, how this volume differs from and integrates the findings of previous works on the subject, and what the various chapters will contribute to our knowledge of Chinese religious conceptual categories. Finally, we will suggest some ways in which this research path could be developed further in the future.

1 Questioning and Investigating Concepts to Unpack Religious Phenomena In his book (2009), Gentz reflected on patterns of transcultural encounters, the usefulness of an interdisciplinary approach in cultural studies, and the need to know “particular and relational meanings” of “analytical terms” that define cultures (5–11). Gentz selected a list of terms, which are found in Western and Chinese cultural systems, analyzed them following Western theories and categories, and concluded his examination by showing the limitations in the adoption of Western terms and ideas in the study of Chinese cultures. Contributors to this volume do not neglect Western theoretical approaches to the study of Chinese cultural ideas, but also show flexibility and innovative perspectives when Western theories alone do not shed sufficient light on Chinese concepts. Yang and Lang concluded the introduction to their 2011 volume by stating that the study of the Chinese domestication of Western-based analytical concepts still needed to be integrated with a better understanding of “Chinese-language concepts without direct translations,” and the role they played in the modern religious and academic sectors (Yang and Lang 2011, 19). In our volume, some of these “Chinese-language concepts” will be analyzed in light of their original meanings in the Chinese context, what they have come to mean in modern China, and how the ongoing and largely unresolved tensions between the academic and religious fields have influenced their use and understanding. Goossaert, Kiely, and Lagerway co-edited an important two-volume work, Modern Chinese Religions (1850–2015) (Brill, 2016), that investigates paradigm shifts in the history of Chinese religions. Chapters within these two volumes address how value systems have changed and developed from the mid-nineteenth century to today, and focus mainly on the religions of the majority Han culture. As such, Modern Chinese Religions (1850–2015) offers a parallel path of investigation to that undertaken in this volume, which discusses critical concepts and the intellectual history of ideas that have framed Chinese

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religions from the late Qing until today, and which mainly explores Han culture but also examines other ethnicities. Spira (2015) does not explore religion, however his study concerns modifications that the modern period, and the impact of Western ideologies, applied to Chinese language and conceptual systems, the socalled “project of language modernization” (2), which resulted in the creation of a series of -isms (often rendered into Chinese as zhuyi 主義). The same reasoning can be adopted in the context of the religious sphere, even if, in a religious domain, the nuances of Western-imported ideas were not always translated with the term zhuyi; Hammerstrom’s chapter on ‘science’ and especially ‘scientism’ is a good example in this respect.5 Some chapters in this volume address the introduction of new religious concepts or the reshaping of traditional ideas in light of the intellectual, political and social atmosphere of the late nineteenth century and the early Republican period (1912–1949) in China, while others assess ideas that continue to permeate the religious sphere of China and Taiwan particularly in the present day. These key concepts are interconnected because they all engage with debates on traditional dichotomies and recent paradigm shifts. Thus, although each chapter focuses on one or two religious traditions, we can draw upon their arguments to better understand the larger context of Chinese religions more generally, and as such their findings are not strictly limited to the specific cases they explore. For one example, the chapter on new conceptualizations of ‘scripture’ in Chinese Buddhism deals with developments that also had an impact on Daoist communities, their organization, and conceptual identity of their scriptural corpus. In at least one case, the same publishing figure, Ding Fubao 丁福保 (1874–1952), worked on both Buddhist and Daoist collections, having a personal religious identity that was malleable and shifted over time. In addition, some chapters in the volume attempt to go beyond a binary model of Chinese concepts versus Western-imported concepts, and find that certain ideas that are normally identified as Western (such as ‘science’ and ‘education’) were in fact already present in the classical pre-modern Chinese world, although they were reshaped and re-imagined in the new intellectual milieus of nineteenth and early twentieth-century China. In addition, and building upon the previous point, this volume also aims to open a discussion on analytical and theoretical concepts that could potentially be applied to the study of religion in other contexts, including those in Western societies. In other words, in this volume we approach China as a global player in the overall academic study of religion, not as an exotic outlier. In discussing

5 Lackner, Amelung and Kurtz (2001) is another important previous volume, which assesses capacity and ways in which Chinese language has accommodated Western ideas.

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approaches to the study of Chinese history, Wang Hui has urged us to rethink a conceptual framework built upon a strict dichotomy between East and West, and between past and present. He argues: The real world and the changes in it are endowed with significance and can be understood only through this world of thought. This internal perspective has developed step by step in the ceaseless dialogue between ancient and modern times. Methodologically, the dialogue not only provides a tool to interpret modern times by ancient times, ancient times by ancient times, and ancient times by modern times, but also an opportunity to translate this internal perspective into our introspective perspective. (Wang Hui 2008, 122)

Our volume follows a similar methodology for the investigation of religious factors, deconstructing and analyzing concepts and categories, bringing past and present into dialogue, and looking at East and West not as opposite domains but rather as two imagined zones within a larger shared field of human thought. Contributors to this volume study the intellectual evolution of concepts diachronically, examining how different Chinese terms came to be identified with a similar value through different historical periods, but also examine how values have changed over time. We also study concepts synchronically, the ways in which their intersection and interaction have helped to make China what it is today. In doing so, we hope to highlight the presence and participation of religion in shaping Chinese life and history, as well as the dialectical relation between the religious and the social in China, a role that has too often been occluded or ignored. Finally, the title of this volume does not include the adjective ‘modern’, although its content does mainly focus on the religious landscape of China from the Ming and Qing dynasties up to the present. We are wary of the problematic implications of making a clear-cut division between the ‘pre-modern’ and the ‘modern’. Additionally, the term ‘modern’ is becoming ever more conventional but less often explicitly explained. In this volume we investigate ideas that have been circulating in recent times, neither implying that those movements and ideas are not rooted in the pre-modern era, nor denying intellectual and conceptual continuity in the history of China. Some chapters in this volume help to reveal precisely the strength and durability of that continuity, as well as developmental shifts within paradigms, in the historical development of Chinese religions. Finally, we note that ‘Chinese’ is taken here in the sense of the so-called ‘greater China’, that is to say, inclusive of the Chinese mainland and places such as Taiwan and Hong Kong, as well as non-Han cultures and ethnic minorities within these areas.

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2 From Jia 家 to Environmentalism: Key Concepts in this Volume The enduring relevance of Confucian values and a history of multiple ethnicities are two key features of the world of China, and this volume opens with a chapter that brings important conceptual categories belonging to both of these realities into dialogue. In this chapter, Yuan-lin Tsai also addresses how such a dialogue developed in the works of jing-tang scholars from the sixteenth to the nineteenth century such as Wang Daiyu 王岱輿 (1570－1660), Ma Zhu 馬注 (1640－1711), Liu Zhi 劉智 (1660－1730) and Ma Dexin 馬德新 (1794－1874). The chapter begins by identifying parallels between Islamic education and Confucian education, Sunni Islamic Law and Confucian li 禮 tradition, and the different worldviews that Confucianism and Islam have proposed. Tsai then analyzes the Chinese vocabulary that Muslim scholars adopted to define their own Islamic concepts and values, highlighting overlapping areas and contrasting them with the meanings that those same Chinese-language terms have assumed in the context of Confucian li-rites. Jason T. Clower’s chapter continues the discussion of Chinese inner ideas and values, and focusing on the core importance of family/clan and lineage that are most strongly identified with the terms jia 家 and zong 宗. Clower explores the development of both strict and loose family groupings in the history of Chinese religions, ranging from the formation of early Buddhist zongpai 宗派 to the much more recent overlapping groupings of cross-tradition teachings and teachers. Specifically, Clower selects a case study of how jia and lineage were redefined by New Confucians in the first half of the twentieth century. Tsai bases the discussion in his chapter on the dialogue between early Confucian and Islamic concepts and the vocabulary used in both, while Clower analyzes the concept of jia in the context of the dialogue between two protagonists of twentieth-century China: New Confucianism and the (apparently) nonConfucian movement of renjian fojiao 人間佛教 (which Clower translates as “humanistic Buddhism”). In contrast to Tsai, Clower analyzes New Confucians and Chinese Buddhist modernists as representatives of a single family tree due to what Clower identifies as shared ‘genetic relatives’. Clower’s arguments encourage us to rethink our use of jia as a strict and exclusive identity marker, thus bringing into question the overall semantic spectrum of the term. The four chapters that follow those by Tsai and Clower are concerned with changes that happened mostly within Buddhist circles from the late Qing up to today. Ester Bianchi analyzes the concepts of ethics and discipline in her chapter on the vinaya; Gregory Adam Scott reconsiders the role of scriptures and

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their sacredness in the age of mass printing; Stefania Travagnin outlines the conceptual history of education, its actors, and structures; finally, Erik Hammerstrom discusses the values of science and scientism. As Bianchi explains in her chapter, vinaya is a complex world, with different sets of codes, several categories of precepts, instructions for ritual performances, and regulations regarding monastic dwellings. The process of the Chinese domestication of Buddhism also involved a domestication of the Indian vinaya and the creation of separate Chinese-language and Chineseauthored codes, such as the qinggui 清規 (pure rules). After a detailed account of the different Chinese concepts and terms used to define each part of vinaya in pre-modern China, Bianchi then concentrates on the role of vinaya (mostly known in Chinese as jielü 戒律) as a unifying factor when Buddhism became a Pan-Asian religion in the modern era. At the same time, she also explores how the Pan-Asian perspective affected understandings and new definitions of vinaya in late-Qing and early twentieth-century China. Bianchi concludes her chapter with an overview of how this ‘vinaya revival’ has been addressed in modern scholarship of Chinese Buddhism, thus reassessing vinaya as a conceptual category in the modernization of Chinese Buddhism. Scott opens his chapter by examining definitions of ‘word’ and ‘scripture’ in Chinese Buddhism, and continues by outlining the ritual and authoritative roles that scriptures have played in the history of Chinese Buddhism. The availability of scriptures and their teachings about the Dharma changed drastically with the development of modern printing, the foundation of scriptural presses, and the founding and circulation of a number of Buddhist periodicals. Creating and distributing copies of Buddhist scriptures were key activities undertaken in early twentieth-century Buddhism, and had a significant impact on the availability of the Buddhist ‘word.’ The core concept of scriptures as sacred writings did not change with the advent and spread of mass printing, though Scott concludes that it was rather the modality of access and transmission that were transformed. As in the previous two chapters, Travagnin addresses an overarching concept, “education,” and analyzes a number of Chinese terms (from xue 學 to jiaoyu 教育) that have been used to name and define that concept. Travagnin explores the history of Buddhist education in mainland China from the time of the arrival of Buddhism and especially from the late Qing onwards, and Taiwan during the Japanese occupation. This chapter identifies a parallel between the history of Chinese public schooling and the changes within Buddhist Sangha education, and undertakes a cross-analysis of the Chinese semantics of learning and education. As in the other chapters on Buddhism in this volume, Travagnin also reminds us of the relevance of figures like Yang Wenhui 楊文會 and Taixu 太虛 in their capacity as paradigms in the project of Buddhist

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modernity. At the same time she proposes a counter-paradigm by identifying alternative models and conceptualizations of education, and through highlighting the relevance of the Japanese influence on Chinese Buddhist education from the 1850s up to the 1910s. In his chapter, Hammerstrom discusses the modern understanding and use of the concepts and values of science, scientism, and pseudoscience by focusing on how and why figures in modern China, Buddhists in particular, used science to discuss matters that were not directly related to science. As in the previous chapters, the concept of science is here assessed in part by looking at the plurality of Chinese terms used to identify it; for instance, xue 學 and kexue 科學. The author also pays close attention to the religious – especially the Buddhist – contexts where science became prominent, and to those voices that actually created the discourse of science in Chinese religions through influential speeches, essays, and other publications. This chapter further analyzes localized usage, systematic usage, and the methodological usage of science and scientific languages. In addition, Hammerstrom explains why, in his view, Chinese religious actors chose to invoke scientific language and ideas in their discussion of Chinese religions. The chapters in this volume assess a transformation and redefinition of ideas and values about religion, a transformation that took place in the same era as a wider debate about the very conceptual category of ‘religion’ itself. The concept of religion was partly introduced by Western influences, both directly in the form of treaty protections for Christian mission work and indirectly via translations from Japanese, and partly created by Chinese intellectuals and political elites from the end of nineteenth century into the beginning of the twentieth. Ya-pei Kuo’s chapter examines all these debates on the idea of ‘religion’ vis-à-vis the context of Chinese adoption of the term zongjiao 宗教, and the competing voices within those debates, especially those of Chen Duxiu 陳獨秀 (1879–1942). As in other chapters, Kuo undertakes a two-level analysis: on the one hand she assesses the meaning and implications of the term zongjiao, within the context of the Chinese language and especially the pre-modern adoption of the characters zong and jiao; on the other hand, she also examines other terms and expressions that came to play when the debate on ‘religion’ emerged in Chinese discourse. Finally, this chapter also looks at the identification of zongjiao with Christianity specifically, and the effects that those debates on “Christianity as religion” produced. One of the effects of the construction of zongjiao in Republican China was the gradual formation of new conceptual spaces within the public domain labelled with the term ‘religion’, and thus the creation of new relations between the state, religious beliefs, and society. Adam Yuet Chau’s chapter analyzes one of these recent spaces, the “religion sphere” (zongjiaojie 宗教界). Chau provides introductory remarks on the creation and role of zongjiaojie in China during the

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Republican period as well as in Taiwan, and focuses the body of his chapter on its development in China after 1980. Chau relates the meaning and functions of the zongjiao jie to other social “spheres” (jie 界) that emerged in China, and thus considers the history of the ‘religion sphere’ within the overall context of the ‘venue-zation’ process that, Chau argues, has characterized the recent social history of China. This volume closes with an analysis of another non-Han ethnicity. In the first chapter of this volume, Tsai outlines tensions and connections between Han and Hui cultures, while Annabella Pitkin closes the volume by highlighting similarities and oppositions between Han and Tibetan cultures. Pitkin’s chapter explains why and how Tibetans have chosen to focus upon and elaborate on the concept of ‘environmentalism’ in their culture; environmentalism is here also explored in relation to the concepts of ‘space’ and ‘sacredness’.

3 Suggestions for New Research Paths Although we hope that our volume makes a significant contribution, there are many more concepts and values that could productively be examined in a similar way. These new research trajectories could be grouped under four main labels, namely (1) core concepts in non-Han traditions and languages; (2) cross-tradition patterns; (3) domestication of Western ideas; (4) traditional concepts in diaspora communities. We would especially welcome similar efforts directed at the religious traditions of non-Han minority cultures.6 Such research would continue to critically examine the key terms of our discourse on Chinese religions, it would potentially open up new perspectives on their history, and shed more light on the complexity of the Chinese religious and cultural landscape. We also see the potential for additional studies of religious concepts as they, and the principle figures behind their articulation, have operated across the boundaries of religious traditions. In the context of Chinese religions, these boundaries were evidently porous, situational, and subject to change over time; how did the use and definition of key religious concepts shared by multiple traditions, such as the “Way” (dao 道), “trust/faith” (xin 信) or “heaven” (tian 天)

6 Besides the chapters by Tsai and Pitkin in this volume, the volume Concepts and Methods for the Study of Chinese Religions III: Key Concepts in Practice also includes Kao’s chapter on the importance of gender and the value of kinship among non-Han peoples, more specifically the Zhuang 壯.

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interact with shifting religious identities and boundaries?7 While our analysis is primarily focused on Chinese religious concepts, we also recognize the crucial influence on these of religious concepts that have been translated from, appropriated from, or imposed by European and North American contexts. Analyses of the historical Chinese domestication of Western ideas, a process that was evidently not a passive but rather an active and creative one, has already been undertaken for political and other concepts (see for instance Spira 2015), and this approach could constructively be applied to religious concepts more consistently as well. In the same way, the Western encounter with Chinese religions had a reflexive effect on ecumenical and academic approaches to the concept of ‘religion’ as a global and human phenomenon, an effect that merits further study. Finally, and closely linked to the previous suggestion, we see a great promise in future research into the history of religious concepts in the Chinese diaspora community, particularly in how they played a role in forming ethnic and linguistic identities as a minority culture.8

Bibliography Gentz, Joachim, with Ellan Chmielewska, Hannah Sommerseth, Jack Burton. 2009. Keywords Re-oriented. Göttingen: Universitätsverlag Göttingen. Goossaert, Vincent, Jan Kiely and John Lagerwey, eds. 2016. Modern Chinese Religion II (1850–2015). Leiden: Brill. Koselleck, Reinhart. 1979. Historische Semantik und Begriffsgeschichte. Stuttgart: Klett– Cotta. Koselleck, Reinhart (transl. by Todd Samuel Presner and others). The Practice of Conceptual History: Timing History, Spacing Concepts. Stanford: Stanford University Press.

7 On this topic, Christian Meyer started a multi-year project at the Freie Universität Berlin in 2017 with the title Mapping Religion in China: Changing Concepts of Religion from Traditional to Modern Chinese. The project consists of a series of conferences, each centered on a specific term, which is analyzed in its secular and religious meanings, from the first instances in ancient China to the contemporary time, and in its recurrences in different religious traditions. The studies of each term will be delivered in edited volumes. The concepts analyzed so far are xin 信 and ling 靈, but related studies are in preparation. A similar initiative, which focused on a few terms and their adoption by a few Chinese traditions, was the conference organized by Mark Meulenbeld Critical Terms for the Chinese Religious Studies (June 2019); papers will be published in an edited volume. 8 An example of this is Pan’s chapter on international networks of Wenzhou religious communities in Concepts and Methods for the Study of Chinese Religions III: Key Concepts in Practice.

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Lackner, Michael, Iwo Amelung, and Joachim Kurtz, eds. 2001. New Terms for New Ideas: Western Knowledge and Lexical Change in Late Imperial China. Leiden: Brill. Lentricchia, Frank and Thomas McLaughlin, eds. 1990. Critical Terms for Literary Studies. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lopez, Donald J., ed. 2005. Critical Terms for the Study of Buddhism. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Mitchell, W.J.T. and Mark B. N. Hansen, eds. 2010. Critical Terms for Media Studies. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Morgan, David, ed. 2008. Key Words in Religion, Media and Culture. London: Routledge. Nelson, Robert S. and Richard Shiff, eds. 1996. Critical Terms for Art History. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Spira, Ivo. 2015. A Conceptual History of Chinese -isms: The Modernization of Ideological Discourse, 1895–1925. Leiden: Brill. Stimpson, Catharine R. and Gilbert Herdt, eds. 2014. Critical Terms for the Study of Gender. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Taylor, Mark, ed. 1989. Critical Terms for Religious Studies. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Wang, Hui. 2008. “The Liberation of the Object and the Interrogation of Modernity: Rethinking ‘The Rise of Modern Chinese Thought’.” Modern China 34, no.1: 114–140. Yang, Fenggang and Graeme Lang, eds. 2011. Social Scientific Studies of Religion in China: Methodology, Theories, and Findings. Leiden: Brill.

Yuan-lin Tsai

Confucian Li-Rites and Muslim Shariah: Comparative Discourses in the Traditional Chinese Ulama Introduction This chapter focuses on the comparative discourses of Confucian li-rites and Muslim shariah, initiated by the Chinese ulama of the jing-tang 經堂 (the hall of classic learning) school during the first wave of indigenous Islamic revival in imperial China from the end of the sixteenth century to the mid-nineteenth century. First, I trace the idea of li-rites in original Confucianism and then examine its NeoConfucian interpretation on the basis of Zhu Xi’s li-qi 理-氣 (“principle-energy”) metaphysics. Second, I outline the historical trajectory of the jing-tang school, its curriculum, and its social and intellectual context. Third, I take the most influential works by the four greatest Chinese ulama, Wang Daiyu 王岱輿 (1570–1660), Ma Zhu 馬注 (1640–1711), Liu Zhi 劉智 (1660–1730) and Ma Dexin 馬德新 (1794–1874), and try to provide a critical textual analysis of their works as a ground-breaking inter-religious dialogue between Islam and the Three Chinese Teachings. I emphasize that the comparative discourses of shariah and li-rites in this dialogue are framed within Sufi and Neo-Confucian metaphysics. Although the Chinese ulama’s effort did not succeed in making Islamic tradition acceptable to mainstream Chinese society due to historical timing, it could be an inspiring lesson to our contemporary age of ideological and religious diversity, one that is worth being explored and tried again. The first wave of the indigenous Chinese Islamic revival movement started at the end of the sixteenth century, initiated by the Hui 回 (Sinicized Muslim) ulama of the jing-tang. After the first five generations of jing-tang scholars had made a great effort in building up the standard curriculum of Islamic learning, following generations undertook the challenge to initiate a creative and constructive dialogue with the three major Chinese teachings (sanjiao 三教), namely Confucianism, Daoism and Buddhism. They especially engaged with Confucianism, which was considered to be the dominant official tradition in late imperial China. Among the jing-tang scholars who drew comparative discourses between Islam and Confucianism, the most important figures are Wang Daiyu, Ma Zhu, Liu Zhi and Ma Dexin. Like madrasa in the medieval Islamic world, the main curriculum of the jingtang schools focused on religious disciplines for the training of legal scholars https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110547825-002

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(faqih). Islamic jurisprudence (fiqh) divided shariah into two parts: ibadat and mualamat, the former dealing with the ritual worship of God, and was formulated into the “five pillars,” with the latter dealing with human responsibilities to family, society, and the state, among which family matters were discussed in most detail. The jing-tang scholars saw a parallel between shariah and the Confucian li-rites, and translated the former as li-fa 禮法 (the “law of rites”). Ibadat was regarded as tian-dao 天道 (the “heavenly way”), and mualamat as ren-dao 人道 (the “human way”). In Chinese traditional metaphysics, the distinction between the sacred and the mundane was the distinction between Heaven and humankind. Thus the jingtang scholars saw this distinction in parallel with that between ibadat and mualamat. Based upon this metaphysical dichotomy, they made an elaborate comparison between shariah and li-rites. Fortunately, this comparative discourse never developed into something resembling a “rites controversy” and open confrontation between Confucians and Muslims as had happened with the Chinese Catholic Church in the early seventeenth century, which ended with the persecution of Chinese Catholics and the elimination of the foreign missionary activities. Indeed, the jing-tang scholars inherited much of the spiritual universalism of medieval Islam and had a very inclusive view on the three Chinese religious teachings. Their Chinese interpretation of Islam was continued by following Chinese Muslim generations and avoided the potential “clash of civilizations” between Islam and Confucianism in pre-modern China. Before looking into the Chinese ulama’s comparative discourses between shariah and the li-rites, I will briefly review the Confucian li-rites tradition and its metaphysical interpretation by Neo-Confucian scholars in the late imperial era, since this was the intellectual context in which the Chinese ulama constructed their indigenous discourse of Islamic law.

1 The Confucian Tradition of Li-Rites 1.1 Original Confucianism In the context of the Confucian classics, li-rites 禮 means propriety, rules of proper conduct, or rites. Moreover, law, religion, and other social institutions containing those elements can be included in the category of li-rites.1 The learning of li-rites is so important in tradition Chinese education that the foundational

1 To make the distinction between the two crucial Confucian concepts with the same pronunciation, li 禮 and li 理; I term the former as li-rites and the latter as li-principle.

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“six arts” (liu-yi 六藝) for an educated person, comparable to the trivium and quadrivium of the High Middle Ages in the West, begins with li-rites, to be followed by music, archery, riding, writing, and arithmetic. Confucius (551–479 BCE) holds that ritual practices are necessary for acquiring ren 仁 (“humanity”, “benevolence” or “compassion”). In answering his most intelligent student Yan Hui’s question about how to become a person of ren, Confucius says: To master oneself and return to propriety [li-rites] is humanity [ren]. If a man (the ruler) can for one day master himself and return to propriety [li-rites], all under heaven will return to humanity [ren]. To practice humanity [ren] depends on oneself. Does it depend on others? (Analects 12:1; from Chan 1960, 38)

Yan Yuan asks what the main items of li-rites are. Confucius answers that one should not look, listen, speak or act at “what is contrary to propriety [li-rites].” (Ibid.) In his school, Confucius teaches his students to learn and observe the rituals established in the Zhou dynasty (1046–256 BCE). In the Zhou, the focus of ritual shifted from humankind’s relationship with the supernatural to the relationship among human beings. To find out the solution to social and political disorder in his time, Confucius and his students bear a strong sense of responsibility for transmitting and spreading the great tradition of the ancient sagekings, which culminated in the Zhou rituals. Therefore, Confucius edited the Five Classics (or Six Classics)2 for use as the basic textbooks of his school for “six arts” education, including the Classic of Rites (Lijing 禮經), the Classic of Poetry (Shijing 詩經), the Classic of History (Shujing 書經), the Classic of Changes (Yijing 易經), and the [Classic of] Spring and Autumn (Chunqiu 春秋). The Five Classics as a whole reflect and provide a justification for the longstanding Sinocentric worldview which placed the civilized “Middle Kingdom” as the center of the world, surrounded by the “barbarian peoples from the four directions” (si-yi 四夷). Confucius suggests adopting a pacifying and acculturating policy toward the “barbarian peoples”: Therefore, if remoter (barbarian) people are not submissive, all the influences of civil culture and virtue are to be cultivated to attract them to be so; and when they have been so attracted, they must be made contented and tranquil. (Analects, 16: 1)

2 The Classic of Music was sometimes considered as the sixth Classic but was lost in the burning of the books by the First Emperor of the Qin dynasty (221–206 BCE) in 213 BCE.

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The fundamental difference between the “civilized” and “barbarian” peoples is observed in their different rituals and etiquette by which they order their lives, as well as the distinctive virtues that these rituals implied and produced. Therefore, the li-rites sets the concrete standard for the differentiation between the “civilized” and the “barbarian” in the Confucian tradition. Moreover, only through the Confucian ritual practices can the Confucian virtues be cultivated to attain true humanity.

1.2 Neo-Confucianism Learning the Five Classics had been extremely important for accessing power from the Han dynasty (206 BCE–220 CE) onward. To some extent, the political function of the Confucian literati is comparable to that of the ulama in Muslim societies. If one could write eloquent classic Chinese and quote many sentences from the Five Classics in the national examination, one would have a great chance to pass and enter the bureaucratic system. This institution had been fully established in a highly standardized format by the Ming dynasty (1368–1644). In the Ming dynasty, the standard curriculum of the national examination was composed of the five categories of literature, namely the Five Classics, the Four Books, the Confucian commentaries composed in the Song dynasty (960–1279), dynastic histories, and selections of bureaucratic documents. The Four Books and their Confucian commentaries from the Song were regarded as the foundation of Neo-Confucianism by the post-Song Confucian scholars. The Four Books, including the Great Learning (Daxue 大學), the Doctrine of the Mean (Zhongyong 中庸), the Analects, and the Mencius, were re-edited by the greatest eclectic Confucian scholar of the Song dynasty, Zhu Xi 朱熹 (1130–1200), and his disciples. The first two Books are the two most philosophical chapters of the Classic of Rites. In response to the Buddhist and Daoist challenges regarding metaphysical thinking, Zhu Xi intended to construct a Confucian metaphysics on the basis of a re-appropriation of the philosophical foundation of li-rites, which is very relevant to the jing-tang scholars’ discourses regarding shariah and li-rites. Zhu Xi asserts that there has been a Daotong 道統 (i.e., a “succession of the Way”) that was unevenly transmitted from ancient sage-kings, through Confucius and Mencius, down to his time. He uses the dichotomy of “substance-function” (tiyong 體用) for distinguishing the fundamental teachings of those great masters of the Way from those instrumental ones on the ground of the Four Books.3

3 For a summary of Zhu Xi’s philosophy, see Chan 1960, 588–591.

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In terms of Zhu Xi, the li-principle 理 is not only the fundamental law of nature and human action, but is also the ideal order of the universe and the ideal harmonious relationship among human beings, other creatures, and nature. He interprets the relationship between li-principle and worldly things through the concepts of “supreme ultimate” (taiji 太極) and “vital forces” (qi 氣). Supreme ultimate is the origin of creation, order, and harmony, and contains the principles of tranquility and activity without physical form. The two vital forces, yin 陰 (the “female cosmic force”) and yang 陽 (the “male cosmic force”) are their actuality. Li-principle is the substance and the two vital forces are its functions. The variations of humankind and material things arise from interaction between the two vital forces. Thus, everyone’s endowment of vital forces is different, and ought to be harmonized within the supreme ultimate (Chan 1960, 605–608, 612–620, 634–641). Zhu Xi interprets Mencius’ maxim, “human nature is originally good” (renxing ben shan 人 性本善) in a metaphysical way. That is, that human nature is originally good is the gift of Heaven, containing the uncorrupted li-principle (Ibid., 623, 631). He says, The moral qualities of the mind of Heaven and Earth are four, origination, flourish, advantage, and firmness. . .. Therefore in the human mind there are also four moral qualities, humanity, righteousness (yi 義), propriety (li 禮), and wisdom (zhi 智). . .. In their emanation and functions, they constitute the feeling of love, respect, being right, and discrimination between right and wrong. (Ibid., 595)

Zhu Xi holds that the method of self-cultivation must begin in childhood. Thus he and his students edited the book Xiaoxue 小學 (Elementary Learning) as a basic primer for elementary education in public schools. This book is a selection of passages, principally from the Classic of Rites, supplemented by passages from the standard histories on exemplary deeds of filial piety, loyalty to the monarch, and female obedience, and moral lessons from Confucian writers. The purpose of this work is to inculcate certain norms and attitudes in young pupils, preparing him (or her) for playing proper roles in the family and the state. It stresses ritual conduct as the basic method to cultivate one’s social ethics.

2 Traditional Chinese Islamic Learnings in the Jing-tang School Following the great wave of Muslim immigration from Western and Central Asia to China generated by the Mongol conquest of these three regions in the first half of the thirteenth century, the Chinese people overthrew the Mongol regime and established the Ming dynasty in the late fourteenth century, which

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brought an end to a period of unprecedented close political and cultural contact between the Muslim world and China. The Ming regime revived Confucian orthodoxy and the Confucian scholar-gentry grew to dominate the imperial bureaucratic and educational system once again. Yet the Ming regime retained a policy of religious tolerance so that other religious traditions – Buddhism, Daoism, Christianity and Islam – still survived, although their social status was still considered to be inferior to that of Confucianism, and the cultural influence of those non-Confucian teachings was largely restricted to the local level, due to the exclusively prominent political power and social status of the Confucian literati as a whole.4 As long as religious groups kept to the basic rule of being “loyal to the emperor and filial to one’s parents” (zhongjun xiaoqin 忠 君孝親), and did not disturb social harmony or disobey state rule, its believers were free to exercise their religion. Gradually, knowledge of Confucian classics rose to become the universal cultural capital of the empire after the reform of public education and civil service examination system in the early Ming. Confucian education was available to the common people, including both Han and non-Han peoples. Many Muslims from official or merchant families also learned the Confucian classics and competed in the national civil service examination in order to obtain the credentials of the Confucian scholar-gentry and to participate in public affairs. It would appear that Chinese Muslims, referred to as Hui 回 from the Ming dynasty onward, though having the status of an ethnic minority, were more successful in attaining this cultural capital than other ethnic minorities. Perhaps this was due not only to the legacy of their privileged status during the Mongol dynasty, but also to their skill in entrepreneurship and their earning a relatively comfortable economic life. Many Hui families were wealthy enough to afford a tutor for their sons or to send them to study in public schools without worrying about their livelihood. As more Hui had learned classical Chinese language, studied Confucian classics, and were assimilated into Chinese culture, however, the future survival of the Islamic tradition in China became a serious issue for orthodox-minded Hui elites. Against this background of a looming crisis of Islamic identity, in the late sixteenth century a group of self-conscious Hui elites initiated a new institution of Islamic learning, the jing-tang school, to carry out the challenging task of sparking an Islamic revival in what had become a solidly Confucian territory. Hu Dengzhou 胡登洲 (1522–1597), a Hui scholar from Shanxi, is credited

4 For the rise of the Confucian literati following the reform of civil service examination system in the early Ming era, see Elman 2000, 66–172, and 411–450; Liu 1990, 103–125; for the imperial regulation of religions by the Ming regime, see Liu 1990, 126–157.

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with being the founder of the first jing-tang school. Before Hu’s time, the quality of Islamic education in most mosques was relatively poor, and most Hui young scholars could only recite the Quran and perform religious rituals but did not fully understand their meaning. Most Hui people could neither speak Arabic nor read the original texts of Islam. Hu decided to organize a new institution of Islamic learning for the younger Hui generation. Yet Hu and the first three generations of jing-tang scholars were not able to fully realize their educational programme due to a shortage of proper textbooks and qualified teachers. Some Arabic and Persian textbooks were brought to China by foreign Muslim missionaries and travelers (Zhao 1989, 32–33, 44–45, 59–61); others were re-discovered by Hui merchants and gentlemen, who could not comprehend those original texts and turned them over to the jing-tang teachers seeking an explanation of their contents (Ibid., 34, 75, 88). Often the teachers understood these original texts only a little better than their students. The poor condition of the jing-tang school was gradually improved, and its organization, curriculum, and teaching methods were further developed and formulated by the fifth generation of the school, mainly because of the great efforts put forward by two talented scholars from Shandong, Chang Yunhua 常蘊華 (ca. 1650s–1720s) and Li Yanling 李延齡 (ca. 1650s–1720s). From then on, the jing-tang school became a fully established institution of Islamic learning and consisted of a national network of Hui ulama extending throughout Hui communities in every province of the empire.5 The jing-tang school could be regarded as an indigenous form of madrasa in China, but in comparison to its counterpart in the major cultural capitals of the Middle East, it operated on a smaller scale and with more limited resources of teaching and learning. The curriculum of the madrasa in the medieval Muslim world was usually divided into two fields: religious knowledge and rational knowledge. Each field was further divided into distinctive disciplines. The religious disciplines included language training (Arabic and Persian), poetics, early Islamic history, Arabic genealogy, Quran recitation, Quran exegesis (tafsir), Hadith studies, Islamic jurisprudence (fiqh), and the Islamic creed (Chinese Muslims termed this renzhu xue 認主學, meaning “learning to know God”); the rational disciplines included mathematics, logic, medicine, astronomy, music, and philosophy. Based upon the most widely circulated fourteen textbooks in the jing-tang school and other original sources, however, the school’s curriculum only included six of the above mentioned disciplines: language training (Arabic and Persian), tafsir, Hadith studies, poetry, fiqh, and

5 For the early history of the jing-tang school, see Zhao 1989; Benite 2005, 21–114.

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the Islamic creed, all of which were religious in nature. This curriculum was in part the result of the gradual dogmatization of classical Islam and the decline of scientific studies from the late Abbasid era onward (Rahman 1982, 31–39). The late-medieval Persian scholars’ works on tafsir, fiqh, and the Islamic creed were popular in jing-tang academic circles. Their two textbooks of the Islamic creed were Mirsad (translated in Chinese as Mi-er-sa-de 米爾撒德) by the Persian Kubra Sufi scholar Najm al-Din Daya Razi (d. 1256), and Ash’at alLam’at (E-shen-a-te 額慎阿特 or Zhao-yuan-mi-jue 昭元秘訣) by the Persian Naqsbandi Sufi poet ’Abd al-Rahman al-Jami (1414–1492). Razi’s Mirsad was translated in 1672 by a scholar of the sixth generation of the jing-tang school, Wu Zunqi 伍遵契 [?-1698], entitled Gui-zhen yaodao 歸真要道) which was perhaps the first Chinese translation of any book about Islam.6 The only textbook of Islamic jurisprudence is Waqiyat (translated in Chinese as Wei-ga-ye 偉嘎 業) edited by Central Asian Hanafi scholars in the thirteenth or fourteenth century. The worldview and historical views of Jewish-Christian-Muslim monotheism expressed in the jing-tang textbooks are very different from those of native Chinese religious traditions. Although the jing-tang scholars see a parallel between the Sunni Islamic law and the Confucian li-rites tradition, and between the Sufi path and Buddhist or Daoist spiritual exercises, they are also aware of the irreconcilability between Confucian and Islamic universalisms, and between Buddhist or Daoist polytheism and Islamic monotheism. A Muslim scholar might ridicule Confucian ethnocentrism, which regards China as the civilized center of the world and is ignorant of the existence of other civilizations. The Muslims, in contrast, have their own ethnocentric worldview, which regards Kabah, the House of God at Mecca, as the center of the universe and China as dongtu 東土 (the “eastern land”). Moreover, Confucians claim that the beginning of civilization occurred at the time of the ancient sage-kings, Yao 堯, Shu 舜, and Yu 禹. But the Muslims, based upon the teachings of the Quran, believe that civilization started from the revelation of God, and progressed through the prophetic transmission of monotheism from Adam, Noah, Abraham, Moses, and Jesus, to the final prophet Muhammad. They further assert that the prophetic tradition is older than and superior to the Chinese sage-king tradition.

6 For Sufi works used among the Chinese ulama, see Murata 2000, 31–35.

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The common features of all jing-tang textbooks are the five pillars of ritual practice and the six cardinal items of faith. The Chinese translation of Islamic terminology had been standardized at the time of the sixth generation of the jing-tang scholars, and this paved the way for native Chinese writings on Islamic law and theology. Li fa 禮法 (the “law of rites”) was the technical Chinese term for Islamic jurisprudence (fiqh) in the jing-tang education. The jing-tang scholars call the five pillars wu gong 五功 (literally, the “five meritorious acts”): nian 念 (meaning “reciting” or “remembering”, shahadat in Arabic), li 禮 (salat in Arabic), zhai 齋 (“fasting”, which is sawn in Arabic), ke 課 (“taxation”, which is zakat in Arabic), chao 朝 (“pilgrimage”, which is hajj in Arabic). They do their best to borrow terms from the classics of the sanjiao, the three major Chinese religious teachings, to translate Islamic ideas, which gradually replaced the older, and rather awkward, Chinese transliterations. Yet they were also aware of possible confusion between the sanjiao and Islamic traditions rising from the use of cognate terms, so their Chinese writings take care to clarify the different meanings of those terms in the different traditions. Wu Zunqi’s ground-breaking translation of Mirsad popularized the Sufi approach toward Islam and set the framework for the comparative discourse of Islamic and the sanjiao that followed. In his preface, Wu mentions the three levels of the Islamic path: shariah for the common people; tariqah for the wise people; and haqiqah for the “true person” (zhiren 至人). He claims that the interior approach of tariqah should be grounded in the exterior approach of shariah in order to recover one’s true nature without deviance and attain a divine union with God (Wu 1989, 343) Wu renames the three levels of Islamic path as the “three vehicles” (san sheng 三乘),7 shariah as the lisheng 禮乘 (the “vehicle of ritual”), tariqah as daosheng 道乘 (the “vehicle of Dao”), haqiqah as zhensheng 真乘 (the “vehicle of Truth”). The integrative system of shariah and tariqah, first formulated by Ghazali (1058–1111) and popularized by late-medieval Sufi orders, was eventually introduced to China through the jing-tang school and Wu’s translation. From Wu on, the jing-tang scholars related shariah to li-rites and developed a comparative discourse between these two ritual systems. Furthermore, they understood shariah within a Sufi conceptual framework and li-rites within a NeoConfucian one. This comparative discourse was framed within the two distinctive metaphysical systems and opened a creative dialogue between Islam and Chinese religions.

7 The term “vehicle” (sheng 乘) is borrowed from Buddhism.

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3 The Chinese Ulama’s Comparative Discourses of Shariah and Li-Rites The four greatest Chinese ulama, Wang Daiyu,8 Ma Zhu,9 Liu Zhi10 and Ma Dexin11 can be divided into two groups, with Wang Daiyu and Liu Zhi belonging 8 Wang Daiyu was born in a family of Muslim astronomers who had lived in Nanjing for generations. Wang acquired the traditional training of Muslim scholar in Arabic and Persian as a youth. At the age of twenty (or thirty) he was ashamed of his poor knowledge of Chinese and Confucianism, and began to study the Confucian classics. Eventually, Wang became one of the sixth generation of the jing-tang teachers and started writing his influential works due to his dissatisfaction with the Three Teachings and strong commitment to revive Islamic learning. In his late life, Wang left Nanjing and moved to Beijing where he had lived until his death. Wang’s three extant works, Zhengjiao Zhenquan 正教真詮 (The True Interpretation of the Orthodox Teaching), Qingzhen Daxue 清真大學 (The Great Learning of Islam) and Xizhen Zhengda 希真正答 (The Orthodox Answer Regarding the Unusual Truth), set the intellectual foundation of the domestication of Islam in Chinese context. For Wang Daiyu’s life and works, see Bai 2000, 916–919; Benite 2005, 134–137; Murata 2000, 19–24. 9 Ma Zhu was born in Baoshan 保山, a garrison town on the southwestern frontier of Yunnan. Ma Zhu’s learning experience in his early life was very much the opposite of Wang’s. Like other contemporaneous upper-class, acculturated Hui youth, Ma studied the Confucian classics but had no opportunity to receive any Islamic education. He eventually became dissatisfied with the Confucian approach toward some fundamental questions of human life, and in 1675 at the age of thirty-five, he left Yunnan, traveled and sought Islamic knowledge from the jing-tang schools all over the empire. By 1683 Ma had finished the first draft of his masterpiece Qingzhen Zhinan 清真指南 (The Compass of Islam). At the age of seventy-one (1710) Ma appealed to the local authority to suppress the missionary activities of a heretic Sufi sect. For Ma Zhu’s life and works, see Bai 2000, 926–931; Benite 2005, 137–141. 10 Liu Zhi was born in an ulama family in the Jiangnan region. Liu had an elementary Islamic education in his childhood and began to study the Confucian classics at the age of fifteen. He then immersed himself in Islamic literature for six years, Buddhist sutras for three years, and Daoist canons for one year. Like Ma Zhu, Liu was thirst for Islamic knowledge and traveled to study at the major jing-tang schools in North China and the Middle Yangtze River region. He returned to Nanjing and spent the rest of his life to teach, write and translate. His masterpieces are called “Islamic trilogy”, namely Tianfang Xingli 天方性理 (The Nature-Principle Philosophy of Islam), Tianfang Dianli Zeyaojie 天方典禮擇要解 (A Selection of the Interpretations of Islamic Rites), Tianfang Zhisheng Shilu 天方至聖實錄 (The Veritable Records of the Ultimate Sage of Islam). For Liu Zhi’s life and works, see Bai 2000, 935–942; Benite 2005, 144–153; Frankel 2011, 5–10, and 26–55. 11 Ma Dexin was born in Dali 大理, the capital of western Yunnan. Little is known about his early life. Ma had traveled to Sichuan and Shanxi to study at the jing-tang school. However, the jing-tang curriculum did not quite satisfy his intellectual thirst. At the age of fifty in 1841, Ma made the most important decision in his whole life, to make the hajj and then to stay in the Middle East for eight years (1841–1849). After returning to Yunnan from his hajj and long journey to the Middle East, armed conflicts between the Han and Hui peoples broke out in Yunnan

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to the Nanjing branch of the jing-tang school; Ma Zhu and Ma Dexin belonging to the Yunnan branch. These two groups represent the opposite ends of the jing-tang network in terms of geography and cultural milieu. Nanjing, on the one hand, being located in the Jiangnan region, provides the Hui elites with the greatest opportunity to access the cultural capital of Confucian learning. Yunnan, on the other hand, being located in the southwestern frontier, was much less Sinicized than any province of China proper, and the Hui communities in Yunnan had little opportunity to be acculturated to Confucianism. Certainly, in some exceptional cases Hui scholars in Jiangnan followed intellectual paths other than those of the Neo-Confucian orthodoxy, while some in Yunnan were able to acquire Confucian learning. Indeed, Ma Zhu was such an exceptional case. Furthermore, all of them inherited the Muslim tradition of learning away from home, and their intellectual activities were by no means restricted to their home districts. Ma Zhu’s and Ma Dexin’s dialogues with Confucianism, however, prove to be much more superficial than those of Wang Daiyu and Liu Zhi. This difference could reasonably be explained by the different cultural and intellectual environments in which they lived and learned. Thus my discussion here will give more space to Wang Daiyu and Liu Zhi. Ma Zhu and Ma Dexin are cited as examples of the wide range and plurality of the Chinese Islamic intellectual tradition.

3.1 Wang Daiyu’s Zhengjiao Zhenquan 正教真詮 (The True Interpretation of the Orthodox Teaching) It is not coincidental that the first Hui scholar involved in such a groundbreaking discourse was Wang Daiyu, Wu Zunqi’s jing-tang colleague. Both Wu and Wang came from Hui communities in Jiangnan, the most economically, culturally, and intellectually productive region of late Imperial China.12 Indeed, the

and turned into an open rebellion of Yunnanese Muslims against the Qing government during 1856–1873. He could not but emerge as a spokesperson of the Hui communities. Eventually, because of his personal high prestige, the Qing authority prosecuted Ma as the “chief conspirator of the Hui rebellion.” He was executed in the age of eighty-one in 1874. Ma’s major works include Sidian Yaohui 四典要會 (A Summary of the Important Themes of the Four Canons), Lifa Qi’Ai 禮法啟愛 (A Textbook to Inspire the Beginner’s Affection for Islamic Law), Dahua Zonggui 大化總歸 (A Summary on Creation and Great Transformation). For Ma Dexin’s life and works, see Bai 2000, 1552–1562; Atwill 2006, 104–109, and 121–138. 12 For the economic and cultural significance of Jiangnan in late Imperial China, see Johnson 1993, 1–45, and 81–116; Elman and Woodside 1994, 381–416.

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majority of the Hui scholars, following Wang and Wu, who published Chinese works about Islam in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries came from this region. Among them was the most famous one, Liu Zhi. Wang’s influential theory of Sanyi 三一 (The “Threefold Oneness”) establishes a comparative framework of Islam and the Three Teachings, one that was widely followed by later generations of the Hui ulama. Sanyi is outlined in Wang’s short treatise Qingzhen Daxue 清真大學 (The Great Learning of Islam). According to Murata, Wang’s Sanyi theory is the Chinese version of Ibn al-Arabi’s interpretation of Tawhid. The “Real One” (Zhenyi 真一) corresponds with the “Essence” (Dhat) of God, or God in Himself; the “Numerical One” (Shuyi 數一) with the “Divinity” (Uluhiyya) of God, or the Divine Names of God; the “Embodied One” (Tiyi 體一) with the “perfect human being” (al-insan al-kamil), who is able to attain divine union with God (Murata 2000, 74–77). But Wang Daiyu does not mention Ibn al-Arabi’s name or his works. It is possible that Wang Daiyu did not construct his theory from Ibn al-Arabi’s original texts, but rather from Jami’s interpretation of Ibn al-Arabi’s philosophy. Jami’s works were widely studied in the jing-tang schools. In Qingzhen Daxue, Wang attempts to compare the metaphysical foundation of Islam with that of Confucianism as presented in one of the Four Books, the Great Learning. Wang affirms the correctness of the Confucian teachings regarding the “three items:” clarifying clear virtue, loving the people, and abiding in the utmost good; and the “eight steps:” investigation of things, extension of knowledge, sincerity of intention, trueness of heart, cultivation of the body, regulation of the family, governing the country, and bringing peace to everything under heaven. Yet he observes that the ontological foundation of these teachings is missing from the Great Learning. This weakness, he argues, can be corrected by Islam. The first cardinal faith of Islam Tawhid provides the “true foundation of the great learning” by establishing the ontological distinction between God and human beings, Creator and creature (Wang 1988, 370–372). Wang Daiyu in his longest work Zhengjiao Zhenquan develops a more systematic critique of Confucianism. He advances the claim that the Confucians merely emphasize “loyalty to the emperor” and “filial piety to one’s parents” but not “faithfulness to God.” The Muslims, in contrast, understand “surrender to God” as being prior to “loyalty to the emperor” and “filial piety to one’s parents,” and embrace both the sacred and secular truths (Ibid., 88–93). One of Wang’s fellow jing-tang scholars, Liang Yijun 梁以濬 (d.u.), contributes an introduction to Zhengjiao Zhenquan, which nicely summarizes his teacher’s and other jing-tang scholars’ views on Confucianism. Liang says: . . .. on the level of everything under heaven, the Confucian way explicates the five primordial relationships – emperor and minister, father and son, husband and wife, elder

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and younger brother, and friends. It also explains sincerity of will, correctness of heart, cultivation of the personal life, regulating the family, governing the country, and bringing peace to everything under heaven. But the Confucian teaching has never spoken of the origin of the world and the relationship between life and death. They talk about the middle, but not about the beginning and the end. Islamic faith concerns creation and eschatology, which Confucianism fails to address. (Ibid., 4–5)

This discourse of taking Confucianism as only “about the middle, but not about the beginning and the end” is continued in other jing-tang scholars’ works.Wang provides an explanation to the Confucian lack of “the beginning and the end” by claiming that the Neo-Confucians had assimilated some corrupting elements of Daoism and Buddhism and distorted the original teachings of Confucius and Mencius. He believes that the ancient Chinese sages, from Fu Xi 伏羲 to Confucius, were as aware of the existence of God as were the monotheistic prophets in West Asia. But later interpretations of the original Confucian texts were corrupted by Daoist and Buddhist teachings. In Wang’s view, the Daoist teaching of xuwu 虛無 (“voidness-nothingness”) and the Buddhist teaching of jimie 寂滅 (“Nirvana”) had replaced the original teachings of the ancient Chinese sages and Confucius, and had penetrated later Confucian schools of thought. He criticizes the Neo-Confucians for adopting too many Daoist and Buddhist ideas and for cutting off the transmission of Confucius’ original teaching. As a result, the Creator was mistakenly related to the pure yang 陽 force, not God; the “mandate of the heaven” (tianming 天命) was misunderstood as the universal nature of the heaven given to humankind and other creatures, not the revelation and providence of God. Finally, the li-principle 理 in the Neo-Confucian school, in replacing the law of God, became viewed as the autonomous source of cosmic order, reason, and morality. He asserts that the li-principle is not an autonomous natural-moral law regulating all created things, but merely the function of God’s will (Ibid., 41–42). As a result, he concludes, the Confucian li-rites have lacked the correct method of the ritual worship of God, and what value they have lies solely in guidance regarding the ethical practices of secular life. Wang’s contrast between li-rites and shariah is further elaborated elsewhere by Liu Zhi, whose ideas will be discussed in Section 3.3. Wang Daiyu is an original thinker, very philosophical in his approach, and not interested in Islamic jurisprudence. Yet, he does pinpoint that the Confucian ideals of self-cultivation and social ethics, elaborated in the Great Learning and the Doctrine of the Mean, are perfectly embodied in the practice of Islamic five pillars (Ibid., 82–87). This particular point is systematically developed in Liu Zhi’s Tianfang Dianli Zeyaojie.

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3.2 Ma Zhu’s Qingzhen Zhinan 清真指南 (The Compass of Islam) Ma Zhu’s Qingzhen Zhinan is the first comprehensive introductory work to Islam in Chinese, a work that was intended to guide all Hui people in following the correct path of Islam. He adopted a dialogic and allegorical method in explaining the Islamic faith and in sharpening the distinctions between Islamic and Chinese traditions. His apologetics were obviously inspired by Wang Daiyu’s Sanyi theory but show less influence from Neo-Confucianism than from Wang’s work. Ma asserts that Islam, with its true knowledge of God, is superior to Confucianism. Confucianism, although containing the wisdom of human life, does not concern itself with the origin of creation and the mystery of the afterlife, and is thus unable to address the ultimate problem of human existence. He does not, however, make as deep a comparison between Islam and Confucianism as did Wang Daiyu. His comparative discourse regarding the Three Teachings does not go beyond the simple dualism between orthodoxy and heresy. He adopts Wang’s critique that due to Confucianism’s quiescence on the ultimate question of human existence, other heretic teachings, such as Buddhism and Daoism, had a chance to deceive people and to cause social disorder (Ma 1989, 36, 71–72, 421–428). Ma Zhu’s approach is scripturalist, not comparative, and much less philosophical than Wang Daiyu’s. He largely uses Quranic and prophetic sources to explain the Islamic five pillars and six cardinal items of faith, and rarely quotes Confucian classics or adopts Neo-Confucian terminology in spite of having been trained in Confucian classics in his early life. His writing style is similar to that of traditional Sunni legal scholars. The difference between Ma’s and Wang’s approaches is interesting and requires further explanation. Wang grew up with a Muslim education and studied the Confucian classics much later than Ma did. But Wang was able to master Neo-Confucian metaphysics and use the enemies’ weapons against them. On the other hand, although Ma is familiar with the Confucian classics and dynastic histories, which he quotes a great deal in Qingzhen Zhinan, he only uses his own weapons to defend himself and attack the enemy. In other words, he emphasizes the orthodox teachings of Islam and does not attempt to integrate any concept from the sanjiao into his discourse. Moreover, Ma is more interested in the theological discourse of shariah than in its legal and ritual details, and his source for theological concepts is Sufism, not Neo-Confucianism. He interprets the second pillar salat in terms of the Sufi idea of the “light of Muhammad” (Ibid., 608), not in relation to the Confucian idea of self-cultivation.

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The difference between Wang and Ma regarding their approach and writing style could not only be explained by their different personal tastes, but also by their different jing-tang background, Wang belonging to the Nanjing school and Ma to the Yunnan one. For the early history of the jing-tang education in Yunnan down to Ma Zhu’s time there are simply not enough materials available to modern scholars. Therefore, his Qingzhen Zhinan is very important as it reveals other critical aspects of the Hui Islamic tradition. Confucianized Islam is not the whole story of Chinese Islam. However, it will be another subject for further research, not the concern of this chapter. Since Ma does not make a substantive contribution to the comparative discourse of Islam and Confucianism, I will now turn to Liu Zhi, the most well-known Chinese Muslim scholar.

3.3 Liu Zhi’s Tianfang Dianli Zeyaojie 天方典禮擇要解 (A Selection of the Interpretations of Islamic Rites) Compared to Ma Zhu and Wang Daiyu, Liu Zhi maintained a more inclusive attitude toward Daoism and Buddhism, and did not view Confucianism as the only correct ideology among the Three Teachings. Because Liu Zhi was able to master classical Chinese and Neo-Confucian terminology to explain Islamic tenets, he was the only Hui scholar who also had an audience among the Confucian scholargentry of his time. Certainly, his acceptance of the value of other Chinese traditions would have been far more palatable to the mainstream of both Confucian elites and modern Chinese intellectuals. He has thus become the most-favored and best-studied Hui scholar in academic communities today. Liu Zhi cites his motivation to write a fiqh compendium in Chinese as being a form of filial piety to complete his father’s unfinished project. He says: My late father thought that the (Islamic) ritual law was not understood clearly. Therefore, he decided to write on this subject. In the end, he did not finish it before passing away. As I am not clever, how dare I say that I shall continue his undertaking? Therefore, I only transmit what I have learned. (Liu 1989a, 54)

The first Chinese fiqh compendium, Tianfang Dianli Zeyaojie, was completed in 1710 and provides the most systematic comparison between shariah and li-rites. Tianfang Dianli Zeyaojie includes twenty chapters divided into six parts. The first part includes an introductory chapter outlining the whole book; the second part, including three chapters, elaborates the theological meanings of the first cardinal item of faith Tawhid and the shahadat proclamation, “There is no god but God, Muhammad is the Messenger of God.” The third part, comprised of five chapters, explains the five pillars of Islam and the two holy

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festivals, ’Id al-Fitr and ’Id al-Adha, but the Juma’at prayer, usually included in the second pillar salat in the most traditional fiqh literature, is discussed separately in chapter 18. The second and third parts and chapter 18 together are correspondent with the ibadat part of shariah. The fourth part, made up of four chapters, adopts the Confucian rubric of the “five primordial relationships” to explain the basic principles of the mualamat part of shariah. This is the most Confucian part of the whole book; the fifth part contains three chapters regarding Muslim regulations and customs of housing, trade, clothing, and eating. The last part of two chapters explains Muslim marriage and funerary rites. Comparing the format and style of Liu Zhi’s Tianfang Dianli Zeyaojie to those of other classical fiqh compendia, one quickly sees that Liu strictly follows the previous examples of classical fiqh in the ibadat chapters, but composes the mualamat chapters in the style of the Confucian classics. In the latter chapters, Liu omits or simplifies most of the legal subjects of shariah regarding marriage, inheritance, and trade, and merely emphasizes their social and ethical meanings. He adopts the Confucian “five primordial relationships” to interpret the ethical principle of Muslim family law and avoids those subjects that could be seen as contrary to the moral ethos of the Confucian gentry, such as polygamy, divorce, and the hudud law. Nevertheless, Liu Zhi does not compromise any Islamic value in order to accommodate the Confucian orthodoxy. He emphasizes that the Islamic five pillars are in total harmony with the Confucian ideas of self-cultivation and self-discipline, and can also be used for the purpose of the perfection of personal morality and social harmony, although Confucianism does not provide the same type of direct path toward ultimate salvation as Islam does. It is interesting to see that in introducing the Muslim “five primordial relationships,” he does not follow the Confucian conventional order, starting from emperor and minister, and then father and son, husband and wife, elder and younger brothers, finally, friends. Instead, he starts from husband and wife, then proceeding to father and son, emperor and minister, elder and younger brothers, and finally friends. The Confucian order of the “five primordial relationships” implies the importance of social hierarchy while the Muslim one reflects the order of creation. Liu says, “the relationship between husband and wife is the beginning of the human way” and explains: The heaven and the earth are the root of the production of all things; man and woman are the root of the birth of human beings. At the beginning of creation, Adam was commanded by God as His viceregent. . .. . .Eve was born from Adam’s arm. They were arranged by God as a couple. Thus husband and wife are originally in unity. (Ibid., 117)

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To explain ibadat, in addition to a detailed step-by-step narration of ritual practices, Liu Zhi colors the five pillars with the Confucian language of selfcultivation and self-discipline. He relates shahadat to chengxin 誠信 (“seriousness-faithfulness;” Ibid., 86), “to nourish a hundred merits and to lead ten thousand good works. . ..for the secret of the union between Heaven and humankind” (Ibid., 90); salat to cheng 誠 and jing 敬 (“reverence”), “the spring to cleanse your evil, the pillar to practice your religion, the ladder to go near to your Lord. . ..to exclude your worldly affection and see your original nature” (Ibid., 95–96); sawn to jinshi yu 謹嗜慾 (“restricting human desire;” Ibid., 96), “to stop eating in order to suppress your concupiscence and then strengthen your mind; once your mind has been strengthened, it is illuminated; the illuminated mind dissolves your selfish desire; as a result, your true nature arises” (Ibid., 99); zakat to minwu tongbao 民吾同胞 (“all people are my compatriots;” Ibid., 103); and hajj to fanben 返本 (“returning to the origin;” Ibid., 104, 109). Liu Zhi’s mastery of Neo-Confucian philosophy is so complete as to potentially fool those who are not familiar with Islam into regarding him as a Confucian revivalist. This was indeed the case with Xu Zhuo 徐綽 (1623–1712), the (Han) Vice-Minister of the Board of Propriety (Libu shilang 禮部侍郎). He writes a preface to Tianfang Dianli Zeyaojie where he admires Liu Zhi, observing that although Buddhists and Daoists have undermined the ancient Confucian doctrines, “however, in this book we can see once more the Way of the ancient sage. . ..Thus, even if his book explains Islam, in truth it illuminates our Confucianism.” (Ibid., 50) Although Liu Zhi avoids discussion of controversial issues, such as polygamy, divorce, and jihad, in order not to offend his Confucian audience, he cannot avoid touching upon one sensitive subject which gave rise to much suspicion and ridicule, the Muslim halal law regarding the preparation and consumption of food. I do not have to emphasize the social and cultural significance of eating in Chinese societies. Throughout history the “otherness” of the Muslims in Chinese societies has been identified mainly with the prohibition of eating pork and the consumption of beef, which stands in opposition to traditional Chinese dietary custom. Instead of providing an ethical explanation of halal law in an attempt to convince the Confucian gentry, Liu Zhi cites different canons of traditional Chinese medicine to argue that eating pork is like taking poison for one’s body and mind (Ibid., 161–162). He explains that Muslim customs of eating and drinking are for the sake of hygiene and good health, not for good taste: Eating and drinking are to nourish your nature and temperance, to take the nature of food to benefit your nature. If the nature of food is good, it will benefit your good nature;

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if bad, it will worsen your bad nature; if dirty and coarse, it will worsen your dirty and coarse nature. Thus drinking and eating are important to human nature and mind. (Ibid., 153)

In the two chapters regarding eating and drinking, Liu Zhi provides two lengthy lists of animals, one good, the other bad, and explains each of their good or bad natures. Such detailed information and argumentation by Liu Zhi reveal to us the extent to which issues regarding food have troubled Chinese Muslims for a long time. Moreover, besides using these material and medical explanations, Liu Zhi cites an ethical explanation when discussing the Muslim prohibition on drinking alcohol. He quotes a large number of Confucian classics to persuade his readers to abstain from alcohol. (Ibid., 162–163) Tianfang Dianli Zeyaojie is a legal and ritual compendium of Islam that is strongly decorated and supplemented with Confucian values. But a subtext can be detected in the Confucianized interpretation of Islamic law, and reveals something of how the “Muslim self” perceives and constructs the “Confucian other.” Although Liu Zhi is widely regarded as the most “Confucian” among Chinese Muslim scholars of the Ming-Qing era, he shares the discourse of the “Confucian other” with his jing-tang predecessors, among whom Wang Daiyu is the most important one in its development. The philosophical aspect of Liu’s critical analysis on Confucianism is largely influenced by Wang (Tsai 2007, 55–84). This can clearly be seen in Liu’s most philosophical work, Tianfang Xingli, which is an extended and elaborated version of Wang’s Sanyi theory. Indeed, the philosophical framework of Tianfang Xingli underlies the comparative analysis between shariah and li-ritual in Tianfang Dianli Zeyaojie. Liu Zhi is mostly in agreement with Wang Daiyu but is more moderate in his critique of Confucianism. Liu Zhi follows Wang’s well-known discourse of “original Confucianism is monotheism” and asserts that the ancient sages and Confucius himself believed in the Supreme God. The lineage of transmission from the original Confucian teachings to later Confucianism was, however, disrupted by Daoist and Buddhist heretics, and later Confucians have been unable to see the true message of the witness of the Supreme God in the oldest Confucian texts: the Five Classics. He says: Although [the li-principle] is exhibited in an Arabic book, it is no different from what is found in the Confucian classics. To follow Islamic li-rites is like following the teachings of the ancient sage-kings. The teachings of the sages are the same in the East as in the West and unified in the present as in the past. But later generations have neglected them and then they have gradually been lost. Fortunately, Islamic li-rites alone have been preserved. (Liu 1989a, 54)

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As expected, in the ibadat chapters Liu Zhi strictly follows the model of fiqh literature, and does not quote nearly any Confucian classic. The only exception is in the seventh chapter regarding the fast of Ramadan. There Liu Zhi quotes from the Classic of Rites to show that zhai 齋 (“fasting”) was an important method of self-cultivation for the ancient sages (Ibid., 99–100). In the mualamat chapters, however, he does not hesitate to use Confucian ethical teachings to interpret Islamic laws and customs in order to emphasize the harmony between these two traditions. He says in the chapter on marriage: From ancient times until today, from the sages to the ordinary people, none can go beyond the rule of li-rites, nor abandon its observation. To abandon it would be to approach heterodoxy. The li-rites of the “Pure and True” (Islam) comes from the sacred teachings of Arabia, and agrees with the Confucian li-rites. Although both have different customs and there are minor details in which they are distinctive, for the most part they are generally similar to each other. Therefore, in my preface, I have explained many points by using the original Confucian language to illuminate their meanings. I wish that the people in our country can know what I have explained. (Ibid., 173)

It is clear that Liu Zhi sees that Islamic law and Confucian rites converge on the preservation of family value as the foundation of human society. Family rites, including marriage, are the embodiment of family value; if they are abandoned, human society will go astray and collapse. This is the firmest evidence of ethical universalism for him.

3.4 Ma Dexin’s Sidian Yaohui 四典要會 (A Summary of the Important Themes of the Four Canons) Ma Dexin was the last great scholar of the jing-tang tradition as it existed before the modern era. He and his disciples exerted a great effort to edit and translate many important Islamic books and to reconstruct the curriculum of the jingtang school of Yunnan. Thus the remote southwestern frontier province became the center of Islamic learning in the late Qing and early Republican eras while the jing-tang schools in other provinces of China proper found it difficult to survive amid the political turmoil of the mid-Qing era. All of Ma’s major works were written during the period of the Hui rebellion. His comparative discourse regarding Islam and the Three Teachings is summarized in Sidian Yaohui, which is written in the format of a jing-tang textbook by synthesizing the previous great ulama’s works and his own interpretation of Islamic law and theology. The work is comprised of four chapters. The first two discuss the six cardinal items of faith and the five pillars. Liu Zhi’s influence is very prominent in these two chapters. Ma’s original contribution is in the third

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chapter which explores the Islamic view of afterlife. Ma argues that this was an important subject that had been overlooked by his jing-tang predecessors. The final chapter summaries the basic principles of distinguishing heretic teachings from orthodox Islam, which echoes Ma Zhu’s Qingzhen Zhinan. Ma Dexin’s comparative discourse of shariah and li-rites is included in the second chapter of Sidian Yaohui. Although Ma held an orthodox view of Sunni Islam as did his Yunnanese jing-tang predecessor Ma Zhu, during his time Wang Daiyu’s and Liu Zhi’s works were considered to be the classics of the jing-tang education, and he could not overlook their paradigm of Confucianized Islam. He mostly follows the writing style, framework, and terminology of Liu Zhi’s Tianfang Dianli Zeyaojie to interpret the five pillars. In the beginning of the first section of this chapter, Ma explains the second pillar, salat, in NeoConfucian language similarly to that of Liu Zhi: To perform the daily prayer one has to first remain in mindfulness and right intention, and then to undertake correct body postures with seriousness. This is a meritorious act of ‘overcoming one’s selfish passions and returning to the observance of propriety’ [in Confucius’ words] toward the union of Heaven and humankind. It helps to cultivate one’s virtue and recover the illumination of the original nature. (Ma 1988, 35)

Ma adopts the yin-yang philosophy to explain the functions of mind and body in prayer. He says that “human mind is endowed with the yang force from Heaven and has the potentiality of movement” and “human body is endowed with the yin force from Earth and has the potentiality of tranquility.” To pray is “to move the tranquil” and to “stop the moving” in order to make yin and yang complement each other. This is why the body should be positioned in prostration and the mind should be in tranquility by means of remembrance (Ibid.). Ma Dexin does not hesitate to use anthropomorphic language to explain the relationship between God and human beings in an analogy with that between emperor and minister. The latter is the “first primordial relationship” in the Confucian ethics. This analogy is intended to remind us that the most primordial relationship is that between God and human being, one that exists prior to any kind of human relationship. Prayer embodies the loyalty and reverence of human beings to God. He writes that “the substance of prayer is reverence, and the function of reverence is prayer.” Therefore, both proper body posture and reverent mind are required in prayer (Ibid., 37–38). Ma again uses the complementarity of yin and yang to elaborate the meaning of the four body postures in each rakat (a repeated cycle of actions and words in each prayer). The first posture, standing, is the “appearance of pure yang;” the second, bowing, is the “appearance of yin within yang;” the third, prostration, is the “appearance of pure yin;” the last, sitting, is the “appearance

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of yang within yin.” Pure yang is fire; pure yin is water; yin within yang is air; yang within yin is earth. The four body postures are the four manifestations of human existence in the composition of the four agents from “pre-creation” (xiantian 先天) to “creation” (houtian 後天). Therefore, the daily prayer perfectly embodies the ancient Chinese philosophy of the union between microcosm and macrocosm (Ma 1988, 43–44). In Sidian Yaohui, Ma freely uses Confucian, Daoist, and Buddhist concepts to interpret Sufi spiritual stations and Islamic metaphysics. All of his Chinese works inform his Han and Hui readers that Islam shares all good things in common with the three Chinese traditions. In this he is largely indebted to Wang Daiyu’s and Liu Zhi’s creative discourses to bridge Islam and the Three Teachings. Ma’s works represent a new synthesis of the two distinctive jingtang traditions of Yunnan and Nanjing. His tragic death marked the end of the first wave of Islamic revival and indigenization in China.

Conclusion The four greatest Chinese ulama’s works, Wang Daiyu’s Zhengjiao Zhenquan, Ma Zhu’s Qingzhen Zhinan, Liu Zhi’s Tianfang Dianli Zeyaojie, Ma Dexin’s Sidian Yaohui, present a creative dialogue and synthesis of Islam and the sanjiao (especially Confucianism), which ought to be included as a chapter of the history of Chinese religions. This history has usually accepted the academic orthodox discourse of the sanjiao as being the core of native Chinese religions, and Christianity and other monotheistic religions as foreign to the Chinese tradition. Chinese Islam is simply overlooked in this dichotomy. Perhaps this academic convention reflects the historical reality of religions in modern China, in which Chinese nationalism with the ideology of Enlightenment has to tame its “internal other,” Islam, and defend against its “external other,” Christianity. The intellectual revival of Chinese Islam led by the jing-tang school appeared at a difficult time, during which the creativity of Chinese religions was contained and suffocated by the bureaucratization of the imperial system and the dogmatization and formalization of Confucian learning from the late Ming onward. Even worse, five decades after Liu Zhi had finished his creative synthesis of Islam and Chinese traditions, the peace between the Han and the Hui was broken and conflicts between them erupted first in Northwest China and spread over Southwest China. The last great imam of traditional China, Ma Dexin, eventually became the victim of this destructive violence to the Hui communities. The harsh suppression of the Hui rebellion by the Qing government in these two Muslim-concentrated

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regions nearly wiped out the intellectual tradition of Chinese Islam. From then on, Chinese Muslim people have tended to segregate themselves, both physically and mentally, from Han Chinese society. I believe that these comparative discourses of the traditional Chinese ulama are especially inspiring to our contemporary age of ‘Islamophobia’ and the ‘clash of civilizations.’ The Chinese ulama was able to maintain a middle way between full acculturation to and total segregation from Han Chinese culture, largely by constructing a double-function discourse of reconciliation and differentiation, one that kept their collective identity intact but which opened the door to learn about their host cultures. Although this discourse did not succeed in making Islamic tradition acceptable to mainstream Chinese society due to historical timing, this case can serve as an example of the potential of ideological and religious diversity, one that is worth being explored and tried again.

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Murata, Sachiko. 2000. Chinese Gleams of Sufi Light. Albany: State University of New York Press. Nasr, Seyyed Hossein, ed. 1997. Islamic Spirituality, 2 vols. New York: Crossroad. Rahman, Fazlur. 1982. Islam and Modernity: Transformation of an Intellectual Tradition. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Solomon, David, Ping-Cheung Lo and Ruiping Fan, eds. 2012. Ritual and the Moral Life: Reclaiming the Tradition. New York: Springer. Tsai, Yuanlin 蔡源林. 2007. “The Construction of the Religious ‘Other’ in Liu Zhi’s Tianfang Xingli.” Taiwan Journal of East Asian Studies 4, no.2: 55–84. Wang Daiyu 王岱輿. 1988. Zhengjiao Zhenquan 正教真詮 [Qingzhen Daxue 清真大學, Xizhen Zhengda 希真正答]. Yinchuan: Ningxia People’s Press. Wu Zunqi 伍遵契. 1989. Guizhen Yaodao 歸真要道 [Qingzhen Dadian 清真大典16]. Hefei: Huangshan Press. Zhao Can 趙燦. 1989. Jingxue Xichuanpu 經學系傳譜. Xining: Qinghai People’s Press.

Jason T. Clower

Jia 家: Lineage in Chinese Religion and New Confucianism as a “Humanistic Buddhist” Heresy Introduction In the study of Chinese religion and philosophy, we often use metaphors of family to describe relationships among important figures. We speak of rujia 儒家, fojia 佛家, and daojia 道家, and within those groups we speak of lineages, tonsure families, patriarchs, genealogies, generations, and even jiafeng 家風. We use these metaphors both consciously and unconsciously.1 In this chapter I will formalize the family metaphor, in hopes that we can use it more deliberately and exactly, and show that in doing so we can uncover surprising omissions from familiar genealogies. I will illustrate this with the cases of Chinese Buddhist modernism and New Confucianism. Since the 1980s it has been conventional to explain New Confucianism2 as a revalorization of Confucian thought carried out by succeeding generations of apologists descending chiefly from Xiong Shili 熊十力 (1885–1968).3 Likewise, scholars since Holmes Welch have told the story of Chinese Buddhist modernism in terms of a lineage traceable through Taixu’s 太虛 (1890–1947) rensheng fojiao 人生佛教 and Ouyang Jian’s 歐陽漸 (1871–1943) Neixue yuan 內學院 back to Yang

1 Wilson 1995 is a masterful study of lineage discourse in Neo-Confucianism. Also valuable is Elman 1990. For a survey of the concept of dharma “lineage” in Buddhism, see Prebish 2009. As for Chinese Buddhism in particular, see Morrison 2010. For the terrific body of critical work on the mythos of Chan lineage, the wellspring is of course the work of Yanagida Seizan 柳田聖山. (See especially Yanagida 1971 and 1976). In English, the now-classic works on the subject include McRae 1986, Faure 1991, and Gregory 1991. On the family (literal and metaphorical) in Chinese scholarly culture, see Lee 1999, passim, and as an evolving axis of social and ritual organization from the late Qing to the present, Szonyi 2016. Concerning connections between the Chinese Buddhist and Confucian traditions’ notions of lineage, see Liu 1973 and Jorgensen 1987. For the development of Confucianism in modern China see also Payette’s chapter in Concepts and Methods for the Study of Chinese Religions I: State of the Field and Disciplinary Approaches. I am grateful to Stefania Travagnin and Gregory Adam Scott for their comments and suggestions, and in particular to the former for the benefit of her expertise on Yinshun and his lineage. 2 Dangdai xin rujia 當代新儒家 or xiandai xin rujia 現代新儒家. 3 Note that Xiong was labeled a member of a “New Confucian faction” (xin ruxue pai 新儒學派) as early as 1947. See Li 1998, 122. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110547825-003

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Wenhui 楊文會 (1837–1911), the “father of the modern Chinese Buddhist revival” (Bao 2012, 45).4 That is, we typically conceptualize the two movements in familial terms, but as separate families. Instead, here I present both New Confucians and Chinese Buddhist modernists as representatives of a single family tree, sharing a common ancestor in Yang Wenhui and clear family resemblances that are plain enough once identified, but which have stayed obscure only because we overlook the subjects’ family connection to each other in favor of their identifications with rujia and fojia.

1 Family Metaphors: The “Strict” Sense and the “Loose” Sense We use the family metaphor in two different ways. Sometimes we use it in a strict sense, to mean a lineage of teacher-student relationships defined by objective criteria, chief among which is usually that each generation is personally acquainted with the next. A classical example is the Chan genealogy that traces a “bloodline” from the Buddha to Mahākāśyapa to Bodhidharma and Huike 慧可 (487–593) on down to Hongren 弘忍 (601–674) and Huineng 惠能 (638–713). From each generation to the next, says the story, each man knew the one who followed and taught him face to face. Modern examples would include the line from Taixu to Yinshun 印順 (1906–2005) to Renjun 仁俊 (1919–2011) or Zhengyan 證嚴 (b. 1937) (Hou 2009, 13–107; Fuyan Jingshe 2011; Travagnin 2018), or to give a New Confucian example, the line from Xiong Shili to his students Tang Junyi 唐君毅 (1909–1978) and Mou Zongsan 牟宗三 (1909–1995), and thence to their numerous students (Mou 2000; Bresciani 2001). “Over the last seventy years,” writes one author about the New Confucians, “there have been three generations of transmission, like one torch lighting another” (Zheng 1992, i). At other times we use family metaphors in a loose sense and group people together by commonalities or “family resemblances” in their values. Examples include such broad families as the fojia, rujia, and daojia, and some of their sub-groups. They would also include members of a kingdom, nation, or empire when they are imagined in familial terms, for example as the children of a father-like ruler or the progeny of a common ancestor (zong 宗), as when we speak of the “descendants of Yan and Huang” (Yan Huang zisun 炎黃子孫).

4 Bao notes that Liang Qichao claimed that ninety percent of his contemporaries’ interest in Buddhism originated with Yang’s activities.

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Religious families in the loose sense seldom have explicit criteria for membership, but typically the members venerate common texts or heroes, as the Tiantai lineage (zong 宗) venerated Zhiyi 智顗 (528–597) and his interpretations of the Lotus Sutra, and the Tiantai shanjia 山家 were those people who prized Siming Zhili’s 四明知禮 (960–1028) reading of Zhiyi, and the rujia honored Yao 尧, Shun 舜, Yu 禹, and so on and the Five Classics.5 Perhaps we can even find examples of metaphorical family groupings based on just a common catchphrase or slogan or a perceived affinity in teachings or activities. But they need not claim a person-to-person historical connection among their members. For example, when Neo-Confucians and New Confucians proclaim a “succession of the Way” (daotong 道統) from ancient times, they acknowledge that Mencius was separated from his “successors” in the Song dynasty by a gap of around a thousand years, when his sayings were understood correctly once again. What do people accomplish with these familial groupings? Naturally, they settle allegiances. Part of the effect is polemical, of course: they otherize entire groups. For example, Cheng-Zhu Neo-Confucians ruled Buddhism to be heterodox exactly because it began “from another source” (yiduan 異端), as Thomas Wilson points out.6 But more primarily, people who participate in a familial identity create constituencies for themselves. Early Chan figures needed genealogical constructions, for example, to help enlist aid and allegiance – from the court or institutions or the populace – to build their marginal group into a powerful movement.7 When people “type” themselves in one way or another, they can appeal to certain constituencies. In modern China, figures who identified themselves with Buddhism could win support from temples, monasteries, monastics, the Buddhist laity, and foreign Buddhist organizations and individuals; whereas figures who took on a New Confucian allegiance could call on few surviving organizations and social institutions and mobilize only scattered

5 A curious present-day example of zong-formation is the 2009 declaration by Zhengyan, student of Yinshun and founder of the Tzu Chi Foundation (Ciji gongdehui 慈濟功德會), of a Ciji zong 慈濟宗. For the reflections of a scholarly insider to the Tzu Chi organization, see Lin 2012. See also Travagnin 2018. Studies of the early and later phases of Tiantai lineage construction may be found in Penkower 2000 and Shinohara 2002. 6 Wilson 1995, 95. For a survey of Zhu Xi’s use of the concept yiduan, see Hejtmanek 2013. 7 See, for example, Faure 1997. Michael Szonyi points out that Chinese lineages are apt to be strengthened and adapted in times of upheaval or uncertainty, when people are eager for a strong mutual aid network, and remarks that “[t]his in turn may spark genealogical ‘arms races’ as those who feel left behind in the struggle to generate new networks embark on their own compilations” (2016, 444). Though Szonyi is speaking specifically of lineages in a strict sense, as a patrilineal collection of households, his point applies more broadly as well, and as has become apparent above, loose-sense lineages offer more possibilities for making a genealogy creatively.

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individuals, but they gained a symbolic capital that let them make claims on all sons and daughters of “the Chinese nation,” which appears to have been a farsighted strategy now that their thought has won support from both the mainland Chinese government and the Chinese Left.8 In addition to using family metaphors in either a strict or loose way, we also variously speak as though these “families” have single or multiple lines of descent. Some “families” take the shape of family trees because they are recognized as permitting more than one member in each generation; that is, they have multiple branches or lines of descent. Buddhist tonsure families follow this pattern, for example, as well as the families of shifu 師父, shixiong 師兄, shidi 師弟, shijie 師姐, and so on that populate Chinese wuxia 武俠 novels, and which describes the New Confucian family consisting of Xiong Shili, his students Mou and Tang, and their scores of students. Other lineages, in contrast, are shaped simply like poles or chains or bare trunks because only one representative is recognized per generation. For example, a lineage of Chan or Tiantai “patriarchs” implicitly forbids having more than one patriarch at a time. Each is imagined to have one legitimate successor: Shenxiu 神秀 (d. 706) was Hongren’s heir, not Huineng; or vice versa, but not both. Typically, these single-line lineages are found among the “strict-sense” families, where each generation supposedly knew the next personally, whereas the “loose” families have broader criteria for membership and that are sometimes frankly ascriptive, encompassing for example any follower of a given figure’s teachings. Nevertheless, there are loose family constructions that are also narrow. For example, when Mou Zongsan drew up his version of the Confucian “succession of the Way,” which was a loose lineage in the sense that it did not claim personal acquaintances, he endorsed just one representative per historical epoch and even broke with tradition by retaining only one of the Cheng brothers, Cheng Hao 程顥 (1032–1085), as a legitimate successor of the Confucian way. Mou excluded the figures that he did as a matter of deliberate choice, to concentrate on describing those he thought were both philosophically correct and historically significant. Yet sometimes scholars are so habituated to single-line lineage constructions that we adopt their same implicit rule of unilineal descent when it is not required. In plain language, then, we may unnecessarily identify a person with only one teacher. Frequently, people use strict and loose family groupings in conjunction. A loose-sense family can contain several branches or sub-groups, like the various

8 Concerning the Left’s affinity for Confucianism, see Pan and Xu 2015. See also Payette’s chapter in Concepts and Methods for the Study of Chinese Religions I: State of the Field and Disciplinary Approaches.

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zongpai in Chinese Buddhism or Neo-Confucianism’s Lu-Wang and Cheng-Zhu lineages, and some of these branches may be imagined as families in the stricter sense. Thus Chan and Tiantai are metaphorical “kin” to each other only loosely, but internally they are strictly constructed as lineages. And in New Confucianism, people conventionally speak of a “first generation,” comprising figures who all grew up in the milieu of the late Qing: Liang Shuming 梁漱溟 (1893–1988), Ma Yifu 馬一浮 (1883–1967), Feng Youlan 馮友蘭 (1895–1990), Zhang Junmai 張君勱 (1887–1969), and Xiong Shili. This first generation shared no common teacher or other solid “family” ties, but many (if not most) later New Confucians can trace their own lineage in a strict way directly to Xiong Shili. In fact, even I can claim a “strict” – though quite tenuous – connection to Xiong through Mou Zongsan and Tu Wei-ming 杜维明 (b. 1940). As that example begins to show, even strict family or lineage groupings are selective: people are included or excluded based on judgments of their significance. A teacher may teach many students, but when we speak of his or her family or lineage descendants, it is rare that we really are thinking about all them. For example, postmodern philosopher Richard Rorty (1931–2007) and statesman Paul Wolfowitz (b. 1943), architect of the “Bush doctrine,” both studied at the University of Chicago with political theorist Leo Strauss (1899–1973), but we do not lump them together as “Straussians” or Strauss disciples. Instead, we remove Rorty from those rolls because, in his maturity, he explicitly rejected Strauss’s early influence and adopted some very different opinions.9 Accordingly, we discount Rorty from Strauss’s “lineage” for reasons that are quite sensible – namely that keeping him there does not illuminate anything that is both interesting and persuasive, and because we are finite beings, we must economize with our time, thought, and language. In this respect, strict lineages can oftentimes be like loose lineages: they too may have been “sifted.” At a minimum, someone must choose what counts as a “connection” between teacher and student. A tonsure relationship? Prolonged study? An extended period of personal or professional association? What about a very brief association that seems to have imparted deep influence?10 Think again about the line

9 During the middle years of the George W. Bush presidency, at the height of the academic hunt for covert Straussian influence in the White House, Melvin L. Rogers (2004) did try to identify what he called “Rorty’s Straussianism” in his notion of irony, which he called “an extended form of Leo Strauss’s esotericism.” 10 This indeterminacy is a reason that I have spoken of strict-sense groupings as nevertheless metaphorical, even though (as Vincent Goossaert and Paul Katz remind me) they may also be real on some definition. Legally, for example, members of a tonsure family enjoyed the right to inherit their “relatives’” property (Schlütter 2010, 200n9).

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connecting Taixu to Yinshun to Renjun and Zhengyan. Yinshun is connected to Taixu based on his having studied and worked with Taixu and having managed his literary estate, but he was not a tonsure disciple of Taixu. Zhengyan, in turn, was tonsured by Yinshun but Renjun was not, although he enjoyed a prolonged relationship with Yinshun and, like him, had also studied at the Minnan Institute of Buddhist Studies (Minnan foxueyuan 閩南佛學院). Stefania Travagnin (2018) relates the fraught efforts to enunciate a loose-sense “Yinshun doctrinal lineage” (Yinshun xuepai 印順學派) after the scholar-monk’s death in 2005. “The term xuepai turned out to be problematic,” she explains, “. . . as scholars and practitioners gave it various (and often contradictory) definitions,” disagreeing for example about whether one need share Yinshun’s accomplishments in doctrinal scholarship to qualify as a true member of the lineage. Thus it was that among scholars and monastics there was a majority opinion, not shared by the secular media, that the high-profile Zhengyan should be excluded from the “loose monastic network” of the “doctrinal lineage,” despite having been tonsured by Yinshun, because she works at social welfare projects to the neglect of scholarship. Even when trying to adhere to a strict version of the family metaphor, it is rare that the “family tree” as commonly imagined really contains all and only the “descendants” who meet a single, though ultimately arbitrary, criterion of connection to the parent figure. Quite understandably, interpretations intrude. This is entirely natural, normal, and legitimate; and as I will argue in Part II, the trick is to not forget that even these families are more arbitrary than they appear, and additionally to remember to periodically look for “oddball” figures who were edited out of the group and who have since faded from memory. But before we continue, could we perhaps feel secure against subjectivity or editorial influence when we are dealing with strict lineages with a single line of descent, marked by a deliberate ceremony of “transmission?” No. We can banish that thought simply by thinking of critical literature on Chan genealogies: often these turn out to be products of fancy or even forgery. There can even be uncertainty and dispute in the present age, when memories are fresh and records easy to come by, and even when everyone agrees about what happened and when it happened, simply because people are liable to disagree in their interpretations. At the San Francisco Zen Center in 1984, for example, when Richard Baker was toppled from his position as abbot, he was succeeded by Reb Anderson, the only “Dharma heir” to whom he had given transmission. However, the ousted Baker later denied that he had really transmitted his dharma to Anderson; he claimed that he had elided or skipped key steps in the process (Downing 2001, 357–359).

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Having thus satisfied ourselves that all such families are apt to have connections that lie willfully forgotten in attics and closets, let us look at an example of what is to be gained by revisiting some of these neglected relations.

2 New Confucianism as an Offshoot of Humanistic Buddhism As we saw above, family metaphors abound in Chinese religion and philosophy, and they may be based overtly on judgments about which figures are significant and relevant to one another (the “loose” sense), or they may try to apply some objective criterion consistently (the “strict” sense), though even then their objectivity and consistency is likely imperfect. None of this is momentous or surprising. I have merely reduced to abstract and tedious terms insights that have been part of an academic trend (xuefeng 學風) for decades. But now I will add something new, and perhaps also useful. It is simply this: looking closely at “family trees” in modern Chinese religion can reveal that what are commonly taken to be two distinct families are in fact one extended family; in particular, “humanistic Buddhism” (renjian fojiao 人間佛教) and New Confucianism are such close genetic relatives that it is instructive to view them as close cousins descended quite recently from a single familial ancestor.11 In the study of Chinese religion, we textual and historical scholars gravitate most commonly to loose-sense family metaphors, habitually using collective nouns like rujia, fojia, and daojia, for example. We typically find these loose constructions more useful (unless doing basic research or writing a biography or prosopography) since they are more explicitly based on judgments about what is relevant, interesting, useful, or significant to us. The loose-sense families also survive historical-critical scrutiny better than many strict-sense lineages, since they make weaker claims that are accordingly less falsifiable. However, sometimes we can undo some omissions in these broad-sense families by looking at person-to-person relationships between teachers and students, especially over multiple generations, finding surprising “relatives” who have been pruned from each other’s commonly accepted family trees. As a reward, we will likely find “family resemblances” that we had not noticed before. Such is the case with Chinese Buddhist modernism and New Confucianism.

11 I will treat “humanistic Buddhism” (renjian fojiao 人間佛教 or rensheng fojiao 人生佛教) as interchangeable with “Buddhist modernism” and “socially engaged Buddhism” in China.

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To the extent that we think about a shared history between humanistic Buddhism or renjian fojiao and New Confucianism at all, we usually tell the story this way: At the Inner Studies Institute, Ouyang Jian briefly had a student named Xiong Shili. But within two years, Xiong was hired away to teach Buddhist philosophy at Peking University. Once there, he quickly went his own way and developed a philosophy that “tried to merge [Yogācāra] with Neo-Confucianism,” “aligned itself with Confucianism while reaching out to Buddhist thought” (yi ru wei zong, huitong foxue 以儒為宗、會通佛學), or “understood Buddhism in Confucian terms” (yi ru jie fo 以儒解佛) (Welch 1968, 196; Hong 2007). The standard English survey of New Confucian history recounts things even more starkly: “Originally, Xiong was an admirer and a devout student of [Yogācāra] doctrine. Then he took a critical stance against it” (Bresciani 2001, 120). I can fault none of these descriptions, but I would suggest an additional point of view. In our conventional story, Buddhist modernism and New Confucianism are different groups or movements, and Xiong quits and travels from one to the other, or reaches out from one to the other. He exits one group, the Inner Studies Institute, and enters (or helps create) a different one. But what changes when we forget momentarily about these two things, Buddhism and Confucianism, and focus on a single family with Yang Wenhui at its head? What if we leave Xiong right where he is in the family tree? Strictly speaking, he was a student of Ouyang Jian, and a grand-student of Yang Wenhui. And his own students, arch-New Confucians Tang Junyi and Mou Zongsan – they too are descendants of Yang Wenhui, through their grand-teacher Ouyang Jian! That is a surprising genealogy, but on later reflection, it is not so surprising. For one thing, Ouyang is connected to the New Confucians through two other relationships. Tang Junyi’s father moved his family to Nanjing so that he could study with Ouyang. And Tang Junyi himself, then in his late teens, also had what he recalled as a formative relationship with Ouyang. Ouyang pressured Tang to give up his university studies and become Ouyang’s personal disciple. Tang declined the offer but maintained a relationship with Ouyang, and as an older man he wrote, “Since then I have always thought that if I could take on many bodies at once, I would have used one of my bodies to be Ouyang’s disciple” (Tang 2005, 127). With hindsight, it almost seems predictable that New Confucianism would be joined to Yang Wenhui and Chinese Buddhist modernism through Ouyang in particular. Among Buddhist leaders of his day, Ouyang identified the least with the Buddhist clergy, and he vacillated between Buddhist and Confucian allegiances. He studied Neo-Confucian philosophy until the age of forty, when he took an interest in Buddhism, and later returned to his early love of Confucianism in the winter of his life (Cheng 1992, 175; Aviv 2008, 80–83). Like Yang Wenhui, Ouyang

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was one of a long line of Confucian degree holders. He was descended from the anti-Buddhist polemicist Ouyang Xiu 歐陽修 (1007–1072), his father and grandfather earned juren 舉人 degrees, and he himself came close to becoming a jinshi 進士 in the metropolitan exams (Cheng 1992, 142–144, 158). And as the first and most vociferous descendant of Yang to renounce both the Awakening of Faith and Chan, Ouyang set a precedent for, well, heresy: an individual’s “choosing” his own peculiar set of opinions over orthodoxy. Taixu even reflected with bitter satisfaction that Ouyang, who was outraged by his erstwhile student Xiong’s writings, had set the precedent himself with his own free-thinking (Taixu 1980, 166). Xiong Shili was just continuing Ouyang’s trend when in the mid-1920s he renounced the doctrine of reincarnation while staying loyal to Buddhism in general. In fact, inasmuch as Xiong rehabilitated elements of the Awakening of Faith and Chan in his philosophy, he was helping to found a strange tradition of New Confucians who defended the value of peculiarly Chinese developments in Buddhist doctrine more steadfastly than some of the Buddhists themselves. This is one reason why, where Yinshun writes the history of Buddhism’s sinification as a narrative of decline, Mou Zongsan tells it as a story of progress.12 And though renjian fojiao or Chinese Buddhist modernism did not spawn all of early New Confucianism, its descendants proliferated most and influenced it most. Zhang Junmai lacked anything resembling lineage connections to Buddhism, so far as I know, as did Qian Mu 錢穆 (1895–1990); but they were not the norm. Of the five figures chosen by Peter Zarrow to represent Chinese conservatism between the wars – Liang Qichao 梁啟超 (1873–1929), Zhang Junmai, Liang Shuming, Xiong Shili, and Taixu (Zarrow 2006, 178–182) – Zhang alone lacks a strong association to Buddhist thought. Even before Liang Qichao made major contributions to Buddhist philology, he stood with Kang Youwei among the core of late-Qing New Text scholars, about whom he famously wrote, “there was almost none who did not have some connection with Buddhism” (1959, 116), and when the Hundred Days’ Reform fell apart in 1898, Liang even “expressed a desire to retire from politics and become a monk” (Davies 2011).13 Liang Qichao even had an indirect connection with Yang Wenhui through his friend Tan Sitong 譚嗣同 (1865–1898). And Liang Shuming was perhaps even more closely linked with Buddhism. Though to my knowledge he is invariably classed as a New Confucian and never as a proponent of renjian

12 For Yinshun’s view, see Yinshun 1986; Chu 2006, 93–115. Mou Zongsan’s views on the sinification of Buddhism, which we could justly call supercessionist and even triumphalist, are on display throughout Mou 1977 and 1983. Also see Clower 2010. 13 Note too that Yan 1989 argues that Kang and Liang should be classified as very early New Confucians.

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fojiao or “humanistic Buddhism”, he is well known in the scholarly literature to have “sat on the fence” and aligned himself publicly with Confucianism but sympathized with Buddhism in private. Indeed, he was so hard to pin down, as Confucian or Buddhist, that contending books have been written on the subject (Alitto 1986; Wang 1988; Meynard 2010). Surveying such Buddhist affinities among these and other modern Confucians, Yao Binbin too has recently concluded, “Without a doubt, New Confucians could also be viewed as a school of Buddhist philosophy” (2014, 275). But above all others, it is Xiong Shili and his followers who are recognized as what we could call the “first family” of New Confucianism (vid. Makeham 2008, 60). Scholars have defined the movement in many ways, some narrower and some broader, but none excludes Xiong and his followers, and some even exclude anyone but them (Makeham 2003, 23–39). Xiong is widely regarded by New Confucians, both on the mainland and in Taiwan, as the one responsible for reviving the Confucian daotong after a hiatus of many centuries (Makeham 2008, 162–165). And it was his students, especially Mou Zongsan, Tang Junyi, and Xu Fuguan 徐復觀 (1903–1982), who put New Confucianism “on the map” through their highly charismatic teaching in Hong Kong and Taiwan and their prolific publishing. In practice, they remain New Confucianism’s representative figures and the standard to which all the others are invariably compared.

2.1 New Confucianism as a Humanistic Buddhist Heresy Historians have described fascism as “a Marxist heresy” and an “antimaterialistic and antirationalist revision of Marxism” (Johnson 1991, 102; Sternheller 1995, 5). In the same way, we can see the principal stream of New Confucianism as a Buddhist modernist heresy, a philosophical, nationalist revision of early Chinese Buddhist modernism. Xiong was a “heretic” (hairetikós) in the precise sense: he chose his opinions, even though they were deviant. Putting it a different way, Guo Qiyong (1994) explains the key characteristic of Xiong as having moved from studying Yogacara in a religious way – giving sutras and Asanga and Vasubandhu the full reverence due to sacred texts – to approaching Yogācāra as a philosopher. He thought of himself as a friend and ally of Yogācāra (at least in the early years), but he did not endow its received doctrines with any aura of infallibility. He treated them as a philosopher treats the work of Aristotle or Wittgenstein: as interesting achievements and points of departure for further inquiry, but not as the last word or holy writ. New Confucians such as Xiong were also “philosophical” in two additional senses. First, they specialized in speculative thought. We could say of New

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Confucians what is conventionally said of their predecessors, the Southern Song Neo-Confucians, namely that they believed that: Only a sound metaphysical foundation made explicitly clear [could provide] the necessary universal and cosmological basis, interpret correctly the classics . . ., integrate the entire heritage into a total systematic philosophy, and redefine every bit of a desirable value system. Only thus [could] Neo-Confucianism give man a wholly integrated way of life with meaning in everyday activities. (Liu 1973, 489)

Second, they were also “philosophical” in the sense that they were participants in the modern reconceptualization of Chinese classical learning as a professionalized discipline called “philosophy” (zhexue), conceived on Western lines and confined to Western-style academic institutions (Chew 2000; Nakajima 2010, 65–66). Chinese Buddhist modernists spread their energies among a wide range of activities, such as publishing periodicals and books, running hospitals, founding schools at all levels, and designing neo-traditional Buddhist seminaries. In contrast from the beginning New Confucians concentrated on tertiary education, because they considered culture, and scholarly pursuits especially, as the “commanding heights” of the country, so to speak. They aimed to save China through higher education. Then as now, the New Confucians of record mostly populated universities, and mostly departments of philosophy, and influenced their countrymen mainly through lectures and writings, and when they occupied themselves building with institutions, these were mostly periodicals and neotraditional academies. But the New Confucians differentiated themselves from the rest of Yang Wenhui’s family tree by more than just a “philosophical” posture; if that had been all they did, they would hardly stand out much from Ouyang and his other disciples. But more than philosophers, they were nationalists, and it was this that propelled them in a visibly different direction from Chinese Buddhist modernists. Returning to the analogy of the early fascists, they split from Marxism most obviously when they shifted their allegiance from a class to a nation-state. Whereas Marxist values were cosmopolitan (at least in theory),14 fascists chose nationalism. Likewise, New Confucians diverged from renjiao fojiao most visibly because they were cultural nationalists and wanted something

14 I am speaking broadly and somewhat ethically, as “cosmopolitan” was a charged word within the Communist movement. Marx approved, since “national one-sidedness and singlemindedness” obstructed a classless society, but later some national communisms did not. See Lutz 2004, 53–54.

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more specifically Chinese than Chinese Buddhist modernism could offer.15 They found much value in Chinese philosophy that was not Buddhist, and they wanted China’s native sages and teachings to enjoy equal standing with the Buddhist triratna. Ideally, they wanted the ultimate truth to encompass as much of Chinese tradition as possible, from the Western Zhou and the Five Classics onward, and to be indigenous to China. This made it impossible for New Confucians to go on living under a Buddhist roof. Ouyang in particular was overtly hostile to Chinese doctrinal modifications, especially any notion of inherent awakening, and to Xiong and his school this verged upon denouncing Chinese philosophy in general. Mou Zongsan in particular detested Ouyang and accused him of distorting Buddhist scripture to fit his single-minded adherence to Indian thought (Mou 2000, 106).16 Of course, Chinese Buddhist modernists disagreed among themselves about what to make of the peculiarly Chinese modifications to Buddhism as they learned to recognize them, and there were many like the patriotic Taixu at the opposite end of the spectrum from Ouyang, who steadfastly honored China’s take on Buddhist doctrine. But the problem was that they remained Buddhists, and as such they honored an Indian teaching above the Chinese ones. Try as they might to install Confucianism in a place of esteem in their panjiao schemes using workarounds long familiar in East Asia – as a laukika dharma (shijian fa 世間法) or a dharma for the “five vehicles,” or even as a precocious Chinese pre-systematic approximation of the Buddhist dharma avant la lettre – it was simply impossible that New Confucians could rest satisfied with those compromises. They did not want the Buddha’s teachings to trump those of the Chinese sages’. Like the Serbian economist Vladimir Gligorov who asked, “Why should I be a minority in your state when you can be a minority in mine?” (Vladimir Gligorov, quoted in Woodward 1995, 108). New Confucians came to prefer a scheme in which Buddhism would have an honored but ultimately subordinate seat in the house of Chinese philosophy, at the right hand of Mencius. What do we gain by adopting this view of Yang Wenhui’s descendants? For one thing, it reveals “humanistic Buddhism” and New Confucianism to be

15 On the cultural nationalism of New Confucianism, see Makeham 2008, passim; Chan 2011, passim; and Clower 2014a. A good window into the second-generation New Confucians’ cultural nationalism is available in their “Manifesto for a Reappraisal of Sinology and the Reconstruction of Chinese Culture,” a segment of which is translated in DeBary and Lufrano 2000, 550–555. 16 Note that Mou showed his awareness that Ouyang re-embraced Confucianism in his later years and even published very friendly commentaries to each of the Four Books, but this did nothing at all to mollify him. Also see Mou 1977, 453; Clower 2014b, 49–51.

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closely related varieties of a single “Chinese modernist cultural conservatism” or “culturally conservative Chinese modernism” that sought to issue modernist credentials to traditional religion as a bulwark against Christianity, Marxism, and Westernization. Furthermore, we bring into focus a family resemblance so striking that we might be surprised that we did not think of the two movements as cousins all along.

Concluding Remarks Consider the following generally agreed characteristics that are used to define the formation called “Buddhist modernism,” “socially engaged Buddhism” or renjian fojiao, each of which finds a matching feature in New Confucianism. First, according to Heinz Bechert’s classic schema, Buddhist modernism emphasizes rationalistic elements of Buddhism (Bechert 1966, 37–42, as cited in Bingenheimer 2007, 152). Likewise, New Confucians edited out the Confucian tradition’s beliefs in what moderns call “supernatural” phenomena, such as the belief that a ruler’s virtue influences the weather in his kingdom.17 Indeed, they scrubbed it cleaner of supernaturalism than did some prominent Buddhist modernists. For example, there is no New Confucian counterpart to Buddhist attempts to rescue some of the supernaturalism of the sutras through what Erik Hammerstrom calls a “higher empiricism,” whereby they claimed that the Buddha was the keenest scientific observer of all because of his supernormal sensory powers (abhijñā) and that he could observe things not visible to ordinary human scientists (Hammerstrom 2015, 94–101). Next, Buddhist modernism’s leaders are influenced by their knowledge of European history and scientific standards of rationality (Bingenheimer 2007, 152). No less vigorously, New Confucians tried hard to reconcile Confucianism systematically with science, and to explain themselves in partly European terms. This is true of Liang Shuming and Fang Dongmei (though not, I grant, of Xiong Shili), Tang Junyi, and Xu Fuguan, but most of all of Mou Zongsan, who tried to cement Chinese philosophy’s place in the modern world by working out a systematic

17 It is not that New Confucians are reductionist materialists, and to avoid that impression, some people might wish to say that New Confucians believe in “the supernatural” in the rarefied sense that they teach the existence of a supra-material Reality (benti 本體). But that does not alter my point here, which is that they teach that what we might call “real life” – the sensible world – and the phenomena comprising it follow the laws of nature; they are scientifically regular and not subject to exceptions. In short, there are no miracles.

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epistemology that had a place for both enlightened intuition and empirical knowledge. As another of its defining characteristics, Buddhist modernism has been seen to expand the role of the laity, especially as part of lay Buddhist organizations (Bingenheimer 2007, 152). In the Confucian case, an analogous transformation was not even necessary in Republican times, since the tradition had already lost its traditional quasi-clerical institutions of authority: the imperial academies, the civil service exam system, and the degree-holding gentry.18 Famously, Buddhist modernists competed with and learned from Christian missionaries (Bingenheimer 2007, 152), but just as zealously did New Confucians compete consciously with Christians for sway over China. In organizational (as opposed to intellectual) activity, they did this chiefly through higher education. That is, aside from just promoting an alternative spiritual message, they sponsored rival institutions to the Christian colleges of the missionaries. In addition, Buddhist modernism erased boundaries that separate Buddhist belief, practice, and organizational life from activities considered morally relevant to modern secular society and its governance (Main and Lai 2013, 26).19 Likewise, New Confucians revalorized their tradition specifically with an eye to what they call “the new outer kingliness” (xin waiwang 新外王), namely the application of modern science, technology, and government to society’s problems as an expression of moral practice.20 Bingenheimer also notes that Buddhist modernism also accommodates new ways into a re-formed tradition that pretends to be older and “more traditional” than the current state of “the tradition” (2007, 153). New Confucians characteristically claim that, rather than innovating, their movement recovered the authentic Confucian dao after a gap of some centuries. This is codified in a

18 Even if anyone had wanted to reverse this change and devise some updated, neotraditional stand-ins for those institutions, for almost a century it would scarcely have been possible for a serious person to imagine what forms those could possibly take. However, as Jiang Qing (2012) and Daniel Bell (2015) have begun to re-imagine modern Chinese governance in neo-conservative Confucian terms, they have effectively cast the Communist Party as today’s counterpart for the meritocratically chosen Confucian degree-holding gentry. 19 Bingenheimer (2007) also lists a fifth item from Heinz Bechert’s list, namely that “[f]or many exponents of Buddhist modernism, the Buddhist teachings do not first of all teach us to turn away from worldly affairs, but challenge us to improve them.” I have omitted this here in favor of Main & Lai’s formulation. 20 In a fascinating article, Mei Kuang (2011) studies the history of the term neisheng waiwang 內聖外王 (inner sageliness and outer kingliness) and argues that New Confucians have misrepresented it as a traditional Confucian idea and that scholars have failed to notice this sleight of hand.

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“succession of the Way” (daotong 道統) that significantly revises the traditional view, as in the case of Xiong Shili, who advocated a direct return to the “Six Classics” and pre-Qin Confucianism, and Mou Zongsan, who famously dethroned Zhu Xi and gave highest honors to Zhu’s obscure contemporary Hu Hong 胡宏 (1105–1161). To the elements above drawn from the scholarly literature on Buddhist modernism in general, I would add that, as one of their central activities, Chinese Buddhist modernists reinterpreted texts, ran popular institutions (such as schools, seminaries, and periodicals), and sought outlets in public universities to disseminate those ideas. This is truest, I think, of the Taixu-Yinshun, Taixu-Dongchu,21 and Ouyang lines. But is also true of their cousins the New Confucians, who ran night classes and lecture series for the public and founded neo-traditional academies such as New Asia College (now part of the Chinese University of Hong Kong) and colonized public academic institutions very successfully, beginning with the Peking University’s Department of Philosophy before the war and extending afterward to Academia Sinica’s Institute of Chinese Literature and Philosophy and National Zhongyang University afterward. They also kept alive culturally conservative, broad-interest periodicals such as Democratic Review (Minzhu pinglun 民主評論) and Rebirth (Zaisheng 再生) and philosophical journals such as Legein (Ehu 鵝湖) and its sister publications, not to mention enough monographs to make whole library shelves groan and collapse. From here, we might also begin to wonder whether or not there are other “long-lost relatives” as well. It should be no surprise that cultural conservatives in the 20th century should gravitate to Buddhism and Confucianism, as the most obvious cultural resources for building an alternative to Christianity, Marxism, or other anti-religious materialisms, and shy away from associating themselves with Daoism, for which it was much the harder to make modernist credentials. But there must have been kindred spirits who wandered in the direction of Daoism. Xun Liu (2012) has brought to attention Chen Yingning 陳攖寧 (1880–1969), for example, who studied briefly at the Buddhist seminary in Hardoon Garden and seems to have known Taixu, Yuexia 月霞 (1858–1917), and other Buddhist reformers. However, Chen objected to Buddhist indifference to the body and the physical world and the Mahāyāna Buddhist preoccupation with metaphysics and subsequently chose to switch allegiances and attempt his own “scientization” of Daoism that competed directly with analogous

21 On Dongchu’s life and lineage, see Yu 2004, 1: 642–645. On the relationship of Dongchu’s prominent follower Sheng Yen 聖嚴 (1930–2009) to Dongchu and, through him, to Taixu, see Dharma Drum Mountain 2003–2007.

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Buddhist efforts. And in Xu Fuguan’s case, though he identified steadfastly with Confucianism, turning an eye to somatic concerns like Chen’s shows him to have been a significant outlier among the New Confucians for his opinion that “metaphysics and ontology were not appropriate instruments for understanding ancient Chinese thought” and his attempt to balance other New Confucians’ preoccupation with xinxing 心性 with an attention to the importance of qi and the body (2014, 90). If I am right and “humanistic Buddhism” or renjian fojiao and New Confucianism are such obvious relatives to one another, why do we not ordinarily think of them that way? One reason that we do not look hard for these connections is simple disciplinary happenstance. Most of us are trained as specialists in either the Buddhist or the Confucian tradition because the two textual traditions are so different, invoking widely separated intertextual networks, that our expertise in one provides little foothold for reading the other. Thus the field becomes populated with people whose skills and interests are defined principally in terms of either Buddhism or Confucianism, and any threads that lead into the other tradition automatically are defined as someone else’s concern and fade from attention and memory. The greater reason, however, is that scholars have mainly adopted the Buddhist modernists’ and New Confucians’ own self-narrative, and neither of those groups claims the other as its relatives: humanistic Buddhists do not want to claim paternity of New Confucianism, and New Confucians certainly do not want to assert Buddhist parentage. In some of his moods Xiong Shili called the Buddhist influence on Song Confucianism a pollutant and a poison, and even Mou Zongsan, who borrowed from Buddhists deeply and openly, denied that Neo-Confucians had been influenced by Buddhism (Mou 1990, 1: 579–580; also see Jing 1981, 90; Clower 2014b, 129.) In Mou’s opinion, there was propinquity and parallelism, even imitation, but only in form and never substance. The substance and source of the Confucian message Mou traced in a vertical line straight to Mencius and beyond. As for Buddhism, he and Tang saw it as a challenge, not a collaborator or an inspiration, and Confucianism responded to it from within its own resources (Han 2010, 107). Incidentally, Mou hardly presented himself as coming from Xiong Shili either (Clower 2014b, 39–40, 47). Rather, just as the Neo-Confucians claimed to have picked up where Mencius left off more than a thousand years before, Mou often allowed it to appear as though the spirit of Mencius had jumped from Liu Jishan 劉蕺山 (1578–1645) across three centuries to him and his contemporaries at New Asia College. As mentioned earlier, when a group narrates its lineage, it is largely “branding” itself for a public who might admire, join, help, or donate to it.

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Creating a formidable-looking lineage is really a sign of weakness, as Faure says, not strength; it is what a group does when it has few tangible assets (1997, 9). And when one is building a brand, although sometimes it helps to associate oneself with prestigious names, always it is imperative to differentiate one’s brand from those of competitors. And from the perspective of romance and mystique – no small things for a spiritual movement – it helps each group to focus attention on its ancient lineage, pointing back through the mists of sacred history to Jetavana or the palace of the Duke of Zhou, and not on their mundane kinship as alternative variants of post-imperial cultural conservatism.

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Ester Bianchi

Understanding Jielü 戒律: The Resurgence and Reconfiguration of Vinaya-Related Concepts in Modern China Introduction Within the two so-called Buddhist revivals in modern and contemporary China,1 there were also several resurgences of monastic discipline.2 While scholars have recently begun to seriously question the use of the concept of “revival” (fuxing 復興) to describe the dynamics within modern and contemporary Chinese Buddhism, mainly due to the narrative of decline that it implies, in the case of vinaya a concrete re-introduction of forgotten rituals and rules did indeed occur.3 Relying on the well-established idea that vinaya was the foundation of the

1 This study was conceived within the research project on “Vinaya Revival in 20th Century China and Taiwan” (CCKF Research Grant, 2015–2018). I wish to express my gratitude to Martino Concu Dibeltulo, Richard M. Jaffe, Robert Sharf, and Alexander Von Rospatt for their careful reading of parts of the of the present paper and for all their valuable suggestions. 2 On the vinaya revival of the first half of the twentieth century, see Campo 2017b and Bianchi 2017b; on the second half of the century, seem Bianchi 2016 and 2019. 3 The so-called Buddhist revivals of the first and second half of the twentieth century have been complex and multifaceted phenomena that involved not only the revitalization of rituals and practices that had fallen into oblivion (as in the case of the vinaya revival), but also forms of innovation and adaptation to new historical and social circumstances. Generally speaking, the revivals occurred in response to dramatic historic events (namely the Taiping Rebellion, and the Cultural Revolution) and radical changes (e.g., the “building schools with temple property” campaign at the end of the Qing dynasty and subsequent similar measures), as in the case for the other religions of China (Goossaert, Palmer 2010). It should also be noticed that the very idea of revival is often used as a rhetorical device, implying an earlier decline of the religion. As pointed out by Erik Schicketanz (2017), “narratives of Chinese Buddhist history have long been characterized by positing a fundamental decline, which only saw a reversal at the end of the Qing dynasty with the emergence of heroic figures such as the layman Yang Wenhui 楊文會 (1837–1911) or the reformist monk Taixu 太虛 (1890–1947).” Modern scholarship, however, tends to neglect the fact that Buddhism was experiencing an actual internal decline in modern times. Other than the role played by biased Western/Christian depictions of Chinese Buddhism (Welch 1968), it should be noticed that there existed a similar discourse of decline in contemporary Chinese Buddhist circles as well, being prominent particularly among reformer monks: as it often occurred during the history of East Asian Buddhism, the notion of decline worked as an incentive for innovation. On the concept and meaning of the revival, see https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110547825-004

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Buddhist dharma,4 these processes of vinaya revival were intended to regenerate Buddhism on a legitimate basis during a time of decadence. But to what conceptions of jielü/vinaya did these modern and contemporary vinaya revivals refer? The understanding of jielü and other vinaya-related terms, which has itself undergone constant modifications throughout the history of Chinese Buddhism, has again become the subject of scholarly reassessment. This chapter will consider both the re-elaboration of jielü/vinaya in the field of Buddhist studies, as well as the understanding of the same concept within Chinese Buddhism, in order to better understand how these different perspectives have affected each other. More precisely, I will address the following questions: To what extent has the modern understanding of Buddhism as a PanAsian religion influenced conceptions of jielü/vinaya? What did jielü mean to modern Chinese Buddhist actors? Finally, what concepts of monastic discipline are reflected in modern scholarship on Chinese Buddhism?

1 Semantic Facets of Jielü and Other Vinaya-Related Terms The word jielü 戒律 is commonly used to refer to Buddhist and Daoist regulations in general.5 It is the most widely used Chinese translation of the Sanskrit vinaya and refers to monastic discipline in both a narrow and a broad sense.6

Lai (2013, 30–35), and Scott (2017); for a comparison and an analysis of relations and continuities between the two Buddhist revivals of modern times, see Ji, Tian, and Wang (2016, 1–4). 4 In the Buddhist scriptures one finds unmistakable statements in this regard: “If the vinaya dwells in the world then the dharma will dwell in the world” (Pini zhushi fofa zezhu 毗尼住世 佛法則住: X 41, 732, 875), “thanks to the permanence of the vinaya in the world, the dharma will dwell long as well” (Pini zhushi ze zhengfa jiuzhu 毗尼住世則正法久住: X 40, 720, 489) and so on. See Bianchi 2016, 155–156. The idea that the survival of Buddhism depends upon the survival of the vinaya (Bodiford 2005, 1) is of course at the core of the very concept of a monastic community (whose identity derives from vinaya rules and ordination). 5 This study only focuses on Buddhism. It should though be noted that this same term is also used in a Daoist context. See for instance Goossaert 2008. 6 Shengyan (1998, 29–31) gives the following explanations for jielü: (1) śīla (jie) and vinaya (lü); (2) prātimokṣa; (3) restraints of morality (jielüyi 戒律儀, śīla-saṃvara); (4) monastic discipline in its broadest meaning (comprising all precepts, prohibitions and other disciplinary rules); and (5) code of moral discipline (xuechu 學處, śikṣāpada), prohibitions (jinjie 禁戒, śīlavrata), precepts of restraint (lüyi 律儀, īryā), deportment rules (weiyi 威儀, īryā-patha). As observed by Charles S. Prebish (2003, 58), the compound śīla + vinaya (as in jielü) does not exist in the Indian tradition, “where the terms are indeed separate and never compounded;”

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As such, it includes within it meanings and connotations of several other vinaya-related terms: 1 Jie 戒: “prohibition” or “prescriptive precept.” The Chinese translation of śīla, it also refers to the prātimokṣa (jieben 戒本); carrying a distinct meaning from lü 律, which exclusively addresses monastics, jie is also associated with the so-called mahāyāna vinaya, such as in pusajie 菩薩戒 (Bodhisattva precepts) and in mimijie 祕密戒 (tantric vows), which can also be taken by lay people; finally, jie also translates vinaya, as in Jiezang 戒藏 (Vinaya-pi ṭaka). 2 Shiluo 尸羅: transliteration of śīla. 3 Lü 律: “rule, regulation, code.” Translates vinaya, and refers only to elements of monastic life; its most common compounds include Lüzong 律宗 (Vinaya school) and Lüzang 律藏 (Vinaya-piṭaka). 4 Pini 毘尼 and pinaiye 毘柰耶 (or binaiye 鼻奈耶): transliterations of vinaya.7 Pinizang 毘尼藏 is another name for the Vinaya-piṭaka. 5 Xingjiao 行教 or zhijiao 制教: “practical/restraining teachings.” Understood as referring to rules and prohibitions for monks and nuns (in contrast to the “edifying teachings” or huajiao 化教, which address monastics and lay people alike).8 We can thus infer that the concept of jielü not only refers to the so-called śrāvaka or hīnayāna vinaya (xiaosheng jielü 小乘戒律) – which from Daoxuan 道宣 (596–667)9 onward was mainly understood to be the vinaya of the Dharmaguptaka tradition (sifenlü 四分律) – but that jielü also applies to the

Prebish further explains that vinaya can be interpreted as “that which separates, or that which removes” while śīla is a highly ethical term and generally refers to “virtue, moral conduct, morality.” As for the various connotations of vinaya in general (corpus of scriptures, precepts and prohibitions, the vow to adhere to the precepts, etc.), see Bodiford 2005, 2–3. 7 Pini was the most common transliteration before Xuanzang 玄奘, who introduced the new form pinaiye (Shengyan 1998, 30). 8 The distinction between xingjiao and huajiao is exposed by Daoxuan in his commentary on the vinaya of the Dharmagupta (Sifenlü shanfan buque xingshi chao 四分律刪繁補闕行事鈔, T 1804). Xingjiao was later renamed zhijiao by Fazang 法藏 in his “Commentary on the Brahmā’s Net Sūtra Prātimokṣa” (Fanwangjing Pusa jieben shu 梵網經菩薩戒本疏, T 1813). See the lemma 行教 in Digital Dictionary of Buddhism. 9 Daoxuan, who is considered the founder of the Nanshan 南山 vinaya lineage, was responsible for the definitive success in China of the “Four-part vinaya” (of the Dharmaguptaka, T 1428). At the same time, in his works and commentaries he also drew upon the Brahmā’s Net Sūtra and other mahāyāna literature and established rules specifically designed for Chinese monastics and for the monasteries of his time. On Daoxuan, see Chen 2007 and Satō 1994.

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Bodhisattva precepts inspired by the Brahmā’s Net Sūtra (dasheng jielü 大乘戒律, mahāyāna vinaya).10 Moreover, in a much broader sense, jielü also refers to the monastic codes that were composed in medieval China, even if these “regulations for the saṃgha” (sengzhi 僧制, senggui 僧規, guize 規則 etc.) were conceived as rules to govern the behavior of monks and nuns in all matters not otherwise covered by the vinaya. At the same time, commentaries were written in an effort to harmonize hīnayāna and mahāyāna perspectives – the combination of hīnayāna vinaya and mahāyāna vinaya became a common topic beginning in the Sui and Tang dynasties11 – as well as to harmonize Indian and Chinese cultural customs. This literature eventually evolved into the genre of the “pure rules” (qinggui 清規)12 that, including both original content from the vinaya and many new “elements incorporating traditional Chinese etiquette” (Yifa 2005, 129) ended up eclipsing vinaya texts and codes in China. Not surprisingly, the pure rules have been termed a form of “sinicized vinaya.”13 This textual corpus can be

10 Bodhisattva precepts (pusa jie 菩薩戒) can be divided into three groups according to their significance: (1) precepts to avoid performing negative actions or for the maintenance of restraint (shelüyijie 攝律儀戒, saṃvara-śīla); (2) precepts to “liberate good essences,” i.e. for practicing virtuous deeds (sheshan fajie 攝善法戒, kuśala-dharma-saṃgrāhaka-śīla); and (3) precepts for the welfare or liberation of living beings (she zhongsheng jie 攝衆生戒, sattvārthakriyā-śīla). The 10 major and 48 minor Bodhisattva precepts are outlined in the Brahmā’s Net Sūtra (Fanwang jing 梵网经), an apocryphal scripture of the fifth century, that eventually became the principal reference for the Bodhisattva precepts in China. See Chu 2006, Demiéville 1930, Getz 2005, Lin 2012, Sheng-Yen 1994, and Yamabe 2005. For the Indian origins and further evolutions of the Bodhisattva precepts, see Yamabe 2005 and Martini 2013. Also see below, note 58 on the Yogācāra set of the Bodhisattva precepts. 11 Hīnayāna vinaya is also called shengwenlü 聲聞律 (śrāvaka vinaya), while mahāyāna vinaya is identical with the Bodhisattva precepts. For instance, Huiyuan 慧遠 (523–592) in his “Essay on the System of Mahāyāna” (Dasheng yizhang 大乘義章, T. 1851, 659) neatly distinguished hīnayāna vinaya and mahāyāna vinaya and declared that only the latter also regards the mind (while hīnayāna only comprehends body and speech). From the Tang dynasty onward, the same distinction is to be found in the works of many vinaya masters. Daoxuan prefers to refer to hīnayāna vinaya in terms of sifenlü. 12 These monastic codes during the last dynasties of the imperial period eventually superseded vinaya texts; accordingly, the lemma qinggui jielü 清規戒律 is used to refer to Buddhist and Daoist regulations in general terms. Interestingly, in common language qinggui jielü has come to signify “restrictions and fetters,” often with a derogatory nuance: 原指佛教徒所遵守 的規則和戒條。現比喻束縛人的繁瑣不合理的規章制度 (Hanyu cidian 漢語詞典). 13 For instance, Wang 2011. The most important of these codes is the Baizhang qinggui 百丈清 規 ascribed to Bai Zhang 百丈 (720–814 CE), which, in its Yuan revision (Chixiu Baizhang qinggui 敕修百丈淸規, T 2025), became the standard code for all monasteries in the empire. On the pure rules, and particularly on the Chanyuan qinggui 禪苑清規, see Yifa 2002 and 2005. On the decline of vinaya in favor of the pure rules, also see Tso 1994.

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identified with what has come to be known as “Chinese vinaya” (Zhongguo fojiao jielü 中國佛教戒律).14 It is important to note that these multiple connotations can only be found in East Asian Buddhism, whereas other Buddhist traditions interpret vinaya much more narrowly: only in terms of what the Chinese call śrāvaka or hīnayāna vinaya, i.e. the code of monastic precepts for individual monks and nuns (prātimokṣa), the formal procedures for the monastic community listed in the karmavācanā, and related canonical literature.15 In addition, there are a few more concepts that deserve to be mentioned in this context, as they can be useful to understand the Chinese interpretation of monastic discipline. The concept of the “essence of the precepts” (jieti 戒體), also developed by Daoxuan, refers to a special kind of inner quality that is understood to be transmitted through regular ordination, and which gives to monks and nuns the capacity to correctly observe the precepts. This was an idea that was most likely created in China, even if it was based upon Indian theoretical premises.16 The Platform Sūtra, on the other hand, introduced the idea that precepts – here meant as Bodhisattva precepts – should not be regarded as rules imposed from the outside, but rather as “formless precepts” (wuxiangjie 無相戒). Drawing on the theory of the Buddha nature, which is thought to be originally and eternally pure, the Platform Sūtra suggests that “observing the precepts is a matter of following one’s own nature rather than adhering to rules established by a group” (Groner 2012, 138). These concepts succeeded in strengthening the link between monastic discipline and mahāyāna views and, in so doing, they realized a sublimation of the precepts, seen no more as mere rules imposed from the outside but as the manifestation of an innate potentiality to become enlightened (Bodiford 2005, 2). All of these meanings and implications of the precepts have emerged throughout the centuries as means of fostering the penetration and growth of

14 See for instance Yuan 2007. 15 The core of Buddhist monastic discipline is represented by the prātimokṣa and the karmavācanā; to these two sections, the vibhaṅgas (explanation and comments on the precepts) and the skandhakas (explanation of the procedures) are added. On vinaya literature, see Heirman 2007 and Prebish 1994. On the various meanings and possible etymology of the word vinaya see, among others, Shengyan 1998, 30–31; and Holt 1981. 16 It is often defined as a “power to prevent transgression and stop evil” (fangfei zhi’e 防非止 惡); “although the concept of jieti is explained by Chinese exegetes using philosophical structures drawn from Indian Buddhist thought, it is highly doubtful that this is an idea directly derived from Indian thought” (Newhall 2014, 186). This concept served to explain why monastics had to go through regular (re)ordinations and it also reconciled hīnayāna vinaya with mahāyāna doctrines. Also see Bodiford 2005, 2–3.

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Buddhism in China, and have also played a role in shaping the domestication of certain Indian customs in the Chinese environment. As such, they form part of the patrimony inherited by modern Chinese Buddhists. On the other hand, this understanding of monastic discipline came to be questioned and reconfigured in the modern era following the affirmation of new ideas as Buddhism came to be treated as a unified Pan-Asian religion.

2 Meanings and Implications of Jielü/Vinaya in a Pan-Asian Perspective Even if a translocal character and a Pan-Asian perspective have been part of Buddhism for much of its history, it is still fair to observe that in the second millennium CE Buddhist Asia assumed a more polycentric character, leading to the formation of three independent forms of Buddhism: the Mahāyāna Buddhism of East Asia, Indo-Tibetan Buddhism in the Himalayas, and Theravāda Buddhism in South and South-East Asia. While relations and exchanges within each of these traditions continued through to contemporary times, contacts between Buddhists beyond them were rare and more exceptional. However, in the late nineteenth century globalism gained ground and sought to restore to Buddhism its PanAsiatic translocal character, turning it into a unifying force in Asia. Within this global perspective (which had its origins in European scholarship but then rapidly spread throughout Asia) Buddhism came to be understood as a unified Pan-Asian religion, despite the differences of its many regional manifestations.17 The affirmation of these ideas enabled the development of a dialogue between representatives of the different forms of Buddhism in various regions of Asia. Moreover, it also encouraged the introduction of innovations that sought to recover an alleged ‘original’ and ‘pure’ form of the religion – a conception which has been traced back to Eugène Burnouf’s idea of “simple sutras.”18 This original Buddhism was soon to be identified by a certain ‘Orientalist’ scholarship19 with the Pāli Buddhism of South and South-East Asia, which was labeled

17 On the rise and development of the modern conception of Buddhism as a unified PanAsian religion, with reference to the Tibetan and the Chinese traditions, see Tuttle 2005, 74–76; and to the Japanese tradition, see Jaffe 2009, 269–271. 18 On Burnouf’s “simple sutras” and his theory on the ‘original’ teaching of the Buddha, which was developed in the years 1841–1844, see Dibeltulo Concu 2017. 19 In the present study, the term ‘Orientalist’ is meant to refer to those European scholars who, during the second half of the nineteenth century, devoted themselves to the study of

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as Theravāda (Doctrine of the Elders).20 Theravāda thus came to identify a textbased and “pure” form of Buddhism, based on the Pāli Canon as its sacred texts. The role of Western Orientalists in this process is well summarized by Paul J. Will, who believes that the fact that early Western scholars of Buddhism were in contact with Theravāda Buddhism allowed this particular form of Buddhism to be accepted as closer to the Buddha’s original teaching, and thus as purer, to the dismay of other Buddhist traditions (Will 1996, 368).21 As for the identification of a ‘early’, ‘original’ or ‘primitive’ Buddhism specifically with Sinhalese Buddhism, it can be traced back to Hermann Oldenberg (1882, 75), who stated that “ . . . the church of Ceylon remained true to the simple, homely, ‘Word of the Ancients’ (Theravāda).” Among the Asians who worked to spread these modern ideas of Buddhism was Anagārika Dharmapāla (1864–1933), the Sinhalese founder of the Maha Bodhi Society (1891). He devoted himself to the task of reconfiguring Buddhism in Sri Lanka in accordance with this Orientalist Pāli-centered and textual perspective, thus contributing to the identification of South-Asian Buddhism with original Buddhism.22 This view was later to be

Eastern religions looking to them with a Western bias and who, as explained by Richard King (1999, 145), tended “to reify the object of their discourses and to locate that reified ‘essence’ (now labelled ‘Buddhism’) firmly within a clearly defined body of classical texts.” Differently from the Japanese perspective, which also valued Mahāyāna Buddhism, many Western scholars were inclined toward the study of Pāli literature, which they regarded as the most ancient and thus the closest to an original Buddhism. For views on Buddhism developed in Orientalist studies, see King 1999, 143–160. On the origins of Orientalism, particularly in regards to India and China, see App 2010. On Orientalism referred to Tibetan Buddhism, see HolmesTagchungdarpa’s chapter in Concepts and Methods for the Study of Chinese Religions I: State of the Field and Disciplinary Approaches. 20 The notion of Theravāda Buddhism as a category for a unified religious system was developed at the beginning of the twentieth century by Western studies, and it was chosen as a ‘marker of identity’ by the same Southern Buddhists during the first half of the twentieth century. Prior to this, if taken in a denominational sense, the Pāli term Theravāda (“the doctrine of the elders”, corresponding to Skt. Sthavira nikāya and Ch. shangzuobu 上座部) typically referred to one of the two nikāyas believed to have originated at the Second Buddhist Council (also identified as the first schism of Buddhism), the other nikāya being the Mahāsaṅghika (Ch. dazhongbu 大眾部). These nikāyas later divided further into sub-denominations. See Skilling, Carbine, Cicuzza, and Pakdeekham 2012 and, for the modern development of this notion, particularly see the insightful study by Perreira 2012. 21 On the role of the Anglo-German school of Buddhist Studies in the development of this idea, see Perreira 2012, 472–473. 22 Dharmapāla’s critique of the degradation of village Buddhism, for instance, is discussed by Richard King (1999, 151) as an example representing the influence of Western attempts to locate ‘pure’ Buddhism in certain canonical texts as well as “the impact of a quasi-Christian construction of ‘heresies’, labeled as ‘village’ (literally ‘pagan’) and therefore classed as inferior to

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shared by other representatives of that tradition, who still perceive themselves as the true heirs of the historical Buddha and his teachings.23 Chinese Buddhists were exposed to these new ideas through the influence and endeavors of several key figures, including Yang Wenhui 楊文會 (Yang Renshan 楊仁山, 1837–1911),24 the renowned publisher and educator who devoted himself to the printing of Buddhist scriptures, and, later, Taixu 太虛 (1890–1947),25 the self-styled head of the reforms for the modernization of Chinese Buddhism. Yang’s contacts and relations with scholars in Asian studies and with representatives of the Buddhist world (including Max Müller, Otto Franke, Nanjō Bunyū, and Dharmapāla) are examples of the way in which these new ideas were created, developed, and spread into China and elsewhere.26 As observed by Holmes Welch (1968, 2–22), Yang was a pioneer in China in thinking “of Buddhism as a world religion in a scientific world.” In the 1890s he met and established friendly relationships with Dharmapāla, who was planning to revive Buddhism in India and who hoped also to engage with Chinese Buddhists – together with those of all other Buddhist countries – in his call for restoring Indian pilgrimage sites.27 Eventually, they agreed “that they

a literate, urbanized and textually derived Buddhism.” Dharmapāla has been described as the very representative of the so-called ‘Protestant Buddhism’ (see Gombrich and Obeyesekere 1988). He came from a wealthy family and received a Western education, and collaborated with the founders of the Theosophical Society, Henry Steel Olcott and Helena Blavatsky. In 1893 Dharmapāla attended, as representative of Southern Buddhism, the World’s Parliament of Religions in Chicago, the first organized gathering of Eastern and Western religions, which is considered to be the beginning of modern global interreligious dialogue (Perreira 2012, 498–501). On Anagārika Dharmapāla, see Kemper 2015. 23 This is still true today: “In modern Sri Lanka, Theravāda is widely believed to be the purest surviving form of Buddhism doctrinally and practically” (Holt 1994, 54). 24 On Yang Wenhui, see Goldfuss 2001. 25 On Taixu, see Pittman 2001. 26 During his journey to England, Yang Wenhui probably met with the famous Orientalist Max Müller (1823–1900), founder of the field of comparative religions and editor of The Sacred Books of the East, and became friends with Müller’s pupil, the Japanese Buddhist priest Nanjō Bunyū 南条文雄 (1849–1927), who later was to help him in importing Buddhist works from Japan to reprint in China. In 1884 Yang met with the Welsh Christian missionary Timothy Richard (1845–1919). The latter also attended the Parliament of World’s Religions in Chicago. It was thanks to Richard that Dharmapāla was introduced to Yang. 27 The appeal that Dharmapāla wrote for the Chinese Buddhists is a true example of a PanAsian Buddhist perspective: “It is our objective to restore the sacred rites, to station bhikkhus from all Buddhist countries in these places, to train them as Buddhist missionaries to preach Buddhism to the people of India, to retranslate Buddhist scriptures into Indian languages from Chinese; and to carry out this scheme, we have formed a great Buddhist society, called the Maha Bodhi Society, on an international basis. All the Buddhist countries, viz., Japan,

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should make a common effort to revive Buddhism in order to spread it throughout the world.” In the beginning Yang had disapproved of the idea of sending Chinese monks to India, but later he decided to “train Chinese monks for missionary works abroad” (Welch 1968, 8–10), thus gradually adopting a more ‘global’ perspective. Prior to Dharmapāla’s visit to Shanghai in 1893, there had for centuries not been many – if any – contacts between Chinese and Sinhalese Buddhists. His call for a Buddhist movement on a global scale was adopted by Yang and, soon after, by monastic key figures. It was destined to have a deep influence on the subsequent developments of Chinese Buddhism. Certain Buddhist factions, particularly among acculturated laymen and monastics, started to espouse the idea that the Buddhism of South and South-East Asian countries reflected more than that of any other Buddhist region the original teachings of the Buddha,28 and as a corollary it was held that South Asian Buddhist monasticism had best preserved early Indian Buddhist vinaya.29 As for Taixu, he fully subscribed to these new ecumenical ideas, which he tried to implement in his own project of a world Buddhist movement; twice, in 1939 and again in 1940, he traveled to South Asia, and in Sri Lanka he “called for cooperation between Chinese and Sinhalese Buddhists” (Welch 1968, 63).30 In these same years, other Chinese monks began to travel to Sri Lanka, Thailand and Burma, India, and Indochina, on pilgrimage, for re-ordination, or in order to study abroad, while foreign – mainly Sinhalese – Buddhists began to visit China.31 In short, the Pan-Asian perspective favored the identification of an alleged original Buddhism with the Pāli tradition of Southern Buddhism,32 and

Siam, Brurma, Tibet, Ceylon, Chittagong and Arakan, have joined us in our work, and now I make this appeal to the Buddhists of China” (Welch 1968, 7). 28 Notice too Welch’s statement that “Theravāda seemed less vulnerable to the charge of ‘superstition’ and more compatible with the pronouncements of science” (Welch 1968, 182). 29 On the importance of vinaya in Sri Lanka, with reference also to Burma and Thailand, see Holt (1994, 54). 30 In 1935 Taixu met the prominent monk Narada (1898–1983), who went to China to teach the Pāli language. One of their favorite topics of discussion was vinaya and ordination. See Ritzinger 2016, 155–156. On Taixu’s “Goodwill Tour” to South and Southeast Asia, see Xue Yu 2005, who presents it as a contribution to the Nationalist war strategies, and Tansen Sen 2016, mainly focusing on the mission to India (1940). 31 Interestingly, all such monks in the end disrobed. On this phenomenon, which was already described by Welch (1968, 62–63 and 179–183), also see the recent in-depth analysis by Ritzinger 2016. 32 The majority of the Chinese sources of the first half of the twentieth century that I could consult (mainly Buddhist journals and some major works) refer to these forms of Buddhism by the standard notion of Hīnayāna (xiaosheng 小乘), by naming them after the country of origin (e.g. Miandian fojiao 緬甸佛教: Burmese Buddhism), and by the notions of “Southern Buddhism”

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also favored the idea that this original Buddhism was to be granted a higher status than it had been customary before.33 As for vinaya, not only was it considered to be the very foundation of the Buddhist Dharma – deserving of the same title of “great master” (dashi 大師), which had been used for the Buddha (Heirman 2007, 167) – but it also represented a common factor with which Buddhist traditions from around the globe could identify themselves, considering the consistency of the extant Vinayapiṭakas.34 Accordingly, Taixu is reported to have claimed that “vinaya is the common basis of the three vehicles” (Chen and Deng 2000, 401).35 The vinaya of Southern Buddhist monasticism was taken as the exemplar, and came to be regarded as a close expression of the ‘original’ vinaya. Thus, the Southern monastic community was understood to embody the ideal image of the original Buddhist saṃgha. This is documented by the two Chinese programs of sending monks to study in Sri Lanka in 1936 and 1946, where they were explicitly “tasked with retrieving pure original Buddhism and returning as model monks.” The announcement of the first group of monks going to study in Sri Lanka, published in February 1936 in the Buddhist journal Haichaoyin 海潮音, depicted the island as a place where “the monks still followed the vinaya as (nanchuan fojiao 南傳佛教) and “Pāli Buddhism” (e.g. bali yuxi fojiao 巴利語系佛教). To my knowledge, the modern notion of Theravāda Buddhism as a unified religious system only appears later in China, as it was the case for Japan (Richard M. Jaffe, private communication, March 2017). The first occurrences of shangzuobu were introduced by the monks who had traveled to South and Southeast Asia and were thus acquainted with the local modern use of the term Theravāda; the use of Theravāda/shangzuobu became more common during the Maoist period; finally, since the 1990s, the terms shangzuobu or nanfang shangzuobu 南方上座部 (Southern Theravāda) have become also in China a shared definition for the majority of South and Southeast Asian Buddhism. On the history of the translations for the Sanskrit sthavira and Pāli thera in Chinese Buddhist sources, see Deeg 2012. 33 Hīnayāna (xiaosheng) Buddhism was already considered the earliest teaching taught by the Buddha in China (it is included for instance in the panjiao 判教 schemes). In modern times, the novelty lies in its identification with the Pāli tradition and in the new status granted to it. My thanks to Robert Sharf for this insightful suggestion (private correspondence, August 15, 2019). 34 These are the extant Buddhist vinayas: (1) Theravāda, in Pāli; (2) Mūlasarvāstivāda, significant parts of which survive in the Sanskrit original, while translations are available in Tibetan and partially in Chinese; the following are all Chinese translations; (3) Sarvāstivāda (Shisonglü 十誦律 T 1435); (4) Mahīśāsaka (Wufenlü 五分律 T 1421); (5) Mahāsāṃghika (Mohesengqilü 摩 訶僧祇律 T 1425); (6) Dharmagupta (Sifenlü 四分律 T 1428). On the consistency of the different vinayas, see Frauwallner 1956, 6–12. Also see Prebish 1994, and Heirman 2007. 35 This stance by Taixu is reported by Yinshun 印順 (1970, 2) and is inserted in a broader context also mentioning Pure Land as being “the common shelter of the three vehicles” (lü wei sansheng gong ji, jing wei sansheng gong bi 律為三乘共基，淨為三乘共庇).

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they did two thousand years ago” (Ritzinger 2016, 157).36 As such, vinaya served more than any other feature of the Buddhist teachings as a unifying factor, and was thus a key topic in the process of creating the idea of a unique Buddhist tradition in a Pan-Asian vision of the religion. It is my conviction that the spread of these new ideas in modern China led to a reassessment of the centrality of the Indian (i.e. the putative original) conception of vinaya, at the expense of other Chinese connotations. The following section will outline the conceptions of jielü/ vinaya that emerged and which were consolidated in China in the first half of the twentieth century.

3 Jielü and Monastic Discipline in Modern Chinese Buddhism In Republican China (1912–1949), the reaffirmation of strict monastic discipline was advocated by monks that were thought to be more conservative, such as vinaya master Hongyi 弘一 (1880–1942),37 Huayan 華嚴 and vinaya master Cizhou 慈舟 (1877–1957),38 Tiantai 天台 master Tanxu 倓虛 (1875–1963),39 Chan 禪 master Xuyun 虛雲 (ca. 1864–1959),40 and Tantric master Nenghai 能海 (1886–1967),41 as well as by figures of the “new saṃgha” (xin seng 新僧) represented by Taixu.42 All these monks shared the objective of enhancing the religious authority of the

36 A similar but earlier example is that of the Japanese Buddhists Shaku Kōzen (1849–1924), who went to Sri Lanka in 1886, lived for long periods in local monasteries, had contacts with Henry Steel Olcott and Dharmapāla, received ordination in the Southern tradition and, in general, viewed the local vinaya as closer to the teaching of the Buddha and tried to import it into Japan. See Jaffe 2004, 79–92. The Japanese idea to turn to South Asia to recover original Buddhism predates the Chinese missions of late nineteenth and early twentieth century, and might be seen as a possible co-contributor – together with the influence of Orientalist scholarship – stimulating the Chinese phenomenon. My gratitude to Richard M. Jaffe for this valuable suggestion (private communication, March 2017), which surely deserves to be further investigated. On these issues also see Jaffe 2009 and 2016. 37 On Hongyi, see Birnbaum 2013 and 2017. On Hongyi and vinaya, see Wen 2002, and Bianchi 2017b. 38 For Cizhou’s autobiography and teachings, see Cizhou 2004. On Cizhou and vinaya, see Campo 2017b. 39 On Tanxu, see Carter 2011. On Tanxu and vinaya, see Campo 2017b. 40 On Xuyun, see Campo 2013 and 2017a; for Xuyun’s interest in vinaya, see Campo 2017b. 41 On Nenghai, see Bianchi 2009. On Nenghai and vinaya, see Wen 2003b, and Bianchi 2017b. 42 On Taixu and vinaya, see Bianchi 2017b. The distinction between an “old saṃgha” (jiu seng 舊僧) and a more ‘modern’ fringe of Buddhist reformers, to be found in many studies on

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saṃgha at a time of a perceived decline of the monastic establishment and of great change in the wider society.43 In particular, the vinaya resurgence was mainly based on the Nanshan 南山 vinaya tradition: the Chinese interpretation of the vinaya of the Dharmaguptaka.44 At the same time, however, the content of the Vinayapiṭaka was more central to this process than that of other sources. It is precisely in this new emphasis on the original component, one that was believed to have been preserved in Southern Buddhism, that the impact of the Pan-Asian perspective on the vinaya of modern Chinese Buddhism is revealed. Interestingly, despite referring to South-East Asian monastic models, existing Chinese translations of the vinaya were employed, with a preference given to the vinaya of the Dharmaguptaka tradition, even if in some cases other Chinese versions were also consulted.45 Rites that had long been disregarded and disciplinary rules that had been forgotten, provided they had ever been introduced at all, were (re-)discovered and implemented in the modern era. Great emphasis was placed on the core rituals prescribed in the vinaya texts,

modern Chinese Buddhism, is derived from the self-representation of the latter group: “According to the self-definition of the ‘new sangha’, the main difference between them and the ‘old sangha’ lay in their notion of the relationship between Buddhism and the secular world: the reformers believed that Buddhism should be socially engaged and contribute to the country and the world; it should also change with the times. By contrast, the conservatives (according to their opponents) maintained that Buddhism should be other-worldly and did not concern itself with worldly affairs” (Ji 2016, 752). It should be noticed, however, that around 1927–1928, Taixu stopped using the dichotomy xinseng-jiuseng and begun using jiu seng 救僧, which was less divisive (see Goodell 2012, 204–209). The boundary between conservative and reformist monks should not be overemphasized, since the same figure might be ‘traditional’ in one context and radical in another, as the example of the same Taixu clearly shows (Ritzinger 2017). On the other hand, many ‘conservative’ masters “took measures similar to those of the reformers to adapt to the modern society, with the establishment of institutes for Buddhist studies, for example” (Ji 2016, 752). 43 For a detailed outline of the contribution of these masters to the vinaya revival and the legacy they left to contemporary China, see Bianchi 2017b. 44 For Taixu, vinaya was unmistakably identified with the Nanshan tradition. As for Hongyi, at the very beginning of his monastic career he had expressed a preference for the vinaya of the Mūlasarvāstivādin, which he believed was the closest to the original vinaya, but soon chose to revive the Nanshan interpretation of the vinaya of the Dharmaguptaka, considering its long tradition in China. See Wen 2002, 191. For the Nanshan vinaya tradition, see above, note 9. 45 For instance, the already mentioned interest of Hongyi for the vinaya of the Mūlasarvāstivādin; the same vinaya was also used in Nenghai’s commentarial works. On the contrary, the Pāli vinaya was not adopted, even if it had the potential to have been, considering that Pāli studies were implemented in China at around that time (Ritzinger 2016). The Chinese translation of the Pāli vinaya has not survived (Heirman 2007, 185–192).

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specifically the bimonthly recitation of the prātimokṣa (banyue songjie 半月誦 戒) on poṣadha day,46 the summer retreat (varṣā)47 and its closing ceremony (pravāraṇā).48 These ritual procedures had generally been ignored in China, while they were commonly observed in Southern monasticism. In the trend toward recovering an ‘original’ form of Buddhism, they began to be revived and (re-)introduced in the Chinese monastic environment. As for ordinations, Chinese Buddhist masters opposed “illegal transmissions” (lanchuan 濫傳) of the precepts and looked for “correct” (rufa 如法) standards, usually with an eye toward the Chinese Buddhist tradition.49 In some cases, however, the new ideas about pure and original Buddhist practices resulted in the introduction of different criteria inspired by the model of Southern Buddhism or by vinaya texts.50 Among the forgotten rules, particular emphasis was placed on the

46 Poṣadha (Ch. busa 布薩) is a day dedicated to religious observance of which the recitation of the prāṭmiokṣa is the most important; the ritual for the bimonthly recitation of the precepts includes all prātimokṣa prohibitions (250 for the bhikṣus and 348 for the bhikṣuṇīs according to the vinaya of the Dharmaguptaka) and, in China, also of the Bodhisattva precepts. This ritual, which gradually faded away after the Tang-Song era and was only tentatively revived at the beginning of the Qing (Wen 2003a), during the Republican era was commonly practiced only in vinaya centers (Welch 1967, 110). Its practice was supported by Hongyi, Nenghai, Tanxu, and Xuyun. Interestingly, this confessional ritual was also instituted by Kōzen in the temple he established in Japan after coming back from Sri Lanka (Jaffe 2004, 88). 47 The summer retreat (Ch. xia anju 夏安居) or rain retreat (Skt. varṣā) was a major monastic event in China during medieval times and also found its way into the pure rules. It was later gradually abandoned, only to be temporary revived at the beginning of the Qing dynasty (Wen 2003a). Probably established in India to prevent the monks from moving in the open outside their dwellings during the rainy season, it soon gained a sense of heightened religious activities. In China it was generally not followed in terms of avoiding moving/traveling, while it was still conceived as a three-month period dedicated to intense study of the scriptures (Welch 1967, 109–110). The revival of the summer retreat was considered crucial by Hongyi, Nenghai, Tanxu and others. 48 The pravāraṇā (Ch. zizi 自恣) is a confessional ritual meant to take place at the end of the summer retreat and was a confessional ritual. 49 Most masters opted for the triple platform ordination, which also included Bodhisattva ordination, even if this was not the unique ordination criterion in Republican China. On ordinations during the Republican period see Prip-Møller 1973, 312, 324–326; Welch 1967, 247–302; and Campo 2017b, 133–135; on the relation between ordinations in the Republican period and those in contemporary China, see Bianchi 2019. 50 Cizhou, for instance, tried to adopt the Theravāda model for ordinations, bestowing novice ordination at the time of tonsure and requesting that a novice be twenty years old before being ordained as a bhikṣu (Welch 1967, 300). Regarding nuns’ ordination, the procedures known as erbuseng jie 二部僧戒 (“dual ordination”) were discussed in China during the first half of the twentieth century, although they were only re-established in the 1980s. This model, which is prescribed in the vinaya texts, was first brought to China during the fifth century, but was

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prohibition to eat after noon (guowu bushi 過午不食), believed to be generally followed by monks in places such as Burma, Sri Lanka, and Thailand, but which was not commonly observed in East Asia.51 In general terms, infractions of the vinaya rules were no longer easily accepted.52 When compliance with Indian/Southern Buddhist standards was not possible, efforts were made to explain the reasons why some rules were to be observed without exception, and why others could be adapted to different historical, cultural, or geographical circumstances, mindful of the exceptions or allowances for laxer rules prescribed for borderlands in the vinaya texts themselves. In medieval China, similar debates had determined the accommodation of vinaya standards to the Chinese environment.53 As for the summer retreat and the forgotten confessional rituals (poṣadha and pravāraṇā), their resurgence had already occurred as part of the vinaya revival that had taken place at the end of the Ming and the beginning of the Qing dynasty.54 Interestingly, the same debates and actions were now resumed in order to respond to a new understanding of the Buddhist tradition. As mentioned above, in China jielü also referred to the mahāyāna vinaya. Therefore, the vinaya revival involved not only the prātimokṣa precepts and the rituals prescribed in the vinaya texts, but also the Bodhisattva precepts. On this point, the authority of Southern Buddhism could not be invoked. The Brahmā’s Net Sūtra (Fanwang jing 梵網經) had been the most important reference on these matters since the medieval era, and had set the basis for the third phase

later mostly disregarded. A similar case concerns the introduction of the śikṣamāṇā, an intermediate figure between a female novice and an ordained nun, which is prescribed by the vinaya texts but which was never common in China. Regarding such issues about nuns in modern and contemporary China, see Bianchi 2017a, 287–288; Bianchi 2019; Chiu and Heirman 2014; Heirman 2008 and 2011; Heirman and Chiu 2012; Huimin 2007. 51 In respect to this rule, supper was not considered a ritual meal in Chinese monasteries, and the habit to eat in the evening was justified on the basis of China’s climatic and lifestyle differences compared to India. In Republican China, the rule that no solid food shall be eaten after noon could be respected on an individual basis (Welch 1967, 111–112). It was promoted by Cizhou, Hongyi, Nenghai, Tanxu, and Xuyun. On this rule in the vinaya texts and for an analysis of contemporary practice, see Chiu 2015. 52 The prātimokṣa “includes vows not to handle gold, silver, or copper; to bathe no more than twice a month; to ordain no one under twenty; and so on. These vows were accepted by Chinese monks but regularly violated” (Welch 1967, 106). 53 On this issue, see Yifa 2002 and 2005. 54 The revival of varṣā, poṣadha and pravāraṇā was implemented by vinaya master Duti Jianyue 讀體見月 (1601–1679), whose reforms are said to have been very influential in the South-Eastern regions. Particularly see Wen 2003a; on the vinaya revival of the late Ming and early Qing, also see Sheng-Yen 1991b and Wu 2008.

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of the “triple platform ordination” (santan dajie 三壇大戒), a system whose establishment dates to the end of the Ming dynasty (Wu 2008).55 Accordingly, the Brahmā’s Net series of precepts continued to be the most widespread set of precepts observed in modern China.56 Nevertheless, some influential masters of the time became devoted advocates of a resurgence of the “Yoga Bodhisattva precepts” (yuqie pusajie 瑜伽菩薩戒) outlined in the chapter on moral conduct (Śīlapaṭala) of the Bodhisattvabhūmi of the Yogācārabhūmi śāstra.57 This set was preferred to the Brahmā’s Net series by monks and scholars from a variety of traditions and inclinations, including the well-known Yogācāra lay scholars Ouyang Jingwu 歐陽竟無 (1871–1943)58 and Lü Cheng 呂澂 (1896–1989),59 as well as the above-mentioned Yang Wenhui, Taixu, and Nenghai. It also had a supporter in Fazun 法尊 (1902–1980),60 the most important scholar-monk of the Sino-Tibetan tradition, who was also a disciple of Taixu and was involved in the revival of the Chinese Yogācāra.61 The re-emergence of the Yoga Bodhisattva precepts in modern China is thus related to the development of a modern Chinese Yogācāra,62 as well as to the Tantric revival movement and the emergence of Sino-Tibetan Buddhism.63 Also in this context, we can see a connection between these developments and the understanding of Buddhism as a unique Pan-Asian religion. As seen above, this new perspective encouraged Chinese Buddhists to revive forgotten doctrines and practices. Among the traditions to be implemented, prominence was given to the Yogācāra and to Tibetan Tantras, where the model of moral

55 For the Brahmā’s Net Bodhisattva precepts, see above, note 10. 56 For instance, Hongyi, the most prominent vinaya master of the time, was a promoter of the Brahmā’s Net Sūtra (Fanwang jing 梵網經) and devoted seven of his works to this scripture and its set of Bodhisattva precepts. See Wen 2002, 193. 57 For the Yoga Bodhisattva precepts in Chinese Buddhism, see Sheng-Yen 1994. For the Tibetan tradition, see Sonam Dragpa 1996, 92–94; Clayton 2006. For the Indian origins and further evolution of the Bodhisattva precepts, see Yamabe 2005 and Martini 2013. For the Bodhisattvabhūmi, see Zimmermann 2013. 58 On Ouyang Jingwu, see Aviv 2014. 59 On Lü Cheng, see Lin 2014 and Lusthaus 2014. 60 On Fazun, see Sullivan 2014, and Wang-Toutain 2000. 61 The version of the Yogācārabhūmi precepts preferred in modern China was the Pusa jieben (T 1501) translated by Xuanzang (602–664). On the other hand, Nenghai and Fazun referred to the Tibetan translation of the Bodhisattvabhūmi and to the commentary by Tsongkhapa (1357–1419), founder of the Gelukpa school they belonged to. 62 For the role of the Yogācāra tradition in modern developments of Chinese Buddhism, see Makeham 2014. 63 For the revival of Tantrism and for the emergence of a modern Sino-Tibetan Buddhism, see Bianchi 2004.

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conduct was embodied by the Yoga Bodhisattva precepts. Moreover, in the same manner as the model of Southern Buddhism being adopted for monastic discipline stricto sensu (the śrāvaka vinaya), in the case of mahāyāna discipline the ‘authentic’ Yogācārabhūmi was in some cases preferred to the apocryphal Brahmā’s Net Sūtra. The above observations outline that the modern understanding of Buddhism as a unified Pan-Asian religion influenced by Oriental scholarship and the Pāli tradition has had a concrete impact on the practice of monastic discipline in modern China, helping to initiate a reassessment of the meanings and implications of the very concept of jielü. On the other hand, these same ideas also influenced the conception of monastic discipline within scholarship on modern Chinese Buddhism.

4 Pan-Asian Buddhist Views of Vinaya in Modern Studies on Chinese Buddhism Probing into the impact the Pan-Asian vision of Buddhism had on the understanding of vinaya in modern studies on Chinese Buddhism, I will devote special attention to the well-known masterworks by Holmes Welch, which were foundational in Western-language scholarship. Other academic works addressing the topic of vinaya in modern China, including some by Chinese and Taiwanese scholars, will also appear briefly at the end of this section. Holmes Welch was well aware of the impact of the Pan-Asian perspective on the development of Chinese Buddhism, but he was also influenced by it himself insofar as he constantly referred to a Theravāda model in his inquiries into jielü/vinaya practices.64 Welch recognized that Theravāda Buddhism was increasingly thought to reflect the original spirit of Buddhism: “a small but growing number of Chinese Buddhist intellectuals, both monks and laymen, were coming to accept the thesis that Theravāda was indeed closer to Buddhism in

64 Welch considered vinaya-related topics in connection with an alleged Indian and/or Theravāda model in The Practice of Chinese Buddhism (1900–1950), more precisely in Chapter IV “Observance of the Rules” and in the section titled “Hinayana Tendencies” of Chapter IX “Entering the Sangha” (Welch 1967, 105–128 and 300–301). In The Buddhist Revival in China, he focuses on vinaya studies within the presentation of “Traditional Education” in Chapter VI on “Buddhist Education,” and he discusses “Contacts with Theravāda Buddhists” in Chapter IX on “Foreign Contacts” (Welch 1968, 103–107 and 179–183). Finally, in Buddhism Under Mao, Welch mentions the subject of vinaya in relation to Theravāda Buddhism in the chapter dedicated to “The Reform of Monastic Life” (Welch 1972, 108–144).

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its original form than was Mahāyāna” (Welch 1968, 182). As for the tendency to work toward re-establishing the original vinaya regulations, he labeled it a “conscious archaism [. . .] a new phenomenon of the Republican period [that] may have resulted from the increasing contact with Buddhists in Southeast Asia” (Welch 1967, 301). Yet in his treatment of vinaya-related rituals and practices, it is clear that Welch himself had absorbed most of these ideas. First, it should be noticed that he makes no reference to the Chinese interpretation of the Dharmaguptaka tradition (Nanshanlü 南山律). To him, vinaya was simply the alleged original Indian monastic discipline. On the other hand, in explaining specific topics concerning monastic discipline, he did not seek consistency with the contents of the vinaya texts,65 instead preferring to compare them to the Theravāda tradition as practiced in South and Southeast Asia. When he discusses particular vinaya rules or rituals, such as the rules not to eat after noon and not to handle money, the bimonthly recitation of the prātimokṣa, the summer retreat and its closing ceremony, certain ordination features, and so on, Welch usually informs us that these ritual procedures and regulations were not respected in Chinese monasteries, while they were common in Theravāda countries, often providing detailed accounts of their implementation there. He clearly employed the Theravāda model as a basis of comparison, implicitly regarding it as a mirror image of the practices of the earliest Buddhist communities. Welch thus helped espouse the idea that Theravāda monasticism was the living tradition embodying the original vinaya, regardless of the actual contemporary situation of monasticism and the history of the vinaya in those countries.66 In fact, in 65 Welch is never specific in quoting his primary sources in terms of vinaya texts; we can infer from his bibliography that he probably used Samuel Beal’s partial translation of the prātimokṣa of the Dharmaguptaka (Beal 1871) and perhaps also the Chinese texts in the Taishō edition of the Buddhist Canon, but in his exposition he only gives very general references such as “vinaya texts,” “the Prātimokṣa” and, only occasionally, specific prātimokṣa categories. No mention is made of the different extant editions of the vinayas, nor does he quote the already available English translation of The Book of the Discipline (Horner 1938), the Pāli version of the Vinayapiṭaka that was followed by the Theravāda monastic communities of which he was so fond. 66 For instance, his belief that “Theravāda countries like Thailand preserve the original Buddhist custom that no solid food may be eaten after noon” (Welch 1967, 70) was not objectively true. As pointed out by Chiu 2014, 76: “While monastic members in Theravāda contexts are expected to adhere strictly to the rule of fasting, it does not mean that all actually do so. For example, although most Sri Lankan people may have an expectation that monks will fast after midday, some monks do eat meals in the evening as supper, but they must do so in private places.” Interesting enough, Gombrich (1988, 102) reported that in contemporary Sri Lanka most monks in the evening eat snacks seen as medicine, as was customary in China.

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contrast to Chinese monastic discipline, in his work the Theravāda vinaya tradition stands out as an ideal model, one that did not require verification against other sources of authority.67 Welch was writing at a time when the Theravāda was widely regarded as the closest form to the original Buddhist spirit, and in Welch’s treatment of vinaya topics the most striking aspect is indeed the constant reference to Theravāda Buddhism.68 Exploring the long-term effects of these ideas on the historical development of scholarship on Chinese Buddhism is beyond the scope of this chapter, but the topic certainly deserves further investigation. A preliminary analysis of some recent works concerning monastic discipline in modern Chinese Buddhism has revealed that the Theravāda model does not recur in later studies as often as it does in works by Welch, probably because of a growing awareness of the strong Orientalist roots underlying this idea.69 A broader understanding of the phenomenon can also be appreciated, considering that later works take into account developments within the Chinese vinaya tradition as well, which had already witnessed the accommodation of many vinaya issues in terms of Chinese behavioral standards and habits throughout the centuries, and which cannot be overlooked in studies on monastic discipline in Chinese Buddhism. At the same time, a simplistic identification of jielü with Indian vinaya continues to resurface quite often. As for studies published in China or Taiwan, discussions of monastic discipline in modern Chinese Buddhism usually emphasise the revival of the Nanshan tradition, as in the influential work on twentieth-century Chinese Buddhism by Chen Bing 陳兵 and Deng Zimei 鄧子美 (2000). In such cases, the emerging idea of jielü/vinaya reveals a sectarian perspective on Chinese

67 Welch fails to provide any evidence for testing the reliability of his statements about Theravāda vinaya practices. Interestingly, letters written by some of the monks that had traveled to Sri Lanka in the study abroad programs launched by Taixu (these letters were published in Haichaoyin 海潮音 and thus also potentially available to Welch) while expressing an idealized view of the original vinaya, also provided realistic accounts of the state of vinaya rules and disciplinary standards there, including saying that “the discipline in Ceylon is neither pure nor applicable to China. Ceylonese monks bend the rules just as Chinese monks do based on national custom and climate” (Weihuan 惟幻, quoted in Ritzinger 2016, 165). 68 Both Samuel Beal and de Groot, Welch’s main academic sources on vinaya and Bodhisattva codes, were collaborators of Thomas Rhys Davids, the founder of the Pali Society, and co-editor with Max Muller and Hermann Oldenberg of the Series of the Sacred Books of the East. My thanks to Martino Dibeltulo for this insightful suggestion (private communication, November 2016), 69 For this purpose, other than my own work (Bianchi 2001, 2016, 2017a), I have consulted the following studies: Chiu 2014, 2015, 2016; Chiu and Heirman 2014; Campo 2013 and 2017a; Chandler 2004.

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Buddhism which is in turn derived from Japanese scholarship, rather than a Pan-Asian perspective.70 On the other hand, Wen Jinyu 溫金玉, probably the most prominent Chinese scholar on Buddhist vinaya, clearly adopts in his works the idea of the centrality of Indian vinaya and the related rules and rituals described above.71 This is true also in the case of much of Taiwanese scholarship, where the most influential works are written by authoritative religious figures, whose approach to our topic – though they adopt a scholarly perspective – is more confessional and should be treated separately.72 To sum up, in dealing with vinaya matters, contemporary scholarship – be it Chinese, Taiwanese, or Western – tends to reflect the relatively recent changes produced in Chinese monastic practice by the affirmation of the idea of an ‘original’ and ‘pure’ form of vinaya, as can be inferred from the spread of the aforementioned ‘forgotten’ practices and rules in a growing number of monasteries. I suspect, however, that the legacy left behind by the Pan-Asian perspective of vinaya is revealed not so much in the understanding of the actual practices carried on in Chinese monasteries, but rather in expectations of what these practices ‘ought to be.’

Final Remarks In this chapter I have tried to shed some new light on conceptions of jielü/vinaya that developed in Chinese Buddhist monasticism and in modern studies on Chinese Buddhism. As we have seen, in the case of monastic discipline it is indeed appropriate to speak of a resurgence, considering that many modern Chinese Buddhist figures actively promoted a reintroduction of vinaya rituals and committed themselves to a stricter observance of the rules than was customary at that time. This did not result in a mere “return to the past” (fugu 復古), but rather precipitated a substantial transformation of monastic practices which remains evident in

70 For the use of a Japan-derived model to describe historical developments and doctrinal trends of Chinese Buddhism, particularly refer to Robert Sharf 2005. On the use of such a perspective on modern Chinese Buddhism, also see Schicketanz 2017. 71 This stands out for instance in his studies on vinaya in the works and lives of Nenghai and Hongyi (Wen 2002 and 2003b). 72 It is the case of works by Shengyan 聖嚴, Huimin 惠敏, or Zhaohui 昭慧, etc. As representatives of Buddhist trends in modern times, their contributions on monastic discipline – which reveal signs of the new perspective on vinaya – need to be treated as part of the analysis of contemporary monastic practices and thought on vinaya.

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present-day Chinese Buddhist monasteries. Similar movements had already taken place in the past, the closest example being the vinaya revival at the end of the Ming dynasty, which had already aimed at resurrecting forgotten confessional rituals and at enacting a thorough reform of the ordination system. In sharp contrast, however, this recent revival was stimulated by the affirmation of a modern understanding of Buddhism as a unified Pan-Asian religion. The acceptance of a Pan-Asian perspective on vinaya by prominent Chinese figures of the time can be detected, for instance, in Taixu’s ideas of vinaya as a common basis for the three Buddhist vehicles (i.e. for all Buddhists in Asia). I believe that it was mainly due to this trend that the phenomenon described above, the reintroduction of the forgotten rules, rites, and monastic habits, took place. Their revival, which as tradition had it was deemed necessary to sustain the dharma and rehabilitate the saṃgha, was carried out in the light of compliance to an ideal Indian pure original vinaya. The living tradition that was reputed to be the closest to that original spirit was that of Southern Buddhism, which was therefore taken as an exemplary model. As for mahāyāna discipline, the ‘authentic’ Yogācārabhūmi, which had disappeared from China centuries prior, was promoted by some masters and advocated for together with – if not in the place of – the apocryphal Brahmā’s Net Sūtra. In both cases, the objective was to return to the observance of the original Buddhist teachings. The spread of these ideas in modern China stimulated a reassessment of the centrality of Indian/South Asian vinaya standards, partly at the expense of more Chinese interpretations of jielü. This in turn led to a new understanding of the very conception of monastic discipline, both from a scholarly and from a monastic perspective. Certainly, the study and practice of jielü/vinaya – in the sense of monastic discipline shared by all Buddhist traditions, i.e. vinaya in its narrow sense – has been rehabilitated, and vinaya has ceased to be “looked down upon as a hīnayāna doctrine” (Sheng-Yen 1991a, 43).

Abbreviations T X

Taishō 大正 (Taishō shinshū daizōkyō 大正新修大藏經, eds. Takakusu Junjirō 高楠順次郎 and Watanabe Kaikyoku 渡辺海旭, Tōkyō 1924–1935). Xuzangjing 續藏經 (Dainippon zoku zōkyō 大日本續藏經, eds. Maeda Eun前田慧雲 and Nakano Tatsue 中野達慧, Kyōto, 1905–1912).73

73 On-line edition by Chinese Buddhist Electronic Text Association: .

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Gregory Adam Scott

‘Scripture’ as a Critical Term in Modern Chinese Buddhism Introduction and Context In his chapter in the 2005 volume Critical Terms for the study of Buddhism, Ryūichi Abé calls Buddhism “a mass producer of sacred words,” and explores how it has been closely linked to technologies of print, bibliography, and lexicography throughout its history, particularly in East Asia (Abé 2005). Buddhism is an especially textually prolific religious tradition, having produced some of the largest collections of printed sacred texts, and this was no less the case in the modern era, from the late nineteenth century through to the mid-twentieth. In fact, Buddhist textual output in East Asia rapidly increased during this era, thanks in part to the availability of new print technologies and to the establishment of private Buddhist publishing institutions and distribution networks. Previously I have written on how Chinese Buddhists transformed their print culture and publishing practices in this period, adapting longstanding institutions such as temple scriptoria into new scriptural presses, and making use of new commercial modes of production in not-for-profit publishing companies (Scott 2013, 2015b, and 2016b). In this chapter I will draw upon this body of research to address one question: as Buddhists adopted new means of print production, did they also begin to work with Buddhist texts in new ways, and if so, did this impact their religious culture more broadly? Another way of phrasing this question might be: in the modern era, how did changing print culture also have an impact on, and eventually transform, the role of scripture within Chinese Buddhism? The focus of much of my recent work has been on the social, organizational, and bibliographic aspects of Buddhist publishing, rather than the conceptual, doctrinal, or philosophical perspectives on what a scripture is or how they ought to be understood, and the observations and arguments in this chapter will reflect that approach. Although my focus is on one single religious repertoire within the diverse and flexible field that is Chinese religion, I strongly suspect that many of these processes were also present within other religious groups during this era. I would also encourage those who make use of Buddhist scriptures in pre-modern East Asia in their research to also keep in mind the role of print technologies and textual transmission networks, which were equally a part of pre-modern Buddhist scriptural history, albeit with different technologies and print organizations.

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The term “scripture” is far from an ideal choice to denote sacred writings and texts in Chinese Buddhism. In English it still carries strong associations with the Christian religious context, although the term derives from Latin scrīptūra, which means simply “writing,” and its cognate term in other European languages has maintained this more neutral meaning (eg. Fr. Écriture, Ger. Schrift.) Furthermore, there is no strongly cognate term in premodern Chinese. The term most often used to denote sacred texts is jing 經, (eg. Fojing 佛經, Shengjing 聖經) but this was originally and continues to be used for literary and other works that do not necessarily have a strongly religious content. In the Buddhist context, jing can refer specifically to the recorded sermons and teachings of the Buddha, cognate to the Sanskrit sūtra, but this is not always the case (Lancaster 2012). A very substantial genre of commentaries (lun 論) exists alongside the texts that are taken to be the teachings of the Buddha, and play a crucial role in interpreting and explicating Buddhist doctrines. In practice, jing is used as a catch-all category for all types of sacred writings within a Chinese religious tradition. The earliest Chinese terms for the Buddhist scriptural canon, yiqie jing 一切經 (all of the jing) and dazang jing 大 藏經 (the great library of jing) included within their scope a number of textual genres not limited to sūtra. In canonical indices, catalogues, and other bibliographic works, genres of Buddhist sacred texts are further organized into categories based on doctrinal affinity (eg. Mahāyāna Scriptures: dasheng jing 大乘 經), or culture of origin (eg. Chinese Works: zhina zhuanzuo 支那撰作), or into subcategories of genre (eg. Lexicons: yinyi 音義). In practice, jing referred to the totality of Buddhist texts, of which some were understood to be recorded sermons of the Buddha.1 Some scholars use the Sanskrit term tripiṭaka to describe the corpus of East Asian Buddhist texts, meaning the three “baskets” or major categories of teachings, but again it does not easily fit the case of East Asian Buddhism where a multitude of organizational structures for the canon structures have historically been deployed. In the end, the term “scripture” works well enough to discuss the sacred texts of Chinese Buddhism, in part because it carries a religious connotation, as long as we bear in mind that it can encompass religious writings of all types, not just those ascribed to a founding teacher, or elevated to a uniquely high authoritative or canonical status within a tradition. By speaking of “scriptures” rather than canonical works, we also approach the corpus of Chinese Buddhist texts as the mutable and living landscape that it was, one with no clearly defined boundaries and over which no

1 This practice is by no means accepted in all corners of Buddhism, nor even among all scholars of Buddhism.

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single person or group could ever assert total authoritative control (Levering 1989, 1–17; Storch 2014; Wu and Chia 2015). Buddhist scriptures have long been understood to possess great numinous power, a power that has been expressed in a number of different modes. For instance, in China: 1. the scriptural library (zangjing lou 藏經樓) was a standard feature of all large Buddhist monasteries, often located on the central axis along with the other major ritual spaces, and the possession of a complete set of the Buddhist scriptures was a strong indicator of the monastery’s elevated efficacy and status; 2. reproducing or reciting Mahāyāna texts was believed to be an unparalleled generator of religious merit (gongde 功德), and served as a strong motivation for donors and printers in producing and distributing copies of the scriptures; 3. phrases or fragments of scriptural text can be used as spoken spells or inscribed as amulets to ward off evil or to guide the mind toward insight; 4. the religious messages carried in their text have the power to convey insight, so much so that even a passage read aloud, overheard by one with the right affinities, can trigger an awakening; and 5. the physical scriptures themselves are thought to have a type of power of their own, as a concrete symbol of the Buddha’s power and as an object of protection from dangers both physical and supernatural. All of these key areas of power remained part of Buddhist understandings of scripture through the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and continue to operate in Buddhist traditions today.2 What, then, changed in the modern period? What changed was not the content of the scriptures, although new editions and minor texts were discovered, reprinted, and re-circulated. Instead, what was transformed was the entire field of print, publishing, interpretation, hermeneutics, and reading that surrounds and interacts with the textual content. We cannot understand the meaning or importance of Buddhist scriptures without also understanding the world of media in which they exist. In the modern era, new developments in Buddhist religious culture and in Chinese social history had an impact on how Buddhists worked with print, and their engagement with print also had a reflexive effect 2 Today Buddhist scriptural reading and discussion has exploded on the web, partly through the use of digital text repositories such as that of the Chinese Buddhist Electronic Text Association (CBETA) , and the SAT Daizōkyō text database .

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on how that religious culture continued to develop. These disruptions and innovations were rooted in earlier practices, but ended up adapting these practices to new conditions and producing new forms of print culture. They include the impact of the Taiping War (1850–1864); new technologies for printing such as mechanized movable type; new modes of arranging and explicating textual content and the production of interpretive tools such as books for beginners and dictionaries; the impact of religious publishing models from other traditions, particularly that of Christian mission presses; new networks for producing and distributing scriptural materials, including the use of the national postal system; new approaches to teaching the scriptures based on modern educational models; and new practices that emphasized individual reading and understanding the textual content of scriptures. None of these were totally new; changes within modern Buddhist print culture were not sharp breaks with the past, but were rather adaptations to new historical conditions.

1 Canons, Scriptural Presses, and Scriptural Distributors Canonical collections might appear to be one of the most important areas where scriptural production would have taken place. The field of present-day Buddhist studies makes widespread use of canonical indices and sources, and rightly so; it allows us to all be on the same page when we discuss the content of a given text. Although a number of canons were printed in Japan from the late Meiji (1868–1912) through the early Shōwa period (1926–1989), there was only one newly edited Buddhist canon printed in China between the Qianlong Canon (Longzang 龍藏) of 1733 and the Zhonghua Canon (Zhonghua dazangjing 中華大藏經) of 1984: The Pinjia Canon (Pinjia jingshe jiaokan da zangjing 頻伽 精舍校刊大藏經), printed in Shanghai between 1908 and 1913. The late-Qing lay Buddhist publisher Yang Wenhui had wanted to produce an edition of the Buddhist canon but the sheer size of the project prevented him from fulfilling his wish (Goldfuss 2001, 212–218). The Pinjia Canon succeeded because it was heavily based on a Japanese canon edition, it used mechanized movable type printing technology, and it was able to draw upon the immense wealth of the patron’s family. Yet only a few hundred sets were ever printed, and the canon never had a deep impact on Buddhists in China or elsewhere; its price was still more than even urban lay Buddhists could likely afford, and it was plagued with textual errors that would make any close reading of it an exercise in frustration (Scott 2017; Haichao yin 11, no.10 (Oct. 1930), MFQ 176:311–323).

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Most scriptural publishing, distribution, and reading took place outside of canonical collections, which is to say that while most of the scriptures could be found within various canons, people produced and read them individually. The complete Buddhist canon was certainly still a monumental concept, but like a monument it was best suited to installation in a monastery library or in the home of a wealthy layperson, not daily consultation and use.3 Monastic scriptoria (jingfang 經房) may not have printed entire canons, but they continued to produce individual copies of important scriptures. Yongquan Monastery (Yongquan si 湧泉寺) on Gushan 鼓山 near Fuzhou 福州, for example, had woodblocks for 199 scriptural titles when Xuyun 虛雲 (1864–1959) visited there in the mid-1930s to catalogue their holdings (Gushan Yongquan chansi jingban mulu 1932). While it required more human labor and time than movable type, xylographic printing (muban yinshua 木版印刷) had several advantages over modern mechanized movable type: the blocks could be stored indefinitely, and small print runs could easily be produced on demand for lay donors. Woodblock-printed scriptures continued to be produced throughout the late-Qing and Republican eras, and are still printed today as objects of artisanal and artistic value. From the 1860s onward, however, these monastic scriptoria were joined by a new type of Buddhist print institution: the scriptural press (kejing chu 刻經處). These are xylographic publishing workshops, located either within a monastery or established as an independent entity, that print and distribute Buddhist scriptures. In contrast to scriptoria they were much more autonomous from the institution of the monastery, and were often founded and managed by laypeople. The first example, the Jinling Scriptural Press (Jinling kejing chu 金陵刻經處), was organized in Nanjing by Yang Wenhui and his erstwhile monastic collaborator Miaokong 妙空 (1826?– 1881) and provided the model for those that followed. (Goldfuss 2001; Luo 2010) Holmes Welch, in his history of modern Chinese Buddhism, identified the founding of the Jinling press as the start of the Chinese Buddhist “revival,” an indication of the lasting influence of this type of Buddhist publishing (Welch 1968). Yang’s enterprise was intended to help Buddhism recover from the destruction of the Taiping War, during which Buddhist monasteries and their scriptural libraries had been burned throughout the Jiangnan region and further afield. The press started small, without its own permanent building, and only in the 1890s did Yang set it up in its own complex on the grounds of his Nanjing estate. Rather than relying solely on individual donations, Yang recruited ten partners who each subscribed 5600 cash per month. Additional

3 As with the Pinjia Canon, which was intended to be kept in its own bespoke wooden bookcase, a photograph of which appears in the prefatory material of some editions. See Scott 2017.

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donations supported the publication of individual titles, with the donor’s name recorded in the book’s colophon. Miaokong left the Jinling press quite early in its history and went on to establish his own network of presses, but from the Jinling press onward scriptural presses continued to proliferate, and created an active zone of scriptural production separate from monastic institutions and economies. After Yang’s death in 1911, the press continued as a public enterprise (gongye 公業) under lay management. Nearly all of the major Chinese Buddhist scriptural presses that followed in the early Republic were established outside of traditional monasterial institutions, and were nearly all lay-managed and lay-directed. From the 1920s onward, these presses were joined by scripture distributors (Fojing liutong chu 佛經流通處), who specialized in taking the print output of the presses and bringing them to customers across China. Some of these were closely linked to one particular scriptural press, but all of them normally distributed works printed by a variety of different presses. Between the presses and the distributors, Chinese Buddhists established a nation-wide network of textual production and distribution so that readers throughout the nation could order and receive Buddhist scriptures by means of postal money orders and deliveries (Scott 2016b). Between them they produced and distributed many thousands of Buddhist titles. What effect did the development of this nationwide network of scriptural presses and distributors have on understandings and uses of Buddhist scripture in modern China? For one thing, because the presses followed Yang’s example in maintaining their own budgets rather than relying solely upon donations, they could produce publications that they thought were needed or lacking, rather than having to print mainly those titles that donors wanted to have printed (Scott 2016b, 75–77). This likely greatly expanded the variety of scriptures that were available, a goal that Yang himself had valued highly. Secondly, they introduced the technology of the book catalogue to Buddhist print culture: this was not a bibliographic list of what titles existed, but rather a snapshot of those that were available at that moment, and from which printer. These catalogues did not seek to define a canonical collection, but rather sought to offer as much variety as possible to a market of readers and collectors. Catalogues would also be an important feature of Buddhist periodical literature, discussed below, and would likely have served as the first step in many a Buddhist’s scriptural reading.4

4 One early example is the catalogue for the Changzhou Tianning Monastery’s scriptural press, which appeared in two issues of Foxue congbao: MFQ 3:145–148, 309–312. One periodical, Foxue chubanjie 佛學出版界, is essentially a periodical-length catalogue and advertisement for Shanghai Buddhist Books: MFQ 64.

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In sum, the modern era did not introduce xylographic printing, but it made it possible for this mode of printing to reach its full potential. Scriptures became even more ubiquitous than before, they were easier to obtain, and the book market produced a wide variety of products, not to mention a range of religious items for home worship, such as rosaries, charms, posters, drums and bells, and so on, that were also advertised in the Buddhist book catalogues. Scriptures were still important and precious items, but now they could be easily discovered, read, and carried around. Individuals had many more opportunities to encounter and interact with them. This was not a categorical change in the way that Buddhists understood scriptures, but rather a rapid expansion and intensification of what previously would have been limited to a smaller number and more narrow variety of texts. I do not mean to suggest that as a result of this process scriptures became less precious or valued, quite the contrary; this expansion likely helped to bring physical copies of the scriptures into the hands and minds of more individuals than ever before.

2 Buddhist Periodicals and Buddhist Associations The periodical (qikan 期刊) simply did not exist in Chinese Buddhism prior to 1912 (Scott 2016a). Like mainstream Chinese newspapers and journals, they arose from the availability of commercial modern printing in Shanghai and elsewhere, which made possible the rapid production of regular timely publications. Many of them were also produced for Buddhist associations (Fojiao hui 佛教會; jushi lin 居士林; etc.) or publishing organizations, with the periodical serving as the organ of record for the group, recording important events and informing members of association news. Several such associations emerged in the early Republic, and while none ever attained a commanding position of national power, perhaps in part due to the lack of a single state regulator for the registration of associations, many extended their influence beyond the locality in which they were based. Nearly every Chinese Buddhist association of note had their own periodical, although many of these were only produced for a few issues. Periodicals publicized the group’s activities to the public and, in the case of publishing houses, helped to advertise their Buddhist print products. They also helped Buddhist groups attempt to stake their claim on public discourse on matters relating to Buddhism and religion more generally; it would be much more likely for a reader without any personal connection to Buddhism to pick up and read a Buddhist periodical

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than it would be for them to try to work through a scriptural text. Buddhist periodicals could thus help to draw people in to the religious field, and the extensive book catalogues printed in many of their issues helped give the reader a taste of the textual world that Buddhism had to offer. It further helped to legitimize their activities, by showing that they were operating publicly and were not shy about discussing their beliefs and practices, in contrast to proscribed religious groups. Buddhist associations and other organizations ended up being responsible for many of the over 220 known Chinese Buddhist periodical titles produced between 1912 and 1949. One example, Buddhism Semimonthly (Foxue banyue kan 佛學半 月刊), published by the Shanghai Buddhist Books company, ran for fourteen years and 313 issues, with upwards of 10,000 copies of each issue being printed by 1933. Periodicals were a substantially different genre of Buddhist text than any that had come before in history, and they had a similar impact among Chinese Buddhists as newspapers, literary, and political journals had on wider society: information could be published and disseminated across the country and to Chinese readers overseas much faster; local news could be reprinted and distributed to a national readership; the requirement for regular content to fill the pages of regular publications spurred the production of translations and essays; and finally, the periodical press was a unique opportunity for voices who were not part of the monastic power establishment to gain a venue and an audience for their ideas. Chief among these new voices is that of the monk Taixu 太 虛 (1890–1947), whose influence and renown were in large part built upon skillful self-promotion in periodical articles and other publications. Periodicals are distinct from “scriptures” in that they are intended as containers for discussions about religious matters, issues, and events; they are not intended to be treated as sacred texts themselves. Their content, however, is strongly Buddhist in theme, and they seldom contain any substantial piece of text that is not connected in some way with Buddhism. They also normally contain a great deal of discussion about scriptural teachings, and reprint material directly copied from the scriptures. They were thus in part useful guides for readers to deepen their understanding of the scriptures. As mentioned above, Buddhist periodicals commonly include scriptural catalogues in their pages, include those printed in 1914 in the first Chinese Buddhist periodical, Buddhist Miscellany (Foxue congbao 佛學叢報.) They functioned as an avenue for readers to learn more about what scriptural presses, distributors, and bookstores were offering in terms of scriptural texts. Some of the most prominently advertised volumes promised to introduce scriptural knowledge to beginners in a guided fashion. No longer did one have to puzzle through their dense language on one’s own, or seek out the personal instruction

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of a teacher; instead, readers could rely on an editor’s interpretation. Buddhist periodicals were thus part of the spread of information and furthering public access to other types of texts. They formed an important part of the print culture landscape of modern Chinese Buddhism and participated in distributing and mediating readers’ interactions with scriptures, without being “scriptures” themselves. Buddhist periodicals might thus best be understood as religious texts rather than sacred ones, “scriptural” without being “scripture.” They contributed to changes in the textual and organization apparatus that helped readers navigate the Buddhist scriptural corpus, introducing them to new titles and genres, and guiding them toward important areas for reading. Especially important was their role in creating a forum for articles discussing scriptural topics, pieces on a much lower level of formality and complexity than a discourse (lun 論), but still holding the weight of a written essay.

3 Commercial Publishers, Print Technology, and Buddhist Publishing Corporations Scriptural presses and Buddhist associations adopted select commercial business practices, but they both remained staunchly not-for-profit and focused their energies on generating merit, not money. They emulated the internal organization and fiscal systems of the for-profit presses, many of which had grown into major businesses by the 1920s and 1930s. They never, however, sought to generate a profit for shareholders, and through regular business reports ensured that donors were aware that their donations were being used solely for meritorious purposes. Mechanized movable type print technology, in contrast, which scriptural presses mainly shunned and upon which association periodicals relied, had been developed in a for-profit context of print capitalism centered in the metropolis of Shanghai (Reed 2004). Commercial publishers played a small but significant role in the production of Chinese Buddhist scriptures in the Republican era, but the model they established of publishing businesses proved much more influential on the wider field of Buddhist print culture. In their early days, Chinese commercial publishers such as the Commercial Press (Shangwu yinshu guan 商務印書館), Zhonghua Books (Zhonghua shuju 中華書 局), and World Books (Shijie shuju 世界書局) were not heavily involved in Buddhist publishing, focusing instead on commercially promising genres such as textbooks, popular fiction, and translations. Many of the founding members of these publishers had learned their trade through working in Christian mission presses, but as commercial enterprises they did not produce a large number of

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religious works, Christian, Buddhist, or otherwise, in their print offerings. The Chinese Buddhist periodicals that were printed by commercial firms were produced as part of a print contract for the Buddhist editor or association, and do not normally appear in the publisher’s mainstream book catalogue. Foxue congbao, for example, was headed by the journalist and publisher Di Chuqing 狄楚 青 (ca. 1873–1941) who printed it through his own commercial Youzheng Press 有正書局. The press had been founded in 1904 to print Di’s pioneering newspaper Shibao 時報 (The Times), and its main business was literary periodical and monographic publishing, but Di Chuqing developed an interest in Buddhism around the time of the Republican revolution, and so developed Youzheng into a local node in Buddhist scriptural distribution networks. Another Shanghai-based publisher, Ding Fubao 丁福保 (1874–1952), drew upon his experience in studying medicine in Japan and translating and republishing Japanese medical texts to his production of Buddhist books. A lifelong bibliophile, book collector, and entrepreneur, Ding co-founded the Medical Studies Press (Yixue shuju 醫學書局) and produced a number of volumes and collectanea (congshu 叢書) relating to medicine and health. Many of his titles were directed toward making difficult and complex medical concepts easy to understand for beginners. It should come as no surprise, therefore, that in the late 1910s when he started to gravitate toward the study of Buddhism, he published a Buddhist Studies collectanea that included books for beginners and dictionaries designed to guide the reader through the Buddhist scriptural corpus, a treacherous “sea of scriptures” (jinghai 經海) that required the guidance of a skilled exegete to navigate safely (Scott 2015a). Through the 1920s and 1930s, commercial presses like Youzheng and the Medical Studies Press were instrumental in printing Buddhist periodicals and some important monographs, as well as a small number of sutra texts and reprint editions of Buddhist canons. Such works are usually difficult to find in their main commercial book catalogues, however, and are normally only mentioned in Buddhist sources. The influence of commercial publishing practices came to have a lasting influence on Chinese Buddhist print culture in the later Republican era, culminating in the founding of Shanghai Buddhist Books (Shanghai Foxue shuju 上海佛 學書局) in 1929 (Scott 2015b). Shanghai Buddhist Books was established as a limited-liability public Buddhist publishing corporation with some of the most prominent and active Buddhist laypersons of the day serving on its board of directors. Its products, scriptures and related Buddhist books, continued to be seen as engines of merit, but they were also now products to be marketed and sold for profit. Their corporate character and the promotional materials they

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issued include a canny pitch to potential investors: investing in Shanghai Buddhist Books brought unique benefits to the investor that no other business could match since their business produced both merit and financial profit, with neither having to be sacrificed for the other. In contrast to the for-merit but notfor-profit tradition of scriptural printing, Shanghai Buddhist Books was both for-merit and for-profit, and its leaders saw no conflict in pursuing both. The strategy was quite a success: between its founding in 1929 and the outbreak of the Second Sino-Japanese War in 1937 it grew into a nationwide network of local retailers, the size and scope of which rivaled the decentralized one operated by scriptural presses and distributors. Many of the directors were commercial publishers themselves, and between them they introduced commercial technologies of print, including the social, organizational, and material, into the enterprise of producing and distributing Buddhist books. While it was indeed successful it was not the only viable model for Buddhist scriptural publishing. The Beijing Gengshen Scripture Distributor (Beijing gengshen Fojing liutong chu 北京庚申佛經流通處), to take one example, had a network of xylographic suppliers that was smaller than that reflected in Shanghai Buddhist Books’ catalogue, but which still covered much of China. As mentioned above, scriptural presses and distributors continued to operate alongside commercial presses through the 1930s and beyond, using the same technologies and not-forprofit principles as were pioneered in the 1860s. Commercial publishing thus provided a possible model for Buddhist scriptural publishers to emulate, but the application of commercial practices to the production of sacred scriptures was fraught with contradictions. Commercial presses produced scriptures but for the most part kept them out of their main book catalogues, which were filled for works published for profit. Di Chuqing’s Buddhist Studies collectanea collected portions of scriptural texts and guided beginners in reading them, but did not set out to replace the scriptures themselves. Finally, Shanghai Buddhist Books produced scriptures as well as periodicals and other works, and sought to combine the profit-generation of publishing businesses with the merit-generation of scriptural presses. Compared to the scriptural output of most commercial presses it was very prolific, but in terms of the total number of titles that it produced, it only equaled the breadth of a single scriptural press. As with periodicals, these enterprises helped to expand the reach of Buddhist scriptures but did not attempt to substantially change the definition of what a scripture was, nor did they challenge the nature of their sacred role in Buddhist religiosity.

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Conclusion In the aftermath of the Taiping War, Yang Wenhui was motivated by the cataclysmic destruction of monastery libraries to work toward replacing the Buddhist scriptural texts that had been lost in the conflagration. Two generations later, on the eve of another massively destructive war, readers across China could consult a catalogue from Shanghai Buddhist Books and order from a selection of thousands of Buddhist scriptural titles that would be delivered to their door. This period from the 1860s through to the 1930s has come to be seen as one of a “Buddhist Revival,” but whether or not we agree with this rubric, I think it is clear that there was at least a revival in the realm of Buddhist scriptural publishing. Outlined above are the formation of new networks for producing and distributing scriptural materials, including those of scriptural presses and distributors, and the commercial network of Shanghai Buddhist Books. There were also new modes of packaging and explicating scriptural content, such as those of Ding Fubao and his Buddhist Studies Collectanea, which provided books for beginners and lexicographic tools to help guide readers through a sea of Buddhist scriptures. Overall, we get a sense of growing levels of access to scriptures, as they moved from being protected and precious objects toward becoming diffused mass-produced products. Scriptures remained sacred, precious texts with various powers, but increasingly they were also objects that people could access and interact with on a day-to-day basis. To be certain, people had always carried and read individual copies of scriptures or other religious texts such as precious scrolls (baojuan 寶卷), but with the development of modern Buddhist publishing, a much wider and more diverse field of scriptures were being opened to them. Contrast the important but closely-guarded scriptures of the Five Books in Six Volumes (wubu liuce 五部六冊) explored in Barend J. ter Haar’s work, to the commercially-sold and advertised collections of the Republican era (ter Haar 2014). None of these developments, however, were radically new, and all of them, the for-profit Shanghai Buddhist Books included, remained firmly rooted in the patrimony of for-merit scriptural printing inherited from earlier Buddhists. I would therefore hesitate before labelling these phenomena part of a process of modernization, or as being emblematic of the emergence of a “Buddhist Modernism;” these terms are arguably more properly applied to processes that occurred from the 1950s onward, and which continue to evolve in the present day (McMahan 2008). Instead, I would suggest that what occurred in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in the realm of Chinese Buddhist scriptures was that while the content of scriptures remained the same, just about every aspect of their relationship with the wider human world was transformed. The nature of these transformations grew

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out of Buddhist printing traditions but were nevertheless unique to the modern era, and deserve to be taken into account when looking at Chinese Buddhism in this period and its later development. The Buddhist “Word” as termed by Ryūichi Abé continues to be the Word – but as a result of the vibrant and energetic Buddhist print culture that developed in the modern era, the ways in which it is expressed, heard, transmitted, have forever been changed.

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Löwenthal, Rudolf. 1940. The Religious Periodical Press in China. Beijing: The Synodal Commission in China. Luo Cheng 羅琤. 2010. Jinling kejing chu yanjiu 金陵刻經處研究. Shanghai: Shanghai shehui kexue yuan chuban she. McMahan, David L. 2008. The Making of Buddhist Modernism. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Reed, Christopher A. 2004. Gutenberg in Shanghai: Chinese Print Capitalism, 1876–1937. Vancouver: UBC Press. Scott, Gregory Adam. 2013. “Conversion by the Book: Buddhist Print Culture in Early Republican China.” Ph.D. Dissertation, Columbia University. Scott, Gregory Adam. 2015a. “Navigating the Sea of Scriptures: The Buddhist Studies Collectanea, 1918–1923.” In Religious Publishing and Print Culture in Modern China, 1800–2012, edited by Philip Clart and Gregory Adam Scott, 91–138. Boston and Berlin: De Gruyter. Scott, Gregory Adam. 2015b. “Pingheng gongde yu liyi - Shanghai foxue shuju gufen youxian gongsi de jingli” 平衡功德與利益— 上海佛學書局股份有限公司的經歷 In Gaibian Zhongguo zongjiao de wushi nian, 1898–1948 改變中國宗教的五十年, 1898–1948, edited by Kang Bao 康豹 (Paul R. Katz), Gao Wanseng 高萬桑 (Vincent Goossaert), 193–223. Taipei: Academia Sinica. Scott, Gregory Adam. 2016a. “Revolution of Ink: Chinese Buddhist Periodicals in the Early Republic.” In Recovering Buddhism in Modern China, edited by Jan Kiely and J. Brooks Jessup, 111–140. New York: Columbia University Press. Scott, Gregory Adam. 2016b. “Absolutely Not a Business: Chinese Buddhist Scriptural Presses and Distributors, 1860s – 1930s.” KODEX – Jahrbuch der IBG [Codex: Yearbook of the International Society for Book Science] 6: 67–82. Scott, Gregory Adam. 2017. “The Canon as a Consumer Good: The Pinjia Canon and the Changing Role of the Buddhist Canon in Modern China.” In Reinventing the Tripitaka: Transformation of the Buddhist Canon in Modern East Asia, edited by Jiang Wu and Gregory Wilkinson, 95–125. Lanham: Lexington Books. Shangwu yinshuguan tushu lu 商務印書館圖書錄. Feb. 1, 1919. In Minguo shiqi chuban shumu huibian 民國時期出版書目彙編, edited by Liu Hongquan 劉洪權, Vol.1. Beijing: Guojia tushuguan chubanshe. Storch, Tanya. 2014. The History of Chinese Buddhist Bibliography: Censorship and Transformation of the Tripitaka. Amherst: Cambria Press. ter Haar, Barend J. 2014. Practicing Scripture: A Lay Buddhist Movement in Late Imperial China. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Vita, Silvio. 2003. “Printings of the Buddhist ‘Canon’ in Modern Japan.” In Buddhist Asia 1: Papers from the First Conference of Buddhist Studies Held in Naples in May 2001, edited by Giovanni Verardi and Silvio Vita, 217–245. Kyoto: Italian School of East Asian Studies. Welch, Holmes. 1968. The Chinese Buddhist Revival. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Wu, Jiang, and Lucille Chia, eds. 2015. Spreading Buddha’s Word in East Asia: The Formation and Transformation of the Chinese Buddhist Canon. New York: Columbia University Press. Youzheng shuju mulu 有正書局目錄 [1921?–1923?]. 2008. In Zhongguo jindai guji chuban faxing shiliao congkan, xubian 中國近代古籍出版發行史料叢刊 · 續編, Vol. 8, selected and edited by Yin Mengxia 殷夢霞 and Li Shasha 李莎莎. Beijing: Guojia tushuguan chubanshe.

Stefania Travagnin

From Xue 學 to Jiaoyu 教育: Conceptual Understandings of ‘Education’ in Modern Chinese Buddhism Introduction: Rethinking Concepts and Historical Narrative There are a few nunneries on Mt. Emei, in Sichuan; as I enter the Shengshui Chan Nunnery (Shengshui chanyuan 聖水禪院), some of the resident nuns are working in their field, some others are helping with the refurbishment of an old building. Fuhu Nunnery (fuhu si 伏虎寺) presents a different scenario, with two distinct groups of nuns, living in two different areas of the temple, and conducting two different forms of life. Some nuns are busy with liturgy, cleaning the temple, interacting with lay volunteers, some others reside in a separate area, and spend their time in classrooms, listening to senior nuns lecturing about Buddhist philosophy; the latter are the student nuns of the Mt. Emei Female Institute of Buddhist Studies (Emeishan foxueyuan nizhongban 峨眉山佛學院尼眾班). A similar setting is found at the Big Buddha Chan Monastery (Dafo chanyuan 大佛禪院), down the mountain: some monks are working in various halls of the Monastery, and others, in a separate area of the compound, the Mt. Emei Institute of Buddhist Studies (Emeishan foxueyuan 峨眉山佛學院), are attending classes; this is the largest saṃgha male institute in Sichuan province. The library of the institute has several editions of the Chinese Buddhist Canon, a large collection of books on the history of Buddhism, but also volumes of Chinese literature and Chinese political ideologies, as student monks need to attend courses on secular subjects and also governmental policies. In the library, I met Wang Rongyi 王荣益, the grandson of Wang Enyang 王恩洋 (1897–1964); the latter was a prominent intellectual and the protagonist of several educational institutions, for monastics and laity, in Nanjing and various locations of Sichuan, during the Republican period and early 1950s. In Chengdu, in the Pidu 郫都 district, a bridge has been named ‘Śākyamuni’ (shijia qiao 釋迦橋) to celebrate the late Buddhist monk Changyuan 昌圓 (1879–1945), who is well-known for his contribution to local education; in the first decades of the twentieth-century, Changyuan established Buddhist societies for the education of the laity and several schools for nuns in various districts of today Chengdu. These are just a few examples of saṃgha

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education in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, and in just few areas of the Sichuan province; of course, a similar milieu can be found in other parts of China. The history of Buddhist saṃgha education in China is a multifaceted domain that includes shifts from translation and exegetical reading to the study of secular subjects, from individual lecturing to structured multi-year curricula, from monastery-based private schools to a system of academies built under an overall national Buddhist association. Those shifts and continuities in the historical development of Buddhist monastic education are result of the diachronic inner evolution within Chinese Buddhism, but also need to be addressed through the analysis of the synchronic interaction between Buddhist communities and the education practices of the other religious groups in China, and of the exchanges between the Chinese saṃgha and other non-Chinese Buddhist domains. The shifts in the education systems and policies also reflected national political changes within the sphere of Chinese secular education, and implied a reshaping of the social role that those religious specialists are asked to play. Two elements that recur in the entire history of saṃgha education are the tensions between ‘learning about the dharma’ (foxue 佛學) and ‘practicing the dharma’ (xuefo 學佛), and between discipline (jielü 戒律)1 and learning (xue 學 or jiaoyu 教育).2 In addition, if we consider the overall practice of ‘education’ within the Buddhist sphere, hence going beyond the schooling system for the sole saṃgha (usually defined as dui neide sengjiao 對內的僧教), we find a large domain that includes also the saṃgha practice of delivering dharma teachings to the laity (namely dui waide xinjiao 對外的信教); the engagement of Buddhist groups in social service through the establishment of schools and alternative (non strictly Buddhist) educational programs for society (usually defined as shehui jiaoyu 社會教育 or gongmin jiaoyu 公民教育); and finally, in selected times and places, monastics even lectured militaries during armed conflicts (education also known as junmin jiaoyu 軍民教育). Furthermore, the education of monastics and laity was not designed and delivered only by monks or nuns; in fact, especially in the modern period, lay intellectuals like Yang Wenhui 楊文會 (1837–1911), Ouyang Jingwu 歐陽竟無 (1871–1943), and Wang Enyang became key figures in Buddhist – including saṃgha – education. Of course, the domain of Buddhist education in China has experienced the intervention of also non-Buddhist laity in the definition of teaching projects for the monastic community: this is why it is crucial to 1 See Bianchi’s chapter in this volume for a modern revival and reconceptualization of jielü 戒 律 in Chinese Buddhism. 2 Nengrong (2003) explored the tension between respect of the discipline and learning of Buddhism, especially in the premodern period.

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position Buddhist developments within the general context of social and political transformations of China. This chapter will address more specifically education initiatives for the saṃgha (dui neide sengjiao); it will start with a brief overview of the scholarship on the topic (what has been done so far, and how the theme has been addressed), and outline some still unresolved questions. The second part will summarize forms of saṃgha education from the early stage of Buddhism in China to the late Qing period. The final part will be about transformation in the saṃgha education from the late Qing onwards, with focus on the Republican period. As I have already explored in previous works (Travagnin 2014, 2015, and 2017), the changes in institutions, policies, and curricula have been matched by a revision of the label terms in the education sector. Therefore, this chapter will propose a critical analysis of the transformations in education policies and the history of the ideas of learning, education, and pedagogy through the study of different conceptual terms – such as xue 學 and jiaoyu 教育 – and institution names – such as xueshe 學社, (seng)xuetang (僧)學堂, foxueyuan 佛學院 – that emerged in the Chinese Buddhist context. Those concepts will be defined in their historical significance and explored in their religious implications. I will address mainly the changes in the conceptual and institutional naming that took place in the late nineteenth and first half of the twentieth centuries, in China and Taiwan, underline the Buddhist and secular factors that led to such taxonomy, and mention effects of the renewed concepts on religious practice. The chapter will end with methodological suggestions for advancing the study of religious education in China, it will propose going beyond the paradigms that have defined the historical narrative so far, and adopting the study of networks as a new leading path.

1 Scholarship on Buddhist Education: Themes, Narratives, Paradigms Among Chinese and Taiwanese scholarship, the first comprehensive historical overview of saṃgha education in China is authored by Ding Gang 丁剛 (1988, then republished in 2010), a scholar trained and active in the field of education studies. Although brief, this book draws relevant parallels between Buddhism and other conceptions and practices of schools and learning, especially Daoist and Confucian, and thus unfolds a diachronic and synchronic analysis of religious and secular education. A later monograph, written by the nun Nengrong 能融 (2003), discusses the formation of education in early Chinese Buddhism within the context of the evolution of monastic institutions, and in conversation with the study of

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monastic discipline; this book looks at the subject from a different angle than Ding’s, and concentrate on the evolution of saṃgha and lay Buddhist education within the context of Buddhist history. Other articles and monographs, mostly published from the late 1990s onwards, tend to be studies of selected periods,3 specific figures4 or institutes of Buddhist studies,5 or short historical overviews yet with a main emphasis on the premodern period.6 The theme of nuns’ education has been explored in a few essays as well,7 in line with the renewed attention to gender and religion, and also the more general interest in gender within Chinese society. Education learning within non-Han (and non-Mahāyāna) Buddhism have also been analyzed (Pang 2015), although not in great length, along with other cultural studies on ethnic minorities. Some Taiwanese scholars investigated the role of Japanese institutes in the education of Taiwanese monastics (Kan 2011), and the history of a few Buddhist seminaries (Wuyin 1994). More recently, monographic volumes on the detailed and comprehensive history of saṃgha education in Taiwan (Zhou 2013), and other publications on saṃgha education only in modern Taiwan (He 2007; Huang 2014) have appeared. Yet, the overall topic of Buddhist education has not been addressed in extensive details so far. Recent Japanese and Western scholarship showed interest especially in the modern development of Buddhist education, which so far has been studied mostly through the lenses of the paradigms of modernization and reform (Guang Kuan 2016; Travagnin 2017), in their interdependence with the creation of a new nation

3 See for instance articles about Buddhist education in the Han dynasty (Cheng 2014; Li and Zhou 2013); the Sui and Tang dynasties (Zhang 1990; Guo 2000); late Qing (He 2005); the Republican period (Huang 2007; Tang 2015; Deng 1999; Chen and Deng 2000; Deng 2015; Dongchu 1974; Chen 2007); contemporary era (Li 2015; Zhang 1990; Chen and Deng 2000; Deng 2015). 4 Among the others, we count articles about the fourth-century monk Dao’an 道安 (Luo 2015); Ji (2009) provides an overview on lay intellectuals and their education endeavor in modern China, while other studies focus on specific lay figures like, to mention a few, Yang Wenhui (He 1998; Chen 2003; Wei 2013), Ouyang Jingwu (Li 1999), Wang Enyang (Huang 2001 and 2006). Publications on twentieth-century monks and their education philosophy and plans include those on Taixu 太虛 (He 1998; Tan 2010), Cihang 慈航 (Benxing 2008), Yuanying 圓瑛 (Chen 2013), Yinshun 印順 (Huang 2010 and 2014), Bianneng 遍能 (Liu 2001), Shengyan 聖嚴 (Changhui 2004). 5 Only selected institutes have been studied so far. For example, Yang Xiaorong 楊孝容 has authored a series of articles about the Sino-Tibetan Buddhist Institute (Hanzang jiaoliyuan 漢 藏教理院), see for instance Yang 2014, 2015, 2018; other articles concern the Jetavana Hermitage (Lü 1998; He 1997; He 1998); the Gushan Institute of Buddhist Studies Gushan foxueyuan 鼓山佛學院 (Wang 2015); the Wuchang Institute of Buddhist Studies Wuchang foxueyuan 武昌佛學院 (He 1998). 6 Among the others see Zhang and Chen 1997; Li and Zhou 2013. 7 Among the others see Li 2010; He 1997; He 1999.

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and a new model of citizenship in the Republican period (Lai 2013), the formation of new forms of ‘lineage’ and belonging (Lai 2013), or as part of the post-Mao new China (Gildow 2016; Ji 2019). Many of these writings consider the interconnections between institutes’ structures and curricula and the state (Travagnin 2014 and 2015), some focus on saṃgha education among (Buddhist) ethnic minorities (Borchert 2017), and some others are monographic studies of specific institutes.8 These first studies have set solid foundations for future research on Chinese Buddhist education. I would argue that the comparative perspective with other cultural and religious traditions of China that Ding (1988/2010) and Ji (2011) proposed could be deepened further, so to strengthen a larger macro-analysis. Secondly, in line with what has been done with other themes in Buddhism, which have been positioned within historical, goegraphical, and socio-political frames, the interrelatedness between religious learning and secular learning also deserves more attention. Finally, the educational initiatives and achievements of less eminent monks and nuns need to be added to the ‘official’ map.

2 Saṃgha Education in China: Early Stages until the Late Nineteenth Century In the study of Indian Buddhism, several scholars argued that the history of Buddhist education is the history of the Buddhist saṃgha;9 we can certainly make similar arguments when we look at the development of Buddhism in China. Moreover, education – in terms of personal moral advancement but also in its social function – has always held a special place in the history of China, from early civilization up to now, and has been embodied especially in those Confucian ideals that still permeate contemporary society.10 In the formative stage of Chinese Buddhism (starting in the Eastern Han dynasty), the only education was saṃgha-centered, executed inside the temple, 8 See, among the others, articles on the Sino-Tibetan Buddhist Institute (Sullivan 2007), the Minnan Institute of Buddhist Studies (Travagnin 2015), the Wuchang Institute of Buddhist Studies (Lai 2013 and 2017) in China; the case of two institutes for nuns in Taiwan (Travagnin 2005). Bianchi (2001) describes also nuns’ education system that was initiated by the famous Longlian 隆蓮 (1909–2006) from the 1980s. 9 Among the earliest instances see Banerjee 1973. 10 Among the many studies on this subject see Lee 2000 and Ryan 2019; they both analyze the long-lasting impact of the Confucian understanding and purposes of education on even the modern and contemporary Chinese systems of learning. Lee (2000) also outlines the exchanges and mutual influence between Buddhist, Daoist and Confucian/public educations.

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and revolved around the translation of early key texts (practice defined as yijing 譯經); the study of Buddhism was limited to lecturing and oral teaching (jiangxue 講學). The framework of learning experienced a first considerable change between the third and the fifth century, as result of exchanges with Daoism and Confucianism. At the same time the development of the Daoist and Confucian education systems interplayed with the ongoing formation of Buddhist education, which also set important models for secular education. A second important ‘subject’ that was added to saṃgha learning in those two centuries was the vinaya (jielu 戒律) as explained in authoritative scriptures; this factor added new nuances to the relations between xue fo (dharma practice) and fo xue (dharma study/education). Finally, the establishment of different doctrinal schools turned temple-based education, for the very first time, into sectariancentered learning (siyuan jiaoyu 寺院教育). The consequence was, as Ding well phrased, a shift in the relation between translating and lecturing, and the passage from lecturing as instrumental to translation to the point when translations became instrumental to (a sectarian) lecturing (Ding 2010, 47). The mid of the 5th century marks the real start of nuns’ education (biqiuni jiaoyu 比丘尼教育). It is important to remember that the creation of female Buddhist education had a great impact on women’s education overall; in fact, nunneries were, at the end, the only places for women to receive an education at that time. Three new features of saṃgha education became prominent in the Sui and Tang period: the modality of ‘study abroad’ (liu xue 留學), which had already seen its early stages in the previous centuries, became a steady phenomenon only from the Sui; lecturing and translation of texts became integrated with the practice of side discussions (su jiang 俗講), which helped the audience to better understand the deep meaning of the (foreign) Buddhadharma; finally, new official regulations issued on religion and monastic communities during the Tang had an impact also on a systematization of saṃgha education. The role of monastery-centered education, the formation of sectarian monasteries and the consequent redefinition of Buddhist education became blueprint for the Confucian academies (shuyuan 書院), which developed during the Song. It is clear, then, that Buddhist education was not only a Buddhist phenomenon, it was also the first case of private education that had vast impact on nonBuddhist and non-religious education in China.11

11 Confucian literati admired Daoist and Buddhist private and secluded schools, which were usually known as shanlin jiangxue 山林講學, literally “lecturing and learning on mountains and in forests” (Lee 2000, 6–7).

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During the Ming, education run inside a monastery, which is also defined as conglin jiaoyu 叢林教育, became characterized by the joint learning of foxue 佛學 and waixue 外學, with the latter mostly meaning the learning of Confucian classics. The movement that aimed at transforming temples into schools, the beginning of an elementary non-religious education run by Buddhist monasteries, the further exchanges with Japan and the newly founded Japanese Buddhist universities (Saitō 1978; Makoto 2009 and 2012), the increasing role of the laity (jushi 居士): these factors constituted the structural bases and the paradigm shifts that defined the late Qing and the Republican period, with laity-run institutions12 that paralleled the saṃgha-run schools (Travagnin 2014). The so-called Han Buddhism (hanchuan fojiao 漢傳佛教) is not the only tradition present in China; Theravāda communities (nanchuan fojiao 南傳佛教) and groups following the Tibetan-Vajrayāna tradition (zangchuan fojiao 藏傳佛教) are also part of the Chinese religious landscape. Of course, these two Buddhist traditions have their own systems of learning, for the saṃgha and the lay followers, that developed in parallel, and sometimes in dialogue, with what was happening among Han Buddhists. This chapter, however, focuses on Han Buddhism.

3 Into the Twentieth Century: China and Taiwan Since the late Qing, Buddhist clerics and the laity started framing Buddhism and Buddhist practice within a new set of conceptual categories, especially analytical notions imported from the West or via Japan, and also through revisited and redefined Chinese (and Buddhist) endogenous ideas. In fact, in those decades, Buddhists worked on repositioning themselves and their tradition in the new cultural and political time, they updated Buddhist taxonomy and vocabulary and articulated new semantics of traditional terminologies. This process was unfolding in a larger social and intellectual milieu of challenges and paradigm shifts, a milieu that involved other groups and patterns with whom Buddhists intersected.13 At the same time, Chinese traditional thought, with the

12 See, for instance, the well-known Jetavana Hermitage opened by Yang Wenhui 楊文會 (He 1998; Chen 2003), and others opened in Nanjing and other areas. The following section of the chapter will explore this category of schools in more detail. 13 As for the challenges posed by Western ideologies and sciences, see also Hammerstrom’s and Kuo’s chapters in this volume. An early, but still authoritative, work on the topic is Kwok 1965.

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dialectic dualism of “essence” (ti 體) and “application” (yong 用), and the classical concept of “integration” (ronghui 融會), already embedded ways to facilitate the absorption and domestication of foreign concepts, including the foreign notions of ‘education.’14 As mentioned in the previous section, education has always played a pivotal role in the history of Chinese civilization, and indeed the calls for reforms in the educational system has been often used also in modern Chinese history; a new education system was seen as key to the new Chinese renaissance.15 In the following pages I will look at how conceptual changes in the sphere of religious education, especially within Buddhism, mirrored changes that were also happening to the ideas and categories that framed contemporary (secular) public education. I will then discuss how the role of Confucius’ ideals and the Confucian system of education were called into question and eventually replaced in both the public and the religious domains. I will also raise some doubts about the normative narratives that, so far, have framed history and historiography of modern Chinese Buddhism, hence I will problematize certain paradigms that, I believe, are obstacles to other, equally legitimate, histories, and reconstruct a more comprehensive and synchronic view of the modern period. In his The Buddhist Revival in China (1968), Holmes Welch wrote: ‘History belongs to those who write it, and the person who wrote more history than any one else was Tai-hsü’ (256); Welch’s argument certainly states a true fact, however it also tells the limitations of a historical account that is based on only selective, although well published, figures, at the expenses of a larger picture that is not told. I therefore suggest that we look into that history again, enquiry other kinds of sources, move beyond this conventional narrative, and unpack a more comprehensive, and better representative, status quo of saṃgha education.

14 Expressions like zhongxue wei ti, xixue wei yong 中學為體，西學為用 (‘Chinese learning as substance, Western learning for practical uses’); and zhu yi zhongxue, fu yi xixue 主以中學，輔 以西學 (‘Chinese learning as primary, Western learning as secondary’) were popular already in the Qing. The former was a motto proposed by, especially, Zhang Zhidong 張之洞 (1837–1909) in his Quanxue pian 勸學篇 (Exhortation to Study), which was published in 1898; the latter appears in Zheng Guanying’s 鄭觀應 (1842–1922) Xixue 西學 (Western Learning), a publication from 1892. A few decades later, towards the end of 1930s and in the early 1940s, Wang Enyang 王恩洋 returned to the same issues. 15 See those slogans on the “omnipotence of education” (jiaoyu wanneng 教育萬能), and the call to “save the country through education” (jiaoyu jiuguo 教育救國), which have been repeated in several phases of modern Chinese history.

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3.1 Micro-History in a Macro-frame: Chinese Education and Chinese Saṃgha Education A careful reading of the history of Chinese secular education reveals that changes that reformed saṃgha education from the late Qing throughout the Republican period reflected and embodied crucial transformations that the general secular public education in China was also subject to.16 The intellectual atmosphere at that time of the reinvention of China set background and models for the reformers of Chinese secular education and the theorizers of the new Buddhist seminaries. For instance, both the domains of secular and saṃgha education problematized preservation and adoption of Confucianism. In those years Confucianism was perceived as contributing to cultural weakness, and a reason for China’s defeat by Western powers during the nineteenth century. Intellectuals questioned the position that Confucianism could/should have played in the “Chinese Renaissance,” and the clash between Confucian ethics (and thus the moral principles at the basis of Chinese society) and Western scientific knowledge and religion (see Tao 2016). A parallel debate was developing in the Buddhist sphere, where traditional doctrine and practice, which had marked the identity of Chinese Buddhism and the Chinese monastic community, were being questioned and eventually replaced by foreign, and often secular, cultural discourses. The encounter between China (and East Asia in general) and the West led to a period of intellectual, social and political dynamism. Buddhist thinkers and reformers experienced this constructive yet controversial confrontation too, and developed similar conceptual reforms, shared leading figures and were subject to parallel institutional reconstructions. Ryan (2019) divides the history of Chinese education into four phases: the Imperial Confucian time, from the second century B.C. up to the 1850s; the late Imperial time and first Republic, namely the years from 1860 to 1949; the Socialist era, from 1949 to 1978; and the Reform period, from 1978 until the beginning of the twenty-first century (22–40). In this chapter I focus on the second phase, which I further divide into a four-stage process. These four stages are characterized by a strong engagement with Western science and ideas and the rethinking of the traditional essence of Chinese civilization. The first stage dates back to the mid of the nineteenth century, the time of the outbreak of the Opium

16 Research on the all history of Chinese education includes Chen 2009; Lee 2000; Ryan 2019. See Elman and Woodside 1994 for the time period 1600–1900. Detailed studies of the process of modernization of education that evolved in the late Qing and Republican era include Adams 1969; Bailey 1990; Borthwick 1983; Cleverley 1991; Cong 2007; Hayhoe 1992; Hsia 1932; Peterson, Hayhoe and Lu 2001. For the transitional phase between the Republican period and the Cultural Revolution see Kwong 1979. For the history of education in Taiwan see Peng 2009.

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Wars (1839–1942, and 1856–1860), and also the time when Christianity strengthened their position and came to represent a new challenge (and somehow also a threat) to the Buddhist community.17 It was a moment of awareness of both the weakness of Chinese civilization and the potential power of Western ideologies. Those years created the basis of a time of change and led to new theorems in the sphere of education, which concretized from the second to the fourth phase. The second stage is around the end of the nineteenth century (and of the Qing dynasty), starting with the year 1898; the Hundred Days’ Reform (wuxu bianfa 戊戌變法) and the movement of funding schools with temple properties (miaochan xingxue 廟產興學) set a new milieu for education, and affected both the secular society and the religious world. Scholars and politicians like Zhang Zhidong 張之洞 (1837–1909), Kang Youwei 康有為 (1858–1927), Liang Qichao 梁 啟超 (1873–1929), and Cai Yuanpei 蔡元培 (1868–1940) became the main advocates of educational reforms in the end of the nineteenth century and the following decade. They were all involved, each in a different way, in transforming the examination system, promoting the translation of Western works, and encouraging the Chinese youth to study abroad. These years indeed brought a significant change in the curricula and structure of schools, and important foreign challenges to Confucianism and the Confucian-based concept of humanness (ren 仁) and morality. Scientific subjects were introduced in schools as less space was given to Confucian texts, the Imperial examinations (keju 科舉) were abolished (1905), and the classical figure of the literati (wenren 文人) became replaced by the new concept of the intellectuals (zhishi fenzi 知識分子). 1898 is also the year of the establishment of Beijing University (Beijing daxue 北京大學), the first Chinese university that was built according to Western models. The Chinese Education Association (Zhongguo jiaoyu hui 中國教育會) was founded in 1902 (Tong 1990). In the Buddhist sphere, those were the years when Yang Wenhui founded his Jetavana Hermitage, and at the same time Japanesestyle monastic study halls (seng xuetang 僧學堂) were built in various places in China via inspiration from, among the others, the Japanese Higashi Honganji.18

17 For details about the impact of Christianity and also Christian colleges on Chinese local education, see Bays and Widmer 2009. 18 The argument that the seng xuetang 僧學堂 are a Japanese invention may not be fully correct; already in premodern China monasteries presented similar structures, and places dedicated to the study (Ch: ban xuexi de difang 辦學習的地方). Japanese Buddhists imported this form of education, which they then also reshaped and modified; these new Japanese seng xuetang have been reintroduced into China centuries later (private conversation with the monk Puhua 普華, from Zhaojue monastery (zhaojue si 昭覺寺), in Chengdu, early August 2019).

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The third stage coincides with the first decade of the Republic of China (ROC). The establishment of the ROC in 1911 initiated a second stream of reforms that were based on democratic values. Educators included Cai Yuanpei and Jiang Qian 江謙 (1876–1942).19 Those years saw the development of what Daniel H. Bays and Ellen Widmer defined as “national cross-cultural experiences,” with the increasing number of American Christian colleges built in China. The first decade of the ROC continued encouraging study abroad programs, and especially referred to Japanese education as the main model to emulate. Since the Meiji, Japanese had started Buddhist universities (Saitō 1978; Makoto 2009 and 2012) that Chinese and Taiwanese monastics also attended a few decades later, and thus set up models for new structures of saṃgha education in China herself. Chinese Buddhist educators started planning their new schooling systems precisely in this decade. The fourth and final moment concerns the second phase of the ROC. The school reforms in 1922 marked a turning point in the history of education in China, when the Western American system gradually replaced the Japanese models. Important educators in this phase included Tao Xingzhi 陶行知 (1891–1946).20 And this is when the new forms of Buddhist seminaries were opened; 1922 is when Taixu’s well-known Wuchang Institute of Buddhist Studies (Wuchang foxueyuan 武昌佛學院) was inaugurated, and around that time other foxueyuan, although different and less ambitious from Taixu’s models, started being operative in many other areas, especially in the South. If we consider the last three periods from a different perspective, we may then conclude that China expressed three main reactions to the encounter with the West: rejection, acceptance, and domestication. In other words, these decades showed the rejection of the Confucian-based pattern of education, the acceptance of foreign models of schooling and learning, and finally the integration of those new ideas and ideals within the frame of Chinese culture. Buddha was an educator, but Confucius was the educator for China and the Chinese. In the study of Chinese Buddhism, it would be worthwhile to draw a parallel between Confucius’ understanding of learning and what happened in the Buddhist China since the end of the nineteenth century. In the traditional (Confucian) view, “learning” (xue) was the tool/path to becoming “fully human,” learning was a process of personal cultivation, implying the acquisition of a virtuous conduct.21 Education was a way to develop the moral character of the student, 19 For his attention to Buddhism as a school subject see Foulk-McGuire 2013. 20 His important works on education have been recently translated into English, see Tao 2016. 21 Ch: cheng ren zhi dao 成人之道.

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and eventually the integration of the individual into the own social environment to build a harmonious society (see for instance Lee 2000). Here is when the personal and inner cultivation were connected to, and became functional for, the surrounding society. Confucian education has also been defined as a form of indoctrination, for the space given to emulation of previous sages and exemplary figures. And Buddhism? Early Buddhist education was a crucial component of Buddhist practice. However, the importance of being a good Chinese (social) person was also highly relevant; see, for instance, the addition of the study of Confucian classics in monastic institutions in the pre-modern time. Yet, the ‘study’ of Buddhism was always interlinked with the practice for enlightenment.22 What we see developing from the late nineteenth century is a clearer separation of cultivation/practice from the actual learning, at least on the structural and organizational level, with more emphasis on the latter than on the former, or perhaps even, in certain cases, the attempt to replace the former with the latter. The actual learning involved a number of subjects which were not dharma-related, but not even strictly Confucianism-related; in fact, as it happened in the secular domain, Confucian knowledge was replaced with other secular subjects, with the aim to instruct monks to be citizens of a renewed civilization.23

3.2 Terminology and Taxonomy of Modern Buddhist Education We can confidently argue that the history of education in pre-modern China has been a Confucian history. The so-called Confucian “social project” is comprehensive of a righteous government, social morality, and a correct family structure; and, more precisely in the domain of education, the conviction that a combination of xue 學 (“learning”) and si 思 (“thinking”) would produce zhi 知 (“knowledge”).24 The character wen 文 was also often used to indicate the correct culture/education, result of proper learning, which would have found manifestation in the practice of ren 仁 (“humanness” or “benevolence”).25 As Elman and Woodside (1994) have argued, the essence of the educational programs in late Imperial China remained embodied in the three categories of jiao 教 (“teaching”),

22 Ch: cheng Fo zhi dao 成佛之道. 23 Ch: cheng gongmin zhi dao 成公民之道. Rongdao Lai (2013) also argued that the studentmonks were learning to be citizens in the Republican period. 24 See the passage from the Analects: xue er bu si ze wang, si er bu xue ze dai 學而不思則罔， 思而不學則殆 (Lunyu 論語 2:15). 25 See the passage from the Analects: Cengzi yue: junzi yi wen hui you, yi you fu ren 曾子曰： 君子以文會友，以友輔仁 (Lunyu 論語 12:24).

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xue 學 (“learning”), and wen 文 (“culture/education”), although the objects and purposes of these actions changed considerably since the late Qing (3–6). Almost at the same time, China recovered the term jiaoyu 教育 (literally meaning “teach and rear”) from Japan as a new word to translate the Western concept of education, and to help define the new modern educational policies in China. Jiaoyu was one of many words that the Japanese started adopting at the end of the nineteenth century to translate Western ideas and ideologies, and its reception in China became one of the most important aspects of the new educational reforms. Jiaoyu gradually became the main word for education, replacing previous terms like xue 學 (which literally meant “learning”), and at the same time xue came to mean “scientific knowledge” of subjects.26 The Chinese adoption of the term jiaoyu indicated the implicit acceptance of the foreign model of education. It also more overtly implied a new way of thinking about education, and therefore shaped the restructuring of the Chinese systems of pedagogy. As I wrote in a previous article, the word jiaoyu opened up a new world (Travagnin 2014). At the institutional level, modern education was founded on the blueprint provided by Christian colleges that had been established by Protestants (Bays and Widmer 2009). The increase in Chinese translations of Western philosophical and literary works in the late nineteenth-century facilitated the adoption of both Chinese and Western methods of learning as essential parts of the new curricula in schools, and heated the debate concerning the modalities of integration of Western thought into the system of Chinese traditional values. The new term jiaoyu, and the newly conceptualized education manifested in a concrete form at the governmental level as well. At the beginning of the twentieth-century, China established several organs for educational affairs. Finally, in 1905, the Qing authorized the foundation of the first Ministry of Education (jiaoyu bu 教育部). The adoption of the term jiaoyu to define “education” had a wide impact on modern Buddhist educational projects. The same Taixu (1924) and others lectured on the modernization of saṃgha education and the concept of jiaoyu in general terms.27 We perceive a change in terminology between the imperial and Republican periods, and that provided theoretical foundations for a renewal in educational infrastructures and policies. For instance, in the second half of the nineteenth century we notice the (re)appearance of the first renewed Monastic Study

26 See Hammerstrom’s chapter in this volume for xue as/and ‘scientism’. 27 His talk On Education (Lun jiaoyu 論教育), given at the Wuchang Institute of Buddhist Studies in 1924, stated that Confucianism had embodied the principles of Chinese education for more than 2000 years, however since the late Qing China should have also dealt with the (Western) concept of jiaoyu, and reconfigured Chinese educational projects accordingly (Taixu 1924; Travagnin 2014).

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Halls (seng xuetang 僧學堂),28 and later on the adoption of the concept of Institute of Buddhist Studies (foxueyuan 佛學院) and University (daxue 大學).29 The former were schools, mostly inspired by imported Japanese models,30 where monks were educated beyond Buddhist doctrine and practice, while the latter two represented their further development, a more complex type of institutions than the previous monastic study-meetings. It is in several of these foxueyuan, given the revised curriculum and the presence of non-Buddhist subjects, that foxue and xuefo became two separate practices. Other foxueyuan, actually the majority of them, presented a less ambitious, and a curriculum that was more Buddhism-focused; in other words, Taixu’s innovative Wuchang or Minnan Institutes of Buddhist Studies were not the norm of saṃgha education in those decades. Many of these new forms of seminaries did not last long, sometimes only a semester; this was due to several factors like financial constraints, presence of leading teachers, social or political turmoil. These new institutions can also be grouped into distinctive networks centered on specific curricula or, more often, leading figures. Another type of school characteristic of those decades was the Institute of Vinaya Studies (lüxueyuan 律學院); most of these institutes were created as a more traditional alternative to the most innovative foxueyuan, and the focus on the study of discipline (yi jie wei zhu 以戒為主) wanted to be a reaction to the secular curriculum of the foxueyuan.31 This means that only in a few cases lüxueyuan indicated (only) a specific belonging to the Vinaya school. The change in terminology also included the use of the same word jiaoyu in Buddhist contexts. Even if foxue 佛學 still referred to training in Buddhism, 28 Among the others, see for instance the Eastern Study Hall (Dongwen xuetang 東文學堂), established in Nanjing in 1899, and that lasted until 1909; the Hunan saṃgha Study Hall (Hunan seng xuetang 湖南僧學堂), opened in 1903; the Ningpo Buddhist Study Hall (Ningpo fo xuetang 寧波佛學堂), founded in 1904; the Putong saṃgha Study Hall (Putong seng xuetang 普 通僧學堂 at the Tianning Temple (tianning si 天寧寺) in Yangzhou 揚州 (1906–1908); the Jiangsu saṃgha Normal Study Hall (Jiangsu seng shifan xuetang 江蘇僧師範學堂), which was established in the Dabao’en Temple (Dabao’en si 大报恩寺) in Nanjing, and run from 1909 to 1911. Dongchu (1974) describes some of these examples of monastic sangha halls (78–81). See also footnote 18 on the history of xuetang, between China and Japan. 29 As for these Buddhist daxue 大學, see for instance Erik Hammerstrom’s forthcoming monograph on the network of Huayan Universities (Huayan daxue 華嚴大學). 30 Mostly related to the Higashi Hongangji 東本願寺 or Nishi Hongganji 西本願寺. 31 The Gulin Institute of Vinaya Study (Gulin lüxueyuan 古林律學院), which was established in 1933 at the Gulin Temple (gulin si 古林寺), in Nanjing, is an example of this typology; Gulin Temple became well-known with the title of “first ancestral court in the restauration of the Vinaya” (zhongxing jielü diyi zuting 中興戒律第一祖庭). A second example, also in Nanjing, is the Qixia Institute of Vinaya Studies (Qixia lüxueyuan 棲霞律學院), founded in 1936 in the Qixia Temple (qixia si 棲霞寺).

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monastics started using the expressions fojiao jiaoyu 佛教教育 and seng jiaoyu 僧教育 to indicate a more comprehensive and modern pedagogy, and several local saṃgha Education Associations (seng jiaoyu hui 僧教育會) started appearing from 1906, in imitation of the Chinese Education Association founded in 1902. Since the end of the nineteenth century the well known Yang Wenhui 楊文 會 (1837–1911) had underlined that the reforms of educational structures and institutions in Buddhism had all to be based on the reinvention of the concept of education (jiaoyu), and the following section of this chapter will highlight how various Buddhist voices in the Republican period continued that discourse. Since the late Qing period, and especially during the first decade of the Republican era, we also see “schools” (xuexiao 學校), “elementary schools” (xiaoxue 小學), “middle schools” (zhongxue 中學) being established by, and within, Buddhist institutions. These are examples of the so-called “social education” (shehui jiaoyu), which emerged as a new feature of Buddhists’ engagement in society under request/invitation of Chinese rulers, and were built on the model of state schools. The Republican period also experienced the booming of Buddhist laity who opened their own education settings, which were attended only by laity or by both monastics and laity. This category included a large number of “study societies” (xueshe 學社), but also “academies” (shuyuan 書院), like Wang Enyang’s famous Guishan Academy (guishan shuyuan 龜山書院) in Nanchong 南充 (Sichuan). The use of the term shuyuan wanted to remind the traditional Confucian institutes from the Song; in fact, the study of Buddhism (mostly Weishi 唯識 school) was combined with also Confucian learning. As the name indicates, these institutes were a reaction against the blind adoption of Western ideologies to replace traditional Chinese culture, and the latter was represented indeed by Confucianism. Towards the end of the Republican period, a “military education” (junmin jiaoyu 軍民教育) was added to the two categories of “saṃgha education” (seng jiaoyu) and “social education” (shehui jiaoyu). It was especially during the second Sino-Japanese conflict (late 1930s to mid 1040s) that temples turned into housing for troops, and there the resident monks were delivering Buddhist lectures as part of the education for the militaries.32 The Japanese influence in dictating new paradigms to saṃgha education in the Chinese region was more evident in Taiwan, during the fifty-year of colonial period. In fact, besides monks and nuns moving to Japan for study, we also notice

32 Baoguang Monastery Baoguang si 寶光寺, in Xindu 新都 (Chengdu, Sichuan) is an example of this.

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the establishment of (Japanese-styled) schools on Taiwanese soil, mostly called xuelin 學林 (Jp: gakurin) or zhong xuelin 中學林 (Jp: chū gakurin). Two examples are the Taiwan fojiao zhongxuelin 台灣佛教中學林, a Zen Sōtō school established in 1917, and the Zhennan xuelin 鎮南學林, a Zen Rinzai school founded in 1918 (Kan 2011, 131–161; Zhou 2013). As I explained elsewhere (Travagnin 2017), the creation of different forms of education vis-à-vis, of course, the more traditional sectarian-centered learning in monasteries (the so-called conglin jiaoyu), created a gap between the student-monks who were attending this new style of education (xin seng 新僧) and those who had learned in a more traditional way (jiu seng 舊僧). The ‘novelty’ trait was also used to define the new dharma-unrelated subjects that the ‘new monks’ were learning: xinxue 新學 was often used as abbreviation for “secular (scientific) learning” (shixue 世學), which was synonym of “Western new (scientific) learning” (xifang de xinxue 西方的新學).33 The ‘novelty’, however, was not always welcomed with appreciation, indeed the non-religious aspect of the Buddhist education was labelled as dangerous because institutes of Buddhist learning were gradually becoming merely social schools (shehui xuexiao 社會學 校) (Dongchu 1974, 217). Moreover, some monks did not appreciate the study of foreign language and non-Buddhist Chinese culture (Yinshun 1993, 1–3; Yanpei 1989, 50–63).

3.3 Saṃgha Education in the Republican Period: Published Voices and Debates Buddhist journals in the republican period offered a venue for discussions on the meaning of jiaoyu within the Buddhist sphere, and how the new foxueyuan 佛學院 and the traditional conglin 叢林 related to each other. Several articles also debated the redefinition of foxue in the new era,34 and in those argumentations emerges the claim of a separation between learning for becoming a Buddha and learning for becoming a citizen of the new China. The model shift, from monastery-based schools and the new institutes of Buddhist studies, generated new questions on the education reform; the monastery-based education had to be reformed, some Buddhists argued, because it was too sectarian, and in clear decay. Yet, Buddhists felt the need to build foxueyuan inside, or next to, as many conglin as possible, so 33 See Hammerstrom’s chapter in this volume for the nuances that the character xue assumed in the Republican period. 34 Tens of articles are titled Foxue yu xuefo 佛學與學佛; Shenme shi foxue? 什麼是佛學?; He wei foxue? 何謂佛學? See also Tang 1922, 1927a, 1927b; Changxing 1925.

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to make sure that the two systems could be integrated, rather than excluding each other (Daxing 1924; Hua Sheng 1924). As mentioned earlier, each foxueyuan had its own curriculum, and several did not follow the complete scheme designed by Taixu, and did not include waixue. As the concept of waixue came to mean more than the Chinese (Confucian) classical culture, and the political milieu also experienced radical changes, we notice several articles confirming that the new saṃgha education established in the Republican period was respectful of – and embodying – the Three Principles of the People (sanmin zhuyi 三民主義) (Taixu 1928; Jiang 1928a and 1928b; Xinsheng 1936). How I pointed out in a previous article (Travagnin 2015), Confucian ideas were still permeating the current debate on the new ideal education nonetheless: the new saṃgha education was successful because it embedded the new political ideology and, at the same time, contributed to the creation of the (Confucian) Great Unity (da tong 大同) (Taixu 1928). Emphasis on the Nationalist Three Principles of the People and the aim to reach the Confucian Great Unity were also part of the new secular pedagogy and public schools in China: here is another sign of the interconnectedness between education in the public sphere and training in the religious (not just private) sphere (Su and Wang 1928; Taixu 1928 and 1931b). The new concept of “Buddhicized education” (fohua de jiaoyu 佛化的教育), which emerged in the early Republican era, is another crucial feature of the new saṃgha education; it was a way to highlight the Buddhist essence of this new training, which included in great extent the so-called waixue, and also a way to indicate the distinctive value that a Buddhist form of education could offer to the larger public (Daxing 1924; Manzhi 1924). Those were the years when the concept of fohua was applied to several other religion-unrelated contexts, education aside; certainly, the two characters fohua 佛化, and the foundation of the “Buddhicization movement” (fohua yundong 佛化運動) can be found besides and beyond Taixu’s “Second Principle of the Buddha” (fohua zhuyi 佛化主義).35 Certain monastics and lay Buddhists preferred to use the

35 Taixu’s “Three Principles of the Buddha” (sanfo zhuyi 三佛主義) are a manifesto of his rensheng fojiao in concrete terms: the first principle (Foseng zhuyi 佛僧主義) defined new plans for the administration of the monastic property, especially a new training for the saṃgha, and the new active role that the saṃgha would have had to play in civil society. The second principle (Fohua zhuyi 佛化主義) concerned plans on how to “Buddhicize” the surrounding (lay) society. The third principle (Foguo zhuyi 佛國主義) proposed plans for restructuring the different sectors in the public domain of the new Chinese nation, and advanced (humanistic) Buddhist guidelines for this process (see Taixu 1950 [1928]).

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term fohua, rather than fojiao 佛教 or fofa 佛法 to express their plan to actively influence, and especially reshape, societal and other non-Buddhist spheres with the Buddhadharma. Many elements, from education to family life (Katz 2019), from socialism to the three Principles of the People, were encouraged to go through a fohua process; several periodicals were also established to discuss the Buddhicization plan,36 and several articles were published also elsewhere on the topic.37

Conclusion: Reconsidering Historical Claims and Official Narratives Buddhist education in China is a complex reality with a long history and many stages of development and interaction with non-Buddhist factors. This chapter wanted to address the historical period that goes from the late Qing up to the Republican period, with attention to the vocabulary, structures, leading values, and also within the atmosphere of transformation that secular culture and education at that time were subject to as well. Yet, similar arguments can be made about the situation in contemporary China, where Republican concepts found confirmation but also a new form. For instance, training citizens did not disappear in the objectives of the renewed saṃgha education (and the foundation of new foxueyuan) after the end of the Cultural Revolution.38 My work on the Minnan Institute of Buddhist Studies (2015), for instance, underlined the development of the curriculum throughout the ROC

36 The following periodicals were established in early 1920s: Xin fohua xunkan 新佛化旬刊, Fohua xin qingnian 佛化新青年, Fohua cejinhui huikan 佛化策進會會刊, Fohua xunkan 佛化旬 刊, Fohua pinglun 佛化評論, Fohua zhoukan 佛化週刊. 37 The lay scholars Jiang Tesheng 蔣特生 and Tang Dayuan 唐大圓 (1885–1941) are two of the main protagonists in the description of the Buddhicization process. Tang Dayuan’s “Xin fohua zhi biaozhun 新佛化之標準”, originally written in 1922, and published in 1924, lists the core doctrine of the new Buddhism, citing key Mahāyāna scriptures and teachings; the article also merges traditional Mahāyāna with features of rensheng fojiao, such as the combination of acting in the world (shijian 世間) with the otherworldly spiritual essence (chushi 出世) of the Buddhadharma, and the purpose to benefit and purify (jingyi 淨益) society at large. See Tang 1924a; Tang 1924b; Tang 1927b; Jueren 1923; Jiang 1927a; Jiang 1927b; Jiang 1928a; Jiang 1928b. For secondary sources on ‘Buddhicization’, see Hou 2018, 153–198. 38 See Gildow 2016 and Ji 2019 for these seminaries established after Mao.

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period and the following PRC time, and how the conceptualization of jiaoyu and teaching/learning followed the political shifts at the central government in the twentieth century. If the Three Principles of the People are not mentioned any longer, a new form of patriotism is still emphasized as the foremost value for religious personnel and religious education.39 In other words, this history is characterized by ruptures and changes, but also by several forms of continuity. Regarding saṃgha education in specific, in modern China and Taiwan, Asian and Western scholarship have created official narratives and paradigms. These official narratives are certainly an important element in the overall picture of modern Chinese Buddhism, however they are not exhaustive of that picture; an excessive, or even exclusive emphasis on them may imply that many other models of training and ‘education networks,’ which were developing at the same time, become overlooked and not included into the map. History is then not represented fully. For instance, in the same years Taixu established well-known saṃgha seminaries like the Wuchang and the Minnan Institutes of Buddhist studies, other Buddhist educators, like the less known monks Shengqin 聖欽 (1869–1964),40 Changyuan 昌圓 (1879–1945),41 Bianneng 遍能 (1906–1997),42 were planning and opening their own foxueyuan or other forms of instructions in Sichuan, and proposing curricula that were less innovative and did not coincide with those proposed by Taixu.43 Here is a first counterparadigm. Elements like schools run by laity, (Japanese-modeled) monastic study halls, episodes of monks lecturing the military, and the complexity of taxonomy and conceptual categories that emerged in those decades, and this chapter has only partly addressed, enlarge the spectrum of new education possibilities beyond Taixu’s model of foxueyuan. And here is a second counterparadigm. More on this front needs to be done in the future.

39 I am referring here to the slogan aiguo aijiao 愛國愛教. 40 See for instance Zongxing 2011. 41 See Wang 1946. 42 See Liu 2001. 43 Research on these less known ‘education networks’ is conducted within the research project ‘Mapping Religious Diversity in Modern Sichuan’, funded by the Chiang Ching-kuo Foundation for International Scholarly Exchange (2017–2020) and directed by Elena Valussi and myself. I also commend Erik Hammerstrom’s new research and forthcoming book on the network of Huayan Universities.

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Erik Hammerstrom

On Assessing the Use of Scientific Rhetoric in Modern Chinese Religion Introduction A decade ago while I was a student at Indiana University, one of my teachers, the late John McRae, invited a Buddhist monk from Taiwan to give a talk at our school. As a student of Chinese Buddhism, I had the good fortune of being asked to show the master and some of his disciples around our school’s beautiful campus, with its limestone buildings and tall sycamore trees. During our walk in the morning, the monk asked me what I was researching and I said I was studying the influence of science on Chinese Buddhism in the early twentieth century. The monk stopped, turned to me, and bluntly declared, “Meiyou yingxiang 沒有影響 (There was no influence).” The exchange now clearly over, he resumed walking. That afternoon, he gave his talk on Buddhism to a number of graduate and advanced undergraduate students. After a few basic words about the paramitās, he launched into a lengthy discussion of dhāraṇī (verbal Buddhist incantations) and why they work. His argument centered on the notion that the sonic frequency of certain dhāraṇī harmonized with frequencies that biologists had recently discovered within the organs and cells of the human body. This was neither the first nor the last time I heard Buddhists use scientific ideas and scientific language to explain elements of Buddhist practice and belief. What surprised me was the vehemence with which this monk denied the notion that science had influenced Buddhism in any way. He may not have perceived his talk as an example of the influence of science, but as scholars of religion we cannot ignore the very real influence that scientific discourse has had on Chinese religion and its practitioners. How do we deal with moments such as these when religious actors use scientific ideas or language in their discourse? Some may be tempted to cite such examples for humorous effect, or with barely-concealed ridicule, effectively saying, “Look, isn’t this cute.” Or, we might be tempted to read into every mention of a scientific concept an overarching strategy or plan on the part of the religious actor uttering it. My goal here is to reflect upon such usage in a nuanced fashion that avoids such facile approaches to addressing the use of scientific language in Chinese religions. It is widely recognized that of the many changes that occurred in Chinese culture and society during the twentieth century, the rapid ascent of modern science to a place of nearly unquestioned authority was one of the most important https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110547825-007

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(Wang 2008). One of the central goals of this volume is to critically assess the concepts we use in the study of modern Chinese religion, and we must take science into account as one such concept. I am certainly not the first person to suggest this, and a great deal of good scholarship has already been written on the role that the category of “science” has played in social, political, and legal movements in early twentieth-century China, especially vis-à-vis the categories of “religion” and “superstition.” Certainly, these are important issues, as such movements had a profound impact on the trajectories of Chinese religion throughout the twentieth century. Just as scholars have studied the popularity of science as an external force acting on religion, some have examined the way that scientific language has been employed by Buddhists, Daoists, and practitioners of qigong 氣功 (Hammerstrom 2015; Liu 2009; Palmer 2007). My goal in this chapter is to expand upon these latter studies by analyzing in broad fashion some of the discursive uses to which religious actors in the Sinophone world have put scientific language and scientific ideas. We must acknowledge the ways in which they impact how religious people and religious bodies articulate their identities, both among themselves and to external groups.1 This chapter does not propose a schema for thinking about all of the possible relationships that could exist between the two reified entities “religion” and “science.” Many have attempted this, with Ian Barbour’s fourfold typology being the most well known in the Anglophone world. Barbour argues that there are four possible relationships that may obtain between science and religion: (1) Conflict, (2) Independence, (3) Dialogue, and (4) Integration. This typology is generally concerned with the relative scope of each system’s claims to truth (1990). It also focuses on explicit discourses about science, and does not provide much assistance for thinking about instances in which religious actors use concepts of science, but where they are not talking about science as a thing. As valuable as Barbour’s work is, my aim here is different. What interests me are the ways that ideas and language that are scientific in nature are used in explicit and implicit ways by religious actors, even when – or perhaps especially when – those actors are not directly addressing the issue of science qua science. In short, typologies like Barbour’s can help us think about how religious people talk about science, but I am interested in how religious people use science to talk about everything else.

1 In this chapter I will occasionally use the term Sinophone (Chinese-language) to remind the reader that my intention here is to cover Chinese religion in the context of not only mainland China, but also in Taiwan, Singapore, and the Chinese diaspora.

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In this chapter I address two sides of this issue. First, I address the “how” question: How have Chinese religious people invoked scientific language and ideas? I propose that discursive uses of science occur at three levels: (1) localized usage, (2) systematic usage, and (3) methodological usage. Second, I address the “why” question: Why do Chinese religious people invoke scientific language and ideas? I argue that apologetics and strategies of legitimation are not the only reasons why religious people would invoke science. I am suspicious of the totalizing deployment of Foucauldian theory to describe every usage of scientific language as a strategic act occurring within a network of relationships of power. While it is true that sometimes religious actors do deploy scientific language as a tool for legitimation, this is not the only factor behind such usage and it is somewhat narrow-minded (and perhaps lazy) to see this as the only reason for such usage. Here I suggest that scientific concepts are also part of a global discourse, and that religious actors’ decisions to express themselves with scientific language may be as much a function of their desire to communicate as it is a function of their desire to convince.

1 Terminology: Religion, Science, Scientism, and Pseudoscience Before proceeding, it is important to clarify some of the terminology employed here. The first is “religion.” It has been well recognized by scholars that “religion” is not a naturally occurring category, but is one created by the scholars and others who use it (Smith 1978; Smith 1998). As Ya-pei Kuo writes in a chapter in this volume, the term “religion” appeared within East Asia only around the start of the twentieth century, and was the subject of much debate. The peculiar history of the category of “religion” has made its application to East Asian in general, and China in particular, a fraught affair over the last century and a half (Josephson 2012; Barrett 2016). In China, the categories of “religion” and “science” entered public discourse simultaneously and in reciprocal relation to one another, and much valuable work has recently been done to trace this emergence (Goossaert and Palmer 2011; Duara 1995; Nedostup 2009). Protestant assumptions inherent in the modern category of “religion” have seriously impacted the study of Chinese religions, and scholars continue to grapple with this issue (Sun 2016). In this chapter I will not examine “religion” as a category itself; I merely wish to point out the important scholarly dictum that one must be cautious about the assumptions one’s categories make when studying

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religion, especially in China, where the historical and present realities do not easily map onto European ones. The same caveats apply to the term “science,” which is used broadly here. I am aware that defining the term science is a fraught enterprise within science and technology studies (Ferngren 2002, 374–387), but as a clear definition of the term is not required in the present study, I use it to refer generally to a combination of certain methods, theories, institutions, and practices. Because this chapter deals with the discursive use of the term science, science’s methods and theories will receive more attention than its institutions. I focus here on what is most commonly accepted as science by the international community of professional scientists. I am not entirely decided on how to deal with Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM), parts of which fall under the rubric of science while other parts might be considered philosophy or religion. For expediency, I have chosen not to deal with that issue in this chapter. Two other terms that we need to consider are “scientism” and “pseudoscience.” Both terms appear in scholarly discussions of the religious uses of scientific ideas. I follow the established convention of using “scientism” to denote the belief that only modern scientific methods and techniques have the power to accurately answer questions about reality. This belief adheres to a doctrine of materialism. Some authors use the word scientism to instead mean “false science” (Hammer 2004; Palmer 2007, 118–122), but this latter meaning is better expressed by the word “pseudoscience.” Pseudoscience is a pejorative term used to denote practices, beliefs, or systems that appear on the surface to be scientific or “sciency,” but which are rejected by the mainstream of scientists. Mesmerism and phrenology would be two historical examples of pseudoscience. It is important to note the difference between scientism and pseudoscience, but in this chapter, I do not discuss pseudoscience, as it is not conducive to my goal of assessing the types of uses people make of scientific language and not to pass judgments about the scientific validity of such statements. This is of course not to say that some of the theories and ideas put forth by religious actors when discussing science are not, in fact, pseudoscientific, only that such judgments are not the purpose of this chapter. As is well known, the Chinese word for science (kexue 科學) was one of many neologisms coined in Japan that entered the Chinese lexicon at the beginning of the twentieth century. Replacing traditional terms such as bowu 博物 and gezhi 格致 it quickly became a key term within debates over educational, social, and political reform (Elman 2004). Over the course of the 1910s the cachet of kexue grew dramatically. By the early 1920s, the Chinese intelligentsia had become fascinated with the idea of science and the service it could render it reforming and strengthening Chinese society and the Chinese state. This interest of this

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period led to the outbreak of the so-called Science and Philosophy of Life (kexue yu renshengguan 科學與人生觀) debates of 1923, which both resulted from, and contributed to, the growing belief in China that kexue was a term synonymous with modernity (Kwok 1965). The debates also brought to the fore the ideology of scientism, with proponents of this attitude representing one of the two main, but loosely-affiliated groups involved in the debates. Even then, though, there were those, both religious and non-religious, who questioned materialist scientism (Hammerstrom 2016). By the 1930s the Nationalists had put science into the service of the state by establishing a technocratic regime (Kirby 2000). The importance of science as a servant of the State continued among the Nationalists after they retreated to Taiwan, and was advanced in mainland China by the Communist Party after the founding of the PRC. To this day that which is “scientific” (kexuede 科學的) is widely praised in public discourse in China. Outside of mainland China, meanwhile, Chinese people have found themselves practicing their traditions in a world marked by a scientific universalism.

2 Levels of Discursive Usage In thinking about the choices Chinese religious actors make in talking and thinking with science, it is useful to mention Ann Swidler’s notion of “cultural toolkits,” which has been invoked by several scholars of Chinese religion (Campany 2003; Sun 2016). Swidler has argued that a culture is composed of ideas that members can draw from to interpret situations and events (1986). There can be multiple, even contradictory, tools available to a person, from which they select to deal with a certain situation or issue. Scientific ideas and language represent only one set out of the many discursive tools from which a religious actor may select when speaking or thinking about a given topic or issue. And, just as Swidler has shown with regard to the ways that Americans think about love and romantic relationships (2003), religious actors’ selection of certain cultural tools in a given moment are not necessarily rational, conscious, or part of a larger strategy for meaning-making. In considering all of the ways that Chinese religionists use scientific ideas and language, we see that they basically occur at one of three levels. The first is localized usage. This is the invocation of individual facts as the basis for specific comment. At this level, the actor mentions one scientific fact or concept in a larger discussion on another issue. This may be done in passing, or it may form the focus of the argument. Localized usage includes the example that begins this chapter: that Buddhist dhāraṇī are effective because they

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match cellular vibrations described in biology. Another example would be when the Chinese Buddhist monk Fafang 法舫 (1904–1951) wrote in 1929 that the haloes displayed by buddhas are a result of the oxidation of compounds that naturally occur in the human body, and which skilled meditators can activate (Hammerstrom 2015, 126).2 Localized usage includes occasions when actors make limited usage of what Susanna Hornig has dubbed the “trappings of science,” such as charts, mathematics, tools, or experiments (1990). When referring to science in this way there can be more or less of an attempt to explain the relevance of the particular example given, but at the level of localized usage, the scientific element invoked is not a central focus of the discourse. Localized usage of the trappings of science might be a formula (chemical or mathematical) that merely appears in an article, but which does not otherwise contribute much to its overall argument. Gareth Fisher has observed that many of the Buddhist morality books distributed in mainland China today include the same article describing a scientific study on the longevity of Buddhist monks carried out by the People’s Liberation Army. This article is paired with less scientific miracle tales to support the case for vegetarianism (Fisher 2014, 157–158). As this scientific study is cited as but one example among many of the benefits of vegetarianism, I would consider its inclusion in these morality books an example of localized usage of science. When the entirety of an article, book, or speech centers on the use of a scientific example or scientific explanation this can be termed systematic usage of science. Such usage is usually not limited to one fact, but to a body of scientific facts, or one branch of science. Unlike localized usage, which can be deployed unintentionally and not necessarily as part of a larger strategy with regard to science, systematic usage is usually intentional in nature. Examples of this would include the body of articles produced by students and teachers at the Wuchang Institute of Buddhist Studies (Wuchang Foxueyuan 武昌佛學院) in the mid-1920s that interpreted and critiqued contemporary psychology through the lens of Buddhist Consciousness-Only thought (Hammerstrom 2014). Another example is an article written in 2007 by the head of the Dharma Drum Buddhist College, the monk Huimin 惠敏, in which he assigned new values to the terms in Newton’s law of universal gravitation to create “Buddha’s principle of ‘universal mentation’ (Fotuo [wanyou xinlin] faze 佛陀[萬有心力]法則)” (2007). Looking more broadly, the trappings of science often appear in systematic usages involving quantum

2 Fazang’s use of scientific language here is idiosyncratic in a way that would seem to indicate he did not have a thorough understanding of the science involved.

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physics, whose complexity and apparent subjectivism have made it popular with a wide range of thinkers. Around the world, quantum mechanics has served as a foundation for a variety of speculative “quantum metaphysics” (Hammer 2004, 271–303). For example, the 2004 film, What the Bleep Do We Know, produced by a group associated with the Ramtha School of Enlightenment, makes extensive use of quantum physics to support its metaphysical claims about the power of the human mind over the material world. Quantum physics has also been used to support claims of other mental powers, such as ESP and telepathy (Burton and Grandy 2004, 237–258). Localized and systematic usage of scientific ideas and language deal, in the main, with questions of fact, and science is presented and relied upon as a guide to what is known. While discussions of quantum mechanics often stray into the realm of epistemology, especially as a means to invoke epistemic doubt with regards to the truth claims of science, both of these types of usage generally take scientific facts as simply true. At the third level of usage actors move beyond comparing or invoking facts – “what is known” – and address the issue of epistemology, “how it is known.” Methodological usage of scientific ideas and language generally involves an assessment of the sources of human knowledge, and a comparison of the philosophical commitments involved in them. At this level the actor is usually, though not always, explicitly and intentionally comparing the methods and theories of science with those of their own tradition. This is normally done to argue for the superiority of one’s tradition and its truth claims to those of science. Discursively, religious actors often make an inductive turn by making an appeal to empiricism. They may claim that the practices of their tradition are empirical in the same way as those of science, for example, that in practicing qigong one is using one’s body as a laboratory, or that meditation is a form of empirical experimentation. Actors may also argue that their tradition’s version of empiricism is, in fact, superior to scientific empiricism. In the 1930s and 1940s, Chinese Buddhists argued that Buddhist meditation gave one the ability to perceive for oneself phenomena that even science was not able to observe (Hammerstrom 2015, 94–101). Some masters involved in the “qigong fever” that swept mainland China in the 1980s and 1990s also made similar claims (Palmer 2007). Central to this argument is the implicit affirmation that empiricism is good, and that science relies on empiricism. In pursuing this line of argument, actors may adopt what Hammer has termed the “mirror image response,” in which religious actors claim that they are the “true” skeptics, who have the courage to question the traditionalism and dogmatism of the scientific establishment in order to seek the truth via the empirical means offered in their tradition (Hammer 2004, 252–253). In such instances, people may invoke figures

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such as Darwin, Galileo, or Newton as positive exemplars of this revolutionary attitude. Einstein was a particularly popular referent in this regard during the 1920s and 1930s (Hammerstrom 2015, 72–79). Methodological usage of science may also involve narratives of personal experience to support the claim of empiricism. Testimonials based on personal experience are a prominent feature of many new religious movements (Hammer 2004, ch. 6), but they have also long been a part of Chinese religion, and remain so to this day (Campany 2012). They can at times be clothed in the language of empiricism, in which the practitioner is urged to try the practices of the tradition in order to experience for themselves that what is being taught is really real. These are the three primary usages to which scientific ideas and language have been put by Chinese religious actors since the rise of modern science at the start of the early twentieth century. This is the “how,” but why do religious people feel the need to sprinkle their talks with scientific terms, to write articles about the biology of qigong, and to have arguments about the scientific method?

3 Why Talk About Science? One of the most obvious reasons why Chinese religious actors invoke science is for the purposes of legitimation. In his work on New Religious Movements (NRMs), James Lewis argues that religious actors must legitimize their traditions for a number of reasons: to make converts, to maintain followers, to shape public opinion, and to appease government attitudes (Lewis 2003, 12). While new NRMs must deal with a number of issues different from those faced by mainstream religions, all religious actors must deal with societal contexts in which science has come to serve, to a greater or lesser degree, as a dominant discourse of truth. For Sinophone religious actors operating in the PRC, the importance of addressing the critiques of scientism is heightened by the nature of government policy toward religion, where extensive regulation of religion is justified by both the need for social harmony and a Marxist attitude that sees all religion as superstitious. The assumed value of scientific rationalism is a common feature of state-produced anti-cult materials in the early twenty first century (Chen 2003). In reaction to this, some groups promote their health and healing regimes as forms of science because doing so may allow NRMs to avoid government regulation or censure, though this is not always the case (Yang 2006). Even more established religions, such as Tibetan Buddhism, find a need to articulate the status of their

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tradition of vis-à-vis the scientific Marxism of the state. An example of this can be seen in Sonam Darje’s 索達吉 1999 Chinese-language essay A Scientific Treatise on Buddhism (Fojiao kexuelun 佛教科學論). Dan Smyer Yu, who has studied this essay, observed that it was quite popular among Han Chinese adherents of Tibetan Buddhists when he was doing his fieldwork in the early 2000s (2007). In these examples, religious actors invoke scientific language as a means to legitimate their tradition by responding to the discourses of the state. The overwhelming power of the state is an obvious and necessary factor to consider when assessing the motivations behind religious actors’ use of scientific language. In thinking about the need for religious actors to adopt strategies of legitimation, one could also offer explanations rooted in the sociological turn toward theories of religious economy, or the “marketplace” model of religion in modern society. In this model, religions compete with one another, and with other discourses of truth and values, for membership and space in public discourse, what we might term their “market share.” Regardless of how we understand the origin of this drive, religious actors certainly do engage in apologetics and other strategies of legitimation. The use of scientific language at whatever level falls under the second of Lewis’ three strategies of legitimation: rational appeals, which are appeals to either a commonsense logic, or to the authority of science (Lewis 2003, 14).3 Related to the issue of the legitimacy of a tradition is that of the authority of the individual. Both within a given religious tradition and outside of it, individuals work to establish their authority. Religious actors can use scientific language and scientific ideas as a way to convince audiences both internal and external of their “scholarship and knowledge.” As Vincent Goossaert has argued, this is one of the four “idioms of religious excellence” by which authority is established within the Chinese religious milieu (2008). In the past, such erudition was most obviously tied to the texts and teachings of specific traditions, but even then a religious practitioner also might have gained authority by their mastery of traditional Chinese medicine, or martial or fine arts. Since the rise of kexue in the Chinese world, science has become another branch of knowledge, competency with which one may invoke in order to assume authority. The desire for legitimacy and authority is an obvious place to begin when considering why religious actors invoke science, and these motivations certainly appeal to the cynical secular (or sectarian) scholar who wishes to see

3 The other two strategies of legitimation are appeals to charisma, and appeals to tradition.

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such usage as the result of strategy and conscious choice. I argue that we should think more broadly than this, however, and it is here where Swidler’s “cultural toolkits” come into play, as we think more about what happens at the level of localized usage. Religious people do not always talk about science in order to gain legitimacy or personal authority. One motivation for invoking science is simply to facilitate communication. In the past century, scientific language and ideas have become part of a shared global discourse that crosses linguistic boundaries. Although science’s status as a truly universal language can be debated, there is an expectation that moderately educated people from one country can expect that their peers from another country understand the same essential repertoire of concepts, drawn from chemistry, biology, and other branches of science. Because of this, there are times when religious actors use scientific ideas to take advantage of science’s status as a shared language. They may be looking to communicate with their co-religionists, with members of another religion, or non-religious members of their society, but since a basic idea from physics, for example, stands a good chance of making sense to almost any educated audience, a religious actor may momentarily pause within a purely doctrinal discourse to include just such an idea. In linguistics, when one alternates between two (or more) languages, this is called “code switching” (Coulmas 2005). Scholars of sociolinguistics acknowledge that there are many different reasons for speakers to code switch, including responding to the formality of a situation, to the use of language by others, and to establish or maintain power. What is key here is that code switching is not always the result of conscious choice. In the same way, we need to recognize that not all uses of scientific language by religious actors are the result of conscious strategy. When a Daoist who is speaking on the practice of “repairing the brain” (bunao 補腦) makes a reference to chemical reactions, the intention behind her use of a scientific concept may just be the result of an unconscious decision to communicate with her audience. The marketplace model of religion has certainly had its critics among sociologists of religion (Lechner 2007). I would argue that one danger of this model of religion is that when one understands the actions of religious actors as the result of a desire to increase the market share of their religion, there is a tendency to see a conscious strategy behind every sentence. Obviously, I believe that not all usages of scientific language and ideas are the result of rational choice or conscious strategy. I have suggested one such motivation: the desire to communicate, but there are probably others.

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Concluding Thoughts The power of science – the “cachet of kexue,” if you will – has had a significant impact on most types of discourse in the Chinese world over the past century. In reading and listening to religious actors it is crucial to think about this impact in clear and explicit ways, and to not fall back on simplistic interpretations. In this paper I have suggested that religious actors use scientific language and ideas in localized, systematic, or methodological ways. They do so to gain authority within their tradition and legitimacy for their tradition within society. But they also use science for reasons that may not be conscious or entirely strategic, especially given science’s status as a shared global language. I hope that the ideas discussed here will spur scholars to think more deeply about how they treat religious actors’ use of scientific language in the Sinophone world. In preparing this chapter I found that scholars of Daoism and of Chinese New Religious Movements were the most likely to mention specific discussions of science within their studies. I found little mention of the use of scientific language within studies of Chinese Christianity or Islam. Such studies have tended to focus on social issues or issues of power and repression vis-à-vis the mainland Chinese state. As shown above in the case of Tibetan Buddhism, the power of Marxist materialist discourse drives religious actors in China to address the status of their traditions via methodological usage of science. I suspect that there is also fair bit of localized or systematic usage of scientific language and concepts by Chinese Christians and Muslims, but these have not yet been studied. I would look forward to more information about such usages, and the specific shapes they take. Although not clearly a religion, Confucianism is another area wherein scientific language and concepts have been and continue to be deployed. In the 1930s, Chiang Kai-shek declared that Confucius’ teachings contained ideas about truth and its discovery that were tantamount to the scientific method, and after its repression during the Cultural Revolution, once again “Confucian ideas have been understood and constructed by the government to compliment rather than contradict a modern, rational scientistic sensibility” (OldstoneMoore 2015). This attitude has even led one group of urban intellectuals to describe Confucianism as a kind of post-Newtonian super-science (Billioud et al. 2008, 98–99). This type of methodological usage of science may be more common than has yet been described, as may localized and systematic usages by contemporary Confucians. When considering religious actors’ usage of science, it is important to pay attention to the full context of that usage. Is the person invoking science a

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member of a religion that is marginal, or mainstream within society? Is it taking place in the PRC, in Taiwan, or in the Chinese diaspora? What is the relationship of the individual to the dominant culture? Does the figure themself have status or power within their tradition? What is the imagined audience for the utterance or writing? All of these things must be considered when assessing the impact of scientific rhetoric within the religion as they all affect how we understand both the “how” and the “why” of religious actors’ usage of science.

Bibliography Billioud, Sébastien, Joël Thoraval, and Christopher Storey. 2008. “The Contemporary Revival of Confucianism: Anshen liming or the Religious Dimension of Confucianism.” China Perspectives 3, no.75: 88–106. Burton, Dan and David Grandy. 2004. Magic, Mystery, and Science: The Occult in Western Civilization. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Campany, Robert. 2003. “On the Very Idea of Religions (In the Modern West and in Early Medieval China).” History of Religions 42, no.4 (May): 287–319. Campany, Robert. 2012. Signs from the Unseen Realm: Buddhist Miracle Tales from Early Medieval China. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Chen, Nancy. 2003. “Healing Sects and Anti-Cult Campaigns.” The China Quarterly 174, Religion in China Today (June): 505–520. Coulmas, Florian. 2005. Sociolinguistics: The Study of Speakers’ Choices. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Duara, Prasenjit. 1995. Rescuing History from the Nation: Questioning Narratives in Modern China. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Elman, Benjamin A. 2004. “From Pre-Modern Chinese Natural Studies 格致學 to Modern Science 科學 in China.” In Mapping Meanings: The Field of New Learning in Late Qing China, edited by ed. Michael Lackner and Natascha Vittinghoff, 25–73. Leiden: Brill. Barbour, Ian G. 1990. Religion and Science: Historical and Contemporary Issues. San Francisco: HarperCollins. Barrett, T. H. 2016. “Coming to Terms with Religion in East Asia.” In Religion and Orientalism in Asian Studies, edited by Kiri Paramore, 73–84. London: Bloomsbury. Ferngren, Gary, ed. 2002. Science & Religion: A Historical Introduction. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Fisher, Gareth. 2014. From Comrades to Bodhisattvas: Moral Dimensions of Lay Buddhist Practice in Contemporary China. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Goossaert, Vincent. 2008. “Mapping Charisma among Chinese Religious Specialists.” Nova Religio 12, no.2: 12–28. Goossaert, Vincent and David Palmer. 2011. The Religious Question in Modern China. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Hammer, Olav. 2004. Claiming Knowledge: Strategies of Epistemology from Theosophy to the New Age. Leiden: Brill.

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Hammerstrom, Erik. 2014. “Yogācāra and Science in the 1920s: The Wuchang School’s Approach to Modern Mind Science.” In Transforming Consciousness: Yogācāra Thought in Modern China, edited by John Makeham, 170–197. New York: Oxford University Press. Hammerstrom, Erik. 2015. The Science of Chinese Buddhism: Early Twentieth-Century Engagements. New York: Columbia University Press. Hammerstrom, Erik. 2016. “Buddhism and the Modern Epistemic Space: Buddhist Intellectuals in the Science and Philosophy of Life Debates.” In Recovering Buddhist China in the Twentieth-Century, edited by Jan Kiely and J. Brooks Jessup, 79–110. New York: Columbia University Press. Hornig, Susanna. 1990. “Television’s NOVA and the Construction of Scientific Truth.” Critical Studies in Mass Communication 7, no.1: 11–23. Shi Huimin 釋惠敏. 2007. Dang Niudun yudao Fotuo 當牛頓遇到佛陀. Taipei: Fagu wenhua. Josephson, Jason Ananda. 2012. The Invention of Religion in Japan. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Kirby, William. 2000. “Engineering China: Birth of the Developmental State, 1928–1937.” In Becoming Chinese: Passages to Modernity and Beyond, edited by Wen-hsin Yeh, 137–160. Berkeley: University of California Press. Kuo, Ya-pei. 2020. “Two Conceptions of Religion in Modern China: Chen Duxiu on the Eve of the Anti-Religion/Anti-Christian Movement.” In Concepts and Methods for the Study of Chinese Religions II: Intellectual History of Key Concepts, edited by Gregory Adam Scott and Stefania Travagnin, 135–154. Boston and Berlin: De Gruyter. Kwok, David W. Y. 1965. Scientism in Chinese Thought: 1900–1950. New Haven: Yale University Press. Lechner, Frank J. 2007. “Rational Choice and Religious Economies.” In The SAGE Handbook of the Sociology of Religion, edited by James A. Beckford and N. J. Demerath III, 81–98. London: SAGE Publications. Lewis, James R. 2003. Legitimating New Religions. New Jersey: Rutgers University Press. Liu, Xun. 2009. Daoist Modern: Innovation, Lay Practice, and the Community of Inner Alchemy in Republican Shanghai. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Nedostup, Rebecca. 2009. Superstitious Regimes: Religion and the Politics of Chinese Modernity. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Oldstone-Moore, Jennifer. 2015. “Scientism and Modern Confucianism.” In The Sage Returns: Confucian Revival in Contemporary China, edited by Kenneth Hammond and Jeffrey Richey, 39–63. Albany: SUNY Press. Palmer, David. 2007. Qigong Fever: Body, Science, and Utopia in China. New York: Columbia University Press. Smith, Jonathan Z. 1978. Map is Not Territory. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Smith, Jonathan Z. 1998. “Religion, Religions, Religious.” In Critical Terms for Religious Studies, edited by Mark C. Taylor, 269–284. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Swidler, Ann. 1986. “Culture in Action: Symbols and Strategies.” American Sociological Review 51, no.2 (April): 273–286. Swidler, Ann. 2003. Talk of Love: How Culture Matters. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sun, Anna. 2016. “The Study of Chinese Religions in the Social Sciences: Beyond the Monotheistic Assumption.” In Religion and Orientalism in Asian Studies, edited by Kiri Paramore, 51–72. London: Bloomsbury.

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Wang, Hui. 2008. “Scientific Worldview, Culture Debates, and the Reclassification of Knowledge in Twentieth-century China” (trans. Hongmei Yu). Boundary 35, no.2: 125–155. Yang Fenggang. 2006. “The Red, Black, and Gray Markets of Religion in China.” The Sociological Quarterly 47, no.1: 93–122. Yu, Dan Smyer. 2007. “Delayed Contention with the Chinese Marxist Scapegoat Complex: Re-membering Tibetan Buddhism in the PRC.” The Tibet Journal 32, no.1 (Spring): 29–52.

Ya-pei Kuo

Two Conceptions of Religion in Modern China: Chen Duxiu on the Eve of the Anti-Religion/Anti-Christian Movement Introduction That there was no ready equivalent to the Western word of “religion” in premodern China has been well-known (Cantwell Smith 1962, 67–71). Zongjiao 宗教 came into existence in the end of the nineteenth century, as a loan from modern Japanese. Before the coinage, the combination of the two ideographs zong 宗 and jiao 教 did occur in classical texts, but it never had the same linguistic function as in the modern context (Yu 2012, 5–25; Josephson 2005, 6–8). To create the language for the new knowledge and worldview that arose from extended contacts with the West, Meiji intellectuals gleaned preexisting combinations of characters from premodern texts, and forged them into neologisms (Krämer 2015; Josephson 2012). Shūkyō 宗教 came into usage in the 1870s and gradually became the designated translation of the Western word “religion.” In the late nineteenth century, its written form in kanji 漢字 traveled back to China and became a “key word” in the rising vision of Chinese modernity (Chen 2001, 37–65). This history of the term’s creation, however, was merely an aspect of the concept’s formation. Although in the established tradition of history of concepts, or, Begriffsgeschichte, lexicology indeed forms the primary focus of its analytical attention, more methodologically aware historians, such as Reinhart Koselleck, never lose sight of the distinction between words and the concepts behind them. “Each concept is associated with a word, but not every word is a social and political concept. Social political concepts possess a substantial claim to generality and always have many meanings – in historical science, occasionally in modalities other than words” (Koselleck 2004a, 84). As such, while the history of a concept and its verbal signifier are closed intertwined, they cannot be reduced into one another. The fundamental difference is how they relate to historical reality. A word is simply a signifier that “can be thought separately from that which is signified,” whereas “signifier and signified coincide in a concept” (Koselleck 2004a, 85). The latter “bundles up the variety of historical experience together with a collection of theoretical and practical references into a relationship” and this relationship forms a “given” that “can be experienced only through the concept” (Koselleck 2004a, 85; https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110547825-008

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Koselleck 2004b, 255–275). In other words, a concept is the summation of past experience and at the same time, a constituent of present experience. Koselleck’s decoupling of the word and the concept provides a methodological ground for heuristic distinction between concept formation and translation as two historical processes. In current scholarship, many have made attempts in this direction. In a different publication, I have tried to address the “prehistory” of zongjiao and suggested that concept formation had long started in China without the term (Kuo 2010, 98–114). Hans Martin Krämer, in his recent book on Meiji Japan, makes a compelling point that conceptual shifts began with direct dealings with Christianity, rather than a straightforward invention upon the colonial encounter with the West (Krämer 2015). The implications are multifold. Among them is the possibility of a more nuanced answer to the question of rupture and continuity between modern and premodern eras. The rise of the term zongjiao in China, or that of shūkyō in Japan, is no doubt a marker of rupture, first in linguistic practice, and second in creating a social category that never existed before. On the other hand, from the perspective of concept formation, it would be more fitting to see the coinage of the term as a moment of crystallization. It made visible something that had been in the making, rather than initiating the making itself. The functioning of the new term would not have been possible without the conceptual grounds that had been prepared during the previous decades. It follows that, in spite of the indisputable foreign origin of the term, the concept that it signifies has to be seen as locally generated. Here the political controversies over Christianity, in both Japan and China, served as the most important and direct cataclysm for conceptual shifts. Information about Christian practices, including how missionaries negotiated their way into East Asian society and how Christians organized their communities, spread and stimulated a new understanding of how one’s faith could possibly be manifested in the mundane world. In this process, conceptual shifts emanated from the experience of contacts and not through discursive borrowing. More importantly, the re-imagining of Christianity, while being stimulated by the new forces intruding into Chinese society, occurred within the existing cultural framework and continued to draw on Confucian and Buddhist references (Tarocco and Barrett 2006; Barrett and Tarocco 2012). These references, only in later stage, became displaced by more systematically imported discourses and conceptual elements. The displacement, however, is not erasure and thus should not be seen as permanent. Koselleck’s insight into the inherent ambiguity of a concept is profoundly instructive here. When explaining “the space of experience” in a concept, Koselleck invokes the image of a front-open washing machine – much is contained within the drum, but through the glass front, one sees merely

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“various bits of the wash appear[ing] now and then” (Koselleck 2004b, 260). The image, more than his words, illuminates Koselleck’s view of relationship between meanings capsuled in a concept. There is always more lying behind what meets one’s eyes, and there is a large degree of fragmentation in the semantic structure. Seemingly contradictory meanings and associations, originating from different historical experience, coexist in the same space without a fixed relationship. They might work with and/or against each other; and they might remain autonomous and never acknowledge the existence of others. As such, whilst the totality of meanings in a concept plays a role in history by delimiting and guiding human imagination of the past, present and future, this totality remains elusive. Only a fraction of it comes to the fore at a time. What has been displaced and pushed to the background could at times be conjured up to subvert the established comprehension of the concept. Concepts continue to evolve and to regenerate itself. Herein lies its inherent ambiguity. In the following pages, I will explore the ambiguity of the religion concept in modern Chinese history and argue that underneath the much-emphasized atheistic ideology there exists an undercurrent of conceiving religion as a valuable instrument for social and political mobilization. Throughout the twentieth century, China’s modernizing states adhered to an atheist stance and shared a record of making sustained attempts to control or even suppress religion. Social elites in general subscribed to the conviction that religion shackled the human mind and should be eliminated from society if possible. Religion for them was an obstacle to progress. In spite of the permeation of the atheistic outlook of modernity, however, it has never been so predominant to totally stamp out the alternative appraisal. Side by side with being conceived as a regressive force, religion continued to be understood as a powerful way of evoking social affects and actions, with magic power that none of the secular institutions such as the political party and the nation-state could easily reproduce. This alternative conception of religion was most frequently invoked by religious groups to justify their existence and to resist the top-down imposition of restrictive regulations. Facing hostile policies, believers defended themselves further by narrating themselves into a value-free affective force that could potentially make contributions to secular causes, from modernization, nationbuilding, to social stability. Even the state at times invoked this conception to explain its lenient policy towards religion. Seemingly antithetical to the predominant atheism, this alternative conception is a different product of the same process of secularization and articulated religion’s value in secular terms. In modern Chinese history, the non-atheistic conception of religion first surfaced to public visibility in the late Qing. It arose from China’s colonial encounter with the West, and absorbed many elements of the premodern concept

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of jiao 教 (“teaching, education, civilizing”), ironically through the Christian missionaries’ Chinese writings (Kuo 2013). This conception was significantly challenged after 1900. The importation of patently scientist and secularist discourses from Japan during the first decade of the twentieth century introduced the atheistic conception of religion. On the question on whether Chinese should establish Confucianism as the national religion, these two formations of the same concept came into direct clash. The final rejection of the proposition symbolically marked the shift of public opinions to a more atheistic and thus antireligious position. On the other hand, the non-atheistic conception subsided but did not completely die out. In the ensuing May Fourth era, a time of radical fervors, it continued to crop up and created complexations on the path of atheistic ideology’ ascent. Chen Duxiu 陳獨秀 (1879–1942)1 was one of the most influential thinkers in the early republican period. His sweeping and absolute denunciation of religion in the late 1910s made him the best known atheist before the advent of Marxist-Leninist ideology in China. Chen later became one of the cofounders of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP hereafter) and served as the revolutionary party’s general secretary and chairman alternately until 1928. By focusing writings on the question of religion in the early 1920s, this essay underscored the continual presence of tension between two different conceptions of religion, even in the case of the most committed revolutionary and at the height of his radical thinking.

1 Research Question In 2003, the leading scholar on the history of Christianity in China, Tao Feiya 陶飛亞, published an article titled “Gongchan guoji daibiao yu Zhongguo fei jidujiao yundong” 共產國際代表與中國非基督教運動 (The Representatives of the Communist International and the Anti-Christian movement in China) (Tao 2003). In this piece, Tao uses information extracted from the Russian archives, declassified in 1993, and put forward a new interpretation of the Anti-religion/AntiChristian movement 非宗教／非基督教運動2 and the CCP’s role in it. According to 1 Chen Duxiu was a Chinese revolutionary socialist, prolific writer, and public intellectual. He was born in Anqing, Anhui. He launched the journal New Youth in 1915, co-founded the Chinese Communist Party (with Li Dazhao) in 1921. Later after 1939, he became an advocate of Trotskyism. 2 The movement was launched 1922 with both “anti-religion” (fei zongjiao 非宗教) and “antiChristian” (fei Jidujiao 非基督教) as its objectives. Yet, all references to “anti-religion” disappeared from campaign slogans and propagandas after summer 1922.

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Tao, the CCP’s degree of involvement in the movement, while extensive, was less proactive than understood. Reports drafted by Vilensky-Siberiakov 維連斯基 and Leakin 利金 reveal that, although the movement was from its very beginning contrived by the vanguard party and systematically instigated through its network of cells, the party organs’ thorough involvement was not based on a strong and cohesive consensus among the leaders. Rather, according to Tao’s reading, the movement was planned and carried out under the imposing auspices of the Comintern agents in China (Tao 2003, 116–119). Modeling itself on the Bolsheviks’ antireligious campaign after the October Revolution (Tao 2003, 130–132), the AntiChristian movement served the interest of the USSR by curtailing American cultural influence in China (Tao 2003, 123–130). The movement, in other words, should not be seen as the expression of the Chinese communists’ ideological commitment to an anti-Christian and/or anti-religion stance (Tao 2003, 119–123 and 136). Tao’s reassessment challenged some of the widely accepted assumptions about the early 1920s. Although scholars have been aware that the CCP provided the organizational might in the spread of the movement, most of them considered the movement as deeply grounded on the Chinese soil. Since the 1980s, scholars such as Jessie Gregory Lutz have seen the Anti-Christian movement as directly stemming from the New Culture Movement. In her book Chinese Politics and Christian Missions: The Anti-Christian Movements of 1920–28, Lutz dubs the early stage of the anti-Christian movement as a “spin-off” of the May Fourth movement.3 Drawing on the same set of Russian archives as Tao, French scholar Marianne Bastid-Bruguière criticized Lutz’s inattention to the “specificity” of 1922, and emphasized the novelty of anticlericalism in the Anti-Christian movement (Bastid-Bruguière 2002, 79). Insisting that the anticlerical feature was inspired by the French notion of laïcité, Bastid-Bruguière nevertheless still regarded “the AntiReligion Campaign” in Beijing as Chinese intellectuals’ spontaneous response to the founding and manifesto of the Anti-Christian Student League of Shanghai (Shanghai fei jidujiao xuesheng tongmeng 上海非基督教學生同盟), which was most certainly orchestrated by the Socialist Youth Corps (shehuizhuyi qingnian tuan 社會 主義青年團) (Bastid-Bruguière 2002, 77–94). In contrast, Tao explicitly questions how robust the anti-religious thinking was before the Comintern’s intervention into China. Tao cites Chen Duxiu’s case as one of the many examples in which the party activists harbored sympathetic views towards religion in general and Christianity in particular (Tao 2003, 116). Because Chen’s key status in connecting

3 Lutz dates the beginning of the movement in 1920, two years earlier than the first instance of protest against the annual meeting of World Student Christian Federation in Beijing. See Lutz 1988, 2.

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the May Fourth radicalism and the early CCP party activities, a close examination of his position should shed significant light on the question of how widespread and deep-rooted the anti-religion sentiment was on the eve of the Anti-Religion/AntiChristian Movement.

2 Anti-traditionalism and Militant Atheism, 1917–1918 Chen Duxiu’s most belligerent polemics against religion appeared in 1917–18. Before he entered this phase, Chen had showed a strong secularist proclivity in his writings, but had never uttered categorical denunciations of religion. In October 1915, when narrating the educational history of Europe, his implicit anticlerical message was already unmistakable. “In medieval Europe, monks and clergies monopolized the educational authorities.” Only through the separation of church and state, their monopoly was dismantled (Chen 2009a, 170–171). In the same year, Chen remarked in his “Falanxi ren yu jindai wenming” 法蘭西人 與近代文明 (The French and Modern Civilization) that “religion places a blind faith (mixin 迷信) in the authority of its god, and blocks human intelligence” (Chen 2009b, 165). At this time, the term mixin had already acquired the imported meaning of “superstition,” and thus functioned in contradistinction with “religion” (Nedostup 2013; Huang 2016). Chen nevertheless continued to use it in conjunction with zongjiao and made no distinction between them. Also noticeable is the binary structure between “free thinking” and religion. Religion, particularly the institutional authorities of the church, represented a potential threat to the freedom and rationality afforded by modernity. What Bastid-Bruguière sees as the trademark of the “French model” that characterized the Anti-Religious Campaign of 1922 appeared to have taken root in the late 1910s. On the other hand, Chen was not ready to deny the worth of religion in toto. In “Falanxi ren yu jindai wenming,” Chen admitted openly that religion had its social role to play. “Religion’s strength lies in its suppression of cruelty and encouragement of good deeds. It has indeed benefitted humanity” (Chen 2009b, 165). It is noteworthy that this positive appraisal of religion is readily couched in secular terms. Chen positioned himself and spoke as a non-religious person, who appreciated religion for its positive effects for maintaining social and moral stability. He probably understood no follower would have joined a religion solely for its secular benefits, but that was the only way Chen could vouch for its reason of existence. Chen became vocal in his opposition against religion in early 1917. Earlier in late 1916, Chen had been raising objections in the pages of New Youth (Xin

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Qingnian 新青年) against the motion of granting constitutional recognition to Confucianism as China’s national religion (Chen 2013). Chen’s outcry against Confucianism as the national religion provided the occasion for some of his most iconoclastic remarks against Chinese tradition. In the two years after 1916, the outburst of radical anti-traditionalism made Chen Duxiu a national figure and the enterprise of New Youth legendary among Chinese youth (Lin 1978). Religion stood in the center of Chen’s polemics and formed an integral part of his scientistic and atheistic vision of modernity (Wang 2010). During this phase, Chen often spoke of religion in its broadest sense, inclusive of both the established institutions as well as the diffused systems of practice, both the clergy and their followers. He made no differentiation between religion and superstition, and sometimes even treated the worship of political and cultural icons and the cult of deities as the same phenomenon. Another trademark of Chen’s attitude in this phase was his totalism. All ambivalence subsided; the verdict was absolute and categorical. Chen’s arguments against Confucianism followed three broad lines of reasoning. The first was that Confucianism constituted no religion, because of its thisworldly nature (Chen 2009c). The second stresses that the state had the obligation of providing equal protection to all religions in China; to maintain administrative neutrality, it should not demonstrate favoritism towards any one particular religion (Chen 2009d). And the third line underscores that Confucianism, either as ethics or religion, had lost its relevance to modern life and become a morbid entity; its recognition would be detrimental to the fate of the young republic (Chen 2009e). In March 1917, Chen opened his fourth line of attack. Targeting the very idea of national religion, he contended that religion would certain be trumped by science and that it contains no substantial worth of its own. In “Zai lun Kongjiao wenti” 再論孔教問題 (On the Question of Confucian Religion Again), one sees for the first time his explicit denigration of religion in wholesale terms. The piece opens with a declaration of Chen’s personal belief. “In the future of human society, human faith, liberation, practice, and verification will all be based on science. All religions will have to be abolished and abandoned” (Chen 2009f, 278). Science, Chen averred, deals with natural rules, whose applicability is “universal, eternal, and predictable;” religion, together with morality and other laws, belongs to the separate category of man-made rules, whose validity is “partial, temporary, arbitrary.” One feels hungry when there is no food to eat and dies after getting old; all living beings of all times are bound by these rules. Their pertinence is not limited to only certain groups or certain time periods. “Customs such as the worship of Yahweh, subjects dying for the sovereign, wives dying for husbands, and penalty for early marriage,” on the other hand, are accepted only in certain places and at

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certain times; they are not universal, eternal, and necessary. Human progress led by the furtherance of science means that these man-made rules will sooner or later be rectified. They will be reformed into something as universal, eternal, predictable as natural rules. This reformation defines the final and ultimate end of all human struggle. Chen admits that science, at its current early age, does not have answers to all queries about life and the universe. Many therefore still rely on religion to address their curiosity and anxiety. Yet, the liberation and enlightenment that religion brings are not real. Religion functions on the premise of self-delusion (ziqi 自 欺). The self-liberation and self-enlightenment through religion are, in the end, merely delusional. Science, Chen concludes, seems to be slow in quenching our thirst for faith, but it will surely deliver in the end. Religion, on the other hand, offers a quick answer but will merely lead one astray (Chen 2009f, 278). The binary of “free-thinking vs. religion” in earlier writings had now transformed itself into one of “science vs. religion.” In this new construct, religion referred no more merely to institutional authorities, like the church clergy. Rather, the problem of religion lies in the followers, whose quest for a quick answer to their intellectual and emotional needs overwrites the functionality of rationality. Chen’s polemic hinged heavily on the problematic nature of national religion. If science stands for the future of human civilization, to promote religion, i.e., the opposite of science, obstructs the true enlightenment of human mind and delays the progress of China and the world. The most illuminating sample of Chen’s militant atheism can be found in his essay, “Ouxiang pohuai lun” 偶像破壞論 (On Iconoclasm) published in August 1918. Here one finds Chen belligerently declaring that “If there is no unequivocal proof for ghosts and spirits’ existence, then all religions are based on defrauded idols” (Chen 2009g, 422; cf. Goossaert and Palmer 2011, 140–141). Chen emphasizes that this statement also pertained to Buddhism, Christianity, and Daoism. “All spirits, bodhisattvas, fairies, ghosts venerated and worshipped by religionists (zongjiao jia 宗教家) are in the end ineffectual and defrauded idols. They should all be destroyed” (Chen 2009g, 422). To Chen, idols are consecrated by humans. They have no power of their own. Their power derives from the reverence and worship devoted to them. This power made idols useful for reinforcing moral norms, by striking terror in potential evil doers and endorsing good deeds. Yet, religion’s usefulness was undergirded by a superstition – “those with blind faith deceived themselves” by creating the omnipotent idols. Its usefulness stemmed from the followers’ willingness to suspend their rational judgment and to deceive themselves. Idol smashing for him was a means to awaken awareness of the self-delusive nature of religion and thus eliminate it. Chen Duxiu’s list of idols to be smashed goes beyond spirits, ghosts, fairies and deities. Political authorities, such as sovereigns and even states, are to

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him a different kind of idol that are similarly animated by human reverence and worship. In addition, worldly honors given to men and charity arches dedicated to women, insofar as they represent nothing more than the hollow and formalistic reification of norms at the cost of individual autonomy and choice, count as idols that perpetuated nothing but hypocrisy and vanity. Chen Duxiu continued to operate within a binary construct. Religion, the metonymy of human folly in idol worship, undermines the truly scientific way of living. Chen ends his essay with the statement that “if we allow these phony idols to be around, the genuine truth of the universe and the scrupulous faith in our heart will never converge.” Two forms of secularism work together here to reinforce his atheism. At the first level, all religions are denounced as phony and delusionary. At the second level, by treating religion as a phenomenon of psychology, Chen explains a whole category of human experience away as derivative of something else. The radical atheism renders religion into a misconception.

3 The New Religion, 1920 After “On Iconoclasm,” Chen Duxiu fell silent on the question of religion for more than a year. 1919 was an eventful year in his life. Chen was forced from his position as the dean of the Faculty of Arts at Beijing University in March. In June he was arrested and sentenced to three months imprisonment for “distributing inflammatory material” among Beijing residents. After his release, Chen moved to Shanghai in October. He took New Youth with him and from this point onward he would serve as the journal’s sole editor. The move signaled the beginning of a new phase in his career. Chen had been interested in Marxism since the October Revolution. As soon as he was settled in Shanghai, he was contacted by Voinitsky, an agent of Comintern, and began to devote himself to the preparation for the Chinese Communist Party’s founding. New Youth, in due course, would be turned into the leading forum of Bolshevism in China. Chen broke his silence on religion in Spring 1920. “Xin wenhua yundong shi shenme？” 新文化運動是什麼？(What is the New Culture Movement?) appeared in the April issue of New Youth. Ostensibly a clarification of what xin wenhua yundong 新文化運動 (the New Culture Movement) should consist of, the piece recorded Chen’s appropriation of the term that had been in circulation since late 1919 for his own purpose. Chen used the term to sum up his own intellectual endeavors since the mid-1910s and to create a program for China’s cultural reform. In the history of Chen’s public enunciations, this piece, together with “Gao xin

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wenhua yundong zhu tongzhi” 告新文化運動諸同志 (To the Comrades of the New Culture Movement) (Chen 2009i) published three months earlier, constituted a milestone. Both were extremely programmatic. Prominently highlighted was the newly constructed entity – the New Culture (xin wenhua 新文化) – set in stark opposition with an equally new construction, the Old Culture (jiu wenhua 舊文化).4 Underscoring this binary, Chen brought combating the old to the forefront in China’s cultural reform. Chen proceeded subtly with this task of agenda setting. In “What is the New Culture Movement?” Chen did not give a straightforward answer to the question in the title. Rather, Chen listed all of wenhua’s subfields, i.e., science, religion, ethics, arts, literature, and music, and argued for a rupture with the past in all of them. Xin wenhua yundong as such became a campaign that aimed to create new science, new religion, new ethics, new arts, new literature, and new music (Chen 2009h, 217). The new verbal representation facilitated the expression of his totalistic stance. Practices, behaviors, values, and norms were succinctly summed up by one term “culture” (wenhua 文化), making it possible to address all human mental activities in one breath and facilitating the streamlining of his comments on specific subjects into an overarching position. Like most of his works in the 1910s, Chen’s programmatic writings in 1920 were motivated by a polemic aim. “What is the New Culture Movement?” expanded the crusade that Chen started in “To the Comrades of the New Culture Movement” by explicitly identifying two misguided and banal tendencies in the movement of cultural reforms. The first contended that “science has become useless and we should focus on philosophy” and the second that “Westerners have now been taken in by Eastern culture.” To Chen, those who believed that the usefulness of science for mankind had reached its limit failed to appreciate that science was a methodological principle. Chen dismissed the second voice even more quickly. Those Westerners who claimed to be interested in Eastern culture, in his view, were either peculiar antiquarians, disingenuous politicians, or tasteless populists. Their views of humanity’s future, in Chen’s eyes, were nothing but groundless speculations (Chen 2009h, 217–218). Without naming names, Chen succinctly positioned his New Culture program against the neo-traditionalism that arose after the Great War. Chen addressed the neo-traditionalists as his “comrades,” but this alleged comradeship only provided the base for his accusation of them as deviants from the core of the “New Culture Movement.”

4 Like xin wenhua yundong 新文化運動, the phrase xin wenhua 新文化 (“new culture”) had been in use before. However, it had not carried the specific connotation that Chen tried to ascribe to it here. See Kuo 2017, 52–71.

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Chen himself was not untouched by the post-Great War reappraisal of the meaning of modernity. Continuing being dogmatic about science’s capacity for bringing a brighter future, his conception of science, nevertheless, transformed itself from a category of knowledge into a mythological principle. The transformation allowed Chen to approach science in a more abstract manner; science to him became an outlook and an attitude, with much wider applicability than before. In “What is the New Culture Movement?” he explained that science can be understood in either its broad or its narrow sense. “In the narrow sense, it refers to the natural sciences; in the broader sense, it includes also the social sciences.” The latter “takes the methods of natural sciences and applies them to studies of society and human affairs.” Those who believe in the bankruptcy of science understand it merely in its narrow sense, and fail to appreciate its worth in the broader sense. This narrow understanding of science’s meaning lead many to overlook the West’s advanced knowledge in humanities and social sciences. Even in the field of philosophy, all modern thinkers, such as James, Bergeson, and Russell, reach their breakthroughs and made their contributions by abiding by scientific methods (Chen 2009h, 218). With this new definition of science, Chen softened his scientism. He noticeably stopped upholding science as the only yardstick of linear progress. Instead, “the fulfillment of humanity consists in a balanced maturity of both instincts and knowledge.” With this new definition of human progress, the constructed tension between religion and science dissolved and a new revelation arises: Individual actions are primarily responses to external stimulation and their most powerful determinants lie within human interiority. “Knowledge can indirectly shape human responses, but the real commander is the emotional impulses that function instinctively.” To guide and to shape the instinctive and emotional impulses, and to make them dense, pure, and noble, arts, music, and religion are more effective than either rational cognition or moral didactics (Chen 2009h, 217–221). Chen no longer believed that religion was irrelevant to modern civilization and doomed to disappear. “Religion constitutes a large part of the Old Culture, and will not be absent in the New.” Chen Duxiu was quite aware of his own shift of position and appeared to take the recent criticism of late nineteenth-century scientism to heart. The open announcement of a more conciliatory attitude towards religion constituted, in his own words, “a repentance” (rencuo 認錯). He now admitted that, without taking into consideration arts, music, and religion’s functional roles in human life, his earlier stance of scientism fell into the fallacy of reducing human life into a mechanistic state. Chen tossed away many other old precepts that he used to hold dear, together with the earlier antagonism against religion. In the form of a hypothetical debate, he explicated the thinking behind his change.

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“Some people” still have reservations over religion because it represents an “external force” (tali 他力) that works beyond individual autonomous choices, and because it contains merely relative and not absolute value. His response: which theories that expand our knowledge, and what music and arts that refine our feelings, not take the form of ‘external force’? What in the world contains absolute value? Chen’s rhetorical questions made it clear that his repudiation of the “science vs. religion” binary was not simply fortuitous. It signaled a large-scale shift in his thinking. Clearly detectable was the swivel of his gaze from a utopian future to the reality of the present. He was ready to give a realistic assessment of the world as it was, instead of simply promulgating a vision of the future (Chen 2009h, 217–221). Chen dubbed his new position towards “religion pragmatism” (shiji zhuyi 實際主義). “It would not benefit anyone to oppose something that society at large still needs.” “All pragmatists who try to address actual social needs would not try in vain to eliminate religion.” Pragmatism, nevertheless, was not resignation. Chen continued to insist that the old religions needed to be replaced by a reformed religion. The New Religion (xin zongjiao 新宗教) improves on its old counterpart by ridding all mythical and fabricated non-scientific elements. Such reform would ensure its survival in the historical process of evolution and allow it to continue to exist in the world of the future. Pragmatic enough to recognize religion’s indispensability for human progress, Chen was still too much a reformist to accept it as what it was. With this idea of New Religion, Chen in 1920 further developed the positive conception of religion in China. It was not accidental that he opened his paragraph on religion with a discussion of it being the “commander” of human actions. More than an obdurate aspect of reality that is difficult to eradicate, religion functions as the motor that shapes human behaviour. Its value thus goes beyond the reinforcement of moral norms, as seen in Chen’s writings before 1917. Religion now represents a force to be reckoned with because of its inspirational and affective power. Utility remains the primary account of religion’s social meaning, but it is a different account of its social meaning than previously (Chen 2009h, 217–221). Chen’s instrumentalist appreciation of religion in 1920 harkened back to the established conception whose early articulation formed part of the ascent of secularism in China. As Vincent Goossaert and David A. Palmer pointed out in their monograph The Religious Question in Modern China, one of the most significant shifts in religious outlook in modern China was the rise of a vantage point that “viewed Chinese religion critically from the outside” (Goossaert and Palmer 2011, 53). Goossaert and Palmer date this change of conceptual framework to the anti-superstition campaigns after the

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turn of the twentieth century. In effect, the processes that led to the final normalization of the secular had probably started in the late nineteenth century. By no means a name associated with anti-superstition in its modern sense, Kang Youwei 康有為 (1858–1927)5 conceived of the idea of the Confucian Church (Kong jiaohui 孔教會) in the 1890s with the motivation of institutionally separating church affairs from those of the state, thus implying a conceptual distinction between the perspectives of inside and outside religion. Placing the state firmly on the outside, Kang argued that the tactical deployment of this distinction would allow the state to manoeuvre out of further international entanglements over religion-related controversies (Kang 1998, 124–125). Kang was confident that such a tactic would work in practice, because by the end the nineteenth century, the separation of church and state had become deeply ingrained in the West’s self-identity and was thus an inviolable principle within modernity. The rise of a vantage point from the outside of religion was even more salient in Kang Youwei’s instrumentalist conception of religion. Kang understood religion as a content-neutral template of operation based on his observations of and readings of the works of Christian missionaries in China. Kang was famously dismissive of Christian theology and found its mythical core senseless. He was nevertheless keen to adopt the “Christian model,” distilled from Christianity’s successful experience of global domination. Effectiveness constituted the main drive behind his attempt to transplant such a model into Confucianism. In his political campaign to muster support for his blueprint of the Confucian Church, Kang heavily underscored the instrumental value of religion for civilizing missions of all kinds, including nation building and citizen formation. His outlook drew upon a perspective from “outside the religion” as much as from within (Kang 1990, 1040–1042). After the collapse of the imperial system, Kang continued to believe that Confucianism needed to be treated as a religion (zongjiao), albeit its different nature from that of Christianity and Islam, and that China needed to have a religion. In 1912, in his celebratory essay upon the founding of the Society for Confucian Religion (Kongjiao hui 孔教會) by his disciple Chen Huanzhang 陳煥章 (1880–1933),6 Kang again discussed how religion would constitute the most

5 Kang Youwei was born in Nanhai, Guangdong. He was a Chinese scholar, calligrapher and prominent political thinker and reformer. He led movements to establish a constitutional monarchy and was an ardent Chinese nationalist and internationalist. His ideas inspired a reformation movement that was supported by the Guangxu Emperor in 1898. He continued to advocate for a constitutional monarchy after the founding of the Republic in 1911. 6 Chen Huanzhang was born in Gaoyao, Guangdong. He was a Chinese politician, scholar, publisher, and educator. He became Kang Youwei’s disciple when he was 15. After the 1911, he

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effective remedy for the moral degeneration in the young Republic, and how it would further bring about wealth and power like in the West (Kang 1981, 735). Chen Duxiu was Kang’s most adamant and vocal critic during the campaign to establish Confucianism as the national religion (Peng 2014). Yet, within Chen’s acrimonious criticism of Kang, there existed a tacit agreement with him. Before entering his militant atheist phase in 1917, Chen had acknowledged religion’s role in reinforcing moral order. After the momentum for Kang’s campaign dissipated after 1918, the need for combatant polemics abated. Chen resorted to the instrumentalist way of thinking and allowed himself a more positive conception of religion. Like Kang, Chen after 1918 appreciated religion for its social utility. Unlike Kang, however, Chen was more extreme an instrumentalist. Kang firmly regarded Confucianism as both a purpose in its own right, as well as a means for modernization and nation building. Insofar as Confucianism could be considered a religion, no one would doubt Kang’s faith. In contrast, for Chen, instrumentalism constituted the one and only justification for religion’s existence. In spite of his positive assessment of religion in 1920, Chen’s subject position was firmly placed outside of the religious realm. In this sense, he remained a committed secularist.

Conclusion After the publication of his landmark article in 1920, Chen’s “repentance” from his earlier position ignited an immediate response among his younger admirers. The more radical members of the Young China Learning Association (Shaonian zhongguo xuehui 少年中國學會), for example, found Chen’s relinquishment of absolute atheism offensively disappointing. For these newly radicalized youth, Chen Duxiu’s acknowledgement of religion’s utility was surely a sign of retrogression, a setback to the forward movement of history. Fearing that the turning of the tide would soon defuse the momentum for further reform, they agitated for the Association to adopt a more explicit anti-religion stance and proposed to deny membership to all those with religious affiliations. A series of debates erupted among members of the Association. The diversity of opinions expressed in the debates in 1920–21 attests to Tao Feiya’s contention that there did not exist a consensus and common ideological ground in China on the eve of the Anti-Religion/Anti-Christian movement.

led the campaign for establishing Confucianism as China’s national religion. After the campaign petered out in the late 1910s, he continued to advocate for Confucianism. He later died in Hong Kong.

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Regarded by some as a regressive move, Chen’s reconfirmation of religion’s value was to others indicative of a new phase in his radicalization. More than three decades after the essay’s publication, Chen’s colleague and comrade from his Beijing days, Hu Shi 胡適 (1891–1962),7 revisited “What is the New Culture Movement?” and suggested that Chen’s turn to Marxism was a logical next step from his “repentance.” According to Hu, Chen had become attracted to Christianity during his period in jail in 1919. In his essay “Jidujiao yu Zhongguoren” 基督教與中國人 (Christianity and the Chinese), Chen confessed that in Christianity he found something that was absent in the culture of China, and that he was particularly touched by the intensity and purity of its aesthetic and religious attributes (Chen 2009j). His newfound “religious zeal” made Chen, in Hu’s words, “almost a believer in Jesus” (Hu 1998a, 2819). This attraction to Christianity, according to Hu, prompted Chen’s “repentance” and served as the catalyst for his search for the New Religion. “From there, it was not a sinuous path to communism, the new religion of the twentieth century” (Hu 1998a, 2820). Hu Shi also suggested that Chen had started contemplating an “actual movement of idealism” in early 1920 when he composed his programmatic essay on the New Culture.8 His evidence came from another piece of writing from the same year. In “Ma’ersaisi renkou lun yu Zhongguo renkou wenti” 馬爾薩斯人口 論與中國人口問題 (Malthus on Population and China’s Population Problem), Chen states that most theories, including Marx’ historical materialism, address specific issues in history, and should not be taken as the panacea for all social issues. To treat any of them as invincible at all times and places is to perpetuate hallucination (wangxiang 妄想) and blind faith (mixin). Hu quoted Chen verbatim: “For generating social support for an actual movement of idealism, delusion and blind faith are certainly extremely powerful and valuable. Yet, they would become a large obstacle in the progress of intellectual thought and in the

7 Hu Shi was born in Jixi, Anhui. He was a Chinese academic, public intellectual, and diplomat. Hu was a disciple of John Dewey, and a key contributor to Chinese liberalism. He advocated the use of written vernacular Chinese for literature and initiated the Literary Revolution in 1917. He had a wide range of interests such as literature, history, textual criticism, and pedagogy. He served as China’s ambassador in the USA during WWI, and later died in Taiwan. 8 Hu Shi composed his retrospective essay in the mid 1950s with the assumption that Chen became a communist between late 1920 and early 1921. In the past half century, however, various documents have all confirmed that Chen had been in contact with agents of Comintern since April 1920 and had participated in the preparation for the founding of the Chinese Communist Party. This new dating of Chen’s involvement in the party’s initiation makes Hu’s assertion of an of unspoken connection between the New Religion and Chen’s conversion to Marxism even more credible.

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discussion of problems” (Chen 2009k, 201). Chen’s words illustrated an acute awareness of the limitation of Marxism – that its veracity was by no means universal. Chen nevertheless joined in the revolutionary cause and went to all lengths to becoming Marxism’s most vehement advocate in China. Hu’s explanation for this: rather than the ultimate truth, Marxism represented to Chen the hallucination and blind faith that was needed for a social movement (Hu 1998a, 2820). Hu Shi had since 1919 consistently held the view that Chinese radicals followed Marxism merely as a tool for mobilization and had failed to seriously consider its applicability to China (Hu 1998b).9 Yet, his 1955 retrospective analysis of Chen’s 1920 choice went further than exposing the shady intellectual ground on which the Chinese Communist party had established itself. In Hu’s view, Chen’s true “repentance” in 1920 was a conscious choice of “hallucination and blind faith” over rationalism and a conversion to myth-making for the sake of social mobilization. In this light, Chen’s New Religion was not Marxism, either as a theory or a means of mobiliization. Rather, Chen’s new faith lay in the political maneuvering of idolizing something, Marxism or not, until it became a myth with broad social influence. Hu’s critical comments directed themselves at Chen and the Communist Party. Unwittingly, they also laid bare the fallacy of the instrumentalist conception of the New Religion. When being taken so explicitly and consciously as an instrument for something else, religion became a blatant manipulation and ceased to be a religion in its original sense. Chen Duxiu never again wrote explicitly on New Religion. After this moment of wavering in 1920, Chen ostensibly went back to his well-known position of militant atheism. In March 1922, when the Anti-Religion/Anti-Christian Movement started to gain momentum, Chen put his name down and endorsed the initiation of the Grand Anti-Religion Alliance of Beijing (Beijing fei zongjiao da tongmeng 北京非宗教大同盟). In the same month, he published “Jidujiao yu jidu jiaohui” 基督教與基督教會 (Christianity and the Christian Church) and attacked both the church organization and Christian belief (Chen 2009l). Six months later, in “Duiyu Fei zongjiao tongmeng de huaiyi ji fei Jidujiao xuesheng tongmeng de jinggao” 對於非宗教同盟的懷疑與非基督教學生同盟的警 告 (My Doubts Concerning the Anti-Religion Alliance and Caveats Concerning the Anti-Christian Student Alliance), he again expressed his disdain for all religions, including Christianity, Confucianism, Buddhism, Daoism, and other forms of fetishism (Chen 2009m). Considering his role in the CCP and the party’s relationship with the Comintern, one would doubt that Chen had any choice in giving the movement his full endorsement. Yet, in both essays, there

9 See also Lin 1990.

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exist a discernible hint of reservation and discomfort about the militancy of the movement. In “Christianity and Christian the Church” he raised objections to Dai Jitao’s 戴季陶 (1891–1949)10 blanket ascription of all evils associated with Christianity to not only the church but also its teachings. In “My Doubts Concerning the Anti-Religion Alliance and Caveats Concerning the AntiChristian Student Alliance,” he reminded his comrades and young followers that Christian schools indeed offered better education in many regards than the regular national schools. These apologetic pleas for the case of religion/ Christianity continued to follow instrumentalist logic and reveal a secularist worldview. Yet, their very utterance at the height of the Anti-Religion/AntiChristian Movement attests to the complexity of attitudes toward religion in a quickly radicalizing China.11 Behind the CCP’s official line of atheism, there existed other perspectives and conceptions, waiting to be brought to the forefront at the next turn of the cylindrical drum of history.

Bibliography Barrett, Timothy H., and Francesca Tarocco. 2012. “Terminology and Religious Identity: Buddhism and the Genealogy of the Term Zongjiao.” In Dynamics in the History of Religions between Asia and Europe: Encounters, Notions, and Comparative Perspectives, edited by Volkhard Krech and Marioan Steinicke, 307–319. Leiden: Brill. Bastid-Bruguière, Marianne. 2002. “La campagne antireligieuse de 1922.” Extrême-Orient, Extrême-Occident 24: 77–96. Chen Duxiu 陳獨秀. 2009a. “Jinri zhi jiaoyu fangzhen” 今日之教育方針. In Chen Duxiu zhuzuo xuanbian 陳獨秀著作選編, edited by Ren Jinshu 任建樹, Li Yinde 李銀德 and Shao Hua 邵華, Vol. 1, 170–175. Shanghai: Renmin chubanshe. Chen Duxiu 陳獨秀. 2009b. “Falanxi ren yu jindai wenming” 法蘭西人與近代文明. In Chen Duxiu zhuzuo xuanbian 陳獨秀著作選編, edited by Ren Jinshu 任建樹, Li Yinde 李銀德 and Shao Hua 邵華, Vol. 1, 164–166. Shanghai: Renmin chubanshe. Chen Duxiu 陳獨秀. 2009c. “Bo Kang Youwei zhi zongtong zongli shu” 駁康有為致總統總理書. In Chen Duxiu zhuzuo xuanbian 陳獨秀著作選編, edited by Ren Jinshu 任建樹, Li Yinde 李銀德 and Shao Hua 邵華, Vol. 1, 237–240. Shanghai: Renmin chubanshe.

10 Dai Jitao was born in Guanghan, Sichuan. He was a Chinese journalist, politician, and from the mid-1920 onward, a committed Buddhist. He was a protégé of Sun Yat-sen, and later became an important advisor for Chiang Kai-shek. He was the first head of the Examination Yuan of the Republic of China and stayed in that position from 1928 to 1948. He played an influential role in shaping the Kuomintang’s cultural policies in the 1930s and 40s. 11 According to Tao Feiya, besides Chen, other founding members of the Chinese Communist Party, including Yun Daiying 惲代英, Li Dazhao 李大釗, had harbored similar ambivalence towards religion.

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Chen Duxiu 陳獨秀. 2009d. “Xianfa yu zongjiao” 憲法與宗教. In Chen Duxiu zhuzuo xuanbian 陳獨秀著作選編, edited by Ren Jinshu 任建樹, Li Yinde 李銀德 and Shao Hua 邵華, Vol. 1, 248–252. Shanghai: Renmin chubanshe. Chen Duxiu 陳獨秀. 2009e. “Kongzi zhi dao yu xiandai shenghuo” 孔子之道與現代生活. In Chen Duxiu zhuzuo xuanbian 陳獨秀著作選編, edited by Ren Jinshu 任建樹, Li Yinde 李銀 德 and Shao Hua 邵華, Vol. 1, 264–269. Shanghai: Renmin chubanshe. Chen Duxiu 陳獨秀. 2009f. “Zai lun Kongjiao wenti” 再論孔教問題. In Chen Duxiu zhuzuo xuanbian 陳獨秀著作選編, edited by Ren Jinshu 任建樹, Li Yinde 李銀德 and Shao Hua 邵 華, Vol. 1, 278–280. Shanghai: Renmin chubanshe. Chen Duxiu 陳獨秀. 2009g. “Ouxiang pohuai lun” 偶像破壞論. In Chen Duxiu zhuzuo xuanbian 陳獨秀著作選編, edited by Ren Jinshu 任建樹, Li Yinde 李銀德 and Shao Hua 邵華, Vol. 1, 422–423. Shanghai: Renmin chubanshe. Chen Duxiu 陳獨秀. 2009h. “Xin wenhua yundong shi sheme?” 新文化運動是什麼？In Chen Duxiu zhuzuo xuanbian 陳獨秀著作選編, edited by Ren Jinshu 任建樹, Li Yinde 李銀德 and Shao Hua 邵華, Vol. 2, 217–221. Shanghai: Renmin chubanshe. Chen Duxiu 陳獨秀. 2009i. “Gao Xin wenhua yundong de zhu tongzhi” 告新文化運動諸同志. In Chen Duxiu zhuzuo xuanbian 陳獨秀著作選編, edited by Ren Jinshu 任建樹, Li Yinde 李 銀德 and Shao Hua 邵華, Vol. 2, 169–174. Shanghai: Renmin chubanshe. Chen Duxiu 陳獨秀. 2009j. “Jidujiao yu Zhongguoren” 基督教與中國人. In Chen Duxiu zhuzuo xuanbian 陳獨秀著作選編, edited by Ren Jinshu 任建樹, Li Yinde 李銀德 and Shao Hua 邵 華, Vol. 2, 175–182. Shanghai: Renmin chubanshe. Chen Duxiu 陳獨秀. 2009k. “Ma’ersaisi renkou lun yu Zhongguo renkou wenti” 馬爾薩斯人口 論與中國人口問題. In Chen Duxiu zhuzuo xuanbian 陳獨秀著作選編, edited by Ren Jinshu 任建樹, Li Yinde 李銀德 and Shao Hua 邵華, Vol. 2, 201–209. Shanghai: Renmin chubanshe. Chen Duxiu 陳獨秀. 2009l. “Jidujao yu jidu jiaohui” 基督教與基督教會. In Chen Duxiu zhuzuo xuanbian 陳獨秀著作選編, edited by Ren Jinshu 任建樹, Li Yinde 李銀德 and Shao Hua 邵華, Vol. 2, 430–431. Shanghai: Renmin chubanshe. Chen Duxiu 陳獨秀. 2009m. “Duiyu Fei zongjiao tongmeng de huaiyi ji fei Jidujiao xuesheng tongmeng de jinggao” 對於非宗教同盟的懷疑及非基督教學生同盟的警告. In Chen Duxiu zhuzuo xuanbian 陳獨秀著作選編, edited by Ren Jinshu 任建樹, Li Yinde 李銀德 and Shao Hua 邵華, Vol. 2, 456–457. Shanghai: Renmin chubanshe. Chen Hsi-yüan 陳熙遠. 2001. “Zhongjiao: Yige Zhongguo jindai wenhua shi shang de guangjian ci” 宗教: 一個中國近代文化史上的關鍵詞. Xin shixue 新史學 13, no.4: 37–65. Chen, Hsi-yüan. 2013. “Religionizing Confucianism and the Re-Orientation of Confucian Tradition in Modern China.” In Religion and Secularity: Transformations and Transfers of Religious Discourses in Europe and Asia, edited by Marion Eggert and Lucian Hölscher, 231–256. Leiden: Brill. Goossaert, Vincent, and David. A Palmer. 2011. The Religious Question in Modern China. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Hu Shi 胡適. 1998a. “Sishi nian lai Zhongguo wenyifuxing yundong liuxia de kangbao xiaodu liliang – Zhongguo gongchan dang qingsuan Hu Shi sixiang de lishi yiyi” 四十年來中國文 藝復興運動留下的抗暴消毒力量 – 中國共產黨親算胡適思想的歷史意義. In Hu Shi lunzheng ji 胡適論爭集, edited by Geng Yunzhi 耿雲志, Vol. 3, 2814–2832. Beijing: Shehui kexueyuan chubanshe.

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Hu, Shi 胡適. 1998b. “Wenti yu zhuyi” 問題與主義. In Hu Shi wenji 胡適文集, edited by Ouyang Zhesheng 歐陽哲生. Vol. 2, Hu Shi wencun 胡適文存, 249–278. Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe. Huang, Ko-wu. 2016.“The Origin and Evolution of the Concept of mixin (superstition): A review of May Fourth Scientific Views.” Chinese Studies in History 49, no. 2: 54–79. Josephson, Jason Ānanda. 2012. The Invention of Religion in Japan. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Kang Youwei 康有為. 1981. “Kongjiao hui xu er” 孔教會序二. In Kang Youwei zhenglun ji 康有 為政論集, edited by Tang Zhijun湯志鈞, Vol. 2, 735–741. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju. Kang Youwei 康有為. 1990. “Da Zhu Rongsheng shu” 答朱蓉生書. In Kang Youwei quanji 康有 為全集, edited by Jiang Yihua 姜義華 and Zhu Weizheng 朱維錚, 1034–1043. Shanghai: Guji chubanshe. Kang Youwei 康有為. 1998. “Qing shangding jiao’an falü, lizheng keju wenti, ting tianxia xiangyi zengshe Wenmian, bing cheng Kongzi gaizhi kao zhe” 請商定教案法律, 釐正科舉 文體, 聽天下鄉邑增設文廟, 並呈《孔子改制考》. In Jiuwang ducun de lantu: Kang Youwei bianfa zouyi jizheng 救亡圖存的藍圖 – 康有為變法奏議輯證, compiled by Kong Xianji 孔祥吉. Taipei: Lianhebao xi wenhua jijinhui. Koselleck, Reinhart. 2004a. “Begriffsgeschichte and Social History.” In Futures Past, translated by Keith Tribe, 75–92. New York: Columbia University Press. Koselleck, Reinhart. 2004b. “‘Space of Experience’ and ‘Horizon of Expectation’: Two Historical Categories.” In Futures Past, translated by Keith Tribe, 255–275. New York: Columbia University Press. Krämer, Hans Martin. 2015. Shimaji Makurai and the Preconception of Religion and the Secular in Modern Japan. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Kuo, Ya-pei. 2010. “Before the Term: ‘Religion’ as China’s Cultural Other.” Comparativ 20, no.4: 98–114. Kuo, Ya-pei. 2013. “‘Christian Civilization’ and the Confucian Church: The Origin of Secularist Politics in modern China.” Past and Present 218: 235–264. Kuo, Ya-pei. 2017. “The Making of New Culture Movement: A Discursive History.” TwentiethCentury China 42, no.1: 52–71. Lin, Yüsheng. 1978. Crisis of Chinese Consciousness: Radical Antitraditionalism in the May Fourth Era. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Lin Yüsheng 林毓生. 1990. “‘Wenti yu zhuyi’ bianlun de lishi yiyi” 問題與主義辯論的歷史意義. Ershiyi shiji 二十一世紀 8: 15–20. Lutz, Jessie Gregory. 1988. Chinese Politics and Christian Missions: The Anti-Christian Movements of 1920–28. Notre Dame: Cross cultural Publications. Nedostup, Rebecca. 2013. “The Transformation of the Concept of Religion in Chinese Modernity.” In Religious Diversity in Chinese Thought, edited by Joachim Gentz, Perry Schmidt-Leukel, 157–170. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Peng Chunling 彭春凌. 2014. “Xin qingnian Chen Duxiu yu Kang Youwei Kongjiao sixiang zhenglun de lishi chongtan” 《新青年》陳獨秀與康有為思想爭論的歷史重探. Beijing daxu xubao: zhexue shehui kexue ban 北京大學學報：哲學社會科學報 3: 117–131. Smith, Wilfred Cantwell. 1962. The Meaning and End of Religion: A revolutionary Approach to the Great Religious Traditions. New York: Harper & Row. Tao Feiya 陶飛亞. 2003. “Gongchan guoji daibiao yu Zhongguo fei jidujiao yundong” 共產國際 代表與中國非基督教運動. Jindai shi yanjiu 近代史研究 5: 114–136.

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Adam Yuet Chau

The “Religion Sphere” (zongjiaojie 宗教界) in the Construction of Modern China Introduction This chapter examines the curious yet extremely potent concept and operations of the “religion sphere” (zongjiaojie 宗教界) in modern and contemporary China.1 Unlike the institutional setup of the official religious associations such as the Buddhist Association and the Three-Self Patriotic Movement, the religion sphere, which is subdivided into the “Buddhism sphere” (fojiaojie 佛教界), the “Protestantism sphere” (jidujiaojie 基督教界), etc., is a fuzzy sociopolitical domain in which (and with which) the public/political presence and significance of China’s religious “communities” are negotiated. The political utility of the religion sphere concept in contemporary China is manifest in its frequent appearance in the speeches of the PRC top leaders as well as official press. For example, in recent years there has been debates within the CCP about whether or not the Party can welcome religious leaders into its membership (e.g. allowing a number of religious leaders and religious elites into the Party)2 despite the fact that the Party constitution states explicitly 1 I have the good fortune of having been able to test many of the ideas contained in this chapter at various conferences and invited lectures over the past few years: Brussels and Tervuren in 2012 (conference Norms in the Margins and Margins of the Norm: The Social Construction of Illegality in a panel organized by Françoise Lauwaert); National University of Singapore in 2013 (conference Religion, Secularity, and the Public Sphere in East and Southeast Asia at the Asia Research Institute organized by Michael Feener, Nakajima Takahiro and Zhong Yijiang); European Social Science History Conference in Vienna in 2014 (a panel organized by Shin-Yi CHAO); Shanghai Jiaotong University in 2016 (workshop Multifaceted Study of Chinese Politics and Society organized by ZHONG Yang); East China Normal University in 2016 (at the invitation of LI Xiangping); University of Groningen in 2015 (conference Framing the Study of Religion in Modern China and Taiwan: Methods, Concepts and New Research Paths organized by Stefania Travagnin); Leiden University in 2016 (IIAS Seminar New Religious Nationalism in Chinese Societies organized by Cheng-tien Kuo); Australian National University in 2017 (China Seminar Series, at the invitation of Mark Strange); Cornell University in 2018 (Cornell Contemporary China Initiative, at the invitation of Robin McNeal); Institute of World Religions at the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences in 2018 (at the invitation of Li Jianxin and Ji Zhe). I am grateful for the kind invitations and the helpful comments from colleagues at these venues. I wish to thank in particular Stefania Travagnin and Gregory Adam Scott for their insightful comments and suggestions for improvement. 2 Chinese original: yunxu yibufen zongjiaojie de lingxiu renwu he jingying rudang 允許一部分宗 教界的領袖人物和精英入當. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110547825-009

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that a Communist Party member must be an atheist. And in a recent United Front speech President Xi Jinping spoke of the importance of mobilizing the religion-sphere leaders for building socialism.3 Surprisingly there has not been any scholarly attention on the emergence, constitution and transformation of the religion sphere in China, or indeed how China as a socio-political space has been constituted by the religion sphere (together with other spheres).4 One main reason why this “sphere-ization” of Chinese society has not been studied is due to the fact that “spheres” (jie 界) as a term does not have any legal or institutional existence (though it certainly has implications for the legal management of affairs within different “spheres,” and spheres in fact contribute to the production of institutions). In fact, this “sphere-ization” of Chinese society is one of the most interesting and exciting topics to study if one wants to understand how Chinese society works, especially relating to statesociety relations. In this chapter I will examine the religion sphere as a window for understanding the broader “sphere-ization” of Chinese society. The chapter is divided into seven sections. First, I will explicate the sociopolitical logics that inform the formation and operations of spheres in general in the context of modern and contemporary China. Then I explore the role the religion sphere has played in the constitution of the nationhood and secularity in modern China. In the third section I explain how people can become “persons of the religion sphere” (zongjiaojie renshi 宗教界人士). The fourth section examines the impact of the reform-era liberalization of society on the religion sphere. In the fifth section, I recount the rise and fall of the qigong sphere as a sphere that closely related to the religion sphere. In the sixth section, I show how popular-religious temples attempt to gain legitimacy through gaining entry into the religion sphere. The seventh section traces the faint, emerging contours of a “popular religion sphere” (minjian xinyangjie). I conclude the article with a discussion of how the religion sphere might have the potential of becoming a “religion commons.”

3 The original Chinese expressions and their translations are as follows: (1) bixu jianchi zhongguohua fangxiang 必須堅持中國化方向 (must persist in the direction of indigenization); (2) bixu tigao zongjiao gongzuo fazhihua shuiping 必須提高宗教工作法治化水平 (must raise the level of the rule of law in ‘religion work’) (3) bixu bianzheng kandai zongjiao de shehui zuoyong 必須辯證看待宗教的社會作用 (must view the social role of religion dialectically); (4) bixu zhongshi fahui zongjiaojie renshi zuoyong 必須重視發揮宗教界人士作用 (must try hard to make good use of people in the religion sphere). A fuller report can be found at this webpage: http://news.china.com.cn/2015-05/21/content_35621328.htm (accessed on August 30, 2019). 4 The Chinese historian Zhang Qing 章清 appears to be the only scholar who has written on the historical emergence of newly-coined terms with the jie 界 suffix in late Qing and the Republican era (see Zhang 2011). Zhang 2014 treats the rise of the “thoughts/ideas/pensées sphere” (sixiangjie 思想界) in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

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1 The Constitution of Modern Society through “Sphere-ization” and the Rise of the “Religion Sphere” in Modern China In the political constitution of the modern Chinese state (from the Republican times through the Maoist times to the current era), a process emerged that was very much driven by a desire to conform to hegemonic Western standards and practices. This process involved the recognition and production of different functional spheres in society that are similar to (or rather imitative of?) the functional constituencies or interest groups in Western liberal states. These spheres included the “education sphere” (jiaoyujie 教育界), “health and medicine sphere” (yiliaojie 醫療界), the “manufacture and commerce sphere” (gongshangjie 工商 界), the “labor sphere” (laogongjie 勞工界), the “intellectual sphere” (zhishijie 知 識界), the “scholarly sphere” (xueshujie 學術界), the “women’s sphere” (funüjie 婦女界), the “minority-nationalities sphere” (minzujie 民族界), the “overseas Chinese sphere” (qiaojie 僑界), the “Taiwanese compatriots sphere” (taibaojie 臺胞界), the “arts sphere” (yishujie 藝術界), the “science sphere” (kexuejie 科學界), the “sports sphere” (tiyujie 體育界), the “political sphere” (dangzhengjie 黨政界), etc.5 And of course along with these spheres one finds the “religion sphere” (zongjiaojie 宗教界).6 I have opted to translate zongjiaojie into “religion” sphere rather than “religious” sphere because I want to avoid any inadvertent misunderstanding of the nature of the sphere itself as religious, which it clearly is not (see below for a discussion on how the religion sphere presumes and helps constitute the secular state).

5 In more recent years new spheres have emerged, e.g. the “law sphere” (falüjie 法律界), the “qigong sphere” (qigongjie 氣功界), the “stocks and securities sphere” (zhengquanjie 證卷界), the “charity sphere” (cishanjie 慈善界), the “classical learning sphere” (guoxuejie 國學界), the “NGO sphere” (NGO jie NGO界), and even the “internet sphere” (wangjie 網界). 6 I am still trying to determine the earliest appearance of the term zongjiaojie in the Chinese context. It is possible that this was one of the ‘translingualized’ terms that originated in Meiji Japan (see Liu 1995) or was coined in late Qing China by translators and writers connected to missionaries. Zhang (2011, 57) found a Japanese usage as early as in 1888. It seems that the term was already a common usage in China as early as in 1910. For example, an article in the Chinese-language missionary periodical (Zhenguangbao 真光報; The True Light Monthly) in 1910, volume 9, issue entitled “Lun Zhongguo zongjiaojie zhi quedian” 論中國宗教界之缺點 (On the Shortcomings of China’s Religion Sphere). I thank Ya-pei Kuo for bringing my attention to this article. The Zhenguangbao was a periodical published by the Guangzhou-based China Baptist Publication Society (Meihua jinxinhui yinshuju 美華浸信會印書局), see http:// www.zsbeike.com/cd/40736491.html (accessed on March 8, 2018).

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A sphere is a relatively fuzzy, semi-formal socio-political domain comprising of certain publicly-acknowledged social actors accompanied by related institutions and activities.7 Each sphere is comprised of social actors who, consciously or unconsciously, construct and help maintain the sphere so that they can gain from their membership in, or association with, the sphere. Some of these social actors have been assigned or appointed to occupy their positions within this sphere by the authorities (not always the government) while some others self-appoint or have fought their way into it. Many other social actors not operating within a sphere can also exert considerable influence over the development and shape of that sphere. For example, journalists, scholars and bloggers can have discussions on the activities within a sphere and thus contribute to the overall construction of this sphere (e.g. witness the recent controversy in China over the improper management of NGOs in China). Sometimes particular individuals or a group of individuals outside the sphere can have more power than some of those actors inside the sphere in influencing the sphere’s development. The shape, size and configuration of each sphere are always in flux (hence its inherent fuzziness). It is usually inchoate in the beginning of its formation (inchoate because there was great confusion or disagreement over what this sphere should consist of), but as more and more people and institutions become interested in building this sphere, it will take a more definitive and seemingly solid shape. Over time the “rules of the game” might also become more stabilized and clear (though of course always subject to change). Since each sphere is supposed to be the structural-functional equivalent of other spheres, those spheres that were formed earlier will serve as models for the new sphere to emulate or, if necessary and expedient, to modify. This explains why the overall shapes of these spheres are quite similar to one another. On the other hand, since all spheres are supposed to be functionally different, each sphere also engages in a constant process of differentiation from the other spheres for fear of possible mergers, hostile takeovers or elimination. But this differentiation

7 A big dilemma for this study is how to translate the word jie 界. This character various denotes boundaries and the area marked out by these boundaries (as in, e.g., fajie 法界, sanjie 三 界, shijie 世界, jianjie 疆界, bianjie 邊界, jiexian 界限, jiefen 界分, jieding 界定, zujie 租界, jiewai 界外, jingjie 境界, jiehua 界畫, dongwujie 動物界, huafen jiexian 劃分界線). Depending on the context and intended usage the character denotes a sphere, a community, a constituency, a sphere, a circle, a realm, a field, a zone, a world, a commons, a public etc. It is interesting to note that the word jie has a heavy Buddhist connotative baggage since it is used to refer to the different ‘planes of existence’ in the Buddhist conception of the ‘universe’ (trailokya). See Liu 2004 and Zhang 2011.

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is often about the contents within, rather than the form of, these spheres (i.e. they remain more or less structurally isomorphic). Sometimes spheres do disappear, as a result of a decline in societal interest or by force (for example, the qigong sphere qua sphere disappeared in the wake of the forceful suppression by the government of Falungong and many other qigong denominations in the late 1990s) (see Palmer 2008). In theory, the totality of the nation-state is to be composed of the seamless working-together of these various spheres as structural-functionalist components, together forming the nation-state’s socio-taxonomical order (though admittedly this taxonomy is not as explicitly articulated as, for example, the taxonomy on minority nationalities in the PRC). Each sphere is a structuralfunctional equivalent of all the other spheres, while within each sphere there are sub-spheres which are in turn structural-functional equivalents of one another. For example, within the religion sphere in China today one finds, based on the five officially-recognized religions, the “Buddhism sphere” (fojiaojie 佛教界), the “Daoism sphere” (daojiaojie 道教界), the “Protestantism sphere” (jidujiaojie 基督 教界), the “Catholicism sphere” (tianzhujiaojie 天主教界), and the “Islam sphere” (yisilanjiaojie 伊斯蘭教界). Of course, the different spheres did not emerge all at once; some spheres were invented earlier than others. Nor did the various spheres follow the same logic; for example, some constitute themselves along the lines of professions (e.g. educators, health professionals) while others by assigned sociopolitical status (e.g. women, minority nationalities) or by a recognized set of specialized activities (e.g. sports, arts, religion). In other words, even though these spheres bear structural and organizational similarities, they are in fact characterized by heterogeneous constitutive logics (e.g. depending on the sphere’s degree of legitimacy within the polity, e.g. formal education versus religion; the degree of fuzziness of the boundaries around spheres). The way in which Chinese society is constituted by this multitude of spheres has its origins in the transition of China from a dynastic polity to the modern nation-state form it assumed in the early twentieth century (around 1910s to 1930s). This transition saw the flourishing of civil-society organizations in a climate of enthusiastic embrace of a modern liberal nation-state in which different social groups scrambled to be recognized by the state and be given voices in an exuberant social field (accompanied by the rise of mass print media, heightened commercialism, the penetration of imperialist and colonial influences, the import of Western models of social and political forms, etc.). The founding of dozens of new sects (what the historian Prasenjit Duara [Duara 2001] has called “redemptive societies”) during this period contributed in a significant way to the vibrancy of the newly conceptualized religion sphere.

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This effervescence of social-organizational mobilization was interrupted by the long war resisting Japan’s invasion of China (from 1937 to 1945) and the civil war between the Nationalists and the Communists (1945–1949). The newly emergent spheres did not disappear during these war years; instead, they consolidated themselves and often made themselves useful for the war efforts. One may say that the national emergencies during the war years were beneficial to the formation and consolidation of these spheres since the different regimes at war needed to mobilize these social forces for their respective purposes (this was true as well for Japan at the time). Notably, for example, the (patriotic) religion sphere in war-time China came together as one voice when they conducted memorial rituals for the Chinese war dead, especially the fallen soldiers (see Nedostup 2010). After the Communist victory in 1949 the Nationalists fled to Taiwan, but both regimes, being at their core Leninist, became more authoritarian and suppressed the growth of civil society. In mainland China during the Maoist era the Communist party-state took the initiative to form and mould certain spheres, but these spheres were little more than instruments in the state’s effort to mobilize society for building socialism. However, the construction of these spheres did contribute crucially to the perceived legitimacy of the new regime since the party-state wanted to form alliances with all useful elements of society (as part of the United Front strategy). For example, the historian Thomas Mullaney has detailed how the urgent need for representatives of minority nationalities to participate in the first People’s Congress in the early 1950s formed the impetus for the Nationalities Identification (minzu shibie 民族識別) project (see Mullaney 2011), which was essential to the further consolidation of the “minority nationalities sphere.” One can understand the official recognition of the five religions (Buddhism, Daoism, Islam, Protestantism and Catholicism) as involving a kind of “Religions Identification” (zongjiao shibie 宗教識別). In Taiwan, various spheres were subjected to a similar fate, to help the Nationalist regime prepare for fighting back to re-take the mainland.

2 The Religion Sphere, the Nation, and State Secularism Religion and nation have had a complicated relationship in history. Religious adherence (especially the exclusivist, confessional kind) was often the foundation of ethnic group identity, which could serve as the foundation of nationhood (especially in early modern Europe). The nation, once formed, often served as the

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territorial and institutional basis for fostering and elaborating a nation-centric religiosity and religious identity (from Henry VIII’s Church of England to Emperor Meiji’s state Shintō, Gandhi’s Hinduism, and even Taiwan’s island-wide Mazu cult). Though not historically inevitable, such nation-centric religiosity and religious identity often led to more explicit forms of religious nationalism in which religious actors and institutions engaged in explicitly pro-home-nation, patriotic practices (see Kuo 2017). One of the most revealing aspects about the religion sphere (as well as all the other spheres) is how it fills up the socio-political space of the nation. Precisely because the religion sphere has to be co-extensive with the nation (in its institutional and imaginary reach), it is as much an imagined community as the nation (Anderson 1983): a lay Buddhist practitioner or a Protestant church-goer is led to imagine himself or herself as a member of the Buddhism sphere or Protestant sphere of China. In theory, a nation can have only one religion sphere (even if underneath this there can be a multitude of local spheres or a number of sub-spheres, e.g. the Shanghai religion sphere is a local religion sphere subordinate to the national religion sphere), and each sphere can only occupy one nation. The very act of the sphere-ization of society is to accentuate and solidify the boundaries of the nation. We may even go as far as saying that the formation of the spheres is necessary to the construction and maintenance of the sovereignty of the nation. Each nation has its own spheres. One nation’s sphere of certain kind (e.g. religion) can interact with its analogous bodies in other nations but they do so based on the principle of nation-based, “sphere-ized” autonomy. The religion sphere in China should never be invaded by foreign bodies. This is one of the conceptualstructural reasons why the Chinese state is so wary and intolerant of any foreign interference with affairs within its own religion sphere; the nation’s “religious sovereignty” (i.e. the inviolability of the [imagined] borders of the nation’s religion sphere) is co-extensive with the nation’s political sovereignty and neither is to be violated.8 Another revealing aspect of the religion sphere is that it is constitutive of the overall construction of secularity (the very existence of the religion sphere as a discrete social category attests to the efficacy of state secularism); i.e. the existence of the religion sphere qua sphere presumes secularity. In fact, China’s state secularism stands out as an exception amongst many 8 This religious sovereignty should not be confused with any sense of autonomy which is the goal of some religious practitioners; the latter is referring to autonomy from state interference. Autonomy is an important attribute of religious sovereignty, but it is about the religion sphere as a key constituting element of the nation being autonomous from foreign influence.

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Asian nations. In contrast, most other Asian countries have placed far more emphasis on the nation’s religious identity: modern Japan from the Meiji era to the end of the Second World War, with Shintō enshrined as the state’s spiritual foundation; post-colonial/Independence India, with the nation considered fundamentally Hindu; post-colonial/Independence Indonesia, with the requirement that all citizens must believe in God and belong to one of five officially-recognized religions, Islam, Protestantism, Catholicism, Hinduism and Buddhism; post-colonial/Independence Malaysia, with Islam as the “religion of the Federation”; modern Thailand, with Theravada Buddhism as quasi state religion; not to mention Pakistan and Bangladesh, with Islam as state religion, or Nepal up to 2006, with Hinduism as official religion.9

3 Becoming “Persons of the Religion Sphere” (zongjiaojie renshi 宗教界人士) As mentioned above, within the religion sphere in the PRC one finds the Buddhism sphere (fojiaojie), the Daoism sphere (daojiaojie), the Protestantism sphere (jidujiaojie), the Catholicism sphere (tianzhujiaojie), and the Islam sphere (yisilanjiaojie).10 Even though, in theory, the religion sphere should include all citizens practising these different religions, in practice, and in official and common understanding, when the religion sphere is mentioned it usually refers to the top representatives who represent their respective religions in the officially approved religious associations and in the media. These people are referred to as “persons of the religion sphere” (zongjiaojie renshi).11 These representatives (sometimes selfappointed, often appointed by the authorities, but almost all needing to be

9 A reader of an earlier version of this section pointed out that PRC secularism ‘was/is based on its monopoly power or control over cosmological truth’. I think such a monopoly was only true during the high Maoist era but is no longer true today. The considerable liberalization in the religion sphere has produced a plethora of cosmological truths, the monitoring of which by the reform-era state is nearly impossible. 10 In fact there is also the so-called “sphere of the religions of the minority nationalities” (minzuzongjiaojie 民族宗教界) but this sphere is primarily managed by the Nationalities Affairs Commission, though of course it has multiple links to the religion sphere proper as well therefore can be included in the religion sphere. 11 Zhang (2011, 57) found an early usage of “persons of the politics sphere” (in Chinese zhengzhijie renshi 政治界人士) in Japan as early as 1888.

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“consecrated”12 by the state and the broader religion sphere) do have the power to speak on behalf of the religious constituencies they represent (or they are made to represent). On the one hand, they are supposed to fight for the collective interests of their sphere; on the other hand, they understandably engage in manoeuvres that advance their own personal political ambitions or expand the influence of their own particular religious orders. To survive in the sphere requires astute political sensibilities and willingness to engage in protracted negotiations with state authorities and one’s political rivals. Sometimes to protect one’s religion the representatives need to make significant compromises. For example, during the Maoist period, when all religions faced extremely unfavorable conditions, the leaders of the major religions voluntarily submitted their religions to forms of socialist institutionalization, e.g. by becoming a “work unit” (danwei 單位) just like other state-run organizations (see Li 2006b, 652–654; Palmer 2009). While those designated representatives of the religion sphere are given a voice in the public sociopolitical realm, those other members of the religion sphere are deliberately or by default silenced. For example, leaders of the underground Christian churches are never considered legitimate representatives of the Protestantism or Catholicism spheres. However, given how common and popular unofficial media has become in recent years, we might soon see the emergence of an unofficial religion sphere that stands parallel to, and often against, the officially-approved religion sphere. Let us briefly look at an example of how a particular sphere, in this case the Protestant sphere, was formed through the efforts of activists and through the construction of a unified, national ecumenical body. Beside the explosion of social forces relating to the formation of civil society during the dynastic-Republican transition, the emergence of the religion sphere was also a direct product of political activism and mobilization in response to the formidable threats from the modernist regimes (late Qing, Republican as well as Communist) and other social forces (e.g. grassroots reformers) that not only encroached upon the considerable assets of the numerous temples and shrines but even intended to eliminate religion completely as a social institution (see Goossaert 2006 and 2008). One of the consequences of these threats was the coming-to-consciousness (at least among the religious leaders and elites) of the need to unify religious adherents under the banner of collective self-defense (against often militant secularist tendencies) and the formation of nation-wide, faith-based organizations (see Goossaert and Palmer 2011). For example, in 1906, when Presbyterian pastor and Protestant leader Yu Guozhen 俞國楨 and his colleagues formed the Chinese Protestant

12 See below for an explication of the usage of this term by the French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu.

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Autonomous Association (Zhongguo yesujiao zilihui 中國耶穌教自立會) in Shanghai, their manifesto included statements such as: “Chinese co-religionists of all (Protestant) denominations will not differentiate between one another by denomination or geographical region and will hopefully connect with one another (through this organization) and form one unified body.”13 It is clear that this unification effort was meant for ethnically-Chinese Protestants (huajiaoyou 華教友) in China only, excluding Protestant brethren outside of China and excluding as well non-Chinese foreign Protestants in China. This was one of the first efforts to make the Chinese Protestant community independent from their originating foreign denominational authorities. This was the moment when the Protestantism sphere in China emerged despite the fact that Yu Guozhen and his colleagues did not evoke such a concept at that time. The urgency of such an initiative has also to be situated in the immediately post-Boxers Rebellion broader context. The construction of every sphere needed activists (what are usually called haoshizhe 好事者, literally “persons who love engaging in social activities and rallying support for a cause” or shehui huodongjia 社會活動家, literally “social activists”), who are often self-appointed representatives of the emerging constituency (sphere) (such as Yu Guozhen for the Protestantism sphere and Taixu 太虛 for the Buddhism sphere).14 Some of them manage to become recognized by both state authorities and the broader society, but never without contest or struggle; see, for instance, Zhao Puchu 趙樸初 for the Buddhism sphere during the Maoist and reform eras (see Ji 2017). Here is what Bourdieu has to say about these individuals or representative institutions, especially their artificiality: Without being completely artificial (if it were, the building would not have been completely successful), each of these representational bodies, which give existence to represented bodies endowed with a known, recognized social identity, exists by virtue of a set of institutions that are so many historical inventions – a “logo” (sigle in French), sigillum authenticum, as the canonists put it, a seal or rubber stamp, an office and a secretariat having a monopoly over the corporate signature and plena potentia agendi et loquendi, etc. (Bourdieu 1985, 739)15

What Bourdieu is referring to is precisely the kind of “representational bodies” such as the Chinese Protestant Autonomous Association founded by Yu

13 Original Chinese: ge hui huajiao you wufen bici, buxian quyu. Shuji lianluo tongzhi,he er wei yi 各會華教友無分彼此, 不限區域. 庶幾聯絡同志, 合而為一 (Zhang 2015, 192). 14 Taixu frequently used the concept of “saṃgha sphere” (sengjie 僧界) in his writing on the reform of the Buddhist saṃgha. For more about Taixu and the narrative of reform see the chapter by Laliberté and Travagnin in Concepts and Methods for the Study of Chinese Religions I: State of the Field and Disciplinary Approaches; and the chapters by Bianchi and Travagnin in this volume. 15 Plena potentia agendi et loquendi means “full power to act and speak.”

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Guozhen and his colleagues that “pretended” (in the sense of asserting a claim) to represent all “two hundred and sixty thousand domestic Protestants”16 as a collective body. The different regimes in modern China also prefer to endorse the formation of such representational bodies (e.g. the officially-endorsed national religious associations) because these bodies and their leaders help make religious communities and their practices more “legible” to the state and therefore more amenable to control and potential mobilization.17 It is not a surprise that “persons of the religion sphere” as an expression most often refers to the leaders within these officially-endorsed national religious associations.

4 The Liberalization of Society and the Religion Sphere in the Reform Era Both mainland China and Taiwan became much more liberalized from the 1980s onward. In China during the reform period (in the past forty years), civil-society forces have grown considerably, coupled with the differentiation of societal interests along diverse lines. The liberalization of the media and the leaps in the sophistication in communications technologies (including the internet, WeChat, etc.) have all contributed to the bourgeoning of a multitude of spheres because it has become much easier to identify a potential sphere, name it and then formalize it (with institutions, personnel, money and other resources, activities, symbols and discourses, etc.). The state still plays a major role in recognising and consecrating these spheres, but it sometimes plays catch-up when new spheres are forming faster than it anticipates. At this point it is worth noting that the Chinese conception of the religion sphere is very different from Pierre Bourdieu’s analytical concept of the “religious field” (see Bourdieu 1971). For Bourdieu, the religious field is a relatively autonomous social field with relatively clear “rules of the game” about the value of symbolic goods. His case study is the Catholic Church in France, which, in addition to being a centralized religious body with clear boundaries, has benefitted from a long history of relatively stable development and consolidation (including during periods of relative suppression under French Republicanism), resulting in a condition amenable to the kind of analysis Bourdieu deploys (see Dianteill 2003).

16 Original Chinese: ershiliu wan benguo yesujiao tu 二十六萬本國耶穌教徒 (Zhang 2015, 202). 17 On state and legibility see Scott 1998. On state-religion relations see Li 2006a, especially Chapters 3 & 4.

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The religion sphere in China, on the other hand, is much messier and in much greater flux. The (officially-sanctioned) religion sphere proper as it stands today in the PRC–but note this is only a portion of the overall religion sphere, which consists of a lot of persons and institutions that are merely tolerated by the state but not officially recognized – has three key components: “persons of the religion sphere” (zongjiaojie renshi), “religious organizations” (zongjiao tuanti 宗教 團體) and “venues for religious activities” (zongjiao huodong changsuo 宗教活 動場所). In other words, in order to become an institutional player in the religion sphere (i.e. in order to register to be recognized as a legitimate religious entity) one has to have these elements. This presents some problems for popular religious temples, which usually do not have any proper “religious personnel” (shenzhi renyuan 神職人員) to speak of; but this requirement might urge local communities to find proper religious personnel to man their temples (or at least present themselves as if they had such personnel). All temples must also register to become “venues for religious activities,” though in reality the vast majority of local temples in rural China go under the label “superstition” and are not granted such privilege. In other words, the religious activities that take place at these unregistered temples are considered by Chinese law to be illegal (see below for a case study of how a popular religious temple came to be registered as a Daoist temple, thus gaining official protection). People who conduct religious activities in places not designated as venues for religious activities run the risk of getting arrested by the police and jailed. For example, Buddhist monks and nuns are allowed to conduct Buddhist rituals within the confines of their registered temples, but they are not allowed to conduct the exact same rituals outside the temples. In other words, religion is literally put in its proper “place.”18

5 The Religion Sphere and the Qigong Sphere The rise of the qigong sphere during the 1980s and 1990s in the PRC and its precipitous demise in the late 1990s present an interesting case of how a new sphere gets formed in a liberalized sociopolitical atmosphere.19 Qigong (literally

18 Of course, a vast amount of rituals take place outside of the limited number of officiallyapproved venues for religious activities. The local authorities have simply chosen to turn a blind eye. 19 The anthropologist David Palmer has written a detailed account of the emergence of the qigong sphere in his book Qigong Fever (2007).

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“working with qi” or “the work of qi”) is an umbrella term for a wide variety of bodily exercises that are supposed to enhance the spirit and health of the practitioners. It usually involves some kind of regimented breathing and body movements and requires long-term commitment to achieve any effect. People who are accomplished in qigong are supposed to be able to heal other people by emitting qi (literally “breath”; understood as some kind of invisible power similar to electromagnetic field). Most qigong methods popularized in the 1980s and 1990s in mainland China (gongfa) draw freely upon concepts and practices in traditional Chinese medicine, Daoism, Buddhism and modern science. Modern qigong first emerged in the early years of the People’s Republic’s founding in the early 1950s, when modernity and tradition underwent intense negotiations, especially in the field of medicine. Though fetishising modern biomedicine (Western medicine), the Communist party-state decided to keep what is useful in traditional Chinese medicine and advocated the combination of both modern, Western and traditional Chinese medicines in the training of medical personnel, in medical treatments and in pharmaceutical development (see Hsu 1999). This allowed the consolidation and development of the socalled “Chinese medicine sphere” (zhongyijie 中醫界) within the medicine sphere. The discovery of qi-enabled healing in the 1950s gave rise to the term qigong as an emergent coherent domain of research and practice (Palmer 2007, 32). With the patronage of the state medical authorities and party qigong enthusiasts, qigong became legitimate and spread to different quarters in the 1950s. But qigong really took off in the 1980s and 1990s when the country liberalized. With the increasing ease of travel, heightened anxieties about health and wellbeing, the liberalization of discourse (especially in print media) and the advancement and spread of consumer technologies (e.g. tape recorders/players), it was a favorable environment for the mushrooming of different qigong methods (or denominations), some of which drew followers in the tens of millions. It was called the “qigong fever” (qigongre 氣功熱). And the qigong sphere was born, constructed by qigong masters and their followers, journalists and writers reporting on qigong (e.g. the legend-filled biographies of qigong grandmasters and their exploits), scientists conducting experiments with qi to ascertain its physical nature (i.e. its “realness”), senior party-state officials giving their stamps of approval, and of course all the qigong-related activities (e.g. groups of practitioners in parks and squares, the selling and buying of qigong-related products, the grandmasters’ lectures and performances in huge auditoriums and stadiums, etc.). And the sphere was no less constructed by qigong’s critics and detractors. Though intimately linked to religion, the qigong sphere was positioned more closely to the medicine and sports spheres (partly because the religion sphere in the 1980s and 1990s was still under suspicion and tight political control). In fact,

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representatives of the religion sphere came out and openly criticized many of the qigong sects for their nonchalant and seemingly opportunistic and cynical uses of Buddhist terminologies and practices. The religion sphere did not want to admit the qigong sects into their sphere and wanted to draw a clear boundary between their sphere and the newly christened qigong sphere – not that the qigong sects at that time cared too much about joining the religion sphere, since the qigong sphere during that period was far more exuberant, expansive and even legitimate. For example, Li Hongzhi, the founder of Falungong (literally “practice of the Dharma wheel”) insisted that Falungong is not a religion.20 It is ironic, though, that when the state cracked down on Falungong and the qigong sphere in general in the late 1990s they labelled many of them as evil cults, which inadvertently drew them towards the religion sphere, even though clearly saying that they did not and could not belong to the religion sphere (Palmer 2008). The case of the construction of evil cults is quite revealing about the construction of jie (“spheres”). Sphere as a term is only reserved for positive socio-political constituencies in society; no negative social category will be allowed to assume any “sphere” status in official political discourse or in the closely-monitored mass media. One can never imagine an “evil cults sphere” (xiejiaojie 邪教界), a “reactionary sectarian sphere” (fandonghuidaomenjie 反動會道門界), a “house churches sphere” (jiating jiaohuijie 家庭教會 界) or a “fundamentalists sphere” (yuanjiao zhizhuyijie 原教旨主義者界). These negative social categories are to be controlled or eliminated rather than allowed to enter legitimate socio-political life. Some other social groupings are also potentially dangerous to be allowed a “sphere” status, e.g. “stock market investors” (gumin 股民); “internet users” (wangmin 網民); “migrant workers” (nongmingong 農民工); “petitioners” (xinfangzhe 信訪者); “rights lawyers” (weiquan lüshi 維權律師); or even members of certain social movements such as environmentalism (huanbao 環保); etc. If the state does not feel comfortable and certain that it can manage and manoeuvre the constituents of a potential sphere it will be reluctant to let it come into being.

20 For more about Falungong see Huang’s chapter in Concepts and Methods for the Study of Chinese Religions III: Key Concepts in Practice.

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6 Getting into the Religion Sphere: Popular Religion and Temple Registration Despite the problematic and simplistic binary opposition between “high” and “low,” scholars have traditionally understood Chinese religion (excluding Christianity and Islam) as consisting of two levels: the first of elite practices, such as sutra translation, scripture commentaries, and meditation; and the second of popular practices such as beseeching deities for divine assistance or consulting a spirit medium.21 By and large, popular religious practices put emphasis on the “efficacy” (ling 靈 or lingying 靈應) of divine assistance in solving practical problems. In late imperial times, not only the Confucian scholar-officials but also the elite Buddhist and Daoist establishments regularly condemned, and attempted to eradicate or reform, religious practices at the popular level. The majority of local temples were built without the state’s approval and enshrined deities or spirits that were not part of the imperially approved pantheon. However, the so-called “licentious worship” (yinsi) thrived despite official sanction. In other words, many popular religious practices had struggled with issues of legitimacy for centuries before the modernist regimes (Republican, the Communist on the mainland, or the Nationalist on Taiwan) began their efforts to suppress them. By legitimacy (zhengdangxing 正當性) I mean primarily acceptability in the eyes of the ruling elite or political regime, often in terms of legality (hefaxing 合法性, e.g., in the form of registration with the authorities). In the eyes of the authorities, degrees of legitimacy constitute a sliding scale, ranging from the very illegitimate (e.g., anti-regime sectarian movements), to the tolerably illegitimate (e.g., many popular practices such as fortune-telling and temple festivals), to the legitimate (e.g., worship in registered temples) (see Fenggang Yang’s work on the three-colored markets for religion in China, Yang 2006). Of course, the criteria for distinguishing the legitimate from the illegitimate vary across regimes and often across time within each regime. For example, during the radical leftist years of the Cultural Revolution all religious activities became illegitimate and faced suppression. Because legitimacy has long been a problem popular religion has to grapple with, one might understand popular religion as consisting of two broad categories of religious practices depending on their degree of acceptability to the authorities. And I will limit my discussion to the situation in the People’s

21 This section is drawn from my earlier work on the revival of popular religion in rural China in the first two decades of the reform era (i.e. 1980s – 1990s) (see Chau 2005; 2006; 2009; 2012).

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Republic of China (since in Taiwan the dynamics is different, though sharing some similar aspects). The first category of practices can be called “intolerable superstitions.” These are activities that the state is unlikely to ever accept as legitimate. Examples in this category include fortune-telling, spirit mediumism, exorcism, fengshui siting, and sectarian proselytising. Yet these activities are being conducted widely, and not always clandestinely, and will not be easily eradicated. The second category of popular religious practices can be called “tolerable superstitions.” These are activities that the state might accept as legitimate and decide to register and regulate rather than to eradicate. In other words, once deemed tolerable, superstition can pass as religion;22 a portion of the “space of popular religion” has been allowed entrance into the “space of religion.” In recent years, the boundaries of the religion sphere have been kept relatively porous. Many rural, local temples and their accompanying activities such as temple festivals have fallen under the “tolerable superstition” rubric in the reform era, largely through a process of collusion of interests between the temples and the local authorities. Seeking protection under the law as legitimate (i.e., officially recognized) religious institutions, local temples apply to the Religious Affairs Bureau (zongjiaoju 宗教局) to be affiliated with either the Buddhist Association of China or the Daoist Association of China.23 At the same time, they also resort to many other strategies to heighten their legitimacy (i.e., acceptability) in order to win the approval of the authorities, or at least their acquiescence.24 For example, in their self-representation to the authorities,

22 In fact, given the Communist Party-state’s atheist ideology, all religions, including the five recognized religions, are really tolerable superstitions. The criteria for what counts as religion are based on a modernist epistemology that originated in the Western experience and are quite arbitrary and ill-fitting to Chinese religious practices on the ground, which are products of an entirely different historical trajectory (see Asad 1983). The current religious policy presents the curious situation where ‘feeding hungry ghosts’ (a standard Buddhist ritual) is considered proper religious activity as long as it is conducted within the confines of Buddhist temples while beseeching a fertility goddess for a son is considered superstition; yet both activities operate upon comparable ‘un-modern’ and ‘unscientific’ assumptions. 23 For a few years now in some parts of China temples can even apply to be recognized and protected as “popular religion” (minjian xinyang 民間信仰), which is evidence that the Chinese government is willing to expand the religion sphere to accommodate previously excluded ‘religious activities’. 24 Many temple-association officers are aware of their temples’ vulnerability as unregistered temples. They are also aware that some temples in other provinces had been torn down, as these incidents were sporadically reported in the newspapers and on television and the radio. The sporadic official anti-superstition actions are what Ann Anagnost calls the state’s ‘fetishized demonstrations of political efficacy’ (1994, 244).

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local temples downplay practices that are clearly objectionable (e.g., animal sacrifice, divination, magical curing, spirit possession) and highlight socially beneficial activities funded by temple income (e.g., the building of roads and schools, charitable work, providing periodic entertainment to the masses). From the perspective of local state agencies (i.e., the authorities) that come into interaction with local temples, the revival of popular religion presents many benefits such as increased revenue for the agencies’ coffers (e.g., through charging taxes and fees on businesses at temple festivals) and the voluntary improvement of local infrastructure with temple funds. In other words, the local state justifies its acceptance of popular religious activities by their functional utility understood in secular terms. The local state therefore permits or even actively encourages local temple activities as long as doing so does not appear to higher authorities to be encouraging superstition (hence all the more incentive for the local state to “upgrade” local temples from the category of superstition to the category of religion). Freedom of religious worship is protected by the constitution of the People’s Republic of China, but “superstition” (mixin 迷信) is not. It is up to the state to categorize one activity as “proper religion” (zhengdang zongjiao huodong 正當宗教活動) and another as “feudal superstition” (fengjian mixin 封建 迷信). Much of Chinese popular religion hovers in the huge gray area between legitimate religion and illegitimate (thus illegal) superstition (what Fenggang Yang has characterized as “gray market”: Yang 2006). After the founding of the People’s Republic of China in 1949, the local Civil Affairs Bureaus (minzhengju 民政局) at the prefectural and county levels were responsible for overseeing religious affairs. During the reform era, a separate Religious Affairs Bureau has been established in reaction to the growing prominence of religion in society. In theory, it is the officials of the local Religious Affairs Bureau who make the distinctions between legitimate religion and illegitimate superstition, following directives and religious policies set by their superiors (in the Religious Affairs Bureau offices at the provincial and national levels) and by the central government. The same bureau is responsible for supporting “proper religion” by registering and supervising religious institutions and personnel, leaving it to the local police to crack down (daji) on superstition. However, in specific instances on the local level, the decisions distinguishing proper religion from superstition are not easily made, nor do such distinctions easily translate into government action. There has been very little effort targeting superstitious activities in local societies since the 1980s – a laxity that partly accounts for the vibrant popular religious life in rural China – even though much of Chinese popular religious life (divination, mediumism, rain prayers, symbolism of hell and divine retribution, etc.) would qualify as superstition according to criteria of the Maoist era.

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The shift away from radical anti-traditionalism to regulatory paternalism is best demonstrated by the registration of temples by the prefectural Religious Affairs Bureau. In theory, only temples that are legitimately Daoist or Buddhist can become institutional members of the official national Daoist Association or Buddhist Association (i.e. being admitted into the legitimate religion sphere). However, in practice it is extremely difficult to ascertain the Daoist or Buddhist qualities of different temples. The overwhelming majority of popular religious temples do not have clergy or an easily identified set of doctrines. And the range of religious activities at any one temple can be quite wide and confusing to anyone who is looking for some pure Daoist or Buddhist characteristics. Even historically Daoist or Buddhist temples have accommodated elements that are “impure.” In a word, most local temples are what scholars of Chinese religions have called folk or popular religious temples, exhibiting a hodgepodge of different practices that have their origins in different traditions. Adding to the problem of apparently indiscriminate Daoist and Buddhist syncretism is the presence at many temples of clearly “superstitious” activities such as spirit mediumism, which is condemned by not only the Religious Affairs Bureau but also the official Daoist and Buddhist associations. Despite these apparent difficulties, the process of temple registration was in full swing in the 1990s all over China, probably to catch up with more than a decade of their mushrooming growth. The Religious Affairs Bureau was also supposed to implement the state’s religious policies (guanche zongjiao zhengce 貫徹宗教政策). The local state and the temples have developed a patron-client relationship: officials support temples that pay them respect and tribute. Typically, a temple association has to treat the official representatives of the local state – from the Religious Affairs Bureau and other related bureaus and offices – as guests of honor at temple festivals, at banquets, and on other occasions. Jean Oi (1999), studying the political economy of reform-era rural China, has highlighted the active role of the local state in enabling local economic growth. She calls this phenomenon local state corporatism. The behavior of the local state toward the temples can be interpreted similarly: temples are like enterprises that generate prosperity for the local economy (especially if they are regional pilgrimage centers) and income for the local state. It is thus in the interest of the local state to protect local temples as they would local enterprises. The local state’s new, regulatory relationship with local society is characterized by practical mutual dependence. Registering temples and thereby making “superstitious” local cult centers into respectable, official Buddhist or Daoist “venues for religious activities” is an act of indulgence, granting these local temples

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protection against any possible future anti-superstition campaign coming from the central government.25 Here is a brief case study. The Black Dragon King Temple in northern Shaanxi Province (known locally as Longwanggou, the Dragon King Valley) is a popular-religious temple dedicated to a local deity, the Black Dragon King (Heilongdawang).26 Through the arduous efforts of the temple officers, led by their charismatic leader Temple Boss Lao Wang (‘Old Wang’), the temple managed to gain various official statuses and recognitions and thus consolidated its legitimacy. These efforts culminated in its being granted the status of a Daoist temple and thus official entrance into the religion sphere. In fact, as the temple’s activities expanded into different officially-recognized domains, it in effect accrued legitimacy through entering these officially-sanctioned “spheres” one by one (cultural relic protection, forestry and environmental protection, education, charity, religion). To turn messy reality (i.e., popular religious practices on the ground) into a few simpler categories (i.e., Daoism or Buddhism) is a process James Scott has called “seeing like a state” (Scott 1998). The “Dao-ification” of the Heilongdawang Temple and other similar popular religious temples in a way made these temples “legible” to the state even if it involved a willful misreading. Even though the Black Dragon King Temple had been successfully registered as an officially-recognized Daoist venue of religious activities, it was to remain marginal to the official Daoist establishment in the local “Daoism sphere” (daojiaojie) and the broader “religion sphere” (zongjiaojie) for as long as it resisted any attempt by the local and regional Daoist associations to incorporate it further into the Daoism sphere (e.g. by taking over the management of the temple). And because of a lack of proper religious training in the temple personnel, it would be difficult to imagine that the temple can participate in any significant way in the broader religion sphere in the region (except perhaps during times of disaster relief and other state-prompted charity activities). In other words, the case of the Dao-ification of the Black Dragon King Temple shows us that the great majority of grassroots temples (despite their local eminence), even after they have joined the officially-recognized religions, will

25 While the imperial government attempted religious control by frequently granting majestic-sounding titles to individual deities (e.g., Mazu, Guandi; see Watson 1985), the same strategy is not available to the secular state today. But in registering the temples in order to regulate them if necessary, the modern state is employing a control strategy long used by the late imperial state. 26 For detailed studies on various aspects of this temple’s revival and operations see Chau 2005; 2006; 2009; 2012; 2017; 2018.

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never count much in the constitution of the religion sphere (and perhaps they don’t care to either?).

7 The Emergence of a “Popular Religion Sphere”? I mentioned above that within the broader religion sphere there are five subspheres that correspond to the five officially recognized religions (i.e. Buddhism, Daoism, Catholicism, Protestantism and Islam). The successful entry of many popular-religious temples into the Daoism or Buddhism (sub-) sphere during the past thirty years – though not without expending strenuous efforts – suggests the attractiveness for popular-religious temples to enter an officially approved sphere. However, in recent years the Chinese government is giving more and more space to popular religion, so much so that in some provinces (mostly in the southeastern coastal regions) there is a new bureau within the local religious affairs bureau that is in charge of registering and supervising popular religious temples, as popular religious temples rather than as Daoist or Buddhist temples. This is a new development that might be introduced to other parts of China in the future. Even more astonishing is the very recent emergence of the term “popular religion sphere” (minjianxinyangjie 民間信仰界) in official media, which suggests that popular religion might be in a position to openly develop its own sociopolitical persona with relative autonomy from the different sub-spheres of the religion sphere (primarily the Daoism and Buddhism spheres). The news excerpt below reports on a recent “make friends and learn from one another” conference in the city of Xiamen in Fujian Province attended by representatives of popular religious temples from mainland China and Taiwan.27 Over fifty mainland Chinese temples and over one hundred Taiwanese temples were represented. These representatives are referred to as from the “popular religion sphere.” Here is an excerpt of the news report in English translation: The “Come together and celebrate dharma connections conference for folk temples and shrines of both sides of the Taiwan Strait” took place in Xiamen in the afternoon of the 17th (of June). 158 temples and shrines from mainland China and Taiwan got together to “trace and celebrate their dharmic connections, discuss harmonious society and to promote development.” Ever since mainland China and Taiwan began interactions relating to folk beliefs

27 Liang’an bai yu jia gongmiao ‘Baxian guohai’ gong xufa yuan 两岸百余家宫廟“八仙過海”共 叙法缘: http://www.chinataiwan.org/hxlt/zhuti/ztltfour/gongmiao/bobao/201206/t20120617_ 2746823.htm (accessed on March 8, 2018).

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(popular religion), this was the first time representatives of temples and shrines of different folk beliefs from the “two shores” got together in one place for discussions. Those participating included more than one hundred temples and shrines from Taiwan and more than fifty temples and shrines from mainland China, including folk religious beliefs involving Mazu (the Goddess of the Sea), Guandi (the Emperor Guan), Baoshengdadi, Qingshuizushi, Kaizhangshengwang, Guangdewang, Chen Jing’gu, the city god temple, etc. As soon as they entered the conference venue, old and new friends of the two shores’ “popular religion sphere” (minjianxinyangjie) greeted one another and sent one another regards. All over the conference venue, there were slogans such as “one hundred temples gather together thanks to karmic/dharmic connections; the two shores are connected thanks to the deities,” “the Eight Immortals crossing the sea; they bless the two shores with good fortune”; etc, all testifying to the beautiful wishes of the representatives of the two shores’ temples and shrines......... While Mr. Ye Kedong, representing the Chinese Taiwan Bureau (guotaiban 國台辦), thanked the “religion-sphere friends” (zongjiaojie pengyou 宗教界朋友) from Taiwan for having contributed to the development of peace between the two shores, he hoped that the representatives of the two shores’ folk religious temples and shrines can discuss and share amongst themselves, interact closely, with long-term view in mind, benefit from one another’s wisdom, open and expand channels, widen the scope of exchange, strengthen their cooperation, explore deeper the precious resources in the two shores’ folk religious beliefs and cultures, promote together the inheritance and transmission of the brilliant culture of the Chinese nation, and maintain actively the peaceful development of the relationships between the two shores.

It is not surprising that this neologism should be invented in the context of PRC-Taiwan exchanges since the Chinese government has been actively using popular religious ties between the mainland and Taiwan as part of their effort to draw the Taiwanese people closer to the mainland (where most of Taiwan’s popular religious deities originated) and to enhance their sense of Chinese national and cultural identity (i.e. part of the United Front strategies aiming at the eventual reunification of mainland China with Taiwan). The invention of this term opens the door to millions of local activists like temple boss Lao Wang at the Black Dragon King Temple to construct, fill up and expand this new field of sociopolitical action without needing to resort to be affiliated with the Daoism sphere or Buddhism sphere. It will be extremely interesting and instructive to watch how this new sphere gains further legitimacy and in time becomes more full-bodied.28 The truth is that the vast

28 Judging from the paucity of usage I can locate on the internet it seems that this term has not taken off yet. A second example of text using the term “popular-religion sphere” is from a news report on a government-organized conference on popular religion that took place in Yongjia County, Zhejiang Province: Yongjiaxian zhaokai shoujie minjian xinyang wenhua yantaohui 永嘉县召开首届民间信仰文化研讨会: http://www.yjtz.cn/m/adetail_102825.htm?aid= 327603 (accessed on March 8, 2018).

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majority of temples in China are so-called popular religious temples, and they have been growing at a much faster rate than the officially recognized religion since, though illegal in status, they have not been subjected to the same degree of state control and regulation as the registered temples. So the irony is that what is in theory illegal has been the most vibrant and expansive while many of the officially-supported temples stay stagnant or at best expand at a far more modest rate (see also Yang 2006).

Conclusions: The Religion Sphere and the Public Sphere in China A few important conclusions and implications can be drawn from our analysis of the emergence of the religion sphere in modern China. The religion sphere emerged in a political context in which the modern Chinese state saw itself as being constituted by, and therefore having to negotiate with, various social constituencies (therefore these constituencies co-emerged with the various “spheres” that were supposed to circumscribe the limits and represent the interest of these constituencies). The religion sphere is not an official state category (nor is the so-called “minority-nationalities sphere”). The fact that these spheres are not official state categories might be testimony of the modern Chinese state’s unwillingness to recognize various socio-political groupings as real politically relevant constituencies (or interest groups). The religion sphere is a fuzzy sociopolitical realm that is constituted partially by state policies and attitudes towards religion (and superstition) but is not exhausted by the state control apparatus of the various state-sanctioned religious associations (e.g. the Buddhist Association, the Three-Self Patriotic Church, etc.). The constitution of the religion sphere favors actors that are organizationally savvy and organizational forms that are “legible” to the state. As a result a vast number of actors that are otherwise engaged in religious and ritual activities (e.g. the vast number of householder ritual service providers and most popular-religious temples) do not participate in the operations of the religion sphere (but they may participate by being “mobilized” in the boundary-maintenance activities of the religion sphere, i.e. by being excluded from the sphere). The religion sphere is in crucial ways constituted by discursive activities, and therefore to discursively construct the religion sphere is a performance that state agencies as well as major stakeholders in the religion sphere participate actively. In what terms should such a sphere be constituted discursively is a political game state agencies, activists in the religion sphere and others struggle over and

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negotiate with one another over time. But the workings within and without the religion sphere are not separated from society at large; the religion sphere cannot, and can never be, an autonomous social realm because it is so intertwined with other spheres and societal forces. The religion sphere interacts with other spheres that may or may not have direct relationship with religion (e.g. qigong, charity, the environment, tourism, education, heritage protection, etc.); sometimes the religion sphere competes for resources and legitimacy with other spheres while some other times it forms collaborative relationships with them. It would be interesting to ask whether or not there is something similar to the religion sphere in other countries. Obviously, there would not be any religion sphere in countries with a state religion or its equivalent (e.g. Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, Malaysia, Thailand). In Japan, where there are well-established religious organizations (e.g. the various Buddhist sects and new religions) that exert strong influence on society and are not under stringent state control, neither the state nor the religious organizations have the incentive to construct anything like a religion sphere. In the US also, well-established religious organizations are not under any stringent state control (at the state or federal level) and are not answerable to any state or even societal demands. In such a situation, there is little incentive for any individual or institutional actors to construct a religion sphere. In the post-9.11 era, the religious world in the US is divided between Islam on the one hand and Christianity on the other, which also makes it unlikely to have a religion sphere as a discursive construct. Is the religion sphere part of China’s public sphere or civil society? This is a difficult question. On the surface, the religion sphere is too ephemeral to even be considered a real thing. But it is also really obvious that there are many stakeholders who have a vested interest in its construction. Perhaps the investigation of how the religion sphere as well as all the other spheres work will again highlight the mutual entanglement of state and society in China. On the one hand, the religion sphere seems to be at the state’s beck and call, e.g. when people in the religion sphere responded – or were made to respond – enthusiastically to the state’s call for societal help in the wake of the 2008 Wenchuan earthquake (especially in monetary assistance and blood donation). On the other hand, the very visible and enthusiastic response from certain quarters within the religion sphere were evidence of strategic maneuvers and positiontaking. The core nature of the religion sphere can swing to more sterile or more lively directions depending on the broader socio-political environment. Will something sinister or interesting “precipitate” (see Weller 1994) out of the religion sphere during certain times of crises? When stage agencies have overwhelming control over the religion sphere (including manipulating religious personnel and institutions), it becomes a sterile sphere entirely at the mercy of

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the state. When non-state societal forces participate actively in the construction of the religion sphere, it might change in nature and become something like a “religion commons.” The story continues.

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Annabella Pitkin

Sustaining the Sacred Mountains: Tibetan Environmentalism and Sacred Landscape in a Time of Conflict Introduction Early in the morning on a major Tibetan Buddhist holiday in summer 2006, white smoke of burning juniper incense (sang [bsang] in Tibetan)1 rises above buildings toward the clear sky in the Tibetan city of Lhasa, in what is now the Tibetan Autonomous Region of the People’s Republic of China (PRC). Men and women in street clothes, teenagers with stylish sneakers, parents and sleepy toddlers, monks and nuns in maroon robes, all walk briskly past white stucco incense burners and add their own incense from plastic bags with their hands or a spoon. People briefly recite offering verses, then continue at a steady pace around the circumambulation route. Many walkers circle the Jokhang, the main temple of Lhasa (indeed, the main temple of the Tibetan Buddhist world). Others walk along one of the longer circumambulation routes that surround the old Tibetan city and its famous pilgrimage sites, now tucked within the everexpanding Chinese metropolis of cement and glass that is present-day Lhasa. More arduous routes loop up outside the city into the surrounding mountains, circling monasteries, historic meditation retreats, and special features in the landscape such as sacred springs of water. Within the city, the circumambulation route is an aroma-scape of food smells, car exhaust, juniper and other incense, and a soundscape of traffic noise and people’s voices. The people walking kora (skor ba), to use the Tibetan term for circumambulating, recite mantras, Sanskrit syllables associated with the enlightened qualities of particular Buddhas; they also chat with friends, pause for spicy potatoes and tea, sing snatches of religious songs, pop music, or Tibetan opera. What were these people doing on this early morning, walking in this particular way through the cityscapes and landscapes in which they live? One familiar

1 Throughout this chapter I give transliterations for Tibetan words using the Wylie system at first mention, as well as Sanskrit (Skt.) or Chinese (Ch.) where relevant. I also give the phonetic transcriptions of Tibetan words according to the THL system, and use the phonetic version throughout the text for ease of reading. (See http://www.thlib.org/reference/transliteration/#! essay=/thl/phonetics/). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110547825-010

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vocabulary used by both Tibetan Buddhists and scholars of religion to describe why people walk kora is the Buddhist terminology of karma (las in Tibetan). The Sanskrit term karma literally means action. Within a Buddhist conceptual framework, all actions of body, speech or mind have consequences of some kind. Buddhists explain that people should cultivate positive actions and their consequences. i.e., good karma, or as Tibetan speakers are more likely to say, say, merit or virtue (bsod nams or dge ba). Negative actions and their consequences should be avoided and purified. Most people doing kora in Lhasa talk about their activity in exactly these terms. People talk about accumulating merit and purifying negativities. Many people also note how enjoyable walking kora is, how social, how good for your health, how relaxing and energizing. From another perspective, Tibetan practices of kora form part of a larger family of practices, including pilgrimage, that both respond to and create sacred landscapes. The importance of sacred landscape in Tibetan religions is well-known. Tibetan and non-Tibetan scholars and religious intellectuals have written extensively about Tibetan theories and practices related to sacred places and sacred landscape, as well as the role of these ideas in contemporary Tibetan environmental movements, economic practices, architecture, art, and aesthetics, among many other realms of activity.2 Tibetan engagements with sacred landscape long predate Buddhism’s arrival on the Tibetan Plateau. Although deeply shaped by Buddhism for well over a thousand years, Tibetan approaches to sacred landscape also draw upon ancient pre-Buddhist sources. Tibetan sacred landscapes generally center on naturally occurring physical features, such as mountains or lakes, but may also involve human-made elements like buildings and urban landscapes. Arrangements of temples and shrines, places where holy people have lived or where sacred images and relics are kept, and where rituals are done – all these may form part of a sacred landscape. Many important Tibetan pilgrimage sites in fact combine both man-made and natural features. Remote sacred mountain and lake sites contain shrine buildings, and are home to religious practitioners whose presence enhances the power of the place for pilgrims. Conversely, even temples in the midst of urban areas are often sited on geomantically important points, related to underlying features in the land, and connected to important narratives linking place, religion, and Tibetan history. A paradigmatic example of this is the Lhasa Jokhang temple itself, which unites geomantic views of place, Tibetan imperial (and more recent) history, and Tibetan accounts of the importance of Buddhism in a single multi-layered location.

2 See bibliography for examples and further reading.

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In the contemporary period, after the forcible incorporation of Tibet into the People’s Republic of China in the early 1950s, practices of kora, related practices of pilgrimage, and other public ritual activities involving sacred landscape have taken on new kinds of meanings and implications.3 From the late 1950s until the early 1980s, expressions of Tibetan religion were proscribed, monasteries and other institutions were destroyed, and monastics and ritual specialists were jailed or compelled to return to lay life. Since the partial relaxation of these proscriptions in the 1980s, Tibetan areas within the PRC have seen a revival of religious practice across multiple Tibetan traditions, including the rebuilding of Buddhist and Bön monasteries and the active resumption of ritual practices directed at territorial deities connected with sacred landscape (Goldstein and Kapstein 1998; Makley 2014). Within the PRC today, Tibetan practices of engaging sacred space and Tibetan acts of environmental protection can operate as manifestations of Tibetan cultural visibility and religious survival. Both in politically contested and culturally fragmented cities like Lhasa, and in semi-urban and rural Tibetan areas, Tibetan techniques of engaging and remembering sacred landscape work to re-inscribe Tibetan religious, cultural, and even economic presence, in spaces where this presence may be threatened with erasure, sanctioned as politically dangerous, or both. This chapter offers an overview of key concepts, methodological approaches and critical problems in the study of Tibetan concepts of sacred space, environmentalism, and sacred landscape, within the context of Tibetan religions, primarily Buddhism and Bön. Examining connections between longstanding Tibetan concepts of sacred space, Tibetan narratives of religious history, and present-day Tibetan environmentalism within the modern PRC, this chapter touches on a range of Tibetan practices of engagement with sacred space, both individual and communal.4

3 On the twentieth century history of Tibet, see Shakya 1999. 4 Throughout this chapter, I use the term “sacred landscape” in a general sense, to refer to Tibetan ritual and conceptual repertoires that assume relationships of reciprocity and interaction between humans and powerful non-human forces within the surrounding natural environment. I also use the term “sacred landscape” to describe individual places where the mountains, waters, or other natural features are Buddhist or Bön sacred sites, or where these natural features are the abode of territorial deities, or both. By contrast, I use the term “sacred space” in a broader way, to refer to intersections between ritual and religious life and spatiality. Spatial dimensions of Tibetan religious life emerge not only in “natural” landscape settings such as sacred mountains and lakes, but also in the context of sacred spaces intentionally created by humans through ritual, meditational or architectural means.

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1 Vocabularies and Practices of Sacred Landscape Tibetan religions, including the two best known religions of the Tibetan world, Buddhism and Bön, are deeply engaged with sacred space, place, and landscape.5 Practices of pilgrimage, rituals honoring deities of mountains and waters, and an awareness of the inseparability of human and environmental health are central features of the religious lives of Tibetans across the Himalayan region. Longstanding Tibetan concerns for sacred places and sacred space shape the intellectual and poetic landscapes of Tibetan literature, and guide traditional Tibetan rules for the human use of the natural environment. At the same time, new pressures and challenges have emerged since the incorporation of Tibet into

I use the term “holy place” to describe an individual sacred site within the broader context of sacred landscape. Thus for example, the entire landscape surrounding Mount Kailash, called Gang Rinpoche in Tibetan, (gangs rin po che, the most famous sacred mountain on the Tibetan Plateau, venerated by both Buddhists and Bönpos, and also by Hindus and Jains) is understood by pilgrims as a sacred landscape. The Mount Kailash area is also filled with individual holy places, such as the snow mountain itself, the nearby Lake Manasarovar (also called Mapam Yumtso in Tibetan; ma pham gyu mtsho), and the multiple locations where great practitioners of the past are remembered to have meditated. I use “holy” rather than “sacred” here to describe such individual sites, in order to evoke the sense of separateness from the ordinary that the term “holy” connotes, within a larger expanse of sacrality. 5 In addition to the religions of Buddhism and Bön, Tibet is also home to a significant Muslim minority with important historical, social, and cultural links to Nepal and Kashmir (Akasoy and Yoeli-Tlalim 2011; Cabezon 1997). Bön as a present-day religion in Tibet developed in a dynamic, often competitive relationship with Buddhism. The meditation techniques, monastic discipline, rituals, and ethical systems of the two traditions overlap to such an extent that some scholars have suggested present-day Bön is effectively an unusual branch of Tibetan Buddhism (Martin 2001). Nevertheless, for many present-day Bönpos and Tibetan Buddhists alike, the differences between the two traditions are significant and substantial. Kvaerne (1996), Martin (2001), Karmay (1998) among others point to important differences in history, conceptions of religious authority and corpus of sacred texts that bear out Bön claims to predate Buddhism in Tibet. Tibetan and non-Tibetan scholars often use the term Bön to describe the religion of the Tibetan imperial court that was displaced by the seventh century arrival of Buddhism, although debate remains about the exact meaning of the term in this context. Although Bön practitioners, earlier historians, and anti-Bön Buddhist polemicists have also referred to the whole ancient indigenous religion of Tibet as Bön, Stein argues that this is a mistake (Stein 1972). Stein influentially observes that the most ancient forms of Tibetan religious practice actually long predate both Bön and Buddhism in their modern forms. He labels this ancient stratum of Tibetan religious practice the “nameless religion,” a term conveying the pervasiveness of this ancient web of practices and beliefs. Tibetan deities of the landscape seem to form part of this “nameless religion.”

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the PRC in the 1950s. While the post-Mao reforms of the 1980s saw a partial relaxation of restrictions limiting religious practice in Tibet, more recently in the aftermath of widespread Tibetan protests against Chinese rule in 2008 and of democracy movements in the Middle East in 2011, there has been renewed state scrutiny and limitation of Tibetan religious and cultural expression. Chinese state policies since the 2000s, in particular market-oriented reforms, state campaigns of development and resource extraction in Tibetan areas, and policies regarding expressions of Tibetan culture and religion all shape contemporary Tibetan engagements with the natural world in significant ways. Both historical and contemporary Tibetan modes of engaging with sacred space resonate with culturally significant Tibetan histories of the dissemination of Buddhism in Tibet, and the glories of Tibet’s pre-Buddhist and imperial past. Influential Tibetan Buddhist narratives that remain relevant today describe Buddhist heroes “taming” the Tibetan landscape and its powerful indigenous deities, so that Buddhism could take root on the Plateau. These narratives highlight the centrality of sacred landscape in Tibetan religions since pre-Buddhist times, and also hint at the antiquity of indigenous deities. Such accounts of Buddhist heroes converting territorial deities to Buddhism also work to powerfully embed Buddhism in the Tibetan landscape, and to connect Buddhist sacred sites to pre-Buddhist ones.6 Even the larger landscape of the Tibetan Plateau itself is described as inhabited, depicted in narratives and paintings as containing the body of a supine demoness. This demoness is said to have originally resisted the arrival of Buddhism, but was subdued by the seventh century emperor Songtsen Gampo (srong btsan sgam po, c.617–650) and his Tang Chinese bride, who built a series of geomantically strategic Buddhist temples which bound the demoness in place. This image of a living, powerful demoness within the very earth of Tibet has important implications, both for Buddhist narratives of the eventual triumph of Buddhism in Tibet, and for exploring the complex ways in which gender functions within Tibetan religious settings and sacred landscapes (Gyatso 1987; Huber 1994). Notably, as Gyatso (1987) has suggested, in such stories preBuddhist territorial deities are not destroyed or removed through the process of taming. Rather, they remain present within the landscape, where in many cases they remain the active focus of ritual, pilgrimage, and human concern. Tibetan narratives and rituals of “taming” thus negotiate the continuing importance of both indigenous territorial deities and of Buddhism and Bön in the Tibetan world, together with the culturally significant memory of the Tibetan

6 See Martin 2001 and Ramble 1999 on parallel Bön conversion narratives.

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emperors.7 Among the heroic Buddhist protagonists who acted to tame the Tibetan landscape were figures closely connected to the emperors, in particular to the two Tibetan emperors most credited with the spread of Buddhism in Tibet during the period from the seventh to ninth centuries. An important genre of Tibetan literature called Treasure (gter ma), which derives from Bön or Buddhist practices of ongoing visionary revelation, explicitly connects the Tibetan empire, the spread of Buddhism, and the conversion of indigenous deities to specific locations in the Tibetan landscape (or conversely, in the case of Bön texts, to the survival of Bön in the face of Buddhist hegemony). Dreyfus has argued in an influential article (Dreyfus 1994) that these Treasure literatures, and the narratives and histories on which they draw and which they constitute, in fact give shape to what he terms “Tibetan proto-nationalism” (Dreyfus 1994; Gentry 2016). As I discuss further below, these Tibetan Treasure literatures and their associated ritual practices bind together Tibetan concerns with sacred landscape and environmental health, contemporary Tibetan forms of national and cultural identity, and Tibetan Buddhist and Bön religious commitments (Shakya 1993; Germano 1998; Martin 2001; Terrone 2014, 2017). In order to engage this complex terrain of spatial geographies, national and religious histories, and meditative and ritual practices and perspectives, it is helpful first to map out a handful of major terms and concepts connected with sacred space in Tibet and Tibetan religions. One place to start is with the Tibetan expression the “container and its contents” (Tib. snod and bcud. Kapstein 2006, 1–10; Yeh 2014a, 211–212).8 The “container” or “vessel” here refers to the natural environment of land, water systems, trees, hills, valleys, and so on, in which humans and animals live. The “contents” are the living things which inhabit the “container” of a particular physical place. The phrase “the container and its contents” thus suggests a close, mutual, reciprocal relationship between an environment and its inhabitants, where each affects the other. Tibetans have conceptualized this relationship between “container” and “contents” in several interrelated ways. Long before the seventh-century arrival of Buddhism in Tibet, Tibetans seem to have approached mountains, lakes, streams, and other landscape features as the home of territorial deities (deities referred to by terms including sa bdag, gzhi bdag and yul lha), and as the “container” for human and animal life. As noted above, sources on pre-Buddhist forms of Tibetan religion are limited and often difficult to interpret, but early 7 On the history of the Tibetan empire see for instance Beckwith 1987; Kapstein 2006; van Schaik 2011; Schaeffer et al. 2013. 8 Yeh 2014a includes an important discussion of Tibetan debates over how to use and understand the snod and bcud vocabulary in present-day environmental work.

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Tibetan materials do make reference to local deities of mountains, lakes, and the like, in ways that reveal the antiquity of territorial deities and deities of the landscape more generally (Stein 1972; Bellezza 2005). The importance and power of territorial deities and other related kinds of supernatural inhabitants of land and water permeate Tibetan literatures, from epic poetry to wedding toasts, proverbs, folktales, religious biographies, and modern literature and film (Nebesky-Wojkowitz 1956; Blondeau 1998; Karmay 1998; Bellezza 2005; Diemberger 2005; Tshe dbang rdo rje et al. 2010; Makley 2014; Smyer Yü 2014b; see also Bell 2007 for a taxonomy and bibliography).9 In some cases, such deities are also recognized as ancestral figures of important human clans (Kornman 1997). Such deities may be propitiated with offerings and other rituals to draw out their goodwill toward humans, and to gain their protection (or prevent their anger) when humans do potentially intrusive things like building houses, hunting, mining, or plowing the earth to farm. In both Bön and Buddhist presentations, deities of the land require active consideration. They may be benevolent toward humans when those humans behave correctly, keeping things clean, obeying hunting rules and good farming practices, mitigating conflicts, and in a modern idiom, respecting ecosystems. Yet these landscape deities also have a ferocious, wrathful aspect, connected to earthquakes, other natural disasters, and epidemics. This ferocious aspect remains present even where the landscape deities have been “converted” to Buddhism, or bound as protectors by Bön or Buddhist adepts. Humans and animals are thus understood to live in a precarious and interactive dependence on the health and friendliness of the natural “container” and its non-human “owners,” “rulers,” and spirit inhabitants. Present-day Tibetan environmental movements often center in part on these traditional views of a living, powerful landscape with which people and animals must always be in relation, in addition to drawing on more explicitly Buddhist ideas of environmental ethics, non-harming (Tib. rnam par mi ‘tshe ba, Skt. ahiṃsā, avihiṃsā), and compassion (Yeh 2014a; Yeh and Lama 2010). Tibetan and Himalayan communities both within the PRC and across the region engage with territorial deities and related categories of protector and guardian deities through a range of culturally significant practices. These include forms of spirit mediumship, sometimes translated as “deity possession,” in which a man or woman acts as the “support” (rten) for a deity, hosting the

9 Excellent recent documentaries related to this topic (and to the broader themes of Tibetan environmentalism and sacred landscape) include: Shielding the Mountains, dir. Emily Yeh and Kunga Lama (2010); A Gesar Bard’s Tale. Dir. Donagh Coleman and Lharigtso (2013).

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deity in their body, and acting as the medium for communications and ritual interactions between the deity and the human community. The work of Tibetan oracles, weather workers, healing specialists, and inspired reciters of the famous Tibetan Gesar epic all involve some form of mediumship, as do the ritual practices of the major oracles of the Ganden Potrang government such as Nechung (Bellezza 2005; Diemberger 2005; Snying bo rgyal and Rino 2011; Makley 2014).10 Oracles and spirit mediums exist in a complex relationship with institutional and monastic forms of Buddhism or Bön, frequently developing substantial independent religious charisma and authority (often in the person of individuals outside conventional monastic systems of authority, including women and people without formal or monastic education). On the other hand, new mediums generally need to be authorized by a lama (bla ma, Buddhist teacher) in order to be accepted by their communities. This need for authorization in some ways formally subordinates both medium and the deity they host to institutional, primarily Buddhist, forms of hierarchy (Diemberger 2005; Makley 2014). Since the partial liberalization of Chinese state policies on religious practice in the 1980s, practices of spirit mediumship, like monastic Buddhism and Bön, have been revived across the Tibetan region. In fact, because of the close association between Buddhism and Tibetan identity, in the context of state policies on ethnicity, at times spirit mediumship and propitiation of territorial deities have been less restricted than organized and visible Buddhist practice (Makley 2014). Yet spirit mediums exist in an ambiguous relationship to Chinese state directives that restrict or outlaw practices categorized as “superstitious” (Ch. mixin) or as “perverse cults” (Ch. xiejiao 邪教) (Epstein and Wenbin 1998; Makley 2014). Spirit medium practices have sometimes been restricted on that basis, complicating their revival. Practices of spirit mediumship nevertheless remain an active and essential part of Tibetan religious and cultural life on the Plateau today, and form an important dimension of Tibetan and Himalayan engagements with sacred landscape. A second fundamental Tibetan concept for thinking about sacred space and place is the category of né (gnas). Huber argues in his seminal article

10 The Gesar epic, a crucial cultural touchstone across the Tibetan region, is often described as the longest epic poem in the world, in part because it is continually being added to by inspired Gesar reciters (Henrion-Dourcy 2005; Coleman and Lharigtso 2013). The Ganden Potrang government is the pre-1959 government of the Dalai Lamas, now reconstituted in exile and based in Dharamsala, India. The Nechung oracle is described as having gone into exile with the Fourteenth Dalai Lama, in the sense that both the human host and the deity himself departed from Tibet (Tibetan Bulletin July-August 1992).

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“Putting the Gnas back into Gnas-skor” that né is in fact the most important concept in thinking about Tibetan views of sacred space, landscape and environmentalism (Huber 1999). In brief, a né is a holy place, either a Buddhist or Bön sacred site, or the “abode” (the literal meaning of gnas) of a territorial deity. Other common English translations include “power place,” and “sacred geography.” Né are “extraordinary” because of being “‘consecrated’ or ‘empowered,’” generally by the holy activities of a Buddhist or Bon practitioner or hero figure at the site. Né are also special because “they involve specific relationships between them and persons (and also between persons) by way of practices such as pilgrimage” (Huber 1999, 77). Tibetan speakers talk about né in the honorific language used for respected human and divine beings. A frequent term for pilgrimage is né kor (gnas skor), literally meaning to circumambulate a né. A né is exalted not only in the sense of honored, but also potentially in the sense of being located at a height above the speaker.11 Perhaps most importantly, né are understood as repositories of jinlab (Tib. byin brlabs, Skt. adhiṣṭhāna), a term which in the Tibetan context can be translated as “empowerment,” in the sense of “flooded with power” (Huber 1999, 91) or even more literally as “waves of blessing.” (Martin 1994 discusses the term’s etymology in Tibet). Jinlab offers a third key term for talking about Tibetan ideas of sacred landscape, and indeed for thinking about Tibetan religion in general. Jinlab is a polysemic term, the meanings of which are glossed in different ways in different Himalayan communities and by different kinds of religious specialists and intellectuals. It is used in contexts ranging from tantric empowerments to longevity rituals, medicine, and pilgrimage (Martin 1994; Huber 1999; Gerke 2014). In the context of sacred space, jinlab can mean the power or blessing of a deity or that which is generated by a charismatic holy person through their religious activities, or by ritual, which can accumulate in and permeate a sacred place. People who “meet” a holy person or place, or who receive a ritual consecration can make direct contact with this blessing force. This contact with jinlab or blessing is often ideally a physical contact, for example as a result of being touched by a holy person, or by touching a place where a holy person has walked, sat, and so on, or by touching or swallowing sand, water or other materials from a sacred place.

11 See Huber 1999 and Ramble 1999 for discussion of the role of elevation in Tibetan theories of sacred space; see Smyer Yü 2014a and 2014b for a counter argument. Smyer Yü suggests that horizontal relationships and the power of earth deities (sa bdag) in Tibetan environmentalism and eco-ritual have been overlooked.

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Practices of blessing and purification centered on jinlab coexist in a range of ways with Buddhist karmic notions of moral or spiritual purification and merit-making (Huber 1999). When Tibetans go on pilgrimage or walk kora, they describe creating merit in the Buddhist karmic sense, but they also physically visit and touch holy places or people, and may receive blessed substances or materials (blessed in the sense of being imbued with jinlab) to ingest or wear. Such opportunities to receive or be saturated by jinlab are central to the benefits of pilgrimage and related practices. Huber makes the important point that although both Tibetan exegetes and international scholars alike often gloss Tibetan concepts of sacred place and Tibetan religious practices such as pilgrimage and circumambulation via the Indic Buddhist terminology of karma, merit, and good rebirth or enlightenment, Tibetan ideas and practices cannot be fully appreciated in those terms. It is necessary to understand the distinctively Tibetan concepts of né and jinlab in addition to karma in order to fully do justice to the embodied and localized spatial and environmental dimensions of Tibetan practices ranging from pilgrimage to medical techniques, divination, and various forms of care for the natural world. Diemberger, building on Karmay (1996), Huber (1999) and MacDonald (1997), offers a valuable synthesis of some of the foregoing ideas about Tibetan sacred landscape. She notes that in Tibetan religious contexts there are, broadly speaking, “two distinctive modes of understanding the sacredness of the landscape” (Diemberger 2007). “When the landscape is perceived in terms of pre-Buddhist or Buddhified territorial deities, the entities that inhabit it are seen as endowed with their own subjectivity and agency. When the landscape is perceived as a place for pilgrimage, for the accumulation of merit according to a Mahayanistic approach, it tends to be seen as the site, the ne (gnas) in which Buddhist personalities dwelled and a stage for the soteriological itinerary of the practitioner” (271). These two views of the sacred landscape – as the home of mountain deities, for instance, versus as a site of Buddhist pilgrimage because of past Buddhists whose activities there made it sacred – often “coexist in the day to day practice of the lay and the monastic communities” (271). There is one further perspective on sacred landscape that is essential for understanding Tibetan theories and practices of sacred space. That is the “tantric view of the landscape as a mandala with embodied tantric deities” (Diemberger 271). The tantric imagery of the mandala (Tib. dkyil ‘kor; Skt. maṇḍala), derived from Indic models, visualizes a Buddhist or Bön meditational deity, such as a Buddha or bodhisattva, within a spatialized representation of an enlightened cosmos. Mandalas diagram sacred space in ways that evoke the pattern of a royal court, placing a “ruling” Buddha figure in the center, with concentric rings of attendant bodhisattva and protector deities around this center, on the model

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of a palace or realm. Resonances between mandala architecture and the vocabulary of royal power have appealed to rulers in many historical periods, across South and East Asia, as well as in Tibet. Mandalas are visualized by meditators, represented in two dimensional forms like painting and murals, and embodied in three dimensional forms like sculpture. In the Tibetan setting, landscape features like mountains, boulders, valleys or lakes are mapped as the mandala, or sometimes as the body itself, of particular male and female Buddhist and Bön meditational deities. Pilgrims can encounter these deities and receive their jinlab through visiting the sites, ideally while bearing in mind the “pure” vision of the deity’s form within the land. Diemberger argues that this tantric view of the Buddhist or Bön deity and/or his or her mandala within the landscape “offers a creative synthesis of these approaches [that is, of territorial deities and of ne] and of Buddhist and nonBuddhist elements in general” (271).

2 Environmentalism, Sustainability, and Sacred Landscapes in Tibet As we have seen, longstanding Tibetan perspectives on the environment suggest that humans and animals live in a precarious, reciprocal, and interactive dependence on the health and benevolence of the natural “container” and its non-human “owners,” “rulers,” and spirit inhabitants. Modern Tibetan environmental perspectives develop out of and harness traditional views of living, inhabited sacred landscapes, in addition to drawing on more explicitly transnational Buddhist ideas of environmental ethics, non-harming, and compassion (Yeh and Lama 2010; Yeh 2014a). Practices ranging from pilgrimage and circumambulation of sacred mountains to propitiating mountain deities shape human engagements with sacred landscape, in ways that go beyond state- or market-driven instrumental or extractive modes. This is the case even where, as Makley describes, some rituals that have taken on renewed importance for Tibetan communities today, such as prosperity rituals involving mountain deities, aim at forms of prosperity and success that are themselves also interactive with state and market forces (Makley 2014). Tibetan environmental concerns are thus intimately linked with Tibetan cultural and religious practices and perspectives, and tend to emphasize dynamics of reciprocity and mutuality between regional ecosystems and their human inhabitants. Nyima and Yeh quote Lodroe Phuntsok, a prominent Tibetan medical doctor and multifaceted intellectual in Dzongsar, Sichuan,

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who explains “We say that the outer and the inner worlds are the same. The brain, the heart, the lungs, the organs. If these are injured you will die immediately. Sacred mountains are like that for the earth. If your limbs are injured you won’t die right away, but if you hurt your heart or your brain, it’s over. That’s why sacred mountains are important” (Nyima and Yeh 2016, 168). Smyer Yü notes a similar point made by a village elder and medical practitioner in Amdo (a northeastern Tibetan region administratively located in Qinghai), who, speaking of the earth deity Sadeg Doche (sa bdag ldo che),12 says, The Earth is his body. It has blood, flesh, and bones just like the components of a human body. No one would fail to protect his body. . . So when we fell forests on the surface of the Earth or dig deep into the mountains we anger him. Every one of us is made out of earth, water, fire, and wind – the four elements. When we anger him, he mobilizes these elements as our enemies. This is seen when a fire swallows up an entire forest or a sudden earthquake turns what is on the earth’s surface into a pile of ashes or a vast body of water. . .. (Smyer Yü 2014b, 448)

Rooted in perspectives like these, Tibetan approaches to environmental protection often differ subtly from those of international conservation organizations. Tibetans working on ecological projects have sometimes critiqued the approach of international conservation groups that aim to create protected “nature preserves” for instance, if other areas are then left unprotected (Yeh 2014a). Tibetan approaches to engaging with and protecting the environment often emphasize the embodied dangers of epidemics, earthquakes, avalanches, human skin disease, animal and crop sickness that result from the combination of ritual and ecological pollution, as well as the negative karmic consequences of environmentally destructive activity (Yeh and Lama 2010; Makley 2014; Smyer Yü 2014b; Nyima and Yeh 2016). Yeh describes this dynamic as the “culture-Buddhism-environment” nexus on the part of Tibetan environmental advocates. In this context she emphasizes the importance of not falling into the common Orientalist and colonialist trap of romanticizing Tibetans and Tibetan environmentalists under “the generic form of the ‘ecological native’” (Yeh 2014a). For instance, Yeh points out that the “container/contents” (snod and bcud) vocabulary which Tibetans use to talk about the relationships between humans, animals, and the natural environment should not be euphemistically translated as “ecological balance,” as is sometimes done. Rather, the container/contents vocabulary, and related Tibetan practices of

12 Wylie romanization given by Smyer Yü (Smyer Yü 2014b, 448); a sa bdag is an earth lord, a guardian or ruler of the earth, and the name of a class of deity.

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caring for sacred mountains, deities of the landscape, and the animal, plant, and human life of a given place depend upon complex Tibetan understandings of Buddhist principles of interdependence and compassion for living things, together with even older Tibetan concerns about mutually sustaining relationships with deities of land and water. The Tibetan environmentalists that Yeh has interviewed make a point of insisting both on the distinctively Tibetan and religious dimensions of what they do, and at the same time, of resisting Chinese state and international socialscientific designations of them as “superstitious,” as well as similarly dismissive labeling by Western and international conservation organizations. In fact, for Tibetan environmental advocates Yeh has worked with, and for other Tibetan intellectuals and scholars engaged with the environment, Tibetan cultural survival, religious continuity, and ecological health are inseparably linked (Yeh 2014a and 2014b). It is this inseparability of Tibetan cultural survival, religious continuity, and ecological health that animates Tibetan environmental movements. It is in part also this link between Tibetan environmentalism, religion, and national history that makes Tibetan environmental work potentially politically sensitive in the context of the contemporary PRC. Because of the complex and sensitive position of Tibetan communities within the PRC, and because of substantial state investment in mining, forestry, and industrial development in Tibetan regions, Tibetans interested in environmental protection navigate a delicate and often unpredictable landscape of national and local governmental sensitivities, a situation which has intensified in the post-2008 period. The stakes for doing environmental work can be high: Yeh for instance notes that Tibetan environmentalist and intellectual Rinchen Samdup, who was initially honored in the early 2000s at the national and international level for his ecological protection work in collaboration with national Chinese ecological conservation groups, was arrested and sentenced to a fiveyear prison term in 2011; his brothers, who had joined his environmental protection work, were also arrested and jailed, with one brother, who was himself a well-known environmentalist and who had advocated for Rinchen Samdup’s release, being sentenced to a fifteen year jail term (Yeh 2014a and 2014b). Yet there have also been recent periods of considerable promise for Tibetan projects of cultural and ecological protection. Yeh describes how during the first decade of the 2000s, “Chinese and Tibetan environmentalists came together to mobilize Tibetan culture to save China’s biodiversity, creating a space for Tibetan culture to be expressed and for Han and Tibetan actors to agree on both mutual cultural respect and coordinated activities” (Yeh 2014b, 258). Yeh suggests that relationships and collaborations between Tibetan, Han Chinese, and international conservation groups in this period involved new processes of

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collaboration and environmental subject formation, in ways that incorporated misunderstandings and stereotypes, to be sure (“friction” in the sense that Tsing uses the term, Tsing 2005) but that also contained great potential for new kinds of inter-ethnic cooperation and relationship. In the early 2000s period, local Tibetan community leaders and “organic intellectuals” such as Rinchen Samdup worked to encourage their communities to protect local environments, drawing on traditional practices connected to territorial deities and Buddhist perspectives, as well as local ecological knowledge and concern. These local leaders found points of common interest and cooperation with young Han Chinese environmentalists from eastern urban areas of China, and often worked together with them to significant effect. In Yeh’s analysis, the Tibetan environmentalists’ discourses of ecological protection rooted in Buddhism and care for territorial deities resonated with a growing shift among Han Chinese youth and intellectuals regarding Tibet and Tibetans. While earlier decades of Chinese state-sponsored image making from the 1950s through the 1980s presented Tibetans as backward, barbaric, ignorant, dirty, and violent, the late 1990s and early 2000s saw new tropes about Tibetans begin to circulate within China, in which Tibetans were associated with cultural authenticity, romantic or sexual exoticism, ecological awareness, and spiritual power.13 These mixed and often nostalgic or romantic Chinese imaginings of Tibetan “Others” coalesced together with the rise in Chinese backpacker culture, new opportunities in China for domestic leisure travel, and state promotion of tourism as a development strategy in Tibet (Yeh 2014b, 265). These newly positive views of Tibetans set the stage for the encounters of educated young Han travelers with Tibetan environmentalists in Tibet. Some of these Han travelers subsequently went on to found the first Chinese environmental organizations (Yang 2005; Yeh 2014b), and embraced the idea of collaboration with local Tibetan advocates for ecological protection. Many of these Han environmentalists during the first decade of the 2000s explicitly embraced the idea that Tibetan cultural and religious forms such as protection of sacred mountains could be leveraged for environmental protection more generally (Yeh 2014b). In some ways, these Han-Tibetan collaborations reflected ways in which idealized views of the “Green Tibetan,” or Tibetans as “ecological natives” were widespread among Chinese environmentalists in the early 2000s. Yet this was not always a purely negative dynamic, despite the elements of stereotyping 13 On Chinese, European and American presentations of Tibetan “Otherness,” especially in the context of Tibet religions, see Holmes-Tagchungdarpa’s chapter in Concepts and Methods for the Study of Chinese Religions I: State of the Field and Disciplinary Approaches. See also Lopez 1998; Heinz and Rather 2001.

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involved. In fact, Yeh argues that despite mutual misunderstanding, this was a relatively fruitful time of cooperation.14 Yeh does note that there were significant areas of mutual misunderstanding between Han and Tibetan environmentalists, perhaps most importantly the lack of awareness by the Han activists of the different kinds of political constraints and challenges the Tibetan ecology advocates faced (Yeh 2014b, 272–273). Yet she suggests that these Han-Tibetan collaborations “created the potential for significant harmony, in the sense of living peaceably together with others, in a way that has not been adequately explored in the political ecology critique of conservation projects” (Yeh 2014b, 258). Nevertheless, this period of cooperation was short-lived, and came to a painful end with the 2008 Tibetan protests against Chinese rule and the state crackdown and policy shifts that followed. Tibetan and non-Tibetan scholars and environmentalists point to a number of serious ecological challenges facing the ecosystems of the Tibetan Plateau. These include the effects of mining, logging, poaching of endangered species, and the effects of anthropogenic climate change. Makley points to a “series of devastating ‘natural’ disasters in the wake of Chinese state-led development and resource extraction since the late 1990s (floods, grassland deterioration, earthquakes, mudslides),” which, Makley says, “exacerbated

14 Yeh points out that despite apparent similarities, the dynamics of Han-Tibetan collaborative work in the early 2000s were significantly different from the “Green Tibetan” dynamics involving westerners and Tibetans that Huber examines in his influential 1997 essay of the same name. Huber argued that diasporic Tibetans and the Dharamsala Tibetan government-in -exile in the 1980s explicitly sought to leverage a romantic western notion of the “Green Tibetan” (i.e., Tibetans as “naturally” environmentalists, or “ecological natives”), as a part of gathering western support for Tibetans in exile and critiquing the development policies of the Chinese state (Huber 1997a). In this context, Huber argues that Western scholars of environmental practices in the Himalayan region like Norberg-Hodge have essentialized an ahistorical, Orientalist view of Tibetan ecological virtue that glosses over the complex ways in which Tibetan societies have historically modified and interacted with their environment (Huber 1997a; Norberg-Hodge 1991). Yeh suggests that the environmental discourses of Tibetan conservationists in the PRC in the 2000s differ importantly from the strategic self-romanticization and Western Orientalist images Huber describes. Rather than aim their environmental writings at outsiders, Tibetan environmentalists in the PRC in the 2000s aimed their writings and projects primarily at other Tibetans, writing in Tibetan, and focusing on local needs and problems, couched in the discourse of local sacred landscape. In addition, Tibetan conservationists in the PRC carefully framed their work within the parameters of existing laws protecting nature within the PRC. Rather than mobilize their own claims about Tibetan “eco-friendliness” as a tool to critique the Chinese state and its approach to development, local Tibetan environmentalists in the PRC on the contrary framed their work as fully in synch with stated official environmental and societal goals.

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many rural Tibetans’ sense of vulnerability and marginalization in their mountainous home regions” (Makley 2014, 229). In fact, Makley directly links these ecological disasters and the hardships they produced to the Tibetan protests against Chinese rule in Tibetan regions of the PRC in 2008, which in turn led to the military crackdown. The situation has deteriorated still further: since 2012, “those tensions culminated in an unprecedented series of self-immolations by young Tibetan monks, nuns, and laity calling attention to the ongoing militarization of their regions and heightened state scrutiny of their activities” (Makley 2014, 229; also Yeh 2014b). Nyima and Yeh point to mining in particular as a dominant ecological issue for Tibetans (Nyima and Yeh 2016, 166). This is true for both ecological and for religious reasons. Mining pollutes waterways, leads to erosion, dangerous mudslides, and the deaths of livestock herds, all potentially catastrophic environmental harms for rural Tibetans. But in addition, mining strikes at the heart of Tibetan concerns for the land; it is understood to rob the land of vital nutrients, leading to ecological destruction that ruins the habitat of humans as well as animals. Where mining operations target sacred mountains, the crisis for Tibetans is even more acute. In the words of an elderly pastoralist recorded by Nyima and Yeh, “Digging gold from the mountain is like taking my heart out of my body” (Nyima and Yeh 2016, 168). Yet as Nyima and Yeh acknowledge, “Given the powerful array of interests that benefit from mineral extraction, mining is a problem Tibetans can do very little about” (Ibid). As a result, mining protests are frequent. Lafitte argues that “objection to mining is at the heart of Tibetan grief at Chinese rule” (Lafitte 2013, 87, quoted in Nyima and Yeh 2016, 166). Mining is not the only area of sensitivity for Tibetans and for Chinese authorities. One can also see the intertwined roles of Tibetan religious, cultural and environmental sensibilities, and Chinese state anxieties about these dynamics and the priority of asserting Chinese territorial sovereignty in the story of a recent Tibetan campaign against wearing fur, especially fur trims on clothing made from the endangered wild tiger, as well as otter, leopard, and other species. Tibetan Buddhist campaigns against the wearing of furs in Tibet and in the Tibetan diaspora were sparked by remarks the Fourteenth Dalai Lama made in a large public religious forum in 2006. The occasion was the 2006 bestowal by the Dalai Lama of a major Tibetan Buddhist tantric ritual, the Kalachakra, which the Dalai Lama has given around the world, often to hundreds of thousands of people. In 2006, before a crowd of Tibetans and Tibetan Buddhists from many other national and ethnic backgrounds, the Dalai Lama gave general remarks on Buddhist practice and ethical living to the crowd, which were translated into many languages. In addition, specifically to Tibetan speakers,

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the Dalai Lama also gave a sternly worded talk (which was not translated) scolding Tibetans for wearing fur, in particular endangered species’ fur, and stating that this was not an appropriate activity for Buddhists. Approximately 8,000 people in the audience were Tibetans from Tibetan areas of the PRC (Yeh 2012). Upon returning home, word rapidly spread in Tibetan communities across the PRC about the Dalai Lama’s comments. A widespread movement emerged to turn away from wearing or selling furs, and from hunting these species. Tibetans who owned fur trimmed garments gathered to publicly burn their furs, which they explained as a way to fully and completely remove them from circulation, thereby ending the market for fur, in what Yeh has called a “spectacular de-commodification” (Yeh 2013a). Although the government of the PRC is a signatory to international environmental treaties that commit it to protecting endangered species, including the tiger, the governmental reaction to Tibetan anti-fur efforts was to strongly crack down against fur-burning, and indeed to insist that Tibetans in publicly visible or state salaried positions, such as the news media, explicitly wear fur-trimmed garments (Yeh 2012). Yeh describes how this reaction stemmed from state concern over the power of the Dalai Lama to mobilize large numbers of Tibetans despite his location outside Tibet. In this case, where religious motivations that linked Tibetans to the authority of the Dalai Lama were perceived to be involved in Tibetan environmental action, the governmental response was to forbid the environmental action (the rejection of fur), even though in fact this environmental action was in line with state policies and the state’s international environmental commitments. For Tibetans, conversely, the burning of fur and abstention from hunting certain animals was for some participants partly a response to new international discourses about environmental protection and endangered species. Indeed, Yeh observes that for the Dalai Lama and other Tibetan leaders both within the PRC and in the exile community, the advocacy of international environmental protection groups working to save the wild tiger played an important role in prompting the Dalai Lama’s speech in the first place (Yeh 2012, 414). For many Tibetans, rejecting animal pelt decorations also stemmed from a desire to protect Tibetans from international criticism as “bad Buddhists who wear fur,” something the Dalai Lama had also specifically mentioned in his Kalachakra speech. Moreover, religious commitments Tibetan Buddhists have toward the Dalai Lama as their tantric guru, together with the Dalai Lama’s enormous personal charisma and authority as the personification of Tibetan national identity, history, and arguably the Tibetan land itself, made his statements criticizing fur uniquely authoritative for Tibetans (Yeh 2012).

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Taken together, Yeh analyzes the intersection of these forces as a moment in which Chinese governmental concerns about maintaining absolute territorial sovereignty in Tibet were triggered by the powerful links between Tibetan religion, Tibetan sentiments of national identity, and the enormous authority of the Dalai Lama for Tibetans, an authority which, as Yeh rightly notes, has ironically been greatly increased by the circumstances of exile (Yeh 2012, 416). Chinese state commitments to asserting territorial sovereignty in Tibet ultimately trumped official commitments to environmental protections of endangered species.

3 The Treasure Tradition In the present day, the link between Tibetan practices of sacred landscape and Tibetan environmental engagement remains powerful. Tibetan conservationists, religious practitioners, scholars, farmers, herders, historians, filmmakers, community leaders, and climate scientists, among others, engage with sacred landscape in a range of different ways, too numerous to do full justice to here. One might describe activities as diverse as propitiating mountain deities, resisting mining and logging operations, participating in re-forestation campaigns, and going on pilgrimage as all in varying degrees involving Tibetan conceptions and practices of sacred landscape. These activities and a host of others evoke ancient Tibetan relationships with deities of the land and water, and resonate with memories of the Tibetan empire and of Tibet’s Bön and Buddhist pasts. Narratives of these treasured religious and cultural pasts are themselves inscribed on the Tibetan landscape, through ritual, pilgrimage guides, art, architecture, and textual and oral literature. Conceptions of sacred landscape thus link Tibetan histories and Buddhist and Bön accounts of moral personhood to pragmatic contemporary concerns about ecological health. Conversely, Tibetan concerns about ecological health relate on the one hand to the economic viability of vitally important Tibetan livelihoods like agriculture and herding, which depend upon fragile high-altitude ecosystems. Yet at the same time, such ecological concerns are also commitments to the survival of Tibetan culture under conditions of grave difficulty. Reflecting on these interweavings of sacred landscape, historical memory, ecological health, and cultural continuity, we might return in closing to the unique form of Tibetan literature and religious practice called the Treasure tradition, briefly mentioned already. Many of the dynamics considered in this chapter coalesce in the influential practices of Treasure (gter ma; terma) revelation, which

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powerfully make present moments from the Tibetan religious past, and embed these past and present revelations in the Tibetan landscape itself. Tibetan practices of Treasure revelation date back at least to the twelfth century and probably earlier (Germano 1998). They center on “the reverence of religious material known as Treasure (gter ma), blessed words and objects said to originate in the enlightened intent of buddhas and bodhisattvas” (Doctor 2005, 17). The process of Treasure discovery as it is most commonly understood in the Nyingma school of Tibetan Buddhism and in Bön (the two traditions most strongly associated with Treasure revelation) involves complex notions of prophecy, identity, and time. Treasure revelation harks back to an enlightened figure (which enlightened figure depends on the particular Treasure tradition), living at a time in the past, where he or she gives religious teachings to a circle of disciples. This enlightened figure, through their transcendence of ordinary human linear conceptions of time and knowledge, also has teachings for people of our present day. These may be teachings the world in that past time is not ready to hear, or they may be teachings especially suited to the needs and situations of people in the present. The enlightened master of the past conceals these special teachings, which can be scriptures in the form of physical scrolls of writings, or ritual objects like statues, or even at the most abstract conceptual level, enlightened realizations in the teacher’s own mind. The master of the past may hide these Treasure scriptures within the earth or stones of the physical landscape of Tibet (in the case of sater, earth-treasure; sa gter), or in the architectural features of ancient buildings, etc. Many centuries in the future, in what is our present day, a prophetically destined Treasure revealer (gter ston), who is an individual with strong karmic links to that enlightened master of the past, will retrieve this Treasure from its hiding place, and then propagate it to the world. In some cases, the enlightened master of the past may place their teaching within the continuum of consciousness of the individual who will be the future Treasure revealer; Treasures thus discovered from the mind-stream of the revealer are called Mind Treasures (dgongs gter).15

15 Tibetan exegetes give multiple detailed taxonomies of the various forms of Treasure, which I only summarize briefly here for reasons of length. See Doctor 2005. While the Treasure system of continuing revelation is unique to Tibetan Buddhism and Bön, Germano, Doctor, Thondup and other scholars importantly suggest that Tibetan Treasure revelation is very much consistent with larger patterns in Indian Buddhism. In Germano’s words, the Tibetan Treasure traditions are “a distinctive continuation of Indian Buddhist revelatory practices” (Germano 1998, 54). Indian Mahāyāna traditions in fact provide a range of narrative and

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Teachings produced as Treasures are often described in Tibetan commentaries and sermon literature as fresh, un-distorted by the long chain of person to person transmissions found in the usual lineage of authoritative Buddhist teachings. Because of their direct transmission from the enlightened master of the past to the audiences of the present, Treasure teachings are often held up by their practitioners as especially beneficial and effective, undiminished by human error. In this sense, Treasure revelation is framed both as a process of maintaining a particularly vivid type of continuity with the past, and simultaneously also as giving past times and past masters a fresh relevance and vitality in the present day (Thondup 2009; Doctor 2005; Terrone 2014). The larger significance of these dynamics for Tibetan conceptions of sacred landscape and cultural memory depends in part on the fact that Treasure revelation centers on discovering precious religious teachings and materials physically located within the earth and stone of Tibet, as well as in the minds of individual Tibetans. In addition, Buddhist Treasures are often specifically materials associated with the “early diffusion” (nga dar) of Buddhism in Tibet during the imperial period. Thus, Treasure revelation and cycles of Treasure literature can function to link culturally resonant narratives about the time of the Tibetan empire with individual Treasure revealers and with particular Tibetan places in the present.16 In particular, the Treasure traditions of the Nyingma school of Tibetan Buddhism revolve around the eighth century tantric master and Buddhist hero Padmasambhava, remembered as the tantric guru of the Tibetan Emperor Tri Songdetsen (742–796). Tri Songdetsen is perhaps the most famous descendent of the seventh century Emperor Songtsen Gampo (he who bound the demoness in the Tibetan landscape). He is remembered in Tibetan historiography as the second, and perhaps the greatest, of Tibet’s three Dharma Kings (chos rgyal). During his reign, the Tibetan empire expanded to its greatest extent in Central Asia and the Silk Road region (Tibetan troops even briefly occupied the Tang capital at Chang’an), and the first Buddhist monastery in Tibet was founded at Samye (bsam yas) (Van Schaik 2011; Kapstein 2006; Beckwith 1987).

philosophical frameworks for incorporating the possibility of continuing Buddhist revelation. The distinctive feature of the Tibetan traditions lies in the institutionalization of this possibility of revelation (Doctor 2005, 17–18), and in the close and significant imbrication of Treasure revelation with the Tibetan landscape (Germano 1998; Terrone 2016), rather than in the concept of ongoing revelation itself. 16 On the distinctive features of Bön Treasure traditions, which emphasize the recovery of important moments in Bön history, and thus illuminate Tibetan history from a different perspective than Buddhist traditions, see for instance Martin 2001.

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This founding of the first monastery at Samye is a major milestone in the Tibetan reception of Buddhism. It is glossed by Tibetan historians as the true beginning of institutional and monastic Buddhism in Tibet. Tibetan Buddhist historiography describes the Emperor Tri Songdetsen as asking Padmasambhava’s help in establishing Samye, an enterprise in which Padmasambhava’s supernatural power to subdue indigenous deities of the land is remembered as crucial. Padmasambhava is thus a key protagonist in narratives of the early spread of Buddhism in Tibet, and is credited with converting or conquering indigenous deities of mountains, land and water, not only at Samye but across the Tibetan landscape, compelling these deities either to take up Buddhism, or to bind themselves under oath to protect Buddhist practitioners. Because of these and many other activities, Padmasambhava is so beloved in Tibet that he is often referred to simply as “Guru Rinpoche,” or Precious Guru, venerated by Tibetans as a second Buddha. Because Padmasambhava and Emperor Tri Songdetsen are closely linked in narratives about the arrival of Buddhism, the founding of the first Tibetan monastery, and the conversion of Tibetan landscape deities, discoveries of Treasure texts and ritual materials connected them serve both to sacralize physical sites of discovery, and to re-connect present day Treasure revealers and practitioners of these revealed teachings to historically resonant modes of Tibetan identity, territorial connectedness and religious meaning. As Germano suggests in his seminal article on the late twentieth century revival of Tibetan Buddhism in eastern Tibet (in present-day Sichuan and Qinghai), since the end of the Cultural Revolution, Tibetan Buddhist and Bön renewal projects have powerfully engaged the Treasure tradition and through it Tibetan ideas about memory, sacred texts, and sacred landscape (Germano 1998). Germano uses the multivalent phrase “remembering the dis-membered body of Tibet” as his title, and as a description of the processes at work in contemporary Treasure revelation and religious renewal. Here the terms “remembering” and “dismembering” have a double meaning: On the one hand, the physical and cultural geographies of Tibet have been literally dismembered, in the sense that territories were divided into new administrative and political units; temples, monasteries, and other features of the religious and cultural terrain were destroyed during the Cultural Revolution period; monks, nuns and community leaders were killed or imprisoned, with many monastics forced to disrobe; and new kinds of development, construction, and resource extraction projects have made alterations to the physical landscape. At the same time, the radical disruptions of the decades from the 1950s through the 1980s and more recently have produced a crisis of memory and continuity for Tibetans, to which contemporary religious and ecological revivals respond. Treasure discovery practices, which

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retrieve teachings and sacred objects understood as directly linking Tibetan communities of the present day to Padmasambhava and his eighth-century circle of disciples, act to repair both the broken links of memory and religious transmission, and to restore the living vitality of the Tibetan landscape. In Germano’s reading, projects like the influential Larung Gar Buddhist Academy in Serta (gser rta bla rung lnga rig nang bstan blob gling, Serta Larung Five Science Buddhist Academy), founded in the early 1980s by the late Tibetan Buddhist master and Treasure revealer Khenpo Jikme Puntsok (mkhan po ‘jigs med phun tshogs, 1933–2004), known as Khenpo Jikpun, work to “remember” the Tibetan Buddhist sacred landscape in multiple ways. By reviving Buddhist ethical practice, in particular monasticism, Khenpo Jikpun helped to restore both community connections to Buddhism, and the vows and lineages connections ruptured during the Maoist period. By revealing Treasures connected to Padmasambhava, including Buddhist sacred texts and ritual objects, from within the physical terrain of the local Tibetan landscape, Khenpo Jikpun recovered the continuity of Tibetan Buddhist memory and practice in the region, while symbolically healing the violated landscape itself (Germano 1998; Gayley 2013). Across the Tibetan region, the post-Cultural Revolution Buddhist revival has included similar forms of attention to rehabilitating and re-engaging with sacred places and sacred landscape, including rebuilding monasteries, religious and educational institutions and retreat centers. This rebuilding has many components, including Treasure discoveries that re-sacralize the landscape, and also extensive monastery and temple reconstruction and new construction projects. Significantly, these reconstruction and new building projects are increasingly funded by overseas and mainland Han Chinese donors as well as by Tibetans and western and other converts to Tibetan Buddhism (and to a lesser extent converts to Bön). The Larung Gar Buddhist Academy and Khenpo Jikpun’s circle of disciples and students has emerged as notable for many reasons in this context. Larung Gar is now famed across the Tibetan Plateau for scholarly excellence and monastic ethics. Scholarship and monasticism are its primary areas of curricular focus, and the Larung Gar leadership has vocally pursued a range of new ethics-related projects, including significant roles for monastic women, vegetarianism, and a sometimes-controversial movement to persuade Tibetan herders and farmers not to sell animals for slaughter (Gayley 2013). Larung Gar is also notable for its size, and for its large numbers of Han Chinese monastic and nonmonastic students, who make up almost half the resident population at the Academy. From 1995 to 2000, Larung Gar’s total population reached about 10,000, and until 2017 had again returned to nearly those levels, despite three successive government crackdowns and expulsions of “unregistered” monks

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and nuns and the demolition of their living quarters between 2001 and 2004. Prior to 2016, Larung Gar was sometimes estimated to be the largest monastic community in the world. In 2016, the government began another major demolition campaign that reduced the population at Larung Gar by about half and added new tourist facilities.17 The large numbers of Han disciples of Khenpo Jikpun and of his main successors Khenpo Sodarje and Khenpo Tsultrim Lodroe (who have substantial Chinese social media followings, frequently lecture in China and elsewhere internationally, and have published extensively in Chinese) raises interesting questions about how to frame Tibetan religions in China. In increasingly complex ways, is Tibetan Buddhism becoming a Chinese religion, in the sense not only of political and administrative considerations, but in terms of the people who practice it? In what ways might these expanded circles of disciples complicate or reconfigure Tibetan Buddhist modes of sacred space and the relation between Tibetan Buddhism and the Tibetan landscape? Relationships between Tibetan Buddhist masters and Chinese disciples of course harken back to past eras, in which Tibetan masters were tantric gurus to emperors of China, perhaps most famously in the cases of the Mongol Emperor Khubilai and the Manchu Qing Emperor Qianlong; such relationships also played a role in the formation of modern China (Tuttle 2005). Yet present-day dynamics of Tibetan Buddhist discipleship also take new forms, such as WeChat Buddhism groups, Twitter feeds, and other forms of social media. Han Chinese disciples and admirers of Tibetan Buddhist teachers, like other Tibetan Buddhists around the world, connect with the practices of Tibetan religion through often increasingly disembodied technological means, and in a range of languages and visual and communication styles. Far from the physical spaces of Tibetan mountains and earth, new practitioners of Tibetan Buddhism raise novel questions about continuity, the nature of community memory, and the role of sacred landscape in a global and technologized religious setting (Gleig 2005; Falcone 2015; Veidlinger and Grieve 2015). Nevertheless, the role of Tibetan physical landscapes and the relationships between their human, non-human, and historical inhabitants remain important, in ways continually illuminated by the process of Treasure revelation. Terrone in particular points out that a “Treasure revealer or tertön (gter ston) not only reinforces the association between Buddhist doctrine and human beings, but he also mediates between the land of Tibet and its inhabitants. Particularly central to this 17 See for instance, Terrone 2014, https://treasuryoflives.org/biographies/view/Khenpo-Jigme -Puntsok/10457. https://www.nytimes.com/2016/11/28/world/asia/china-takes-a-chain-saw-to -a-center-of-tibetan-buddhism.html. http://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-china-36863888 (accessed on August 1, 2019)

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mediation is the activity of replacing the sacred Treasure extracted from the place it was hidden ( gter gnas) with a substitute” (Terrone 2014, 462). This practice of substituting a ritually valuable replacement for the Treasure removed from the earth emerges here as a kind of inversion of conventional human mining activities in particular, and natural resource exploitation in general. Rather than extracting something from the earth, often leaving destruction behind, practices of Treasure revelation and substitution instead sacralize and engage in ongoing relationships with the ground, the mountain, or another natural feature. Echoing Tibetan narratives of the taming of indigenous deities, practices of Treasure revelation both repair the threads of cultural continuity with the past, and re-integrate post-Cultural Revolution Tibetan communities with the physical territories and ecosystems in which they live. Within the physical container of geographic Tibet, in practices ranging across Treasure revelation, protection of sacred mountains, pilgrimage, and ecological conservation, Tibetan ways of engaging sacred landscape thus emerge as both very old, deeply pervasive in Tibetan culture and religious life, and yet as containing a range of indigenous techniques for renewal. While Tibetan modes of enacting care for sacred landscape may not always fit a Western or international stereotype of what environmental activism should be, Tibetan environmentalists and contemporary religious communities mobilize ideas of sacred landscape in powerful and creative ways. Ideas of sacred landscape in Tibet are connected to notions of what it means to participate in Tibetan culture in the contemporary world. Sacred landscapes form a link between present day Tibetans and a powerful past. Yet Tibetan physical environments themselves are profoundly fragile and vulnerable in an ecological sense, in ways that mirror the vulnerabilities in the sacred landscapes of Tibetan religion. The task of caring for Tibetan sacred landscapes, whether in the form of geography, memory, or ritual, thus takes on a renewed urgency. Increasingly, these Tibetan modes of religious memory and environmental engagement appeal to individuals and communities physically located not only on the Tibetan Plateau but also far away from it, opening up new questions about Tibetan religious and environmental futures.

Filmography Shielding the Mountains. Produced and written by Emily Yeh. Directed by Kunga Lama. 2010. 20 minutes. English and Tibetan. A Gesar Bard’s Tale. Dir. Donagh Coleman and Lharigtso, 2013. 1 hr 22 min. English and Tibetan.

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Index Activism 163, 204 – activists 139, 163, 164, 175, 176, 195 – social activism 164 activists, see activism Anagārika Dharmapāla (1864–1933) 61, 62, 65n36, 78 Anderson, Benedict 161, 178 Anti-religion movement ( fei zongjiao yundong 非宗教運動), see Religion Anti-Christian movement (fei jidujiso yundong 非基督教運動), see Christianity Anti-Christian Student League of Shanghai (Shanghai Fei jidujiao xuesheng tongmeng 上海非基督教學生同盟), see Christianity Atheism 137, 140, 141, 142, 143, 148, 150, 151 – Atheistic ideology 137, 138 – see also Religion Atheistic ideology, see Atheism Baker, Richard 40 Bangladesh 162 Barbour, Ian 122, 132 Bechert, Heinz 47, 51 Begriffsgeschichte (history of concepts) 1, 9, 135, 153 – see also Koselleck, Reinhart Beijing University (Beijing daxue 北京大學), see Education Bianneng 遍能 (1906–1997) 98n4, 113, 116 Black Dragon King Temple (Heilongdawang) 173 blessing (Tib. byin brlabs and jinlab; Skt. adhiṣṭhāna) 189, 190 bloggers 158 Bodhisattva precepts (pusajie 菩薩戒) 57, 58, 59, 67n46, 68, 69, 70, 76, 79 Bön 183–191, 198, 199, 200n16, 201, 202, 205, 207 Bourdieu, Pierre 163n12, 164, 165, 178, 179 Boxers Rebellion 164

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110547825-011

bowu 博物 124 Brahmā’s Net Sūtra (Fanwang jing 梵網經) 58n10, 68, 69n56 Buddhicized education ( fohua de jiaoyu 佛化的教育), see Buddhism Buddhicization movement ( fohua yundong 佛化運動), see Buddhism Buddhism – Buddhicized education ( fohua de jiaoyu 佛化的教育) 111 – Buddhicization movement ( fohua yundong 佛化運動) 111, 112 – Buddhism sphere ( fojiaojie 佛教界) 155, 159, 161, 162, 164, 175 – Buddhist Association of China (zhongguo fojiao xiehui 中国佛教协会) 170 – Buddhist education 6, 7, 70n64, 78, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 106, 110, 112, 116, 118 – Buddhist periodical 6, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 94 – Buddhists 7, 27, 43, 46, 50, 60, 61n20, 62, 63, 65n36, 69, 70n64, 71, 74, 79, 81, 83, 84, 86, 87, 88, 92, 101, 104n18, 109, 110, 111, 121, 122, 127, 129, 182, 184n4, 184n5, 190, 196, 197, 203, 208 – Chan 禪 35n1, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 43, 52, 65, 75, 78, 80, 95 – Chinese Buddhist modernism 35, 41, 42, 43, 44, 46, 51 – conglin jiaoyu 叢林教育 101, 110 – “culture-Buddhism-environment” nexus 192 – dhāraṇī 121, 125 – foxue 佛學 (learning about the Dharma) 42, 51, 52, 54, 80, 86n4, 88, 90, 93, 94, 96, 101, 108, 110, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119 – foxueyuan 佛學院 (Buddhist seminary or Institute of Buddhist Studies) 40, 95, 97, 98n5, 105, 108, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 118, 119, 126 – humanistic Buddhism (renjiao fojiao 人間 佛教) 5, 41, 42, 44, 46, 50, 76

210

Index

– jiangxue 講學 100 – Military (Buddhist) education (junmin jiaoyu 軍民教育) 96, 109 – Minnan Buddhist Seminary or Minnan Institute of Buddhist Studies (Minnan foxueyuan 閩– 南 佛學院) 40, 98n5, 99n8, 108, 112, 113, 118 – New(-style) Sangha (xin seng 新僧) 65, 66n42, 110 – (non-religious) education for the large society (shehui jiaoyu 社會教育 or gongmin jiaoyu 公民教育) 96, 109 – nuns’ education (biqiuni jiaoyu 比丘尼教育) 100 – Old(-style) Sangha (jiu seng 舊僧) 65n42, 110 – Original Buddhism 60, 61, 63, 64, 65n36, 79 – Pāli Buddhism 60, 64n32 – Pan-Asiatic Buddhism 60 – Saṃgha education (seng jiaoyu 僧教育) 109, 114, 117, 118 – Saṃgha Education Associations (seng jiaoyu hui 僧教育會) 109 – Saṃgha sphere (sengjie 僧界) 164n14 – Saṃgha Study Hall (seng xuetang 僧學堂) 97, 104, 108 – shanlin jiangxue 山林講學 100n11 – Shanghai Buddhist Books (Shanghai foxue shuju 上海佛學書局) 86n4, 88, 90, 91, 92, 94 – siyuan jiaoyu 寺院教育 100 – Southern Buddhism 62n22, 63, 66, 67, 68, 70, 74 – su jiang 俗講 100 – Taiwan fojiao zhongxuelin 台灣佛教中學林 110 – Teaching for the Sangha (dui neide sengjiao 對內的僧教) 96 – Teaching (of the Sangha) for the laity (dui waide xinjiao 對外的信教) 96 – Theravāda 51, 60, 61, 62n23, 63n28, 64n32, 64n34, 67n50, 70, 71, 72, 76, 78, 79, 101, 162 – Tiantai 天台 37, 38, 39, 51, 53, 65, 76

– Tibetan Buddhism 60, 61n19, 128, 131, 134, 184n5, 199, 200, 201, 202, 203, 206, 207, 208 – waixue 外學 101, 111 – Wuchang Buddhist Seminary or Wuchang Institute of Buddhist Studies (Wuchang foxueyuan 武昌佛學院) 98n5, 99n8, 105, 107n27, 108, 113, 115, 116, 126, 133 – xuefo 學佛 (practicing the Dharma) 96, 108, 110n34 – yijing 譯經 100 – Zhennan xuelin 鎮南學林 110 – see also Ordination – see also Vinaya Buddhism sphere (fojiaojie 佛教界), see Buddhism Buddhist Association of China (zhongguo fojiao xiehui 中国佛教协会), see Buddhism Buddhist education, see Buddhism Buddhists, see Buddhism bunao 補腦 130 Cai Yuanpei 蔡元培 (1868-1940) 104, 105 canon, scriptural, see scripture Catholicism 160 – Catholic Church 12, 165 – Catholicism sphere (tianzhujiaojie 天主教界) 159, 162, 163, 174 Catholic Church, see Catholicism Catholicism sphere (tianzhujiaojie 天主教界), see Catholicism Chan 禪, see Buddhism Changyuan 昌圓 (1879–1943) 95, 113, 118 Charity 143, 157n5, 173, 177 Chen Duxiu 陳獨秀 (1879–1942) 7, 133, 135, 138, 141, 143, 145, 148, 150, 151, 152, 153 Chen Yingning 陳攖寧 (1880–1969) 49, 53 Chiang Kai-shek 蔣中正/蔣介石 (1887–1975) 131, 151n10 China – Chinese state 124, 131, 157, 161, 176, 185, 188, 193, 194, 195, 196, 198 – Chinese Civil War 160

Index

– Chinese Communist Party (CCP, Zhongguo gongchang dang 中国共产党) 48n18, 125, 138, 149n8, 150, 151n11, 156 – Chinese Communist Party membership 155 – Chinese language 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 16, 122n1, 129, 157n6 – Chinese Protestant Autonomous Association (Zhongguo Yesujiao zilihui 中国耶稣教自立会) 164 – Contemporary China 54, 55, 66n43, 67n49, 68n50, 75, 112, 114, 115, 132, 133, 155, 156, 178 – Modern China vii, viii, 2, 7, 10, 31, 35n1, 37, 51, 55, 65, 69, 70, 74, 75, 77, 78, 79, 86, 94, 98n4, 113, 116, 132, 133, 135, 146, 152, 153, 155, 156, 157, 165, 176, 178, 179, 203, 208 – Nationalities Affairs Commission 162n10 – Nationalities Identification (minzu shibie 民族識別) 160 – Nationalist (KMT) government 160, 169, 63n30 – People’s Congress 160 – People’s Republic of China (zhonghua renmin gongheguo 中华人民 共和国) 171, 181, 183 – Republic of China (Zhonghua minguo 中華民國) 105, 151n10 – Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM) 27, 124, 129, 167 – United Front 156, 160, 175 – see also Buddhism – see also Chinese Education Association (zhongguo jiaoyu hui 中國教育會) Chinese Buddhist modernism, see Buddhism Chinese Education Association (zhongguo jiaoyu hui 中國教育會), see Education Chinese state, see China Chinese Civil War, see China Chinese Communist Party (CCP, Zhongguo gongchang dang 中国共产党), see China Chinese Communist Party membership, see China Chinese language, see China

211

Chinese Protestant Autonomous Association (Zhongguo Yesujiao zilihui 中国耶稣教 自立会) 164 Church of England 161 Christianity 7, 16, 31, 47, 49, 104, 131, 136, 138, 139, 142, 147, 149, 150, 151, 169, 177 – Anti-Christian movement (fei jidujiso yundong 非基督教運動) 135, 138, 139, 140, 148, 150, 151, 153 see also Religion – Anti-Christian Student League of Shanghai (Shanghai Fei jidujiao xuesheng tongmeng 上海– 非基督教學生同盟) 139 – see also Catholicism, Protestantism circumambulation (Tib. skor ba and kora) 181, 190, 191 civil – Civil Affairs Bureau 171 – civil society 111n35, 160, 163, 165, 177 – civil-society organizations 159 Civil Affairs Bureau, see civil civil society, see civil civil-society organizations, see civil Cizhou 慈舟 (1877–1957) 65, 67n50, 68n51, 76 Code switching 130 Comintern 139, 143, 149n8, 150 Conceptualization 3, 7, 96n1, 113 “consecration” 142, 163, 189 Constituencies 37, 157, 163, 168, 176 Constitution of modern society 157 “container and its contents” (Tib. snod and bcud) 186, 192 Contemporary China, see China Confucian rujia 儒家, see Confucianism (Confucian) Academy (shuyuan 書院), see Education Confucian Church (kong jiaohui 孔教會), see Confucianism Confucianism 5, 11, 12, 16, 20n8, 21–28, 31, 38n8, 42, 46, 47, 49, 50, 51, 53, 100, 103, 104, 106, 107n27, 109, 131, 132, 133, 138, 141, 147, 148, 150, 152 – Confucian rujia 儒家 35, 36, 37, 41 – Confucian Church (kong jiaohui 孔教會) 147

212

Index

– Confucius 孔子 13, 14, 23, 28, 30, 102, 105, 131 – rites (li 禮) 5, 11, 12, 15, 19, 20, 25, 27 – Mencius 14, 15, 23, 37, 46, 50 – New Confucianism 5, 35, 39, 41, 42, 43, 44, 46, 47, 50 – ren 仁 (humanity, benevolence, or compassion) 13, 15, 104, 106 – Society for Confucian Religion (kongjiao hui 孔教會) 147, 153 – Zhu Xi 朱熹 (1130–1200) 14, 15, 49 – see also (Confucian) Academy (shuyuan 書院) Confucius 孔子, see Confucianism conglin jiaoyu 叢林教育, see Buddhism cosmological truth 162n9 culture – cultural identity 175, 186, 205, 206 – cultural memory 200 – cultural survival 193 – cultural toolkits 125, 130 – “culture-Buddhism-environment” nexus, see Buddhism – New Culture 139, 143, 144, 145, 149, 153 cultural identity, see culture cultural memory, see culture cultural survival, see culture cultural toolkits, see culture “culture-Buddhism-environment” nexus, see Buddhism Dalai Lama 77, 188n10, 196, 197, 198 Daoism 11, 16, 23, 24, 25, 49, 53, 100, 131, 142, 150, 160, 167, 173, 174, 175 – Dao-ification 173 – Daoism sphere (daojiaojie 道教界) 159, 162 – Daoist Association of China (Zhongguo daojiao xiehui 中国道教协会) 170 Dao-ification, see Daoism Daoism sphere (daojiaojie 道教界), see Daoism Daoist Association of China (Zhongguo daojiao xiehui 中国道教协会), see Daoism daotong 道統 14, 37, 49 Daoxuan 道宣 (596–667) 57, 58, 59, 78

Darwin, Charles (1809–1882) 128 dhāraṇī, see Buddhism Dharmaguptaka vinaya (Sifenlü 四分律), see Vinaya Di Chuqing 狄楚青 (1873–1921) 90, 91 Ding Fubao 丁福保 (1874–1952) 3, 90, 92 discipline (Buddhist) 5, 55, 56, 59, 60, 65, 70–74, 75, 77, 96, 98, 108, 184n5 – see also Vinaya divination 171, 190 divine retribution 171 Dragon King Valley (Longwanggou) 173 dual ordination (for nuns) (erbuseng jie 二部 僧戒), see Ordination “ecological native”, see ecology ecological challenges, see ecology ecology 195 – “ecological native” 192, 194, 195n14 – ecological challenges 195 Education – Imperial examinations (keju 科舉) 104, 153 – Beijing University (Beijing daxue 北京大學) 104, 143 – Chinese Education Association (zhongguo jiaoyu hui 中國教育會) 104, 109 – (Confucian) Academy (shuyuan 書院) 100, 109 – Guishan Academy (guishan shuyuan 龜山書院) 109 – jiaoyu 教育 109, 151, 157 – miaochan xingxue 廟產興學 (funding schools with temple properties) 104 – study abroad (liu xue 留學) 100 – xue 學 95, 97 – xuelin 學林 (Jp: gakurin) 110 – xuetang 學堂 97, 104, 104n18, 108n28 – zhong xuelin 中學林 (Jp: chū gakurin) 110 – see also Buddhism – see also jiao 教 (teaching, education, civilizing) efficacy (ling 靈) 9n7, 169 Einstein, Albert (1879–1955) 128 Empiricism 47, 127, 128 Epistemology 48, 78, 127, 132, 170n22 empowerment, see blessing endangered species 195, 197, 198

Index

energy (qi 氣) 11, 15 environment 177, 183n4, 184, 186, 191, 192, 193, 195n14, 208 – environmentalist 192, 193, 194, 195, 204 – né (Tib. gnas; Eng. power place, abode, sacred site) 188–191 – sacred landscape 181, 182–183, 184, 185–190, 191, 195n14, 198, 200, 201–204 – sacred mountains 181, 183n4, 191–194, 196, 204, 205 – territorial deities 183, 185, 186–188, 190, 191, 194 – territorial sovereignty 196, 198 – Tibetan environmental perspectives 191 see also Tibet environmentalist, see environment “evil cults”, see Religion evil cults sphere (xiejiaojie 邪教界), see spheres Falungong 159, 168, 179 – Li Hongzhi 168 Fazun 法尊 (1902–1980) 69 Film 127, 187 Five pillars (ibadat; wu gong 五功), see Islam foxue 佛學 (learning about the Dharma), see Buddhism foxueyuan 佛學院 (Buddhist seminary or Institute of Buddhist Studies), see Buddhism freedom of religious worship, see Religion functional spheres (in society), see spheres fundamentalism (religious), see Religion Galilei, Galileo (1564–1642) 128 Geomantic 182, 185 gezhi 格致 124 Guishan Academy (guishan shuyuan 龜山書院), see Education hīnayāna vinaya (xiaosheng jielü 小乘戒律), see Vinaya Hongyi 弘一 (1880–1942) 65, 66n44, 66n45, 67n46, 67n47, 68n51, 69n56, 73n71, 75, 76, 80

213

Hu Dengzhou 胡登洲 (1522–1597) 16 Hundred Days’ Reform (wuxu bianfa 戊戌變法) 104 Hu Shi 胡適 (1891–1962) 149, 152 Hui 回, see Islam human responsibilities (mualamat), see Islam humanistic Buddhism (renjiao fojiao 人間佛教), see Buddhism identity 3, 5, 16, 32, 37, 54, 56n4, 61n20, 103, 147, 160, 161, 162, 164, 175, 186, 188, 197, 198, 199, 201, 205, 206 imagined communities 161, 178 indigenization of religion, see Religion Imperial examinations (keju 科舉), see Education Institute of Vinaya Studies (lüxueyuan 律學院), see Vinaya Instrumentalism 148 intellectuals (zhishi fenzi 知識分子) 7, 25, 70, 96, 98n4, 103, 104, 131, 133, 135, 139, 182, 189, 193, 194 interdependence 98, 193 Islam – Five pillars (ibadat; wu gong 五功) 12, 19, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 29, 30 – Hui 回 11, 16, 32 – jing-tang 經堂 5, 11, 12, 14, 15, 16–19, 20n8, 20n10, 20n11, 21, 22, 23, 25, 28, 29, 30, 31 – Muslim religious scholars (ulama) 11, 12, 14, 17, 18n6, 20, 22, 32 – Islam sphere (yisilanjiaojie 伊斯蘭教界) 159, 162 – Islamic dietary law (halal; qing zhen 清真) 27 – Islamic law (shariah; lisheng 禮乘) 11, 12, 14, 19, 20, 23, 24, 25, 26, 28, 30 – Islamic jurisprudence ( fiqh) 12, 17, 18, 19, 25, 26, 29 – human responsibilities (mualamat) 12, 26, 29 – Quran 17, 18, 24 – (the) Real One (Tawhid; zhen yi 真一) 22, 25

214

Index

– ren zhu xue 認主學 (learning to know God) 17 – Sufi 11, 18, 19, 20n9, 24, 31, 33 – Sufi path (tariqah; daosheng 道乘) 18 – Threefold Oneness (sanyi 三一) 22, 24, 28 – Truth (haqiqah; zhensheng 真乘) 19 Islam sphere (yisilanjiaojie 伊斯蘭教界), see Islam Islamic dietary law (halal; qing zhen 清真), see Islam Islamic jurisprudence ( fiqh), see Islam Islamic law (shariah; lisheng 禮乘), see Islam Jiang Qian 江謙 (1876–1942) 105, 115 jiangxue 講學, see Buddhism jiao 教 (teaching, education, civilizing) 7, 106, 135, 138 – see also Education jiaoyu 教育, see Education jielü 戒律, see Vinaya jing-tang 經堂, see Islam Kang Youwei 康有為 (1858 – 1927) 43, 104, 147, 151, 153 karma (Tib. las) 182, 190 kexue 科學, see science Koselleck, Reinhart 1, 9, 135–137, 153 – see also Begriffsgeschichte (history of concepts) Legitimation, strategies of 123, 128, 129 Li Hongzhi, see Falungong Liang Qichao 梁啟超 (1873–1929) 36n4, 43, 52, 104 licentious worship (yinsi) 169 literati (wenren 文人) 14, 16, 100n11, 104 Liu Zhi 劉智 (1660–1730) 5, 11, 20–23, 20–31, 32, 33 Localized usage, see usage Lü Cheng 呂澂 (1896–1989) 69, 78 Ma Dexin 馬德新 (1794–1874) 5, 11, 20, 21, 29, 30–31, 32 Ma Zhu 馬注 (1640–1711) 5, 11, 20, 21, 24, 25, 30, 31, 32

māhayāna vinaya (dasheng jielü 大乘戒律), see Vinaya mandala (Tib. dkyil ‘kor; Skt. maṇḍala) 190–191 Marketplace model of religion, see religion memory, cultural, see culture Mencius, see Confucianism Methodological usage, see usage miaochan xingxue 廟產興學 (funding schools with temple properties), see Education Mining 187, 193, 195, 196, 198, 204 Military (Buddhist) education (junmin jiaoyu 軍民教育), see Buddhism Minnan Buddhist Seminary or Minnan Institute of Buddhist Studies (Minnan foxueyuan 閩南佛學院), see Buddhism minority-nationality religions sphere (minzuzongjiaojie 民族宗教界), see spheres missionaries 12, 17, 20n9, 48, 62n26, 62n27, 63, 136, 138, 147, 157n6 mixin 迷信 (superstition; blind faith), see Religion modern China, see China Mou Zongsan 牟宗三 (1909-1995) 36, 38, 39, 42, 43, 44, 46, 47, 49, 50, 51–54 Muslim, see Islam Muslim religious scholars (ulama), see Islam Nanshan vinaya (Nanshanlü 南山律), see Vinaya Nationalities Affairs Commission, see China Nationalities Identification (minzu shibie 民族識別), see China Nationalist (KMT) government, see China né (Tib. gnas; Eng. Power place, abode, sacred site), see environement Neixue yuan 內學院 35 Nenghai 能海 (1886-1967) 65, 66n45, 67n46, 67n47, 68n51, 69, 73n71, 75, 80 New Confucianism, see Confucianism New Culture, see Culture New Religion, see Religion New Religious Movements (NRM), see Religion

Index

New(-style) Sangha (xin seng 新僧), see Buddhism Newton, Isaac (1643–1727) 126, 128, 131 NGOs 157n5, 158, 208 (non-religious) education for the large society (shehui jiaoyu 社會教育 or gongmin jiaoyu 公民教育), see Buddhism Nuns’ education (biqiuni jiaoyu 比丘尼教育), see Buddhism Old(-style) Sangha (jiu seng 舊僧), see Buddhism Ordination 56n4, 59, 63, 65n36, 67, 69, 71, 74–78, 80 – dual ordination (for nuns) (erbuseng jie 二部僧戒) 67n50 – triple platform ordination (santan dajie 三壇大戒) 69 organic intellectuals 194 Original Buddhism, see Buddhism Ouyang Jian 歐陽漸 (1871–1943), see Ouyang Jingwu 歐陽竟無 (1871–1943) Ouyang Jingwu 歐陽竟無 (1871–1943) 35, 42, 51, 69, 75, 96, 98n4, 116 Padmasambhava 200–202 Pāli Buddhism, see Buddhism Pan-Asiatic Buddhism, see Buddhism Patriotism 113 People’s Congress, see China People’s Republic of China (zhonghua renmin gongheguo 中华人民共和国), see China Periodical, Buddhist, see Buddhism persons of the religion sphere (zongjiaojie renshi 宗教界人士), see spheres pilgrimage 19, 62, 63, 172, 178, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185, 189, 190, 191, 198, 204, 205–207 Popular religion (minjian Xinyang 民間信仰), see Religion Popular religion sphere (minjianxinyangjie 民間信仰界), see spheres prātimokṣa (jieben 戒本) 56n6, 57, 59, 67, 68, 71 PRC secularism, see Religion

215

Presbytarianism, see Protestantism principle (li 理) 11, 12n1, 15, 20n10, 23, 28 Protestantism 155, 159, 160, 162, 163, 164, 174 – Presbyterianism 163 – Protestant denominations 164 – Protestantism sphere ( jidujiaojie 基督教界) 155, 159, 162, 164 – Protestants, ethnically-Chinese 164, 165 – Three-Self Patriotic Movement 155, 176 Protestant denominations, see Protestantism Protestantism sphere ( jidujiaojie 基督教界), see Protestantism Protestants, ethnically-Chinese, see Protestantism pseudoscience, see science Qigong 气功/氣功 122, 127, 128, 133, 159, 166, 167, 168, 177, 179 – Qigong sphere (qigongjie 氣功界) 156, 157n5, 159, 166, 167, 168 Quran, see Islam Ramtha School of Enlightenment 127 (the) Real One (zhen yi 真一; Tawhid), see Islam Redemptive societies 159 Religion – Anti-religion movement ( fei zongjiao yundong 非宗教運動) 135, 138–140, 148, 150, 151 – “evil cults,” 168, 179 – freedom of religious worship 171 – fundamentalism (religious) 168 – indigenization of religion 31, 156n3 – Marketplace model of religion 129, 130 – mixin 迷信 (superstition; blind faith) 140, 149, 153, 171, 188 – New Religion 143, 144, 146, 149, 150 – New Religious Movements (NRM) 128, 131, 177 – Popular religion (minjian Xinyang 民間信仰) 76, 156, 169, 170, 171, 174, 175, 178 – PRC secularism 160, 161, 162n9 – “religion commons,” 156, 178

216

Index

– religion sphere (zongjiaojie 宗教界) 7, 8, 155, 156, 157, 159, 160, 161, 162, 163, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, 170, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 177, 178 – religion work 156n3 – “Religions Identification,” 160 – religious adherence 160 – Religious Affairs Bureau (zongjiaoju 宗教局) 170, 171, 172, 174 – religious associations 155, 162, 165, 176, 179 – religious authority 65, 184n5 – religious autonomy 174 – religious communities 1, 9n8, 165, 204 – religious field 88, 165 – religious institutions 170, 171, 177 – religious nationalism 161 – religious organizations (zongjiao tuanti 宗教团体) 166, 177 – religious personnel (shenzhi renyuan 神职人员) 113, 166, 177 – religious sovereignty 161 – three-colored markets (for religion) 169 – zongjiao 宗教 7, 135 – unofficial religion sphere 163 “religion commons”, see religion religion sphere (zongjiaojie 宗教界), see religion religion work, see religion “Religions Identification”, see religion religious adherence, see religion Religious Affairs Bureau (zongjiaoju 宗教局), see religion religious associations, see religion religious authority, see religion religious autonomy, see religion religious communities, see religion religious field, see religion religious institutions, see religion religious nationalism, see religion religious organizations (zongjiao tuanti 宗教团体), see religion religious personnel (shenzhi renyuan 神职人员), see religion religious sovereignty, see religion ren 仁 (humanity, benevolence, or compassion), see Confucianism

ren zhu xue 認主學 (learning to know God), see Islam Republic of China (Zhonghua minguo 中華民國), see China rites (li 禮), see Confucianism sacred landscape, see environment sacred mountains, see environment Saṃgha education (seng jiaoyu 僧教育), see Buddhism Saṃgha Education Associations (seng jiaoyu hui 僧教育會), see Buddhism Saṃgha sphere (sengjie), see Buddhism Saṃgha Study Hall (seng xuetang 僧學堂), see Buddhism Science 3, 6, 7, 47, 48, 63n28, 101n13, 103, 121–122, 123, 124–127, 128, 129–132, 133, 135, 141, 142, 144, 145, 146, 157, 167, 202 – kexue 科學 7, 124, 125, 129, 132, 157 – pseudoscience 7, 123, 124 – scientific discourse 121 – scientific language 7, 121–123, 124, 126n2, 129, 130, 131 – Scientism 3, 6, 7, 107n26, 116, 123, 124, 125, 128, 133, 145 scientific discourse, see science scientific language, see science Scientism, see science Scripture 3, 5, 6, 46, 56n4, 56n6, 58n10, 62, 67n47, 69n56, 75, 81, 82–87, 88–92, 94, 100, 112n37, 169, 199, 207 – Scriptural canon 82 – Scripture Distributor (Fojing liutong chu 佛經流通處) 86, 91 – Scriptural press (kejing chu 可經處) 6, 81, 84, 85, 86, 88, 89, 91, 92, 94 – see also Shanghai Buddhist Books (Shanghai foxue shuju) 上海佛學書局 Scriptural canon, see scripture Scripture Distributor (Fojing liutong chu 佛經流通處), see scripture Scriptural press (kejing chu 可經處), see scripture Secularism 143, 146, 160, 161, 162n9 – Secularity 152, 155n1, 156, 161 Secularity, see Secularism

Index

Socialism 112, 156, 160 – Socialist institutionalization 163 Socialist institutionalization, see Socialism shanlin jiangxue 山林講學, see Buddhism Shanghai Buddhist Books (Shanghai foxue shuju 上海佛學書局), see Buddhism Shengqin 聖欽 (1869–1964) 113, 119 siyuan jiaoyu 寺院教育, see Buddhism social activism, see activism Society for Confucian Religion (kongjiao hui 孔教會), see Confucianism Southern Buddhism, see Buddhism spheres (jie 界) 156–160 – evil cults sphere (xiejiaojie 邪教界) 168 – functional spheres (in society) 157 – minority-nationality religions sphere (minzuzongjiaojie 民族宗教界) 162n10 – persons of the religion sphere (zongjiaojie renshi 宗教界人士) 156, 162 – Popular religion sphere (minjianxinyangjie 民間信仰界) 174 – sphere-ization (of society) 157 – see also Buddhism, Catholocism, Daoism, Islam, Protestantism, Qigong, Religion sphere-ization (of society), see spheres spirit mediumism 170, 172 spirit mediumship 187, 188 spirit possession 171 Strauss, Leo (1899–1973) 39 study abroad (liu xue 留學), see Education su jiang 俗講, see Buddhism Sufi, see Islam Sufi path (daosheng 道乘; tariqah), see Islam summer retreat (varṣā) 67, 68n54 Swidler, Ann 125, 130 Systematic usage, see usage Taiping War 84, 85, 92 Taixu 太虛 (1890-1947) 6, 35, 36, 40, 43, 46, 49, 54, 55n3, 62, 63, 64, 65, 65n42, 66n44, 69, 72n67, 74, 76, 78, 79, 88, 98n4, 105, 107, 108, 111, 113, 115, 117, 164 Taiwan vii, viii, xv, 3, 4, 6, 8, 44, 54, 55n1, 70, 72, 73, 76, 77, 97, 98, 99n8, 101,

217

103n16, 105, 109, 110, 113–119, 121, 122n1, 125, 132, 149n7, 157, 160, 161, 165, 169, 170, 174, 175, 180 Taiwan fojiao zhongxuelin 台灣佛教中學林, see Buddhism Tanxu 倓虛 (1875–1963) 65, 67n46, 67n47, 68n51, 76 Tang Junyi 唐君毅 (1909–1978) 36, 42, 44, 47, 52, 54 Tao Feiya 陶飛亞 138, 148, 151n11, 153 Tao Xingzhi 陶行知 (1891–1946) 105, 118 Teaching for the Sangha (dui neide sengjiao 對內的僧教), see Buddhism Teaching (of the Sangha) for the laity (dui waide xinjiao 對外的信教), see Buddhism territorial deities, see environment territorial sovereignty, see environment Theravāda, see Buddhism Three Teachings (sanjiao 三教) 11, 20n8, 22, 24, 25, 29, 31 Threefold Oneness (sanyi 三一), see Islam three-colored markets (for religion), see Religion Three-Self Patriotic Movement, see Protestantism Three Principles of the People (sanmin zhuyi 三民主義) 111, 112, 113 Tiantai 天台, see Buddhism Tibet 62n27, 75, 80, 183, 184–189, 191, 194, 196–204, 205–208 – Tibetan Buddhism, see Buddhism – Tibetan environmental perspectives, see environment Tourism 177, 178, 194 Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM), see China “Treasure revelation” (Tib. gter ma) 186, 198–204 triple platform ordination (santan dajie 三壇 大戒), see Ordination Truth (zhensheng 真乘; haqiqah), see Islam United Front, see China unofficial religion sphere, see Religion Usage 7, 121, 123, 125, 126–128, 130, 131, 132

218

Index

– Localized usage 7, 123, 125, 126, 130 – Methodological usage 7, 123, 127, 128, 131 – Systematic usage 7, 123, 126, 127, 131 Vegetarianism 126, 202 Vinaya 55 – Dharmaguptaka vinaya (Sifenlü 四分律) 57, 66, 67n46, 71, 77 – hīnayāna vinaya (xiaosheng jielü 小乘戒律) 57, 58, 59, 63n32, 64n33 – Institute of Vinaya Studies (lüxueyuan 律學院) 108, – jielü 戒律 55 – Māhayāna vinaya (dasheng jielü 大乘戒律) 57, 58, 68 – Nanshan vinaya (Nanshanlü 南山律) 57n9, 66, 71, 72 waixue 外學, see Buddhism Wang Daiyu 王岱輿 (1570–1660) 5, 11, 20, 21, 22–25, 28, 30, 31, 33 Wang Enyang 王恩洋 (1897–1964) 95, 96, 98n4, 102n14, 109, 115, 118 What the Bleep Do We Know 127 Welch, Holmes (1924–1981) 35, 54, 62, 70–72, 79, 80, 85, 94, 102 work unit (danwei 單位) 163, 180 Wu Zunqi 伍遵契 (?-1698) 18, 33 Wuchang Buddhist Seminary or Wuchang Institute of Buddhist Studies (Wuchang foxueyuan 武昌佛學院), see Buddhism Xi Jinping 习近平 (b.1953) 156 Xiong Shili 熊十力 (1885–1968) 35, 36, 38, 39, 42, 43, 44, 47, 49, 50, 52, 54

Xu Fuguan 徐復觀 (1903–1982) 44, 47, 50, 54 xue 學, see Education xuefo 學佛 (practicing the Dharma), see Buddhism xuelin 學林 (Jp: gakurin), see Education xuetang 學堂, see Education Xuyun 虛雲 (ca. 1864–1959) 65, 67n46, 68n51, 75, 85 yang 陽 15 Yang Fenggang 杨凤岗 (b.1962) 135 Yang Renshan 楊仁山, see Yang Wenhui 楊文會 (1837-1911) Yang Wenhui 楊文會 (1837–1911) 6, 36, 42, 43, 45, 46, 52, 55n3, 62, 69, 76, 84, 85, 92, 93, 96, 98n4, 101n12, 104, 109, 118 yijing 譯經, see Buddhism yin 陰 15 Yinshun 印順 (1906–2005) 35n1, 36, 37n5, 40, 43, 49, 51–54, 64n35, 80, 98n4, 110, 115, 117–119 Yogācārabhūmi śāstra 69 Young China Learning Association (Shaonian zhongguo xuehui 少年中國學會) 148 Zhang Qing 章清 156n4, 180 Zhang Zhidong 張之洞 (1837–1909) 102n14, 104 Zhao Puchu 趙樸初 (1907–2000) 164 Zhennan xuelin 鎮南學林, see Buddhism zhong xuelin 中學林 (Jp: chū gakurin), see Education Zhu Xi 朱熹 (1130–1200), see Confucianism zongjiao 宗教, see Religion