Empire and the Meaning of Religion in Northeast Asia: Manchuria, 1900–1945 1107166403, 9781107166400

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Empire and the Meaning of Religion in Northeast Asia

Manchuria entered the twentieth century as a neglected backwater of the dying Qing dynasty, and within a few short years became the focus of intense international rivalry to control its resources and shape its people. This book examines the place of religion in the development of Manchuria from the late nineteenth century to the collapse of the Japanese Empire in 1945. Religion was at the forefront in this period of intense competition, not just between armies, but among different models of legal, commercial, social and spiritual development, each of which imagined a very specific role for religion in the new society. Debates over religion in Manchuria extended far beyond the region, and shaped the personality of religion that we see today. This book is an ambitious contribution to the field of Asian history and to understanding of the global meaning and practice of religion. is a leading scholar of religion in East Asian history and the author of Religion and the Making of Modern East Asia and Sacred Village: Social Change and Religious Life in Rural North China. His work has been published in Arabic, Chinese, and Russian translation. THO MA S DAV ID DUB O IS

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Empire and the Meaning of Religion in Northeast Asia Manchuria 1900–​1945 Thomas David DuBois

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University Printing House, Cambridge CB2 8BS, United Kingdom One Liberty Plaza, 20th Floor, New York, NY 10006, USA 477 Williamstown Road, Port Melbourne, VIC 3207, Australia 4843/24, 2nd Floor, Ansari Road, Daryaganj, Delhi – 110002, India 79 Anson Road, #06-04/06, Singapore 079906 Cambridge University Press is part of the University of Cambridge. It furthers the University’s mission by disseminating knowledge in the pursuit of education, learning, and research at the highest international levels of excellence. www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781107166400 10.1017/9781316711026 © Thomas David DuBois 2017 This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press. First published 2017 Printed in the United Kingdom by Clays, St Ives plc A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: DuBois, Thomas David, 1969– author. Title: Empire and the meaning of religion in Northeast Asia : Manchuria 1900–1945 / Thomas DuBois, Australian National University, Canberra. Description: New York : Cambridge University Press, 2016. | Includes bibliographical references.Identifiers: LCCN 2016045367 | ISBN 9781107166400 (hardback) Subjects: LCSH: Manchuria (China)–Church history–20th century. | Church and state–China–Manchuria–History–20th century. | Christianity and politics–China–Manchuria–History–20th century. Classification: LCC BR1290.M3 D83 2016 | DDC 200.951/809041–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016045367 ISBN 978-1-107-16640-0 Hardback Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Web sites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Web sites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

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Contents

List of Figures List of Maps List of Tables Acknowledgments Note on Romanization Introduction Manchuria: Land of Progress But Is It Religion? Manchuria in a Global World Sectoral Silos and Structural Resonance Neo-​empire and Spiritual Engineering Structure of This Book

1 Foundations of Religion in Society in Manchuria Political Religion before the Qing Dynasty Political Religion under Qing Rule Migration Conclusion: Faith on the Frontier

2 From the Blood of the Martyrs Violence and the Transformation of Religious Mission Catholic Mission to 1900 Protestant Mission to 1900 Boxers and Christians Mission Methods Following the Boxer Suppression God’s Kingdom Comes to Manchuria Mode, Moment, and Miracle Conclusion: A Time to Suffer, A Time to Prosper

3 The Mind of Empire Manchuria and Religion in the Eyes of Asian Social Science Indigenization of Social Science in Japan Social Science and Social Reform in China Universities in Manchuria: The Role of Institutions Japanese Social Science and Manchurian Religion Conclusion: Scholarly Formation of the Spiritual-​Imperial Self

page vii viii ix x xii 1 1 5 9 11 14 18 19 19 23 24 29 30 30 31 39 43 47 53 57 61 63 63 63 67 71 77 83 v

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Contents

4 Piety in Print Religion in the Pages of the Manchurian Press Commerce and Community Nakashima Masao and Japanese Journalism in China Religion and Social Reform: 1906–​1924 Reaching the Masses: 1925–​1935 Religious Patriotism and National Spirit: 1936–​1944 Conclusion: Marketplace of Ideas, Ideas in the Marketplace

5 The Laws of Men Law and Religion in Manchukuo Beyond Code and Church Precedents: Law and Religion in China and Japan Manchukuo: Rule of Law under an Illegal Regime Conclusions

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A Charitable View New Religions and the Birth of Public Philanthropy New Religions in Republican China Confucian Revival and the Turn to Charity Spread to Manchuria Conclusion: New Religions, “Redemptive Societies,” and Secular Charities. What’s Really in a Name?

7 Manchukuo’s Filial Sons Graveside Piety and the Transformation of Popular Practice State Perspectives on Confucian Ritual A Tale of Two Sons A Death Cult Lives On A Tomb to Remember Conclusion: Orthodoxy, Orthopraxy, or Something Else?

8 May God Bless Manchukuo Religion and Diplomacy in Northeast Asia Transformations of Catholic Mission in East Asia Developments in Manchuria Conclusions

Concluding Thoughts Discourse and Differentiation

Appendix Bibliography Index

85 85 86 87 91 95 100 106 108 108 108 109 114 129 131 131 133 139 149 161 164 164 165 170 180 183 185 187 187 188 198 209 210 210 216 219 242

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Figures

.1 Manchuria as sacred ground 1 page 3 1.2 Manchuria as a land of glamor and adventure 4 1.3 Japanese tourists posing in front of the St. Nikolas Orthodox church in Harbin 10 2.1 Conference of the Danish mission near Anshan in 1900 46 2.2 Catholic church towering over the surrounding farmhouses in Hulan, 1932 48 2.3 Students and workers of the Danish mission cholera station in Andong 53 3.1 Flags of Japan and Manchukuo fly over the front gate of National Foundation University 75 3.2 Students of National Foundation University on daily march 76 5.1 Postcard of the military cenotaph (literally the “loyal souls stele”) in Qingdao 125 6.1 Ceremony marking the 1905 repatriation of Red Cross workers to Japan 143 6.2 Front gate of the Tongshanshe Charity Hospital in Mukden (Shenyang) 144 6.3 Refugees arriving in Ji’nan during the 1928 famine 145 6.4 Rows of reed mats erected as temporary shelters for famine refugees 145 7.1 Confucian ceremony in Changchun 166 7.2 Artist’s portrayal of the war-​dead shrine in Xinjing 167 7.3 Postcard image of Filial Tomb 173 8.1 Left to right, Jean-​Claude Combaz, Archbishop Jean Pierre-​Rey of Tokyo, and Joseph Petrelli 196 8.2 Japanese kindergarten students pose beneath flags of Japan and Manchukuo at the Fushun Catholic mission, 1934 202

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Maps

1.1 Northeast Asia 1895–1934 2.1 Catholic missions in Manchuria, c. 1889 2.2 Protestant mission stations, showing the progress of the Manchurian Revival 7.1 Xinjing, showing the location of the Tomb of Filial Wang

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page 17 33 55 175

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Tables

.1 State of MEP missions in Asia, 1913 2 page 31 2.2 Chinese Catholics and adult baptisms in Manchuria 1872–​1899 32 2.3 Missions of the Scottish United Presbyterian Church, 1891 40 2.4 Progress of the Manchurian Revival 56 6.1 Meals served at WRSS soup kitchens in Beijing 147 6.2 Number of Daoyuan in Manchuria/​Manchukuo, by year 157 8.1 Leadership of dioceses in Japan 194 8.2 Ecclesiastic jurisdictions in Manchuria, 1928–​1945 200

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Acknowledgments

The most gratifying part of the writing process is finally being able to thank those who have proven so helpful, selfless and inspiring in the years it has taken for a book such as this to come to light. There are of course far too many people to mention by name, so I must stick with the highlights. The generosity of Chinese scholars never ceases to amaze me. Professor Guo Dasong of the Shandong Teachers University presented me with copies of his entire library of Daoyuan-​World Red Swastika Society publications. Professors Zhang Yang and Yu Qun of the Northeast Normal University in Changchun helped me to locate materials, including some of the original visual materials used in this book. Professors Li Shiyu (1922–​2010), the great master of the study of Chinese popular religion, and Pu Wenqi first introduced me to groups such as Zailijiao and Tiandimen, as they live and breathe in the villages of northern China. I gratefully acknowledge the assistance of state archives and libraries in Shenyang, Tianjin, and Changchun, the National Library of Australia, as well as generous access to academic library collections at Cornell, Hokkaido, Hong Kong, Tokyo and Waseda universities, and the Jilin Academy of Social Sciences. Among many others, I would like to thank my good friends and valued colleagues, Chi Zhen, Jack Fairey, Ryoko Nakano, Hu Wen, Luman Wang, and Hongyan Xiang, who graciously read and discussed sections of the text while it was in progress. I have benefitted from the insightful comments of Tomoko Akami, Robert Cribb, Prasenjit Duara, Gao Mingjie, Paul Katz, Lina Koleilat, Bruce Lockhart, David Ownby, and John Powers. I am especially grateful to Robert Antony, Raj Brown, Frank Dikötter, David Faure, Vincent Goossaert, and David Palmer for allowing me to present chapters of this book at workshops in Beijing, Hong Kong, Istanbul, Macao, Penang, and Taiwan. I have also benefitted greatly from the opportunity to discuss this book with scholars in Aichi, Renmin and Shandong Universities, the Australian National University, x

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Acknowledgments

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and especially at the National University of Singapore, where the great majority of this research was conducted. Just before the book went to press, a group of talented graduate students at the ANU graciously held a full-​day seminar to discuss the manuscript. Beyond improving the manuscript itself, this event also introduced me many new friends at the university. Nicole Faut helped me gather materials at the Maryknoll Mission Archives in New York. For her work on the text itself, Rebecca McSwain deserves to be mentioned in a category all her own. Earlier versions of some of these chapters have appeared in the American Historical Review, East Asian History and Minsu qüyi. Chapter  4 originally appeared in Thomas David DuBois, ed., Casting Faiths: Imperialism and the Transformation of Religion in East and Southeast Asia (Basingstoke, UK: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009). I am grateful to these publications for their permission to use revised versions of these materials in this book. My academic career has taken me far from my family, whom I miss terribly. It is always a highlight of my year to make the annual migration back to the USA to see my father David, sisters Alicia and Jennifer, and their families: Sean, Garrett, Quinlan, Griffin, Xavier, Dominic, and Camille. And also Spencer. Yes, even you, Spencer. Finally, there can be no one more deserving of thanks than Misako Suzuki. She is the love of my heart and the light of my life.

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Note on Romanization

Many of the terms used in the book could be read in Chinese or Japanese. In such cases, I have generally opted to Romanize following the language of the source. Characters and alternate pronunciations for important terms are included parenthetically. For the sake of readability, proper names mentioned in quotations are converted to pinyin. The exception are terms that are already well known in English in an alternate spelling (such as Chiang Kai-​shek, Manchukuo, Harbin). Macrons are omitted from well-​known Japanese terms (e.g., Tokyo instead of Tōkyō, Shinto for Shintō).

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Introduction

During the last decade three wars and a railway invasion have opened the minds of the Manchurians more than could be done by a cycle of western schooling. China is recognizing Manchuria as the theater for a political experiment for the whole empire, and is instituting, according to her lights, the best system of balancing the opposing interests of the Russians and Japanese and recovering her sovereignty. San Francisco Call, June 14, 1907



Manchuria: Land of Progress

Looking out at the world at the dawn of the twentieth century, it would have been hard to overlook the importance of Manchuria. Over recent years, China, Russia, and Japan had begun maneuvering for de facto control over the region, sparking two wars in the space of ten years. In the aftermath, the Chinese Qing government finally turned its attention to its neglected northeast, creating for the region a regular provincial administration, opening the door for a sweeping program of reforms, including the opening of more than 600 schools. Within a few years, progress on a number of fronts had exceeded even the most optimistic predictions. By the 1920s, the region possessed an enviable agricultural and industrial base, an efficient railway network connecting to one of the world’s great port cities, as well as a legal and educational infrastructure. From an underdeveloped backwater of the Qing, Manchuria had suddenly emerged as one of the most advanced and dynamic regions in Asia, if not the world. Progress in Manchuria was driven by a combination of opportunity and necessity. On the one hand, the promise of vast untapped economic potential prompted a steady flow of investment into industries such as transportation and mining, as well as a constant stream of migrants hoping to find a new life farming the black soil of Jilin, working in the collieries of Fushun, or carting on the dockyards of Dalian. Economic opportunity created boomtowns up and down the railway, which in turn allowed for next-​generation thinking in areas such as urban planning, public health, 1

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Introduction

and security. On the other hand, strategic competition gave these reforms a real urgency. The legacy of conflict between China, Russia, and Japan remained evident in the continued presence of the Japanese military in the Kantō 關東 Leased Territory and in garrison posts along the South Manchuria Railway. Conflict in and over the region was driven by both access to its resources and a strategic location that earned Manchuria such colorful monikers as the “cockpit of Asia” and the “cradle of conflict,” but the military race was only one of many engines that powered this dynamic region. Over the first half of the century, competition and innovation kept Manchuria at the cutting edge of a wide swath of enterprises ranging from soybean aggregation to avant-​garde literature.1 Beyond its strategic significance, Manchuria embodied multiple layers of iconic value. For many, it was a land of new beginnings. Like the American West, the rich Manchurian frontier had an appeal all its own. It beckoned to the adventurous and ambitious, to reformers and outlaws, missionaries and would-​be tycoons. It was also remarkably cosmopolitan. Northern cities such as Harbin 哈爾濱 were home to tens of thousands of Russians, many of whom were left stateless after the formation of the Soviet Union.2 Even as Russian influence waned, a current of Chinese activism aimed at affirming the city’s Chinese identity.3 Manchuria was Japan’s economic foothold on the continent, and after the war with Russia, many Japanese came to see it as the “lifeline” (seimei sen 生命線) of their nation’s security. As Louise Young has shown, the emotive and symbolic connection to Manchuria was often strongest for outside observers, those who never had and never would physically visit the region.4 It is this iconic value that the book seeks to capture by referring to the region as “Manchuria,” an anachronistic usage that even now evokes strong feelings, both positive and negative.5 1 Yoshihisa Tak Matsusaka, The Making of Japanese Manchuria, 1904–​1932 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2001). Norman Smith, Resisting Manchukuo: Chinese Women Writers and the Japanese Occupation (Vancouver: UBC Press). P. T. Etherton and Hubert Hessell Tillman, Manchuria, the Cockpit of Asia (New York: Frederick A. Stokes Co., 1932). 2 Olga Bakich, “Emigré Identity: The Case of Harbin,” in Harbin and Manchuria: Place, Space and Identity, ed. Thomas Lahusen (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2001), 51–​ 73, and Elena Chernolutskaya, “Religious Communities in Harbin and Ethnic Identity of Emigrés,” ibid., 79–​96. 3 James H. Carter, Creating a Chinese Harbin: Nationalism in an International City, 1916–​ 1932 (Ithaca, NY and London, Cornell University Press, 2002). 4 Louise Young, Japan’s Total Empire:  Manchuria and the Culture of Wartime Imperialism (Berkeley:  University of California Press, 1995). Mark R. Peattie, Ishiwara Kanji and Japan’s Confrontation with the West (Princeton University Press, 1975). 5 On the use of the term Manchuria, as well as the larger issue of territorial naming, see Mark C. Elliott, “The Limits of Tartary: Manchuria in Imperial and National Geographies,” Journal of Asian Studies 59, 3 (2000): 603–​646.

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Manchuria: Land of Progress

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The iconic value of the region was magnified by the 1932 creation of the client state of Manchukuo (滿洲國, literally the “Nation of Manchuria”). Hastily formed after the seizure of power by the Japanese garrison force, Manchukuo became a vast experiment in nation building, one that its framers touted to the Japanese public as a shining example of the new order in Asia. For Chinese south of the Great Wall, the loss of the region was profoundly traumatic. More than any event before the 1937 attack on China itself, it was the seizure of the Northeast and creation of the Manchukuo state that prodded public and political opinion in China to action. The significance of the region did not end at internal policy formation –​events in Manchuria were watched and felt on a global stage. The effects of Japan’s 1905 successful defeat of tsarist Russia reverberated across Asia and the world. The quieter record of innovation in Japanese Images of Manchuria

Figure 1.1. Manchuria as sacred ground: During the early twentieth century, sites from Japanese wars in Manchuria were reborn as a network of actual and imaginary battlefield tourism. Here, a former soldier makes a ritual offering for Japanese comrades who perished in the war with Russia. Meiji sanjū shichi-​hachi nen senseki kinen shashinchō [Photographic record of the Meiji 37–​38-​year war], Lüshun 1920, p. 11.

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Introduction

Figure 1.2.  Manchuria as a land of glamor and adventure: Postcards portray Japanese tourists “stepping lightly from boulevard to boulevard” as they visit the exotic sights of Harbin. Lafayette College East Asia Image Collection.

agriculture, commerce, and warfare was at least as important. Twentieth-​ century Manchuria was a laboratory of new ideas and practices: many of the developmental schemes that were instituted or attempted there were more advanced and ambitious versions of policies that had been put in place one or two generations earlier in China or Japan. The often contentious path to political development made the region something of a bellwether, and occasionally a trendsetter in addressing the big issues of the twentieth century. The fluid and contested status of Manchuria raised uniquely modern questions of legality and jurisdiction: the identity of stateless populations, the precise outlines of extraterritoriality and consular autonomy, and most notably the legitimacy of the Manchukuo state itself. Manchuria was a test case for the emerging international order, and the influence of precedents established there can be seen today –​most visibly in the absolute stance the current Chinese state takes towards issues of its own territorial sovereignty. Finally, just as in the political realm, Manchuria also had iconic value for social reformers and theorists far outside its borders. The attraction of Manchuria, and particularly of nominally independent Manchukuo, was the extent to which ambitious reforms enacted (or at least planned) there seemed to justify, exemplify,

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But Is It Religion?

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or contravene other global agendas of progress, however those might have been defined. While aware of the dangers that Japanese imperialism held for China, W. E. B. DuBois famously defended the externally reviled client state as more sincerely devoted than white societies to the ideals of racial harmony, adding that “a lynching in Manchoukuo would be unthinkable.”6 Whether the changes taking place there were seen as portents of good or of ill, Manchuria was a place to watch, and very much at the front lines of a number of global trends.7

But Is It Religion?

This book will discuss a different sort of frontier  –​the ways that the reconfiguration of social forces in Manchuria changed the meanings, practices, and institutions of religion. With young and relatively fluid political institutions, a cosmopolitan and mobile population, and high potential for material wealth, Manchuria beckoned to would-​be reformers of all stripes. Under a patchwork of competing regimes, it became a crucible and laboratory of competing agendas of political and social reform. Just as in other fields, the opportunity to build new institutions from the ground up drew the most ambitious social reformers, ideologues, and zealots, who saw in Manchuria a blank canvas upon which the spirituality of a new Asia could be given life. This book will examine religion as both a self-​contained and self-​identified entity, and as a counterpart to various ideas of state building and social reform. Within these two tasks, the idea of religion itself is the more clearly, if contentiously defined. This book originally set out to trace these definitions –​treating the social, legal, and practical definition of religion as one of the great innovations that emerged from the larger transformation of Manchuria. It soon became clear that even this very broad problematic was still too self-​limiting. One cannot understand the moving definition of what religion is without an equal understanding of what religion is not: those areas that are specifically defined as separate from, or unavailable to the experience, jurisdiction, or governance of religion. 6 DuBois also wrote that in Manchukuo the Japanese had created a degree of material progress that was “nothing less than marvelous” (Pittsburgh Courier, February 13, 1937), in W. E. B. DuBois, Newspaper Columns, ed. Herbert Aptheker (White Plains, NY: Kraus-​ Thomsen Organization, 1986), vol. I, 167–​168. Reginald Kearney, “The Pro-​Japanese Utterances of W.E.B. Du Bois,” Contributions in Black Studies 13, 7 (1995): 201–​217. 7 The best examination of Manchuria as symptom and expression of a variety of discourses of global transformation is Prasenjit Duara, Sovereignty and Authenticity: Manchukuo and the East Asian Modern (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2003).

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Introduction

Just as with religion itself, we must also face the problem of giving shape –​and especially a name –​to this realm of non-​religion, a process that is inherently problematic because it inevitably pulls towards the use of historical anachronisms. The term that is currently used for “religion” in both Japanese (shūkyō 宗教) and Chinese (zongjiao) is itself an invention of the late nineteenth century, as are many of the terms (such as secular or philanthropic) that derive in a relational manner from a particular image of where religion begins and ends. It is for this same reason that we must be careful in using these terms to describe a historical reality, but even more so why we cannot escape them in understanding the historical transformation that followed the formation of that reality. This terminological landscape –​along with all of its overt and implicit meanings –​existed and evolved in context. Changes to language and terminology gave structure to the deeper intellectual currents that defined what constitutes religion, the boundaries of its legitimate or illegitimate practice, and perhaps inevitably, the trajectory along which religion would develop within a modernizing society. Scholars have spent decades exploring these pathways that conceptually shaped and defined religion. Wilfred Cantwell Smith was one of the first to advance the idea that anything we might identify as religion is socially constructed, and thus subject to change. Jonathan Z.  Smith expressed a similar sentiment when he famously proclaimed religion to be “a product of the scholar’s study,” which is simply to say that religion as a social and experiential category is nothing more or less than what people imagine it to be.8 Even restricting ourselves solely to scholarly works, we find no shortage of essential and iconic definitions of what religion is and does. Marx dismissed religion as the “heart of a heartless world,” and more famously as the “opium of the masses,” while Freud called it mankind’s “universal neurosis.” The consummate modernist, Max Weber, anticipated that progress (not merely the theological rationalism of his own German Protestantism) would inevitably leave the world “disenchanted,” bereft of both mystery and idealism. At the other extreme, Martin Luther held religion to be the “wisdom born of personal experience,” while for Durkheim, it was the “collective effervescence” of the morals that any society holds dear.9 8 Wilfred Cantwell Smith, The Meaning and End of Religion: A New Approach to the Religious Traditions of Mankind (New York: Macmillan Press, 1963). Jonathan Z. Smith, Imagining Religion: From Babylon to Jonestown (University of Chicago Press, 1982), xi. 9 Karl Marx, Critique of Hegel’s Philosophy of Right 1834–​1844 (Oxford University Press, 1970); Max Weber, “Science as Vocation,” in From Max Weber:  Essays in Sociology, ed. H. H. Gerth and C. Wright Mills (New  York:  Oxford University Press, 1958); Émile Durkheim, The Elementary Forms of Religious Life (New York: The Free Press, 1965).

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Such ideas were developed in the context of Judeo-​Christian tradition, but took on particular significance in the ways that the Christian world historically came to understand and position itself in relation to its neighbors. Talal Asad first advanced the idea that Western portrayals of Islam might have less to do with an understanding or misunderstanding of Islam, and more with a changing point of reference on what Islam is not, i.e., Christianity. Peter van der Veer took this idea to its logical conclusion by examining closely the moment of colonial encounter, showing how British images of India often had very little to do with India itself, but were most clearly an expression of self-​perception in reverse: if British authors increasingly portrayed India as spiritual, superstitious, and exotic, it was only because they had simultaneously come to see themselves as rational, grounded, and a little bit dull.10 The definition of what religion is cannot escape the question of what it does: whether religion is a positive or negative force, whether it represents a society’s values or shapes them, and, most crucially, what will or should happen to it in the future. The intellectual interrelation of religion and society is quite clear in Western intellectual history, as one by one the great minds of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries addressed the big questions of religion, each in a way that was very much a product of the times in which they lived. When Karl Marx predicted that people would rise up to abolish the “illusory happiness” of religion, he was referring to the very specific social, economic, and political context of mid-​ nineteenth-​century Europe, one in which organized churches wielded far greater power than they would a hundred years later. Max Weber’s expectation of religion’s inevitable march towards rationality was very much conditioned by the modernist assumptions of the early twentieth century. Different still is the more recent critique of someone like Richard Dawkins, for whom the “God delusion” derives less from society than from the cowardly and dysfunctional brain. We thus see three authors each predicting the decline of religion, but doing so in very different ways, and for very different reasons. The only tie that unites them is that each was a man of his times.11 The legacy of underlying social assumptions is not restricted to religion’s detractors. A close look at the work of missionaries –​perhaps the most recognizable sort of religious advocates –​shows the importance of 10 Talal Asad, “The Construction of Religion as an Anthropological Category,” in Genealogies of Religion: Discipline and Reasons of Power in Christianity and Islam, ed. Talal Asad (Baltimore:  Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993), 27–​54; Peter van der Veer. Imperial Encounters:  Religion and Modernity in India and Britain (Princeton University Press, 2001). 11 Richard Dawkins, The God Delusion (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 2006).

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Introduction

understanding the often unspoken ideas that are inevitably carried along with religion itself. The obvious difficulty in doing so lies in separating the ideas of religion, for example as they are presented in scriptures, from the variety of political and social institutions that support religion in real life. Iberian missionaries of the sixteenth century, for example, carried with them the gospel, but they also brought national rivalries, as well as ideas of property ownership, political legitimacy, divine will, and physical modesty that appear nowhere in any sacred text, yet were nonetheless inseparable from the actual operational Catholic Church at the time. The picture of religious encounter as a complete package of ideas and practices becomes ever clearer over time. The historical spread of Christianity to the New World, of Buddhism to China and Japan, or of Islam through South and Southeast Asia was in each case inseparable from a much larger world of cultural transmission: the political, artistic, architectural, scientific, and commercial innovations that are even in retrospect often identified by their proximity to a religious tradition (e.g., “Buddhist medicine”).12 Nor does this more inclusive view of religion derive solely (to draw on the metaphor of the marketplace) from those on the “supply” side. Even as Protestant missionaries of the nineteenth century tried to draw a line between the task of spreading what most would have seen as the superior civilization of the West and that of spreading the word of God (an attempt seen in various iterations of the “gospel only” movement), it became clear that the two were in practice very hard to separate, not only for the missionaries but also in the minds of potential converts. The inseparable appeal of Christianity and progress (a blending to which Ussama Makdisi refers as “evangelical modernity”) was such that some reformers in nineteenth-​century China and Japan advocated the propagation of Christianity as a way of inculcating Western values, despite what was often an intense personal distaste for Christian theology, and in many cases, even for Christians themselves.13

12 On the early spread of Buddhism, see Arthur F. Wright, Buddhism in Chinese History (Stanford University Press, 1959); Erik Zürcher, The Buddhist Conquest of China: The Spread and Adaptation of Buddhism in Early Medieval China (Leiden: Brill, 2007); Richard John Bowring, The Religious Traditions of Japan, 500–​ 1600 (Cambridge University Press, 2005). On the spread of Islam to Southeast Asia, Merle C. Ricklefs, A History of Modern Indonesia since c. 1200 (Stanford University Press, 2001), and Mystic Synthesis in Java:  A  History of Islamization from the Fourteenth to the Early Nineteenth Centuries (Norwalk, CT: EastBridge, 2006). 13 Ussama Makdisi, “Reclaiming the Land of the Bible:  Missionaries, Secularism, and Evangelical Modernity,” American Historical Review 102, 3 (2007): 680–​713; A. Hamish Ion, American Missionaries, Christian Oyatoi, and Japan, 1859–​ 73 (Vancouver:  UBC Press, 2009).

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Manchuria in a Global World



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Manchuria in a Global World

In bringing these questions to early twentieth-​century Manchuria, this book has two separate goals. The first is to reorient the discussion of religion as a global phenomenon. As mentioned above, the extensive body of literature on the changing definition of religion is centered largely on or around the Christian world or, in the case of the imperial encounter, on the transmission of ideas from West to the non-​West, broadly defined. There are a number of reasons why this discussion requires a more complete approach. Even if the claim is never explicitly made by the authors, it is hard not to equate the historical imposition of Christianity or Christian-​derived models with an implicit Western triumphalism. Such is the charge behind Talal Asad’s critique of the Christian assumptions that underlie the academic discipline of religious studies, or to quote the title of Tomoko Masuzawa’s 2005 monograph, the idea that “European universalism was preserved in the language of pluralism.”14 Without seeking to deny the global influence of Western ideas and institutions, even a cursory glance at developments in Manchuria shows quite plainly the weakness of conflating the appearance of Western forms with any manner of discursive dominance or intellectual hegemony. Clearly, the institutional development that may have in some cases started in the West was also internally or independently incubated in China, Japan, and elsewhere, and continued on the ground in Manchuria itself. To take just one example of this truly global flow of ideas, the characteristic plural ethnicity policy that was instituted in Manchukuo after 1934 (summed up in slogans touting the “unity of the five races” gozoku kyōwa/​wuzu gonghe 五族共和) clearly drew on Western ideas of race (minzoku/​minzu 民族:  another neologism of roughly the same vintage), as well as administrative techniques of sorting and counting developed in places like British Malaya or the Soviet Union. Yet the Manchukuo ethnicity policy was equally beholden to native forms, such as Sun Yat-​sen’s multiethnic portrayal of the Chinese minzu (including his own idea of the “Unity of the Five Races”), and to transnational notions of collective unity such as the Japanese ideal of the “spirit of rising Asia” (xing Ya jingshen 興亞精神).15 Perhaps the greatest arbiter 14 Tomoko Masuzawa, The Invention of World Religions, or, How European Universalism was Preserved in the Language of Pluralism (University of Chicago Press, 2005). 15 On the development of ethnic policy in Qing and Republican China, see James Leibold, Reconfiguring Chinese Nationalism: How the Qing Frontier and its Indigenes Became Chinese (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007). Nor did this idea die with the widely reviled Manchukuo state. On the legacy in China, see Uradyn Erden Bulag, Collaborative Nationalism:  The Politics of Friendship on China’s Mongolian Frontier (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 2010), 236.

10

10

Introduction

Figure 1.3.  Japanese tourists posing in front of the St. Nikolas Orthodox church in Harbin. Lafayette College East Asia Image Collection

of all is the fact that whatever the provenance of these ideas, those who decided to adopt them into a political program did so because they found them appealing and useful. Western ideas of religion made their way to East Asia via the same pathways of circulated knowledge, layered indigenization, and conscious manipulation of concepts and institutions. Returning to terminology, it has already been mentioned that the Chinese word for religion (zongjiao) was repurposed from a Japanese neologism (shūkyō). The Japanese term was itself created in a very Western context: the writing and rewriting of treaties with a variety of Western powers in the mid nineteenth century. But this creation was a conscious and creative process: rather than slavishly coining new words to match a Western reality, the early framers of Japanese “religion” were carefully laying a conceptual framework that would allow them to include or exclude elements such as the Christian mission, or to cast them off into the newly created dumping ground of “superstition” (meishin/​mixin 迷信). In terms of historical causality, the mere adoption of terminology can tell us nothing definitive about the acceptance of an idea. In the same way that tourists could enjoy the ornamental value of Western religion on display in cities like Harbin, the creation of shūkyō reveals not the hapless absorption of Western ideas, but

11

Sectoral Silos and Structural Resonance

11

rather the critical sifting of those that were desirable, an in some cases, a savvy defense against those that were not.16

Sectoral Silos and Structural Resonance

The second goal of this book is to use the history of religion in Manchuria as a way to understand the circulation and elaboration of ideas. To do so, I have adopted some unique approaches. The first new approach is to broaden the discussion from ideas as they are expressed in discourse to those that are embedded in practice, that is, from what people said to what they did.17 Making this shift in emphasis has three advantages. First, it allows us to escape the problems of language (in a literal sense) and of intent. As cosmopolitan as Manchuria was, the ties of language and culture channeled people and ideas along fairly predictable lines: the Francophone Russian refugees who conversed with French missionaries, within the coterie of Japanese-​trained experts who traversed the seas between Dalian and Kobe, or among the Chinese intellectuals who remained culturally and linguistically tied to the provinces south of the Great Wall. This plurality of languages and language communities introduces the problem not only of untangling these many paths of transmission, but also of interpreting the intent that lies behind words, a problem that is particularly acute when trying to interpret values and meaning across communities. To take one example, what are we to make of a newspaper article written in support of some sort of social reform? The publication of such an article might be interpreted as evidence of broad popular sentiment in favor of the ideas being expressed. Conversely, given that the article intends to advocate, it might just as well indicate these ideas are not yet widely accepted. When this same article travels not within, but across communities, written in one language and published in another, the realm of possibilities becomes very different indeed. These questions are vital for understanding a place like cosmopolitan Manchuria, where the complex web of national, cultural, and linguistic identities adds a layer of complexity to the already daunting ambiguities inherent in the study of texts and social values. The second advantage of focusing on practice is that actions reveal a world of ideas that discourse alone cannot uncover. Looking for example at religious practice, the assumptions that are embedded in rituals of 16 Anthony C. Yu, State and Religion in China: Historical and Textual Perspectives (Chicago: Open Court, 2005). Jason Ānanda Josephson, The Invention of Japanese Religions (University of Chicago Press, 2011). 17 This perspective borrows obliquely from the work of Pierre Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice (Cambridge University Press, 1972).

12

12

Introduction

passage can speak more clearly than words about a society’s values, the criteria that underlie membership and merit, status and salvation. The meanings embedded in practice may be understood in conjunction with those voiced in texts, but often extend beyond them. Religious rituals might be supported by or make reference to a scriptural tradition, or they might not; they might contain an internal logic that believers understand in a manner that is separate from the scriptural tradition, or even in a way that runs counter to it.18 Third, an emphasis on action brings into view the logic of institutions, practices, and habits that seemingly have no connection to religion at all. Just as stories of saints and miracles carry meaning, so too do the vehicles –​oral and written, cultural and commercial –​by which these stories are spread. Benedict Anderson famously posited the development of print capitalism as a technological prerequisite for the development of nationalism.Yet while mass media facilitates the spread of ideas, it also reshapes those ideas to suit the medium: the type of nationalism that was spread was one that was well adapted to the new possibilities of mass culture. The same sort of logic will apply to the spread of religious ideas and practices. Thinking about the constraints of mass media, the most obvious criterion is commercial: a profit-​driven media model will naturally favor those aspects of the religious experience that have mass appeal.19 We approached the earlier example of the hypothetical newspaper article in terms of a binary between authorial intent and social value. But what about the editor who publishes it, or the advertisers who subsidize it? Clearly these other stakeholders are driven by a variety of motivations, of which intellectual commitment is but one possibility. A newspaper editor who features religion regularly need not be a zealot, or even a believer; he needs only to recognize in religion a commodity that will engage (either entice or disgust) a paying readership. The ways that religion features in mass media publications are dictated at least as much by the concerns of the market –​production costs, the number and nature of competitors, and the profitability of niche publications –​as by any other factor. This book is structured around the logic of institutions. While most treatments of this time and place will highlight the divisions created by the looming conflict between China and Japan, I argue instead that the values and necessities of institutions were at least as, if not more important than language or nationality in channeling the flow of ideas. The 18 I have explored the circulatory relationship between text, belief, and practice in work on spirit healers in Hebei. See Thomas David DuBois, Sacred Village: Social Change and Religious Life in Rural North China (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2005), 65–​85. 19 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities:  Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 1983), 37–​46.

13

Sectoral Silos and Structural Resonance

13

book is thus arranged around communities that are geographically and linguistically broad, but sectorally narrow, addressing separately the logic that dictated the unique development and expression of ideas by the commercial press, or within the distinct worlds of missionaries, social scientists, or jurists. One example of this approach is to treat the entire legal sphere as a specialized sector that is internally aware of a world of legal norms, values, and practices that extends beyond jurisdiction. Not only did jurists in China and Japan find ways to speak to each other (even if only indirectly), but both were also part of a legal community that was increasingly global, introducing opinions and ideas, and drawing on points of reference from court decisions, legal journals, and legal experts throughout the world. Even when their relationship was adversarial (which was by no means always the case), the communication of specialized interests shaped the legal sphere around a common set of questions, concerns, and points of reference into what linguists have called a discourse community.20 Unlike an epistemic community, which assumes broad agreement on goals and methods, members of a discourse community may disagree, but they do so in a way that is intelligible to each other, perhaps exclusively so. The utility of this idea is easily evident in cosmopolitan Manchuria, where the development of specialized communities meant that a lawyer in Changchun 長春 or a priest in Harbin might have more in common with professional peers in Tokyo, Beijing, or Paris than with their neighbors down the street. Scholars often refer to these individuated communities as pillars or silos, the image being that of two adjacent structures that do not touch. Yet these silos are not impenetrable. Certainly there was a great deal of common ground across groups, most obviously in the highly politically charged atmosphere that developed after the creation of the state of Manchukuo. It would be easy to see such convergence simply as a function of life under an ideology state. But some of these convergences were felt well beyond Manchukuo, and many crossed political lines. Just as the nature of specialized discourse created communities that transcended the boundaries of language and nation, something more than political force was allowing these ideas to resonate among sectors. Here again we must return to practices and institutions, both of which are able to convey ideas in a way that might not be open to discourse. Law provides a good example. Law is at once a system of regulations and a statement of norms. It is both highly situational, and grounded in values 20 J. M. Swales, Genre Analysis: English in Academic and Research Settings (Cambridge University Press, 1990). Peter Haas, “Introduction: Epistemic Communities and International Policy Coordination,” International Organization 46, 1 (1992): 1–​35.

14

14

Introduction

that aim to be transcendent. Laws that regulate commerce are thus based in conceptions of the rights and responsibilities of property ownership; marriage law expresses ideas about gender, reproduction, and the point at which the state has the right to breach familial autonomy, and so forth. When legal codes travel between countries, these transcendent values are carried and developed along with them. Thus, the spread of Roman law united the European continent in a common foundation of norms, values, and practices, despite the subsequent history of political conflict among its large and small powers. In the same way, jurisdictions that are ideologically diverse and even mutually antagonistic may still speak to one another by emulating one another’s institutions. Such borrowing need not even be conscious. Institutions that share similar imperatives may arrive independently at comparable conclusions, or passively share practical innovations. One example may be found in the way that people and groups are counted and classified. The Japanese enterprise in Manchuria was awash with numerate data. Even before the wars with China and Russia that marked the beginning of Japanese ascendancy, scientists of all stripes had already fanned out across the region collecting data on cropping patterns, mineral resources, topography, and human geography. In recording the ethnic landscape of Manchuria, these initial efforts made choices about classification that set a template not only for later field research, but also for the subsequent generations of scholars who would come to rely on their data. Although the Manchukuo government drew on these ideas when it established its characteristic ethnicity policy, its foundational assumptions were already fairly common currency across a wide cross-​section of society, both pro-​ and anti-​Japanese. It is thus no surprise that the ethnic structure voiced by the Manchukuo state was accepted and replicated across a variety of sectors.

Neo-​empire and Spiritual Engineering

Although this book takes transnational discourse communities as its basic unit of analysis, the formation of states and identities, and the conflicts among them, are obviously fundamental to the story. Following a brief introduction to the development of religion over the longer term, chapters will focus on the period from the late nineteenth century to the Japanese surrender and collapse of the state of Manchukuo in 1945. Over the course of this period, the region evolved internally, and was repeatedly contested by external forces. For most of their rule, the rulers of the Qing dynasty had attempted to maintain the region as separate from the Chinese heartland, drawing a line through what is now Jilin,

15

Neo-empire and Spiritual Engineering

15

north of which Han immigration was not allowed, and placing it under the administration of a special military governorship.21 The drawbacks of this separate and minimalist administration became clear during the later years of the nineteenth century, as Russia and Japan simultaneously began expanding their interests in the region. Seeking access to ports on the Pacific, Russia in 1896 gained a concession from Li Hongzhang 李鴻章 (1823–​1901) to build railways, initially east to Vladivostok, and later south through Liaodong 遼東 to the new port city of Dalny.22 Driven by both commercial and military interest, as well as fears of Russian expansion, Japan began strengthening national claims to largely neglected regions such as Hokkaido, and chipping away at areas of Qing weakness:  establishing power over the neighboring states that regularly brought tribute to the Chinese court, and later to areas of more direct Chinese control, such as Taiwan and Manchuria itself. It was this larger contest for regional control that led first to the Sino-​Japanese War in 1894–​1895, followed by another much bloodier war between Japan and Russia in 1904–​1905. When the dust had settled, Manchuria still remained Qing territory, but Chinese sovereignty and Russian influence in and around the region were substantially weakened. With possession of the railway from Kuanchengzi 寬城子 to the south, as well as a leasehold over the Kantō Peninsula and the city of Dalny (renamed Dairen), Japan was clearly the ascendant power. Japanese interest in Manchuria continued to expand over the next decades. While Japan directly administered its holdings in Kantō and along the South Manchuria Railway (Mantetsu fuzoku chiku 満鉄付属 地区), the fall of the Qing in 1911 saw the Northeast, already beset by weak internal security, come under the authority of Zhang Zuolin 張 作霖 (1875–​1928), a former bandit commander who at least initially enjoyed the support of the Japanese garrison. This arrangement did not last. The military reorganization of China under Chiang Kai-​shek 蔣介 石 (1887–​1975) and the rise of the Soviet Union as a credible military force in Siberia (eventually leading to border clashes in between the two) led the increasingly independent Kantō Army to take drastic action, first assassinating their erstwhile ally Zhang Zuolin, then in 1931 initiating a military assault that captured all of the major cities in a matter of weeks. With the possession of the region as a fait accompli, Tokyo diplomats engineered in 1932 the proclamation of Manchukuo, nominally under 21 For more background on the administrative transformation from Qing to the early Republic, see Dan Shao, Remote Homeland, Recovered Borderland: Manchus, Manchoukuo, and Manchuria, 1907–​1985 (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2011), esp. 49–​58. 22 For an account of these negotiations, see S. Yu Vitte and Avrahm Yarmolinsky, The Memoirs of Count Witte (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, Page & Company, 1921), 82–​104.

16

16

Introduction

the rule of the last Qing emperor Puyi 溥儀 (1906–​1967). The state itself never enjoyed much international support; its creation would be a key factor in the isolation of Japan from the international community, setting in motion the events that eventually led to total war in the Pacific. Much about the way Japan exercised power in Manchuria was indeed new. Bureaucrats pioneered the first Asian command economy based on heavy state investment and a quota-​based Five Year Plan.23 These practices would live on and continue to evolve after the Japanese surrender:  Chalmers Johnson famously theorized that Manchukuo represented the first iteration of the “developmental state” that would become the model for industrial growth in postwar Japan, Korea, and Taiwan.24 More broadly, Prasenjit Duara has made the case that the Manchukuo client state represented an early manifestation of a “new imperialism” that anticipated the bifurcated world of the Cold War.25 For our purposes the most significant innovation of Japanese imperialism in Manchuria was its social ambition. The task of empire building was inextricable from a larger project that aimed to unify and renew Asia, and for many, this pan-​Asian vision was predicated on a spiritual transformation.26 While other iterations of empire had coerced productive, political, and social behaviors, the Japanese vision of East Asia was initially more akin to nation building. Manchukuo was created as a state rather than a colony, not merely as a cheap attempt to distract foreign critics, but because the spiritualist claims of Japanese pan-​Asianism demanded the voluntary accession of a sovereign people, rather than conquest. At the same time that reformers in China were advocating moral transformation as the foundation of national rebirth, Japan’s aspiration for a new Asian order was expressed in transcendent (i.e., the “spirit of rising Asia”) if not necessarily confessional terms. Both employed 23 Kobayashi Hideo, “1930 nendai ‘Manshū kōgyōka’ seisaku no tenkai katei:  Manshū sangyō Gokanen Keikaku no jissi katei wo chūshin ni,” Tochi Seido Shigaku 44 (1976): 19–​43. 24 Chalmers Johnson, MITI and the Japanese Miracle: The Growth of Industrial Policy, 1925–​ 1975 (Stanford University Press, 1982). 25 Suk-​Jung Han has argued convincingly that Manchukuo was the inspiration for an enduring legacy in postwar Korea, while Prasenjit Duara has termed Manchukuo the first instance of a “new imperialism.” Suk-​Jung Han, “Those Who Imitated the Colonizers: The Legacy of the Disciplining State from Manchukuo to South Korea,” in Crossed Histories:  Manchuria in the Age of Empire, ed. Mariko Asano Tamanoi (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2005), 165–​183. Prasenjit Duara, “The New Imperialism and the Post-​Colonial Developmental State: Manchukuo in Comparative Perspective,” Japan Focus (January 30, 2006). 26 A great deal has been written on this larger question of the spiritual dimensions of pan-​Asianism. In addition to Duara’s Sovereignty and Authenticity, and Peattie, Ishiwara Kanji, see Peter van der Veer, The Modern Spirit of Asia: The Spiritual and the Secular in China and India (Princeton University Press, 2014).

17

International boundry Disputed boundry Approximate elevation (m.) 0

500

750

UNION OF SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLICS (1922)

1000

MANCHUKUO (created 1932)

Manzhouli M

China Qiqihaer Eastern Railway

P.R. MONGOLIA (1924)

Harbin

Changchun (Xinjing)

Hulan

Jiutai Vladivostok

Jilin South Manchuria Liaoyuan Railway Kaiyuan

REHE (occupied by Manchukuo 1934)

Tieling

Chifeng

Fushun Shenyang

Y Yingkou

Kalgan

Andong

Beiping

JAPAN SEA ya Pyongyang

Tianjin Cang

Lüshun Huanghua H Bin

Ji’nan

REPUBLIC OF CHINA (1912)

Dalian/Dairen

Penglai

KANTŌ TERR. (Leased by Japan 1895)

Yantai

CHŌSEN (Annexed by Japan 1910)

YELLOW SEA

0

120

Map 1.1.  Northeast Asia 1895–1934.

240

360km

JAPAN

18

18

Introduction

civic education and ritual in a way that confounded the notional division between the religious and the secular. To the extent that such programs aimed to modify public behavior, we might think of them as social engineering. However, the sort of personal transformation of hearts and minds that many had in mind for the new society in Manchuria was something deeper: it was spiritual engineering.

Structure of This Book

This book focuses primarily on the transformation from the late Qing to the fall of the Japanese regime –​from the late nineteenth century to the mid twentieth. It begins with an overview of the more distant past, introducing the changing ethnic and demographic makeup of the region, and highlighting themes and patterns in the political and social life of religion over the long term. From there, it leaves behind the linear narrative, and settles into a series of independent (although interlocking) stories. The subsequent four chapters introduce a series of specialized sectors:  missionaries, social scientists, jurists, and the press, in each case tracing the internal logic and institutional perspective that drove the interests of that community and shaped its ideas of and interaction with religion. Three subsequent chapters trace these perspectives as they evolved in the context of historical incidents: the crises that created philanthropy as a distinct civic sphere, a clash over interpretation of a popular funerary practice, and a diplomatic engagement between the Vatican and the new state of Manchukuo. To justify the claim that early developments in Manchuria anticipated and even shaped subsequent crises of globalization, the final chapter will examine how the themes developed in the book relate to the larger and later world. This book will advance the perspective that the unique configuration of forces in Manchuria  –​diplomatic ambiguity and porous sovereignty, repeated political transitions of questionable legitimacy, and the problems of forming cohesive social policy for a multiethnic state –​ all anticipate crises faced by the world in the second half of the twentieth century and that the legacy of political legitimacy based on the promise of social transformation uniquely speaks to the problems of the twenty-​first.

19

1

Foundations of Religion in Society in Manchuria

This chapter will briefly introduce the ways that religion was manifested in Manchuria up to the late nineteenth century. It does not aim to establish the existence of a “traditional” religion in Manchuria, but rather to outline some of the ways that the social, political, and geographic development of the region both shaped and was shaped by religion as it was lived and perceived. This influence can be seen at two levels. The first is the place of religion in political life. No less than elsewhere in East Asia, much of what we would in retrospect call religion in Manchuria was fundamentally the purview and responsibility of the state. Religion was a vehicle of patronage and performance, as well as the language of diplomacy. It gave elites in the region a creative medium through which to define their interests, and to express them in relation to the cultural worlds on their borders. The second level of significance was as a source of community and value within society, particularly during the high tide of migration from north China. Although parts of the northeast have been closely tied to and settled by Han Chinese for millennia, the speed and scale of the mass migration of the late nineteenth century were without precedent. Religious life among these newly established communities in many ways resembled that of northern China, whence most new arrivals hailed. However, rituals and structures of local religion took on new significance as a source of security in a new and occasionally hostile land. For the growing Han population in Manchuria, no less than for the Manchus, Mongols, or Koreans, religion was a vital marker of community and identity.

Political Religion before the Qing Dynasty

As previously mentioned, the name Manchuria is itself contentious. This book will use it in reference to the early twentieth century, because it reflects the usage at the time, including the connotations of separation 19

20

20

Foundations of Religion in Society in Manchuria

from China. Looking back further, the political and cultural identity of the region defies easy characterization. For most of its history, Manchuria sat at the confluence of two worlds: the Sinic-​influenced world of settled agriculture to the south, and the Tungic herding peoples of the steppe. Politically, the region was sometimes independent, and sometimes pulled into the orbit of neighboring kingdoms. Culturally, it was both cosmopolitan and distinct. Geographically, Manchuria consists of a wide central valley, surrounded on three sides by forested mountains. On the western border, the forest eventually gives way to elevated grassland and desert. The southern lowlands, particularly the wide plain where the Liao River empties into the sea, were home to advanced agrarian communities as early as 4000–​3000 BC, roughly the same time that proto-​Sinic cultures were developing along the Yellow River Valley. The Neolithic Hongshan 紅 山, and the bronze-​working Xiajiadian 夏家店 cultures, both in western Liaoning, eventually blossomed into advanced civilizations that resembled and communicated with (and perhaps in some ways preceded) those of the Chinese heartland, yet remained distinct from them culturally and politically.1 The region was repeatedly incorporated into Chinese polities. Near the end of the fourth century BC, much of what is now southern Liaoning was integrated into the state of Yan 燕, one of the many independent kingdoms of the Warring States Period (475–​221 BC), and eventually made part of the first unified China under the Qin 秦 (221–​206 BC). Over the next fifteen centuries, Chinese rulers would occasionally manage to establish a hold over southern and central Manchuria, but for much of the time the region was commanded by a series of independent or semi-​ independent kingdoms such as the Bohai/​Balhae 渤海 (698–​926), Liao 遼 (907–​1101), and Jin 金 (1115–​1234). A  reasonable claim could be made that each of these states was a part of, or a satellite of China, although Bohai and perhaps the most famous of these ancient kingdoms, Koguryŏ 高句麗 (37 BC–​698), are claimed energetically by scholars in Korea, as well.2 Chosŏn 朝鮮 (1392–​1897) Korea often served as an alternate center for the region’s trade and diplomacy, particularly during times of Chinese political weakness.3 1 Sarah Milledge Nelson, ed. The Archeology of Northeast China:  Beyond the Great Wall (London and New York, Routledge, 1995). 2 Andre Schmid, “Rediscovering Manchuria: Sin Ch’aeho and the Politics of Territorial History in Korea,” Journal of Asian Studies 56, 1 (1997): 30. 3 Donald N. Clark, “Sino-​Korean Tributary Relations under the Ming,” in The Cambridge History of China, vol. VIII, The Ming Dynasty, 1368–​1644, Part II, ed. Denis Twitchett and Frederick W. Mote (Cambridge University Press, 1998), 272–​300.

21

Political Religion before the Qing Dynasty

21

The frequent exchange of political hands belies the region’s ethnic complexity. Manchuria was home to a variety of peoples, various groupings of Mongols, Nurchen (later to be known as Manchu), and Qidan, among many others, who were culturally, ethnically, and linguistically more Siberian or Central Asian. The non-​Chinese population took many forms. Some such as the Qidan 契丹 founders of Liao were nomadic horsemen, expert at mounted warfare and hunting. Others practiced settled agriculture. Most spoke languages that were linguistically unrelated to Chinese, and retained cultural elements such as shamanism that harkened back to Siberian roots. Even as they adopted political forms and institutions from China, medieval kingdoms such as Bohai and Liao retained cultural and political elements of their central Asian heritage.4 Yet we should be careful not to exaggerate in retrospect a simple divide between Sinic and non-​ Sinic populations. Populations mixed, and boundaries were easily crossed –​courts dismissed as “barbarian” were culturally indebted to Chinese political systems, and many of the kingdoms that are remembered as Chinese dynasties, were in fact ruled by houses of mixed ancestry.5 Political religion in early Manchuria reflected this cosmopolitan character. Archeological evidence of Neolithic Manchurian cultures reveals an advanced ritual life that was in some ways unique, but also contained elements such as ancestor worship that resembled developments further south.6 The integration under Yan and later Qin of southern Manchuria into a Sinic political milieu introduced the world of classical Chinese moral philosophy and court ritual. A  few centuries later, schools of Buddhism and Daoism arrived as part of the package of ecclesiastic diplomacy that linked Chinese rulers with potential allies on the Korean peninsula and in Japan. In 372, an ambassador from the court of the short-​ lived kingdom of Former Qin 前秦 (351–​394) presented the Koguryŏ king Sosurim 小獸林 (d. 384) with a gift of Buddhist sutras and statues. The first monastery in the kingdom was completed three years later, and within twenty years, Buddhism was adopted as the state religion.7 In 644, King Pojang 寶藏 (r. 642–​668), also of Koguryŏ, dispatched envoys 4 Wang Chengli, Bohai jianshi (Harbin:  Heilongjiang renmin chubanshe, 1984). Nancy Shatzman Steinhardt, “Liao Archaeology:  Tombs and Ideology along the Northern Frontier of China,” Asian Perspectives 37, 2 (1998): 224–​244. 5 The frequent crossing of ethnic and political boundaries is the theme of Naomi Standen, Unbounded Loyalty:  Frontier Crossings in Liao China (Honolulu:  University of Hawai’i Press, 2007). 6 Sarah Milledge Nelson, “Introduction,” in Nelson, Archeology of Northeast China, 13; Guo Da-​shun, “Hongshan and Related Cultures,” ibid., esp. 37–​47. 7 Oikawa Giemon, Manshū tsūshi (Tokyo:  Hakubunkan, 1935), 57. Buddhism reached Japan under similar circumstances during the sixth century, when the Korean kingdom of Paekche sent sutras and a statue of the Buddha to the Japanese emperor in hopes

22

22

Foundations of Religion in Society in Manchuria

to the Tang court asking them to send Daoist priests and copies of the Daodejing 道德經.8 The rulers of Koguryŏ and Liao lavished patronage on both Buddhism and Daoism at home, paying for lavish rituals, as well as for monastic wanderings, the printing of gilt sutras, the founding and upkeep of large, landed monasteries, and the creation of some of the most stunning Buddhist art and architecture of the medieval world. As with practice, the grandeur and uniqueness of sacred architecture of the period reveals not only the depth of religious commitment, but also the deep mixing of Chinese and non-​Chinese cultures.9 At the same time, religious life in these courts remained in many ways distinct from that south of the wall. According to the History of the Three Kingdoms (Samguk Sagi 三國史記), the ritual regimen of the Buddhist Koguryŏ court also included sacrifices to nature spirits, to unique deities such as the Great Martial Spirit 大武神) as well as to the ancestral spirits of the ruling house (particularly the founder Ko Chumong 高朱蒙, known by the title Tongmyŏng wang 東明王).10 The political structure of Bohai relied heavily on shamans, and the Qidan Liao and Nurchen Jin, although devout Buddhists, were equally reliant on court shamans, and devoted to their own pantheons of nature and animal spirits.11 Official histories and excavated tombs paint a picture of a distinct ritual life among the Liao elite, including mourning and funerary practices that were sufficiently different from Chinese ritual life as to provoke comment (as well it seems as disgust) from Tang 唐(618–​907) observers.12 The regional political influence of the Tungic world peaked during the Mongol ascendancy of the twelfth through fourteenth centuries, and was followed by a period of Chinese reassertion under the Ming dynasty 明 (1368–​1644). The Ming ruled directly over much of southern Liaoning, ushering in a period of renewed prosperity that was reflected in a burst of temple construction of new temples and monasteries. Many of these new temples were devoted to characteristically Confucian deities, such as Guandi 關帝, Shennong 神農 as well as to Confucius himself.13 Some of the Buddhist institutions grew quite large: an account of sealing a political alliance. Daigan Matsunaga and Alicia Matsunaga, Foundations of Japanese Buddhism, vol. I (Los Angeles: Buddhist Books Intl., 1987), 9–​17. 8 Oikawa, Manshū, 58. As the Tang ruling house were also patrons of Daoism, this act also carried obvious political significance. 9 Steinhardt, “Liao Archaeology,” 224–​244. 10 Oikawa, Manshū, 57. It is worth speculating whether the title Tongmyŏng is itself a reference to the Buddhist tradition of Vidyārāja (radiant king) deities. 11 Ibid., 77–​83, 120–​122. 12 Steinhardt, “Liao Archaeology,” 224–​244. 13 Oikawa, Manshū, 286–​296.

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Political Religion under Qing Rule

23

from 1407 records new year celebrations at a monastery near Liaoyang 遼陽 at which 30,000 monks were in attendance. While not quite as well known as the more famous holy mountains further south, the Qianshan 千山 range in Liaoning is dotted with Buddhist and Daoist monasteries, many of which date from this period. Tibetan Lamaist Buddhism, which had been introduced by the ruling Mongols, remained prominent in Manchuria even after its decline elsewhere during the Ming.

Political Religion under Qing Rule

Although the Chinese influence in Manchuria had risen largely with the political fortunes of dynasties south of the Great Wall, it was the conquest of China by the Manchu Qing, and in particular the peace and prosperity created during their rule, that initiated the greatest period of sustained Chinese influence over the region. Culturally speaking, the Manchu conquest of China was in many respects a two-​ way process. Even before it crossed into Chinese territory, the Manchu military had included large numbers of Han troops, and once they had ascended the throne, the new emperors were anxious to conform to Chinese political expectations, employing most of the political institutions and idioms of their Ming predecessors. Yet at the same time, the new rulers were equally determined to preserve their own heritage, making a concerted effort to retain Manchu language, martial spirit, and customs among a political and military elite that was quickly won to Chinese ways. The ethnic complexity of Qing rule was reflected in the plural expression of political religion. To Han Chinese on both sides of the Great Wall, Qing rulers presented themselves first and foremost as Confucian monarchs. The devotion of early Qing emperors to Confucian learning is well known, and the expressions and institutions of Confucian governance were as visible in Manchuria as they were anywhere else. At the same time, the Qing also operated outside of the Chinese idiom, presenting an entirely different face to other subjects of their multiethnic empire. Like the region as a whole, political religion in Qing Manchuria was divided between these two worlds, one that looked towards China, and another that looked towards the traditions and peoples of the steppe. Nurhaci 努爾哈赤 (1558–​ 1626), the great unifier of the Nurchen tribes, had adopted Lamaist Buddhism to cement his alliance with the Mongols, and subsequent Qing emperors spent extravagant sums to build and maintain large lamaseries throughout their Manchu homeland. In addition to what was by all accounts a sincere devotion, the Qing embrace of Gelukpa Buddhism (including their alliance with the Dalai Lama) also

24

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presented distinct political advantages. Following the example of their Yuan 元 predecessors, Qing rulers presented themselves to Manchu and Mongol subjects in the idiom of divine rulership, as literal reincarnations of the bodhisattva Manjusri. They built large Tibetan-​style temples (including a copy of Lhasa’s Potala Palace) in their summer retreat of Chengde 承德 as expressions of piety that also served as unofficial embassies for Mongol and Tibetan emissaries.14 Finally, Qing emperors used tours and ritual performance to build a distinct mythos around the Manchu people and their homeland, celebrating the descent of Manchu people from a common ancestor, and their primordial tie to points on the landscape such as the imperial tombs at Mukden (Shenyang 瀋陽), and the Changbai 長白 mountains.15 Migration However deeply the Qing elite felt about the territorial and cultural integrity of Manchuria, their conquests south of the Great Wall had also opened the door to a wave of Han migration. Initially this was by design: in 1653 the first Qing emperor encouraged loyal Han Chinese to open up new farmland at the agrarian frontier.16 This policy was first qualified in 1678, when new migrants were restricted from occupying lands that had been granted to the Qing banner armies, leaving only 5,270,000 mu, roughly one sixth of the total land, available for new cultivation, and forcing remaining migrants into tenancy under Manchu or Mongol princes. The greatest changes occurred after 1740, at which point all unregistered Han migrants in Liaodong were ordered to return home. An edict of six years later banned migrant traffic through the Shanhaiguan 山海關 pass (the main land route) completely.17 Despite these restrictions, the Han population continued to rise, owing both to the prosperity of the legal population and to the ease of illegal immigration by land or sea routes. New migrants consisted primarily of poor peasants from the increasingly overpopulated provinces of north 14 On the circumstances of Nurhaci’s shift from Sakya to Gelukpa Buddhism, see Johan Elverskog, Our Great Qing: The Mongols, Buddhism and the State in Late Imperial China (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2006), 101–​104. On the personal devotion of Qing emperors, see Barend ter Haar, “Yongzheng and His Abbots,” in The People and the Dao: New Studies of Chinese Religions in Honour of Prof. Daniel L. Overmyer, ed. Philip Clart and Paul Crowe (Sankt Augustin: Institut Monumenta Serica, 2009), 435–​477. 15 Elliott, “Limits of Tartary,” 612–​619; Shao, Remote Homeland, 27. 16 Oikawa, Manshū, 303. 17 These laws were followed soon thereafter with a series of restrictions on movement within the interior, such as the 1777 ban on migration to Jilin. Komine Kazuo, Manshū: kigen shokumin haken (Tokyo: Ochanomizusho, 1999), 71–​74.

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Migration

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China, but also included a variety of people, such as merchants, smugglers, and bandits, each of whom was drawn to the unique opportunities to be found on the northeastern frontier. Even after the ban was enacted, the number of Han households in Fengtian 奉天 nearly doubled in the space of forty years, from 60,057 in 1741 to 115,194 in 1780.18 Over the nineteenth century, population pressure in north China pushed ever more illegal migrants to Manchuria, just as the dynasty was losing the ability to enforce its restrictions. From 1860s Penglai 蓬萊, a coastal city on the northern coast of Shandong that became a major seaport for departing migrants, Ida Pruitt described the forces that propelled young men to the Northeast:  “from almost every family, a son went to Manchuria to seek his fortune, for trade was in their bones, and the rocks of their homeland were bare.”19 While no reliable census of population exists for the nineteenth century, one investigation conducted soon after the 1859 opening of Yingkou 營口 estimated that 11 million of the 12  million people in Manchuria were Han. In 1894, the Qing government finally recognized the futility of further trying to stem the immigrant tide (as well as the necessity of shoring up its own sovereign claims in the face of foreign intrusion), and lifted the ban.20 The wave of Han migration tied Manchuria commercially and culturally to north China more closely than ever before. Han merchant houses facilitated an ever-​increasing trade of manufactures and cloth from throughout China in exchange for Manchurian specialty products such as furs and ginseng, and later for grain and the product that would become synonymous with Manchuria –​soybeans.21 Culturally, a variety of networks linked these new migrants to home communities in north China. Many of those who had left villages of Zhili and Shandong to migrate to Manchuria viewed themselves only as sojourners, with the intention of returning home once they had made their fortunes. Others sought to make a new home in the Northeast, bringing with them physical reminders of their native villages: such as a brick they would bury to represent the ancestral graves they had left behind. Like the Chinese who settled in Taiwan or Southeast Asia, migrants to Manchuria sought solace in a communal religious life, founding new shrines, which they inaugurated with temple incense ashes from their home villages. 18 Ibid., 71. 19 Cited in Thomas R. Gottschang and Diana Lary, Swallows and Settlers:  The Great Migration from North China to Manchuria (Ann Arbor:  Center for Chinese Studies, University of Michigan, 2000), 41. 20 Manzhou di zhi, 1894, cited in Komine, Manshū, 155–​156. On the Han advance into Manchuria, see Komine, Manshū, 145–​181. Adam McKeown, “Chinese Emigration in Global Context, 1850–​1940,” Journal of Global History 5 (2010): 95–​124. 21 On Manchurian products during the late Qing, see Komine, Manshū, 181–​206.

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Gazetteer accounts portray the religious life and customs among the Han in Manchuria as roughly the same as those of the North China Plain. In town and countryside, people kept largely the same calendar of ritual activities as was seen elsewhere: the “Clear and Bright” (qingming 清明) festival in the third month, the Mid-​Autumn Festival in the eighth, and the long series of rituals in the weeks building up to the Spring Festival. In the villages, peasants visited temples on set days, as well as during periods of crisis, such as drought, when they assembled to pray for rain (qiuyu 求雨). For rich and poor, townsman and peasant alike, the most important familial observances involved the care of dead ancestors, with elaborate funerals followed by a regular calendar of rituals and sacrifices. Other household rituals, such as capping and marriage, were also roughly the same as those seen throughout China.22 Many accounts of local custom mention the presence of healers, who were known by a variety of names, and who were largely similar to those one might have encountered in the towns and villages of northern China.23 Chinese religious life in Manchuria was shaped by the frontier character of much of the region. Prospering especially well along the front lines of Han migration were the networks of religious teachings and societies that offered both spiritual efficacy and (quite often) physical protection. These include a wide variety of voluntary, occupational, mutual aid, and criminal organizations, that were internally structured around a core of ritual life that was sometimes but by no means always secret. They also included the large variety of syncretic lay religious teachings that had been proliferating since the Song 宋 (960–​1276). These teachings are often associated with violence, as in the many religious uprisings of the nineteenth century, when charismatic religious leaders used apocalyptic visions and predictions to raise a military force. Both types of organization flourished among other groups of men working far from home  –​ coolies in Southeast Asia, silver miners in Yunnan, barge pullers on the Grand Canal –​because they offered both community and security. In the same way, Manchurian migrants imported and developed strong internal 22 While the calendar and practices of local religion vary greatly across China, certain patterns are fairly universal. See Susan Naquin, “Funerals in North China: Uniformity and Variation,” in Death Ritual in Late Imperial and Modern China, ed. James L. Watson and Evelyn S. Rawski (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), 37–​68 and Thomas David DuBois, “Local Religion and Festivals,” in Modern Chinese Religion: 1850–​Present, Value Systems in Transformation, ed. Vincent Goossaert, Jan Kiely, and John Lagerwey (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2016), 371–​400. 23 The compilation of gazetteers by Ding Shiliang includes over eighty from throughout the Northeast, most of which repeat largely similar accounts of local belief and customs. The more lengthy accounts come from the wealthier Liaoning province, and of these, that of the 1934 Fengtian tongzhi is the most complete.

27

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societies to protect themselves both from external predation and from chaos within their own ranks.24 The spread of ritual and religious organizations to Manchuria underscores the strong tie to northern China. Migrants to the region brought with them many of the religious teachings that had prospered in their home villages. Others were carried to Manchuria by missionaries. One common tactic employed by new teachings was to recruit eight disciples, one for each of the Eight Trigrams (ba gua 八卦), and send each in a cardinal compass direction. The Heaven and Earth Teaching (Tiandimen jiao 天地門教), which originated in the plains of northern Shandong province, spread through such a method. Ma Kaishan 馬開山, the disciple of the kan 坎 trigram, was sent to the north, spreading the teaching along the way through Hebei, Tianjin, and, according to sectarian scriptures, eventually through Shanhaiguan and into Manchuria.25 According to the Complete Gazetteer of Fengtian, the Primordial Chaos Sect (Hunyuan men 混元門), another teaching that originated in the same region of north China, attracted numerous followers in every county of Liaoning province.26 Ironically, government suppression of these sects in north China may have also promoted their spread, since sectarian leaders were often banished to the borderlands between Manchuria and Mongolia.27 One of the most widespread and influential sectarian teachings in Manchuria was the Teaching of the Abiding Principle (Zaili jiao 在理教). This teaching had originated in peninsular Shandong during the early years of the Qing dynasty, and was best known for its Confucian-​inspired moral precepts, and characteristic proscription of alcohol and tobacco. During the mid 1700s, the teaching became established in Tianjin, where it would eventually come to flourish on a par with the city’s many Buddhist temples, and from where it would spread throughout China.28 From its base in northern China, migration networks carried the teaching towards Manchuria. In doing so, they were retracing much earlier routes 24 The promise of physical protection (and opportunities for predatory violence) was a key feature of the Luo Teaching, which spread through the ranks of barge pullers and sailors of the Grand Canal. See Ma Xisha, “Evolution of the Luo Teaching and Formation of the Green Gang,” in Popular Religion and Shamanism, ed. Ma Xisha and Meng Huiying (Leiden: Brill 2011), 167–​206. 25 DuBois, Sacred Village, 163. On the use of trigrams as an organizational structure, see Lu Yao, “Guanyu Baguajiao neibu de yige chuanshuo,” Shijie zongjiao yanjiu 3 (1994): 202–​221. 26 Fengtian tongzhi, juan 99, cited in Yang Yulian et  al., Qingdai Dongbei shi. (Shenyang: Liaoning jiao yu chu ban she, 1991), 617; On the Primordial Chaos Sect in Hebei province, see DuBois, Sacred Village, 154–​156. 27 Richard Shek, “The Revolt of the Zaili, Jindan Sects in Rehe (Jehol), 1891,” Modern China 6, 2 (1980): 161–​196. 167. 28 DuBois, Sacred Village, 106–​126.

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of communication: some of the first disciples had hailed from Zunhua 遵化, on the mountainous border between northern Zhili and southern Liaoning.29 Just over three centuries later, a source from 1908 recorded a visit by the teacher Hongbin (鴻賓), from Penglai to Andong 安東, the same sea journey taken by tens of thousands of Shandong migrants.30 The transformation of the Abiding Principle Teaching in Manchuria illustrates the effect that insecurities of life on the frontier could have on the nature and purpose of religion. Although suspicious government officials tended to lump all sectarian teachings together simply by virtue of their illegality, this tradition was as a whole internally quite diverse, and even the same teaching could vary significantly from place to place. While in places like Tianjin the Abiding Principle had striven to emulate the respectability of monastic Buddhism, on the unsettled and often-​violent frontier it promised physical protection. In 1891, members of the teaching (along with those of the Golden Elixir Teaching, 金丹教 Jindan jiao) staged an armed uprising in Rehe 熱河, a mountainous region that straddles what are now Hebei and Inner Mongolia provinces. This event provides a glimpse into the unique attraction that sectarian teachings held for vulnerable Han migrants. In his study of the uprising, Richard Shek outlined the various threats these new migrants faced: exploitation by Mongol landlords, usurious lending practices of Han merchants, ruinous litigation from well-​connected Chinese Catholics (a phenomenon that this book will revisit), and the malfeasance of incompetent local officials. In these unsettled circumstances, routine confrontations could easily turn violent. As a result, while teachings such as the Abiding Principle may have entered Manchuria as “peaceful, innocuous, folk religious groups,” they quickly evolved into a much more militant form, incorporating elements such as anti-​Qing millenarianism, the worship of martial deities, and Daoist-​inspired martial mysticism. Once the teaching did take the plunge into open violence, it quickly adopted the standard hallmarks of sectarian rebellion:  a pretender to the throne, recriminations for past wrongs (including the murder of large numbers of Mongols and Catholics), sword-​wielding magical Daoists, invulnerability charms and rituals, and a religiously inspired ferocity among the rank and file soldiers that fought even Li Hongzhang’s best troops to a standstill. They became, in a word, exactly the type of religious militants that authorities always feared they would.31 29 Zhao Dongshu, Lijiao huibian (Taibei:  Zhonghua Lijiao Qingxin tang gongsuo, 1953), 227. 30 Ibid., 231. 31 Shek, “Revolt of the Zaili,” 191. Cecily McCaffrey, “Sects, Ethnicity, and Violence: The Revolt in Rehe, 1891.” Paper presented at the Asian Studies Conference Japan, Sophia University, June 23–​24, 2001.

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Faith on the Frontier



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Conclusion: Faith on the Frontier

The religious life of Manchuria reflects much of what characterizes the region as a whole. In both political and social manifestations, the religion of Manchuria was in some ways very typically Chinese. In other ways it was unique. Qing emperors were heirs to a much older tradition of political-​religious eclecticism that previous kingdoms had used to build bridges with Chinese, Korean, Mongol, and other courts, and to enhance legitimacy among a diverse and mobile population. The social life of Manchurian religion was shaped both by this cosmopolitanism and by the unique pressures of life on the frontier. Perhaps more so than in the densely populated villages of the North China Plain, the ritual life of the Northeast emphasized the bonds of security and solidarity, often ones that were maintained over large and difficult spaces. The new wave of migrants and sojourners that came pouring into the region during the late nineteenth century extended the geography of these ties even further, linking lives, aspirations, and ritual remembrance to distant ancestral villages, and to communities of fellow believers who might otherwise have remained out of reach.

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Violence and the Transformation of Religious Mission

Along with the arrival of migrants, another of the great changes of the late nineteenth century was the rapid growth of Christianity. The two processes were initially linked, as many of the new arrivals were themselves Catholics from a much earlier era of mission activity. The subsequent arrival of missionaries, French Catholics, followed later by Irish, Scottish, and Danish Presbyterians, brought with it a new configuration of forces within Christianity, as well as a variety of new idioms, practices, and resources that transformed the practice and conception of religion more broadly. The intellectual and political influence of these foreigners was felt far outside the circle of actual converts, so much so that it is easy to interpret (as many scholars do) the broader religious transformation of the twentieth century as nothing more than a euphemized and repurposed expression of Christianity. However, the transformation did not take place only in one direction. The missionaries undoubtedly changed Manchuria, but what this chapter will show is how Manchuria also changed the missionaries. During their initial decades, Christian missions in Manchuria experienced slow growth and significant hardship that caused both missionaries and Chinese Christians to focus on the theological nature of suffering, which they viewed as a gift from God, the mark of the true Christian, and the lifeblood of spiritual renewal. Both anti-​Christian sentiment and the idealization of stalwart suffering reached their peak during the Boxer Uprising of 1900. After that movement was suppressed, the political winds turned decisively in the missions’ favor, bringing a newfound sense of enthusiasm and optimism that in turn transformed both the experience of Christianity and the place of religion in society more generally.

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Catholic Mission to 1900

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Table 2.1.  State of MEP missions in Asia, 1913.

Catholics (thousands) Churches or chapels Foreign missionaries Native priests

Japan and Korea

China and Eastern Tibet Indochina

138.6 238 166 48

272.8 1,392 408 191

632.8 2,609 365 491

Western Indochina 132.6 451 199 42

India 324.1 1,048 207 67

Source:  “Society of Foreign Missions of Paris,” in The Catholic Encyclopedia (New  York: Appleton, 1907–​1913).



Catholic Mission to 1900

Having been largely overlooked during the initial phase of Jesuit activity in China, Manchuria properly dates the arrival of Catholic mission to 1838, the year the region was administratively separated from the diocese of Beijing and designated an Apostolic Vicariate, an ecclesiastical designation particular to mission fields. Through the Society for the Propagation of the Faith (Congregatio de Propaganda Fide), the Vatican placed the newly christened Vicariate of Manchuria under the authority of the French Missions étrangères de Paris (MEP). The choice of the MEP was a strategic one: the society had been created specifically to circumvent the hold of Portugal on mission fields in Asia, and as Table 2.1 shows, was well established in a string of sites stretching from India to Korea. As we will discuss in Chapter 8, the order also enjoyed significant, if sporadic support from the French government and public. The MEP initially supplied the new field with Bishop Emmanuel-​Jean-​ François Verrolles (1805–​1878), its first Vicar Apostolic, but relatively little else. Nearly three decades after his arrival, Verrolles remained one of only six missionaries in all of Manchuria. By that time, there were already around 8,000 Catholics in Manchuria, a number that probably had little to do with the mission itself: most Catholics had either emigrated from North China, or were converted by local Catholics themselves.1 The task for early mission was thus less conversion than gathering up and

1 Ji Li, God’s Little Daughters:  Catholic Women in Nineteenth-​Century Manchuria (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2015), 4–​10.

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Table 2.2.  Chinese Catholics and adult baptisms in Manchuria 1872–​1899. Year

Catholics

1866 1867 1868 1873 1885 1888 1889 1890 1891 1892 1894 1895 1896 1897 1898

–​ –​ –​ 8,672 12,618 13,126 13,943 14,220 14,352 15,075 16,844 18,061 19,189 22,149 25,000

Adult baptisms 81 126 82 97 351 312 988 510 518 535 852 1,290 1,529 3,180 4,006

Source: RAE, Manchuria, 1872–​1898

consolidating this base of indigenous rural Catholicism, and as Verrolles was quick to point out to his superiors back home, this small population was spread over an area larger than France. As a result, Verrolles and his colleagues spent much of their time on the road, regularly traveling circuits of hundreds of miles to visit outlying communities.2 During the 1870s, just over a decade after the 1858 Treaty of Tianjin officially opened the Chinese interior to foreigners, the mission began purchasing land and buildings in and around Niuzhuang, marking its first permanent foothold along the coast of southern Liaoning. During the early 1880s, the mission moved north, establishing stations in Jilin and Heilongjiang. The Church grew steadily, counting a few hundred baptisms each year (not including baptisms of infants in articulo mortis, i.e., at the point of death, which were always the majority) and, by the year 1898, a total population of roughly 25,000 baptized Catholics (Table 2.2). During that year, the Vicariate of Manchuria was divided into two halves. The two northern provinces were established as the Vicariate of Kirin (Jilin), while Liaoning, which would thereafter remain the heartland of the mission, was renamed the Vicariate of Southern Manchuria.3 2 Rapport annuel des évêques (RAE), Mission de Mandchourie, 1872, Emmanuel Jean François Verrolles. Archives des missions étrangères de Paris en Asie, Paris. 3 RAE, Manchuria, 1872–​1898.

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Vicar Apostolic Missionary residence Catholic church Catholic villagers

0

120

240km

Jilin (est.1898)

Yingkou

JAPAN SEA

YELLOW SEA

Map 2.1.  Catholic missions in Manchuria, c. 1889. Source: From French original, reproduced in Ji Li, “Measuring Catholic Faith in Nineteenth-​and Early Twentieth-​Century China,” in In God’s Empire: French Missionaries and the Modern World, ed. Owen White and J. P. Daughton (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), 173–​194.

MEP accounts consistently portrayed Manchuria as a uniquely challenging mission field and, it seems, with good reason. Bearing in mind that mission reports were to some degree an exercise in public relations, often ending with a plea for additional resources, it does seem fairly clear that the Catholic enterprise in late Qing Manchuria did perceive itself as especially vulnerable. The vast size of the region, which initially was meant to include Mongolia, along with the impediments of poor roads, frequently flooded rivers, and seasons of extreme cold stymied

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communication between dispersed Catholic communities, to say nothing of starting new ones. Banditry posed a particular problem. Public order, already weak in the mid 1800s, further deteriorated over the second half of the century. Missionaries and converts alike lived in constant fear of kidnapping along the open roads and of looting of houses and churches. A more sensitive problem, although one that was not unique to Manchuria, was the rising tide of anti-​missionary and anti-​Christian sentiment that occasionally threatened to spill over into violence against persons or property. The reasons behind this hostility are complex. Both missionaries and Chinese Christians found that they could fall victim to any spike in anti-​foreign sentiment, a problem easily compounded by entirely unrelated events. As tensions with Russia rose in response to the Ili Crisis of the early 1880s, Vicar Apostolic Constant Dubail (1838–​1887) wrote that “in the event of war, our vicinity to the Russian possessions is likely to put us in a difficult position. The Chinese, who are usually only too willing to make a Christian name a synonym for foreign, are not likely in this circumstance to distinguish between a Frenchman and a Russian.”4 Within a single community, Catholicism could be an extremely divisive force, especially when converts sought to decouple themselves from the religious obligations of family or village. Dubail mentions one fairly typical case in which local Catholics in Liaoyang were “unworthily persecuted” for refusing to contribute to the repair of a pagoda. The missionaries themselves had limited means to defend their converts. While missionaries in places like Shandong created ill will though their habit of aggressively intervening with local authorities, it seems that lawsuits were not a significant factor in Manchuria if only because the MEP missions lacked the wherewithal to pursue them.5 Indeed, according to most accounts, the greatest difficulty the missionaries faced in Manchuria was the hostility of local officials themselves. While many local officials did look favorably on the missions, others were either vocally anti-​foreign, or felt sufficiently secure in their positions to squeeze the missions for money. In one 1882 incident from the town of Hulan 呼蘭, just north of Harbin, the local commander first threatened French missionary Louis-​Dominique Conraux (b. 1852), demanding he surrender a parcel of land that he had purchased, and 4 RAE, Manchuria, 1880, Dubail; RAE, Manchuria, 1881, Dubail. 5 RAE, Manchuria, 1882, Émonet. Following the work of Chinese scholars such as Lu Yao, Joseph Esherick highlights the divisive nature of missionary interference in internal village disputes. Joseph Esherick, The Origins of the Boxer Uprising (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987), 83–​91. See also Ernest P. Young, Ecclesiastical Colony: China’s Catholic Church and the French Religious Protectorate (Oxford University Press), 47.

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then had him savagely beaten. Catholic delegates pursued the case for over ten years before an agreeable settlement was reached in 1894. Whatever the status of Catholic missions further south, the French missionaries in Manchuria always felt themselves to be at the mercy of local authorities.6 The threat of violence against missionaries peaked in times of crisis. Fears of hostilities with Russia reached the missionaries as rumors of an imminent massacre of Christians and foreigners. Rather than quelling these rumors, local officials often fed the flames, stirring up the populace against the missions. In 1880, Dubail wrote that even those “who up to that point had seemed favorable or at least indifferent, benefited from the rumors of war to raise their mask.” In a letter a year later he described the general cry among people and soldiers that “if we do not defeat the Russians, we will massacre the Christians and missionaries.”7 When war broke out between France and China a few years later, angry crowds responded by trying to burn the Catholic church in Yingkou.8 The 1892 uprising of the Teaching of the Abiding Principle, which raged across Mongolia and Rehe, brought sporadic bursts of anti-​foreign and anti-​Christian violence, as did the chaotic retreat of Chinese forces from Korea in 1895. Lacking sufficient supplies for their long march home, and embittered by their humiliation by Japan, bands of demobilized soldiers freely looted villages they passed along the way, exacting a special vengeance upon foreigners and Chinese Christians.9 The images of suffering and tribulation that permeate letters home tellingly reflect how the Catholics in Manchuria saw not merely their challenges, but also their purpose.10 The French in Manchuria frequently compared their own trials to those of the early Church:  an account from 1893 said of a murdered Chinese Christian that “his sufferings would form a page worthy of the annals of Rome at the time of persecutions.” Special emphasis was placed on the physical torment of martyrs. Recalling the incident at Hulan, an 1897 account described in vivid detail how Conraux was surprised by a band of soldiers, beaten and insulted, paraded in a cart through a screaming mob, and thrown bloodied and unconscious onto the floor of the magistrate’s compound (yamen 衙門). A later report goes on to describe the fate of his successor, Régis 6 RAE, Manchuria, 1882, Émonet; RAE, Manchuria, 1890, Guillon; RAE, Manchuria, 1891, Guillon; RAE, Manchuria, 1894, Guillon. 7 RAE, Manchuria, 1880, Dubail; RAE, Manchuria, 1881, Dubail. 8 RAE, Manchuria, 1885, Dubail. 9 RAE, Manchuria, 1891, Guillon; RAE, Manchuria, 1892, Guillon. 10 For an excellent analysis of how missionaries in China viewed martyrdom in relation to the spiritual warfare of the Church, see Anthony E. Clark, Heaven in Conflict: Franciscans and the Boxer Uprising in Shanxi (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2015), 65–​75.

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Souvignet, who calmly faced the mob of forty soldiers who beat him to death. His injuries are presented in gory detail that visually recalls the bloody and highly stylized accounts of Christian martyrdom (one work characterizes these as a “sacred pornography of cruelty”) that Catholic readers would have known well.11 After his beating, Souvignet was described as “covered in blood: he had received two wounds to the head and his cranium was open in two places; his kidneys, shoulders, arms and legs, all were ravaged.” Later, as he hovered between life and death, Souvignet was said to have been “penetrated with a holy joy,” knowing that he had emulated the sufferings of the Apostles, and with his blood rendered a service to his Lord.12 Even more than those of the missionaries themselves, tales of the torments endured by Chinese Christians were a prominent testament to the depth of their faith, and ultimately part of a larger mission strategy. Almost every report sent back to France during these years featured prominently the bravery of Chinese Christians, describing in detail not only their physical and mental suffering, but also the effect that these displays of faith had on others. One such account tells of a rich Christian villager who had refused to contribute to the construction of a temple, and was taken to court and tortured to death, refusing to renounce his faith, and answering all questions with the simple statement:  “I am Christian.” Another tale begins with a villager who had renounced his own Christianity, and proceeded to abuse his seven-​year-​ old son who remained faithful, refusing to perform rites at the family’s ancestral tablets. Hearing of this, the local priest visited the village and knelt before the man until he would agree to return to the faith.13 The willingness of Chinese Catholics, even very recent converts, to suffer for their faith was integral to Catholic identity, and was a particular point of pride vis-​à-​vis the expansion of Protestant missions during the 1890s. More than one report emphasized that while Protestant converts freely apostatized in the face of hardship, Catholics faced even death with serene and joyful faith. However, willingness to suffer was more than a point of pride; suffering also renewed the faith of the missionary, brought others to the mission, and would eventually bring the Chinese Church to spiritual fruition. Like the iconography of martyrdom, this particular understanding of the divine importance of suffering, expressed in the words of Tertullian 11 As a literary trope, such accounts harken back to the second-​century “Martyr Acts.” Keith Hopkins and Mary Beard, The Colosseum (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2005), 105. 12 RAE, Manchuria, 1897, Guillon; RAE, Pa-​Ien-​sou, 1900, Monnier. 13 RAE, Manchuria, 1891, Guillon.

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Catholic Mission to 1900

37

(160–​235) that “the seed of the Church lies in the blood of the martyrs,” originated with the earliest experience of the Church during the Roman persecutions. Sixteen centuries later, MEP missionaries describing their work in Manchuria echoed not only the same sentiment, but even the same agrarian metaphor. Closing a long description of the banditry, hostility, and harsh natural environment that the missions faced in the field, Bishop Marie-​Felix Choulet (1854–​1923), Vicar Apostolic of Southern Manchuria, reminded readers that such tribulations “are the daily bread of the missionary, and also the necessary condition which fertilizes his work.”14 Again echoing the tales of the early martyrs, stories of Chinese Christians joyfully enduring various types of cruel treatment for their faith often ended with the tormentors themselves being moved to convert. The story of the child who suffered beatings for refusing to abandon his faith ended with not merely the recalcitrant father himself, but the neighbors as well, becoming Christian.15 As such, the trials of the Church were seen as a gift from God, something to be sought out, rather than avoided. Again, this attitude is not unique to the Manchuria mission:  it resonates with the experience of the MEP in Indochina, and their public image in France. A  French publication covering the departure of a group of MEP missionaries for South China in 1858 refers to them somewhat prematurely as an “army of martyrs,” and praises the missionaries for “forsaking home, country, friends and family, to scorn the pangs of torture, cold and hunger –​to suffer solitude, imprisonment and the lash, rather than turn back from the task thus self-​imposed by religious conviction alone.”16 Missionary martyrs were honored after death: the MEP cathedral in Seoul held as sacred the relics of French and Korean Catholics killed during the violence of 1839.17 Clearly the image of the martyr’s crown had its appeal for the Manchurian mission, as well. Having himself escaped the sectarian violence of 1892, Laurent Guillon (1854–​1900) lamented that “perhaps we were not considered to be worthy to suffer persecution for the Name of Jesus.” (Guillon would in fact be killed eight years later during the Boxer Uprising.) Occasionally martyrs were marked with miraculous expressions of divine favor, albeit in a manner that might better fit Catholic expectations than Chinese ones. The encoffined body of the 14 RAE, Southern Manchuria, 1907. 15 RAE, Manchuria, 1891, Guillon. 16 Jean-​Paul Wiest, “Catholic Activities in Kwangtung Province and Chinese Responses” (PhD dissertation, University of Washington, 1977), 36. 17 James A. Walsh, Observations in the Orient: The Account of a Journey to Catholic Mission Fields in Japan, Korea, Manchuria, China, Indo-​China, and the Philippines (Ossining, NY: Catholic Foreign Mission Society of America, 1919), 91–​92.

38

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From the Blood of the Martyrs

villager who had been killed for not contributing to the village pagoda was unburied for eleven years while his wife sought legal redress. On the eve of the burial, the coffin was opened and the body was found to have not decayed. The missionaries, who no doubt saw this event in light of the Catholic tradition of incorruptible saints, proclaimed themselves astounded at the miracle, even hastening to cut off pieces of the burial clothing as holy relics. More importantly, according to Dubail’s letter, “the pagans, who were witnesses of this wonder, now approach our Christians with appreciation and appear prepared to embrace our holy religion.”18 Beyond this single instance, the miraculous was a frequent visitor to the Catholic missions. When in 1879, flood decimated the village of Bajiazi 八家子 (a majority Catholic village near Jilin), only the church building survived.19 On numerous occasions, water blessed by the priest was used effectively to cure illness, restore sanity, and dispel demons.20 Yet, although potent as displays of divine efficacy, miracles were on the whole not helpful. Rather, expressions of divine favor were taken as promises of salvation in the coming world, not the present one. Although the religion of the Christians was powerful, one was more likely to suffer for joining it than to benefit. In sum, the work of the MEP in Manchuria, despite some successes, always remained something of a shoestring operation, one that constantly struggled with shortages of manpower and money. By their own reckoning, they wielded little of the political influence enjoyed by many other Catholic missions. The MEP mission did have friends in official circles, including the Military Governor of Mudken, who in 1890 signified his good will by entertaining Guillon (newly installed as Vicar Apostolic) in his own residence. On the whole, however, the mission had little power to protect converts from hostile officials and neighbors, or to deliver anything more than minimal material relief in the face of plagues and famines.21 Nor, given the role of patient suffering in their own faith, would the MEP necessarily want to provide material incentive for conversion. When the Sino-​Japanese War of 1894–​1895 sent large numbers of refugees to the MEP missions in Korea, their response was to strengthen, rather than weaken the requirements for conversion, effectively turning away the majority of these applicants.22

18 RAE, Manchuria, 1891, Guillon. 19 RAE, Manchuria, 1879, Dubail. 20 RAE, Manchuria, 1880, Dubail; RAE, Manchuria, 1898, Guillon. 21 RAE, Manchuria, 1890, Guillon. 22 RAE, Korea, 1894, Mutel.

39

Protestant Mission to 1900



39

Protestant Mission to 1900

Protestant missions reached Manchuria somewhat later than the Catholics. The Scottish missionary pioneer William C.  Burns (1816–​ 1868) arrived in Niuzhuang in 1867, where he met a few Roman Catholic priests but lamented that in all of Manchuria, “the only representative of the Protestant churches is my solitary self.” Burns died in Niuzhuang 牛莊 the following year, but his work in Manchuria was soon thereafter taken up by the Irish Presbyterian Mission and United Presbyterian Church of Scotland in 1869 and 1871, respectively. These two churches would form the backbone of the Protestant mission to Manchuria, moving northward from stations in Yingkou and later from a central base in Mukden. By the close of the century, the two had established sixteen mission stations in Manchuria, with Irish efforts concentrated to the west of the Liao River and Scottish to the east.23 A smaller group of Danish Presbyterians, working in Dalian and along the Korean border, joined this coalition in 1896. At first glance the Scottish and Irish missions appear to have been at a distinct disadvantage compared to the MEP. By the turn of the century, the MEP was able to boast of over a million Catholics and nearly 1,500 European priests in their missions across Asia. While the Scottish mission had a scattering of outposts worldwide, the largest and oldest were those in North America (Table 2.3). In Asia it counted its converts in the hundreds. They were still ahead of the Irish Presbyterians, for whom Manchuria was the very first foreign mission. Yet the differences were in some ways not so great, and in others illusory. The Catholic missions were indeed older, but they like the Protestants had received their biggest boost during the early and mid nineteenth century. Like the MEP, the Protestant missions could rely on support from overseas. Both the Scottish and Irish missions had emerged on to the world stage energized by recent developments at home. The Scottish mission was formally organized in 1831, a time when “home and foreign mission work began together, the same wave of spiritual life upholding and carrying forward both.” The Irish call to mission came close upon the heels of the Ulster Revival of 1859, but its original missionary work had developed as an organized effort to counter the strength of the Roman Catholic Church within Ireland itself.24 The Presbyterian missions were also in the habit 23 Austin Fulton, Through Earthquake, Wind and Fire:  Church and Mission in Manchuria 1867–​1950. The Work of the United Presbyterian Church, the United Free Church of Scotland, the Church of Scotland and the Presbyterian Church in Ireland with the Chinese Church in Manchuria (Edinburgh: Saint Andrew Press, 1967), 27–​31. 24 William Blair, A Handbook of the History and Principles of the United Presbyterian Church (Edinburgh: John Cochrane, 1888), 90. Hamilton Magee, FiftyYears in the “Irish Mission”

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From the Blood of the Martyrs

Table 2.3.  Missions of the Scottish United Presbyterian Church, 1891.

Jamaica Calabar, West Africa Kaffraria, West Africa India China and Manchuria Japan

Founded

Membership

1824 1846 1797 1858 1861, 1873 1872

9,000 280 2,209 473 650 6,859

Source:  William Blair, A Handbook of the History and Principles of the United Presbyterian Church (Edinburgh: John Cochrane, 1888), 84–​99.

of cooperation, particularly with other Anglophone Protestants. Thus Scottish Presbyterians in Japan pooled resources with other missions to form the umbrella Union Church of Christ, which carried on their work even after the Scottish Japanese mission formally closed in 1883.25 As much as the Catholics, the Protestant missionaries found that their “pioneering days in Manchuria were days of hard struggle and persistent effort.”26 In contrast to the gentler weather and more accommodating culture they had known in their southern stations, the new missionaries characterized Manchuria as especially harsh and unwelcoming, albeit starkly beautiful and exotic. As did the Catholics, Protestant missionaries frequently compared their own struggles with those of the ancient Church. In such an environment, conversions were few, but for that reason all the more profound and noteworthy. One often repeated conversion story was that of Zhang Shen, who arrived at the doorstep of a mission hospital a “pitiable spectacle, worn out, miserably cold, penniless, suffering from dysentery, and blind.” After a month’s stay, in which his vision was partially restored, “Blind Chang,” as he was to become known to the missionaries, developed a strong interest in Christianity, and begged to be baptized, a request which was initially refused for fears that his conversion had been too quick to be meaningful. Undaunted, Zhang returned home and began preaching “about this religion of Jesus, going from home to home into as many houses as received him, and in the evenings preaching sometimes to hundreds under the shade of (Belfast and Edinburgh: Religious Tract and Book Society, 1900; William Gibson, The Year of Grace: A History of the Revival in Ireland (Boston: Gould and Lincoln, 1860). 25 A. Hamish Ion, The Cross and the Rising Sun (Waterloo, Ont.: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1990), 90–​91. 26 Fulton, Through Earthquake, 27.

41

Protestant Mission to 1900

41

willow trees … [S]‌ome blessed him, some cursed him, and the whole countryside was in an uproar.” Any reader of these accounts of Zhang’s “career of triumphant evangelism” would have immediately noticed its stylized similarity to the exuberant conversion tales of the early Fathers of the Church. Certainly the missionaries themselves drew the same parallel. As one depiction put it, “the account of Christian beginnings in Manchuria could no more omit Blind Chang than the story of the New Testament could omit St. Paul.”27 The reference to Paul was not merely cosmetic: the image of the sudden conversion of the Church’s erstwhile tormentor was a particularly meaningful one for the Protestant missionaries. Perhaps more than had the Catholics, the Protestant missionaries focused on the image of the heathen heart that naturally longed for God, and thus on the sudden, irreversible transformation that followed revelation of the gospel. Writing in 1903, the Scottish missionary John Ross (1842–​1915) refuted the common notion that the Chinese were too worldly to appreciate the depth of Christianity. Rather, he drew a much more sympathetic picture of those who sought God but had to make do with the poor substitute of Chinese mysticism. “Hidden away in private life, or in almost inaccessible ledges of higher mountains, many a man who has disappeared from public view to tend his wounded heart, who is ready to undergo any privation or cheerfully to encounter any hardship, which offers him hope, however faint, of attaining mental peace.” Ross presented these tortured souls as noble yet tragic. One such person had been “ever oppressed with a sense of an evil heart,” and left the world to become a Daoist hermit. Yet even after years of ascetic life, the man’s soul remained “torn and lacerated” and his face “a perfect image of utter hopelessness.” Another, a wealthy merchant who was “oppressed with wants which money could not satisfy,” plunged first into a life of Buddhist piety, and later ended up roaming the hills as a madman, calling to the heavens to have mercy on him. A third was equally “driven by an unhappy conscience” and had sought refuge first in Buddhism and later in opium. The first of these three cases ended sadly, with the Daoist continuing in his vain quest to “seek the cure of his wounded spirit.” The other two, however, end with the two men converting, suddenly and wholeheartedly, and spending the remainder of their lives as joyful Christians.28 A somewhat less stylized description of the same phenomenon comes from the Irish missionary 27 Ibid., 31–​32. 28 John Ross, Mission Methods in Manchuria (Edinburgh: O. Anderson & Ferrier, 1903), 13–​31. Wang Yingming, the latter of these two evangelists, is mentioned in Kenneth Scott Latourette, A History of Christian Missions in China (New York: Macmillan, 1929), 483.

42

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From the Blood of the Martyrs

F. W. S. O’Neill (1855–​1952), who noted simply that “many of the most sincere converts came from the Buddhist sects. Religion for them was not mere formal ritual observance or national custom. It was a thing of the heart.”29 Some missionaries went as far as to focus their efforts specifically on religious professionals, such as Buddhist monks and lamas.30 The Protestant missionaries tended to be more direct and aggressive than the Catholics in the dissemination of their spiritual message. Ross outlined his preferred method of wandering through town and countryside, visiting markets and temple fairs to preach and distribute pamphlets, which were free, and translations of the New Testament, which sold for a nominal price. A few decades later, New Zealand missionary Douglas Broughton followed in this tradition by simply purchasing a truck, which he equipped with a loudspeaker and filled with Christian tracts, and driving around western Manchuria preaching and selling bibles at each stop.31 Similarly, when the American evangelical Bruce Finlay Hunt (1903–​1992) was sent to preach among the Korean population in Harbin, he set straight to work. “First day, as soon as we got the family settled, I just began going door-​to-​door down in the area where the Koreans lived, and looking them up and preaching the gospel, asking them if they’re Christians.”32 The difference in tactics was at least in part a function of institutional development. Although MEP Catholics had distributed religious tracts in Japan, they discontinued the practice in China, both because they felt that the low rate of literacy made this tactic ineffective and, as they never tired of mentioning in their annual reports, because their mission was not nearly as well funded as that of the Protestants.33 Beyond these immediate concerns, these tactical differences reveal a more general divide between the Catholic ideal of establishing deep roots within select communities, and the Protestants, who sought to reach as many people as possible, as quickly as possible. From the outset, Protestant missions were more willing than the Catholics to decentralize their own mission organization and the task of evangelization. Since, in Ross’s own words, “every Christian, to the extent of his own ability and knowledge, was a preacher,” the Protestant missions felt no qualms 29 F. W.  S. O’Neill, The Call of the East:  Sketches from the History of the Irish Mission to Manchuria (London:  James Clarke, 1919), 36–​ 37. Further on, O’Neill confirms that this particular convert was in fact a member of the Primordial Chaos Teaching (hunyuan men). 30 Douglas B. Broughton, Mongolian Plains and Japanese Prisons (London: Pickering and Ingliss, 1947). 31 Ibid., 33, 37, 51. 32 Bruce Finley Hunt, interviews, 1980, 1982. 33 RAE, Manchuria, 1889, Noirjean.

43

Boxers and Christians

43

about relying on even very recent converts as native evangelists, even if it was occasionally necessary for the foreigner to instruct the “practical Chinese” on the importance of the “abstract right.” Indeed, Ross expressed incredulity at the idea that a Christian could not evangelize, and reserved special distaste for the Catholic converts who kept secret their faith: On one occasion I came into contact … with a quiet and apparently respectable Roman Catholic, who had been there fifteen years, and who declared that no one there knew him to be a convert. Of our own people I have never known one who would be as many days in a place without letting some people know of his Christianity.34

For their part, the Catholics were alarmed at the rapid spread of Protestant missions, but also quick to claim that Protestant conversions were lacking in depth and conviction. Particularly during the late 1890s, when the number of both Catholic and Protestant conversions began to rise, Catholic missionaries made gleeful note of the willingness of Protestant converts not only to apostatize in the face of pressure, but also to join the Catholic faith simply as a choice of conscience. Recalling the Catholic emphasis on joyful suffering, these same writings scoffed at the willingness of Protestant missionaries to abandon their flock in times of danger. Describing the restoration of order following the Sino-​Japanese War, Bishop Laurent Guillon of Mukden wrote how “the Japanese had hardly evacuated Liaodong when the Protestant ministers, whose bravery had disappeared in the face of danger, returned to the province in greater number than before, and were surprised at the many defections of their followers … to the infamous papism.”35

Boxers and Christians

The dawn of the twentieth century introduced sweeping changes to the conduct of religious mission in Manchuria. The century began with the Boxer (Yihetuan 義和團) Uprising, which brought the slow, piecemeal growth of Christian missions to a violent but brief halt, and was followed by a period of much more rapid and ambitious expansion. The uprising itself had spread seamlessly to Manchuria from its initial flashpoint in northern Shandong, and like the uprising of the Abiding Principle a few years earlier, it was directed largely but by no means exclusively against foreign and Chinese Christians. Nevertheless, the Boxers’ loss would prove the Christians’ gain –​the humiliating defeat of the movement and 34 Ross, Mission Methods, 91–​107, 115–​117, 130–​131. 35 RAE, Manchuria, 1891, 1892, 1896, 1897, Guillon; RAE, Manchuria, 1881, Dubail.

44

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From the Blood of the Martyrs

its official supporters initiated a cascade of political and social changes that transformed the landscape for all religious movements. When foreign missionaries returned to their old stations in Manchuria, they found former enemies among the official elite who were greatly chastened by the display of China’s weakness, and ordinary citizens of all classes who now appeared to take a greater interest in all elements of Western culture, not least Christianity. These new attitudes facilitated mission work, but also changed its nature. In this new atmosphere, missionaries were less inclined to emphasize earlier idioms of conversion, either suffering and martyrdom or the Pauline journey of faith in the face of internal doubt, and instead looked with optimism towards the coming of God’s kingdom in China. The Boxer Uprising was less an organized rebellion than a general explosion of violence that swept, seemingly without any real leadership, across a swath of northern provinces before converging on the cities of Tianjin and Beijing. The dominant narrative of the uprising has focused on the initial conflict between a particularly aggressive group of German Catholic missionaries and villagers in northwest Shandong. Without question the movement that these events sparked did turn violently against other missionaries and Chinese Christians. Yet there was more to the Boxers than reaction against Christians. Chinese scholars such as Lu Yao and Li Shiyu have downplayed the uniqueness of the Boxers, instead portraying the movement as part of a much longer tradition of Chinese religious thought that could and did mobilize in times of stress.36 The Boxer heartland of Hebei and Shandong, where rural overpopulation had been compounded by years of drought, was certainly under stress, which no doubt fed the ranks of the movement once it took off.37 Resentment against the Christians was only one of many contributing factors, and once the movement was unleashed, Christians were only one of many targets. The violence reached Manchuria in early 1900. In January of that year, residents around the port city of Yingkou (the port gateway for migrants arriving from eastern Shandong) were reported to be practicing the characteristic martial arts of the group. The following month, from nearby Jinzhou came reports of people calling themselves “spirit teachers” (shen shi 神師), and teaching martial arts and spells to crowds of eager youths. 36 Lu Yao, “Exploring the History of the Yihetuan,” in Popular Religion and Shamanism, ed. Ma Xisha and Meng Huiying (Leiden: Brill 2011), 255–​292. Li Shiyu “Yihetuan yuanliu shitan,” in Shehui lishixue wenji (Tianjin: Tianjin guji chubanshe, 2007), 413–​418. 37 On the particular social stresses brought on by drought, see Paul A. Cohen, History in Three Keys: The Boxers as Event, Experience, and Myth (New York: Columbia University Press, 1997).

45

Boxers and Christians

45

These reports further claimed that nine out of ten village youths were believers. By summer, as the movement reached its height, sporadic violence broke out throughout Liaoning, Jilin, and Heilongjiang. From May through August, bands of Boxers, often joined by the women’s contingent of Red Lanterns, or aided by Qing garrisons, burned foreign churches and missionary orphanages and hospitals. Prepared for a long siege, Bishop Guillon and hundreds of Chinese Catholics had barricaded themselves behind the stone walls of the Shenyang cathedral. When the Boxers proved unable to storm the well-​defended building alone, they brought in Qing artillerymen, who on July 2 set the building ablaze, killing all inside. Chinese Christians were a frequent target of attacks: Boxers burned the homes of Christians, and beat or killed many of their Christian neighbors with a vindictiveness that suggests a deep and long-​held animosity. In the Jin 錦 County town of Lianshan 連山鎮, a band led by sixty-​year-​old Wang Ziya 王子雅 killed the French missionary and eighteen Chinese Christians. According to a later confession, Wang personally dragged the Christian Huang Tingkui 黄廷奎 from his home, cut off his head, and hung it from the door of the church.38 Whether by attrition or death, the Catholic population of the Vicariate of Southern Manchuria, recorded as 20,050 in 1899, numbered only 14,500 one year later.39 Yet  although the violence that erupted in the summer of 1900 in Manchuria was in many ways connected to the anti-​Christian aims of the Boxer movement, it also demonstrated inspirations and motives beyond them. Much of the region, it will be remembered, had been swept up in a very similar sectarian rebellion just ten years earlier. Although some of the Boxer bands in Manchuria were indeed led by teachers hailing from the movement’s homeland of Shandong, the speed with which the violence spread through the Northeast shows that the seeds had already been planted long before the Boxers themselves appeared on the scene. The characteristic martial arts of the Boxers drew on much older traditions that pervaded the folk culture of north China and Manchuria.40 Other clues suggest that the violence of 1900 was an outgrowth of pre-​ existing sectarian organizations and a continuation of long-​ standing feuds. Boxers in the city of Jilin trained under a tricolor banner 38 For an overview, see Li Zhiting et al., eds., Dongbei tongshi (Zhengzhou: Zhongzhou guji chubanshe, 2003), 595–​600. The most detailed account is in Liaoning sheng dang’an guan, Dongbei yihetuan dang’an shiliao (Shenyang: Liaoning renmin chubanshe, 1981). On Wang Ziya, see 95–​102; for reports on property losses, see 115–​137. 39 A full account of the period of reconstruction is given in RAE, Southern Manchuria, 1909, Spangled. 40 Lu Yao traces origin Boxer martial arts to at least the later years of the Qianlong reign, a good century before the actual Yihetuan movement. Lu Yao, “‘Yihequan jiao’ gouchen,” Jindaishi yanjiu 2 (1995): 256–​281.

46

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From the Blood of the Martyrs

Figure 2.1.  Conference of the Danish mission near Anshan in 1900. Soon after this picture was taken, members of the mission fled by rail to Yingkou. Danmission Photo Archive.

emblazoned with the character for the kan trigram, suggesting that they followed the familiar sectarian technique of organizing according to the eight trigrams. Soon after the Boxers themselves had been suppressed, a yamen official (duyuan 督轅) in Tieling 鐵嶺 uncovered a pocket of the Primordial Chaos sect who he claims wrote charms, cast spells, and  –​ perhaps most alarmingly –​practiced a “heretical martial art” (xie quan 邪拳) called the United Six Fists (liu he quan 六和拳), a name that rather too closely resembled the United Righteous Fists (yi he quan 義和拳) of the erstwhile Boxers.41 The violence in Manchuria was not directed solely at the missionaries or Christians. There as elsewhere the movement was, in the words of veteran missionary Griffith John, only “anti-​missionary as it is anti-​ everything that is foreign.”42 Although Boxer violence in Manchuria was particularly intense in places that already had a history of anti-​missionary activity, it was equally directed at other foreigners, particularly Russians. 41 Liaoning sheng dang’an guan, Dongbei yihetuan, 248–​257. 42 Marshall Broomhall, Martyred Missionaries of the China Inland Mission: With a Record of the Perils and Sufferings of Some Who Escaped (London: Morgan & Scott, 1901), 10.

47

Mission Methods Following the Boxer Suppression

47

Throughout Manchuria, Boxers clashed with the Russian troops who garrisoned the China Eastern Railway, destroying railway assets, such as dormitories and warehouses, in addition to the tracks themselves. As was no doubt the case with much of the violence against Chinese Christians as well, the Boxer Uprising provided a convenient cover for settling old scores. Many of the Boxers who destroyed the tracks and offices of the Russian railways were themselves former railway workers, suggesting that they were motivated less by concerns over insults to the gods or the disruption of fengshui than simmering labor disputes. Boxers in Liaoyang burned a coal mine, most probably for the same reason.43

Mission Methods Following the Boxer Suppression

Whatever its causes, the violence of 1900 marked a pivotal point in the fortunes of the mission enterprise. Even if the movement was not exclusively anti-​missionary or anti-​Christian, both Catholic and Protestant missions would prosper in the wake of its suppression and the sea change these events produced in attitudes towards Western culture.44 By the time the dust of the suppression had settled, Boxer beliefs had been firmly repudiated, and the anti-​foreign officials who had previously worked to hinder the work of the missions now found themselves disgraced or severely chastened. Newly appointed Vicar Apostolic of Jilin, Pierre-​Marie-​François Lalouyer (1850–​1923), observed the change in official and public sentiment in his 1903 visit to Hulan, once notorious as an anti-​Christian city where three French missionaries had been killed during the uprising: Mandarins and soldiers came to my meeting. The vice-​governor sent his sedan-​ chair to meet me. It was thus in the chair of the highest authority of the country, that I made my entry in the famous town of Hulan … All the authorities of the city were present and the population had come as a crowd upon my passage. One no longer heard the cries of “death to the European!” and even read among the people a certain sympathy. Escorted by the authorities, I arrived at the Catholic residence, after having crossed the main road, decorated with silk as it would be to receive the viceroy of Qiqihaer 齊齊哈爾.45

Beyond such a change in attitudes, Catholic writings emerged from the Boxer years highly optimistic, almost euphoric, about the new opportunities to be had in Manchuria. In a way, the violence had benefited the missions by giving them much-​needed publicity, while the completion of 43 Li Zhiting et al., Dongbei tongshi, 595–​600. 44 A full account of the period of reconstruction is given in RAE, Southern Manchuria, 1909, Spangled. 45 RAE, Central Manchuria, 1903, Lalouyer.

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From the Blood of the Martyrs

Figure 2.2.  In this 1932 photograph, the Catholic church towers over the surrounding farmhouses in Hulan. Lafayette College East Asia Image Collection.

rail links and continued foreign troop presence made the entire region newly accessible to Europeans. Father Huchet of Mukden described the situation in 1903:  “This corner of the universe, formerly ignored, has begun to enjoy a certain celebrity. Mukden is no more than seventeen days from Paris, and the Trans-​Siberian brings all of us fresh news of our dear France. Many travelers arrive to us by this route: missionaries themselves follow it to go to the north of China.” Catholic missionaries voiced particular optimism that the bloodletting of 1900 would have beneficial effects on the spiritual foundation of the Chinese Church. Continuing his 1903 assessment, Huchet was quick to note that “from the spiritual point of view, the sorrows which we endured for three years have not been useless,” and employing the same agrarian metaphor seen earlier, added that the tree of the Church was already pushing forth new branches, and however “cruelly mutilated by the iron of the Boxers, it will grow to be more beautiful than ever.” Referring to the martyrs of the uprising, Lalouyer echoed the sentiments of his colleague in similar terms, “the ground which drank their generous blood cannot but produce an abundant harvest.”46 46 RAE, Southern Manchuria, 1903, Huchet; RAE, Central Manchuria, 1903, Lalouyer.

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Mission Methods Following the Boxer Suppression

49

Official hostility towards the West, while by no means dissipated, was tempered with a grudging recognition of China’s own weakness:  over subsequent decades local officials would alternately favor or frustrate the missionaries. Generally speaking, relations in the southern Vicariate of Mukden were better than those in its northern neighbor. A report from 1906 complained of a county official who encouraged a group of former Boxers to harass Christians, but such behavior appears to have been exceptional.47 In addition to the changes following the Boxer suppression, there seems to have been a practical desire to court the Catholics, based on the perception that the priests of the French MEP held sway with Russia. Lalouyer reported that as Russian forces fighting Japan advanced towards Mukden in 1905, the viceroy and “principal mandarins” came to welcome the presence of French missionaries as a measure of safety against the city being sacked.48 Writing in 1912, Father Louis-​ Marie-​François Lacroix of the Guangning 廣寧 mission in Jinzhou 錦 州 reiterated the warm relations his mission enjoyed with civil officials, noting that the magistrate had gone as far as to place a Christian in charge of the police force. From the Catholic village of Bajiazi, Father Eugène Chometon added the hopeful prediction that the newly founded Republic would feel “less antipathy towards that which is foreign, and by consequence, to the Christian religion. Christians will be able to hold literary ranks, to assume official burdens, to have some social influence.”49 In Jilin, relations with local officials began cordially enough but quickly turned adversarial. In his 1906 report, Lalouyer praised the military officials of Jilin for “showing sincerity and justice towards our Christians,” noting that a few months earlier, these same men had approached the mission to secure protection from retreating Russian troops. Such good will did not last long, especially after the 1907 institution of civilian rule introduced a wave of freshly appointed officials, many of whom were openly anti-​Christian. Following the Qing practice of rotating officials, these new governors were not natives of the area. Lalouyer wrote home about the governor of Qiqihaer, a southerner who had arrived with an open antipathy towards missionaries, and a desire “to destroy the Catholic religion if he could.” Although missionaries continued to complain that their charges could find no justice in official courts, the foreigners’ influence was now much greater than it had been a decade earlier, and they were by no means shy about using it. In Lalouyer’s own description, the “rapacity and injustice of the mandarins pushed the pagans to seek the protection of the 47 RAE, Southern Manchuria, 1906, Choulet. 48 RAE, Central Manchuria, 1905, Lalouyer; RAE, Central Manchuria, 1906, Lalouyer. 49 RAE, Southern Manchuria, 1912, Spangled.

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priest, born defender of the innocent and the weak.” Missionaries found this new power to be a mixed blessing, as they now faced the problem of people who wished to convert in order to “avoid tax, or to successfully conclude a lawsuit they have with their neighbor.” Official relations appear to have improved little by 1916, when an attempt by missionaries in a Christian settlement north of Harbin to organize a defense against bandits earned the “jealousy and hatred” of the civil authorities.50 The new atmosphere encouraged both Catholic and Protestant missions to expand the provision of social services, notably education. Already popular, Catholic schools were unable to keep up with demand. As early as 1873, Catholic schools in Manchuria had already enrolled over 700 students. Especially after 1900, these institutions had to accommodate an ever-​growing number of potential converts. In 1904, Lalouyer reported that the schools in the schools in Qiqihaer “were literally crammed with catechumens,” adding that “more than once I had to turn people away, because there was no place for them.”51 Beyond training converts, Catholic missions throughout Asia placed particular emphasis on primary schooling that combined catechistic and practical knowledge.52 It was hoped that primary education for children would anchor the sacramental life of the family, since “children would go to the school, and their mothers, in their moments of leisure, would learn their letters from the catechism.”53 This strategy produced very particular results: Ji Li has shown that rural women who gained literacy through their catechistic education remained more comfortable with the language of religion than with that of everyday life.54 Inclusion of language and practical subjects expanded the attraction of Catholic education, and was encouraged as part of a larger expansion of the educational enterprise particularly into the villages.55 For many officials, the benefits of Catholic education were sufficient to outweigh suspicion of the missionaries themselves. Many schools, such as the boys’ primary school in Kuanchengzi, applied for and received government accreditation.56 Writing from Mukden some years 50 RAE, Central Manchuria, 1906, 1907, 1908, 1910, 1916, Lalouyer. 51 RAE, Central Manchuria, 1904, Lalouyer. 52 Although no figures exist for the total population of Catholic schools in Manchuria, a comparison with MEP schools in Korea is instructive. In 1925, the mission counted a total figure of 8,699 Catholic children, of whom 5,772 were enrolled in primary schools. RAE, Seoul, 1925, Devred. 53 RAE, Manchuria, 1873; RAE, Manchuria, 1887, Hinard. 54 Li, God’s Little Daughters, 31–​44. 55 RAE, Southern Manchuria, 1906, Choulet. Elizabeth VanderVen, “Village–​ State Cooperation:  Modern Community Schools and Their Funding, Haicheng County, Fengtian, 1905–​1931,” Modern China 31, 2 (2005): 204–​235. 56 RAE, Central Manchuria, 1914, Lalouyer.

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51

later, Jean-​Marie-​Michel Blois (1881–​1946) bragged that owing to the “passion for studies of all kinds” the officials in charge of certifying schools “are not only ready to approve our proposals, they even ask us to open schools.”57 Although many officials were receptive to mission education so long as the catechetical element was expunged, government schools founded during the tide of iconoclasm after 1911 were not merely secular, but increasingly anti-​religious, and adversarial towards missionary education. In 1911, Lalouyer expounded upon the need to expand mission education, beginning with the foundation of a school to train teachers, “in order to prevent the Christian children from attending the schools of the government, where they are encouraged to give up their religious duties.”58 Government backing often came with restrictions. Just one year after the school in Kuanchengzi received its certification, Lalouyer was again complaining that “under the pretext of safeguarding neutrality, the Ministry of Education has come to lay down new conditions, inadmissible for our schools. The unavowed goal of the pagan authorities is obviously to stop the success obtained by the mission schools, to remove competition and to prevent the missionaries from using the schools to exert too great an influence on the youth.”59 The Protestant churches faced many of the same difficulties as they expanded their educational mission. Initial efforts in this area had focused on theological training for Chinese ministers, the first of whom was ordained in 1896. In the new century these efforts were supplemented by the construction of a ministry college for boys and a teaching school for girls. The greatest expansion appears to have been in elementary and middle school education, with many schools feeding their best students to mission colleges in Manchuria and Beijing.60 Like those of the Catholics, the educational efforts of the Protestant missions faced a mixed reception. Many officials were supportive in words and deed. The Irish missionary F. W. S. O’Neill describes a 1911 matriculation day at one of the mission schools, at which no less a personage than the Viceroy of Manchuria (sic) instructed the students “to be thankful to the Churches of Ireland and Scotland for their goodness. You are being taught true freedom. The freedom of the superior man is not the same as the spurious freedom of the mean man.” Perhaps more to the point, the school itself was built on land that the government had supplied at a

57 RAE, Southern Manchuria, 1922, Blois. 58 RAE, Central Manchuria, 1911, Lalouyer. 59 RAE, Central Manchuria, 1915, Lalouyer. 60 Alexander Mackenzie, Church and Missions in Manchuria: A Survey of a Strategic Field (London: World Dominion Press, 1928), 19–​23.

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deep discount.61 On the other hand, the importance of education meant that many were unwilling to concede the task to foreigners. This sort of resistance most likely existed from the outset, but would intensify during the 1920s, a time when, according to the Scottish missionary Alexander MacKenzie, the Manchurian Education Office began to assert the primacy of its authority over that of the national body in China. Writing in 1928, MacKenzie decried the conservatism of these local educational institutions (which continued to employ the classical language in Manchurian elementary education, when the remainder of China had long since shifted to using the vernacular), and noted that the expansion of government education specifically aimed to weaken the influence of the hold of foreign private schools.62 Both missions deepened their commitment to providing medicine and social services. The Scottish church had a particular commitment to medical services and training. The physician Dugald Christie (1855–​ 1936), the mission’s most celebrated alumnus, had run a small hospital in Shenyang since the 1880s. As will be discussed in Chapter 6, Christie and other doctors of the Scottish mission demonstrated their commitment to China by tirelessly treating victims of the 1910 outbreak of pneumonic plague. The following year, Christie expanded the hospital into the Moukden Medical College, which employed over a dozen Chinese and foreign teachers. The Catholics as well placed a strong emphasis on social services. Almost every mission station maintained at least one orphanage, hospital, or home for the aged. Catholic medical personnel were active during the plague outbreak, many at the cost of their own lives. By 1926 the Franciscan dispensary in Changchun looked after no fewer than 10,687 patients.63 The labors of nuns, in particular, were devoted almost exclusively to the provision of social welfare. In contrast to the Protestants, one of the primary purposes of the Catholic medical mission was to provide sacramental care, especially baptism. Under normal circumstances, baptism was intended only for mature converts who had undergone an extensive period of catechism. In most cases it was withheld until priests could be sure of the sincerity and depth of conversion; in his obituary, the Chinese priest Thaddée Bye was gently chastised for having “baptized too quickly without requiring serious training of his catechumens.”64 Yet in practice, the urgency of baptism was often seen to be more important than the preparation or 61 It is likely that the writer was referring to the provincial governor, the position of viceroy having recently been abolished. O’Neill, The Call of the East, 70–​71. 62 Mackenzie, Church and Missions, 19–​20. 63 RAE, Jilin, 1911. 64 RAE, Mukden, 1925.

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Figure  2.3.  Students and workers of the Danish mission cholera station in Andong. The station was part of the mission’s extensive medical infrastructure. Danmission Photo Archive.

even consent of the baptized; both the plague hospital in Jilin and the old age home in Mukden routinely baptized Christian and non-​Christian inmates alike at the moment of death, and at least one Chinese priest was attacked by villagers for having secretly baptized children.65

God’s Kingdom Comes to Manchuria

The optimism of the new century shaped not only tactics, but also the mentalities of missionaries and Chinese Christians alike. After many decades of insecurity, both Catholic and Protestant missions were sufficiently confident to plan for the long term, investing manpower and money into social institutions, in a sense leaving the task of evangelization 65 RAE, Jilin, 1911; RAE, Mukden, 1924; RAE, Mukden, 1926. The association of Catholic baptism with death ritual was such that in Korea (and likely elsewhere), even Protestants would approach a Catholic priest for the sacrament as they neared death. RAE, Korea, 1916.

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to take care of itself. But beyond such practical concerns, the unmistakable sense of optimism grew from the knowledge that the Church had passed through the trial that God had sent to test it. This sense was shared globally by missions and young churches, who anticipated being able to personally witness the work of mission brought to fruition. In places like Manchuria, where the trials had been keenly felt, this new dawn energized both missionaries and Chinese Christians with a new sense of purpose and anticipation. To be sure, ghosts remained from the previous years. Beyond the question of lingering external threats, there was the internal problem of what the effect the summer of Boxer violence had on the Church itself. This question seemed to hit the Protestants harder. The Presbyterian leadership met numerous times between 1900 and 1902 in order to assess the damage the Boxer violence had done to the Christian community. The leaders exhorted Chinese Christians not to seek revenge for acts of violence committed by their neighbors, and insisted that the question of financial compensation should be settled directly with the Qing authorities, without the intervention of the missionaries. It also addressed the more troubling problem of those Chinese Christians who had publicly recanted their faith, by subjecting them to unspecified discipline but not necessarily expelling them from the ranks of the Church.66 These and other lingering concerns were soon swept away in a movement that would become known as the Manchurian Revival. Originating with a meeting in Liaoyang during Spring Festival in 1908, the movement quickly spread to Protestant communities up and down the railway (Map 2.2 and Table 2.4), continuing well into the summer. Revival meetings were highly emotional, characterized by spontaneous public confession and conversion. Focusing on the influence of Canadian missionary Jonathan Goforth (1859–​1936), the Reverend D.  T. Robertson of the Scottish mission described the ebullient atmosphere in typical terms: [Goforth] began in Moukden. He preached for several days, portraying always the enormities of the thoughts and intents of hearts not truly regenerate. At length one day a yell disturbed the meeting, and the voice of an elder was heard shouting, “Thrice I  tried to murder my wife; three times I  put poison in her food!” Thereon rose men and women in every part of the church pouring out confessions of those sins which they had hoped to bury forever within them. The mission was carried round the land by Dr. Goforth or by the two Chinese missioners, always with the same results.67

66 Fulton, Through Earthquake, 44–​47. 67 Ibid., 48–​49.

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God’s Kingdom Comes to Manchuria

Mission Irish Presbyterian Danish Lutheran s United Free Church of Scotand

55

HARBIN Xicheng

Site of Fengtian Revival

Longjing

Siping Fakumen

Tieling

Xinmin

s Kaiyuan s Tonghua Tieling s s

(Jp .)

240km

Haicheng eng Suiyan S

S

Fengcheng Andong

E

Kuandian

Ō

s s

H

Jinzhou Niuzhuang zh

N

ENY SHENYANG

Guangning

C

120

Acheng Yushu

Jilin

CHANGCHUN 0

Hulan s s

JAPAN SEA

Piziwo Port Arthur n Tianjin

YELLOW SEA

Map 2.2. Protestant mission stations, showing the progress of the Manchurian Revival. Sources: F. W. S. O’Neill, The Call of the East: Sketches from the History of the Irish Mission to Manchuria (London: James Clarke, 1919); Alexander R. Mackenzie, Church and Missions in Manchuria: A Survey of a Strategic Field (London: World Dominion Press, 1928)

As a historical moment, the Manchurian Revival was part of a global movement, one that connected to a distinct intellectual lineage. The Manchurian Revival came quick upon the heels of a spike in global revivalism, including the Welsh Revival of 1904–​1905 and most strikingly, of the revival in Pyongyang just one year earlier. The trail of influences goes back to the missionaries themselves. An earlier tide of religious awakenings had actually peaked in the mid nineteenth century, sweeping the Anglophone

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Table 2.4.  Progress of the Manchurian Revival. Place

Date (Lunar)

Liaoyang Liaoyang vicinity Ashenhe Guangning Yushu Xinmin Xinkaihe Jinjiatun (Fakumen) Dawa (Changtufu) Kuanchengzi Kuanchengzi vicinity Chaoyang Jiangdian Tonghua Kuangqingmen (Shengjing) Kaiyuan Shengjing (Mukden) Tieling

1/​8–​1/​14 –​ 1/​15–​1/​22 1/​21 1/​25–​2/​1 2/​27–​3/​5 3/​1 3/​5 3/​23–​3/​25 2/​16–​2/​23 4/​18 3/​24 4/​1–​4/​3 2 5/​13 (twice) 7/​11–​7/​12 –​ –​

Source: Manzhou shengjiao fenxingji, 1908.

mission world, from Canada to Australia. Although by no means a single phenomenon, these movements clearly influenced each other, as well as the growing call to mission overseas. Looking back further, it is clear that the long history of revival in Scotland and Ireland exerted a palpable influence on Protestant mission in Manchuria. Accounts of the Six Mile Water Revival of 1625, the Cambuslang Work of 1725, and the Ulster Revival of 1859 all dwell on the power of the spirit to quicken the lapsed or cynical Christian, or to win converts from rival sects, most notably from among the Catholics. These accounts all emphasize both the spontaneity of individual conversion and the evangelical urge of those touched by the Spirit, including the prominence of lay preachers, those “uneducated labourers, who thought the thoughts and spake the words of those they addressed, moved the feelings of the multitude more than polished addresses from the clergy.”68 Although some among the missionaries were uncomfortable with the 68 Matthew Kerr, The Ulster Revival of the Seventeenth Century: An Instructive Chapter in the Early History of Presbyterianism in Ireland (Belfast:  Aitchison, 1859). Gibson, The Year of Grace.

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actual revivals themselves, the emphasis on spontaneous and heartfelt expression was foundational to the narrative of mission in Manchuria. It is a short bridge from the approving depiction of lay preachers in Ulster to the conversion stories of uneducated Chinese converts like Blind Chang.69 At the same time, the very nature of the movement makes it difficult to establish a direct relationship to events in Ireland or elsewhere. Accounts of the revivals in Europe and America uniformly emphasize the spontaneity of such events: they happen when and where they are needed, they cannot be predicted or created, and no two are alike. The only necessary factor is divine providence, which is unmistakable to those moved by the Spirit. As one chronicler of Irish revival put it “none needs be told what a revival of religion is.”70 Although the pace of communication clearly facilitated replication of the revival form throughout the Anglophone Christian world, these influences followed a number of distinct paths. While the 1905 Welsh Revival clearly inspired the movements that sprang up in New Zealand and Australia, the 1907 Korean Pyongyang Revival shows the influence of Methodists from the United States and Canada. Jonathan Goforth, who is often credited with initiating the movement in Manchuria, was himself inspired by events in Korea, and by the works of American evangelist Robert Finney.71 Perhaps most importantly, when the revival did finally take off in Manchuria, it was spread primarily not by missionaries, but by Chinese Christians.

Mode, Moment, and Miracle

The difficulty of establishing clear causal ties that link revivals globally itself raises the question of whether moments like the Manchurian Revival are better viewed not as a thread of intellectual history, but rather as a mode of religious understanding and belonging. Seen in this light, the sudden burst of enthusiasm of the Manchurian Revival might be larger than the Protestants, or even than Christianity itself: as a leaderless movement that thrived on direct connection to the divine, the revival bears more than a passing resemblance to the Boxers of just a few years earlier. As a form, bursts of religious enthusiasm like the Manchurian Revival follow familiar patterns. In their landmark work on the theory of 69 The validity of revivals was a point of significant disagreement between individuals and congregations, and even the sympathetic expressed the concern that the emotion of the moment could mask a weak understanding. W. T. Latimer, A History of the Irish Presbyterians (Belfast: J. Cleeland, 1902), 203, 220. 70 Kerr, Ulster Revival, 9–​13. 71 Jonathan Goforth, By My Spirit (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 1942).

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religious rational choice, Stark and Bainbridge present religious revival as a response to downward pressure, specifically to external suppression. Religious longing being a natural human instinct, the emergence of religious populism will prevent society from ever truly leaving religion behind.72 This rationalist explanation can be adapted to fit many of the historical revivals that preceded events in Manchuria: revivals in Scotland and Ireland were reactions against what many saw as an excess of control within the Church itself. The Pyongyang Revival, and the turn to Christianity in Korea more generally, are often attributed to the stresses of the Japanese Protectorate, established in 1905.73 At the same time, the revival in Manchuria was defined less by a sense of crisis than by one of opportunity. The unmistakable optimism that characterizes religious revival comes from a feeling of security rooted in divine providence. This confidence is built on observation, as people seek and find evidence of God’s plan in the world around them: the revivals of the early twentieth century were themselves propelled by news of similar events taking place almost simultaneously in Wales, India, and Korea.74 It is in this sense that we can understand the Manchurian Revival not as resistance against external pressure, but rather as a sudden upwelling of ebullience once those pressures had been lifted, a response to the sudden unfolding of a new world of possibilities. The Manchurian Revival was a brief but intense expression of the more general optimism about the future of China, and of God’s kingdom on earth. Catholics experienced the same emotions differently. As they had in the previous century, Catholic writings from Manchuria continued to emphasize the dual themes of faith and suffering. Although such torment was now less likely to be at the hands of the government, conversion stories still portrayed suffering as a badge of honor and a foundation of the Church. Responding to fears that Chinese might now be converting for mercenary motives, one letter from 1913 gave the examples of two women, one who regularly walked 20 kilometers at night to attend Mass against the wishes of her violent husband, another who carried a child in her arms for three days in order to attend a saint’s festival.75 Similar stories of dogged faith followed: a child nicknamed “Little Paul,” who persevered against the wishes of his family to become a Christian, a group of 72 Rodney Stark and William Sims Bainbridge, The Future of Religion:  Secularization, Revival, and Cult Formation (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), 429–​457. 73 Young-​Hoon Lee, “Korean Pentecost:  The Great Revival of 1907,” Asian Journal of Pentecostal Studies 4, 1 (2001): 79. 74 For example, as compared to apocalyptic movements. Thomas David DuBois. Religion and the Making of Modern East Asia (New  York:  Cambridge University Press, 2011), 123–​141; Lee, “Korean Pentecost,” 75, on the circulation of news. 75 RAE, Kirin, 1913, Lalouyer.

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young girls who braved the cold each day in order to receive Communion, one Christian woman who resisted her husband’s demands to apostatize, another who embarked on fifty consecutive fasts in order to convince her mother to convert.76 As had earlier stories, writings from the new century emphasized the influence that such displays of individual faith had on other members of the family or community. When one notoriously foul-​ mouthed peasant, in a moment of sudden revelation, asked aloud how he, a baptized Christian, could still dare to curse, “the neighbors who heard this reflection were more moved than by any long sermon.”77 At the same time, divine intercession was becoming increasingly evident in the lives of ordinary Catholics. Korean missions reported a growing number of conversions based on miraculous cures, including one in which a stricken village girl was urged by her neighbors to become a Christian specifically in order to be healed. Close variations on the healing story were reported throughout Manchuria: a Buddhist who converts when his daughter is healed, a fifty-​six-​year-​old woman who is cured and makes pilgrimage to the church in Jilin in gratitude, the nuns who have no doubt that their prayers are responsible for the recovery of their ailing sister.78 Slightly further afield, but still within the realm of the providential, we hear of a priest who was unexpectedly delayed in a village, and as a result, was on hand to administer last rites to a dying girl. Finally, missionaries often credited the saints with divine protection. In one case, St. Joseph was credited with having protected a village from brigand attack. In another, a kidnapped Christian suddenly found his bonds loosened and was able to escape his captors. Like any miracle, these visible displays of divine power affected Christians and pagans alike. Writing in 1904, Bishop Lalouyer noted that: Bands of brigands traversed some of our districts, yet the Blessed Virgin took care of the apostles and disciples of her divine Son. While the pagan ones were plundered and massacred by the terrible “honghuzi,” our Christians were saved. Might the pagan poor, astonished by such extraordinary protection, finally open their eyes to the true light, give up their impotent divinities, and recognize and adore God of the Christians, who is always so good to His children!79 76 RAE, Mukden,1915, Choulet; RAE, Korea,1917, Mutel; RAE, Mukden, 1925, Blois. 77 RAE, Mukden, 1917, Choulet. 78 RAE, Korea, 1914 , Mutel; RAE, Mukden, 1915, Choulet; RAE, Kirin, 1924, Gaspais. 79 Honghuzi or “Red Beards,” was a general name given to bandit gangs. RAE, Kirin, 1904; RAE, Kirin, 1914; RAE, Kirin, 1924. These miracle stories are especially powerful because they conform to both Christian and Chinese religious idiom. Priests do mention other cases, such as the Korean Protestant who claimed to have seen a vision of Christ instructing him to become Catholic, or the anti-​Christian villager whose dead daughters’ corpses mysteriously blackened, but would probably have been less confident of their veracity. RAE, Korea, 1913, Mutel; RAE, Korea, 1917, Mutel.

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Perhaps most significant for their Chinese observers, Catholic priests on numerous occasions proved adept at producing rain. Prayers for rain are a frequent ritual event throughout northern China, where they are often conducted by local elites on behalf of a larger community, such as the town, village, or clan.80 During the dry summer of 1925, as Chinese villagers prayed elsewhere for rain, Father Roubin instructed the Christian villagers at Tongkenhe 通肯河, near Qiqihaer, to participate in three consecutive days of devotion, consisting of Mass, followed by procession outside the village and prayer into the evening. At nine o’clock on the evening of the third day, a heavy rain commenced and continued for two more days. Father Chabanel reported an even more dramatic instance from Sifeng, which was afflicted by drought the following summer: At Sifeng like everywhere else … the pagans, led by the Prefect, had prayed in vain for rain for several weeks. The head of the “Zaili” [Abiding Principle] sect was extremely anxious to obtain his desired end. He ascended a stage on which he remained for three days and three nights without drinking or eating, ceaselessly entreating his gods, but came down again having obtained nothing. On June 18th, having secured permission from the authorities of the city, I distributed to all quarters an announcement of a prayer for rain, and placed posters in the streets inviting the population to come to the mission to entreat the true God … Our church had never received such a multitude. More pagans came than Christians, led by monks, nuns, and even the head of “Zaili.” On the second day, we had a little rain. The third, it started to fall seriously, and in the following days we had enough to save the harvest.81

Not surprisingly, both miracles were followed by record attendance at Mass the following Sunday. The difference was not merely the number of miracles, but also their nature. While earlier visitations of the miraculous to the Catholics of Manchuria had shored up faith in the face of persecution, this new era shows God tangibly helping his people. As such, this tangible manifestation of divine power presents a useful companion to the divine immediacy experienced by Protestants in the Manchurian Revival. Like revival, the visitation of the miraculous is a phenomenon that is often associated with a community under stress. In her study of a Catholic village in Shanxi, Henrietta Harrison recounts the sudden spike in tales of the miraculous as the faithful faced uncertainty during the early years of the People’s Republic.82 Manchuria shows a very different dynamic, where again the 80 DuBois, Sacred Village, 42–​47. 81 RAE, Kirin, 1925, Gaspais; RAE, Mukden, 1926, Blois. 82 Henrietta Harrison, The Missionary’s Curse and Other Tales from a Chinese Catholic Village (Berkeley:  University of California Press, 2013), 145–​171. This development of the

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A Time to Suffer, A Time to Prosper

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prompt was not crisis, but rather the newfound good fortune Catholics enjoyed in the post-​Boxer era. To be sure, the Catholics employed different idioms and had different expectations from the Protestants, but the underlying message was the same: after years of struggle and hardship, God had in a very real way come to Manchuria.

Conclusion: A Time to Suffer, A Time to Prosper

We can understand the transformation of Christianity in Manchuria on two levels:  as a series of discrete individual changes, and as a pan-​ confessional transformation of the entire religious sector. Beginning with the former, the greatest change was that prompted by the reconfiguration of largely external forces after 1900. The political, social, and even technological changes of the new century all favored the missionaries, both in terms of easing the practical concerns of daily life, and in the sense that these changes all conformed to a larger narrative of God’s kingdom coming to fruition. At the same time, expressions of divine favor gradually begin to take on a more Chinese feel. Suffering as a spiritual journey certainly has an important role in formal Buddhism, but less so in Chinese lived religion, in which the currency of divine power is that of revealed efficacy (ling yan 靈驗). Simply put, the logic of Chinese belief demands that a powerful deity will reveal himself through powerful acts. This characterization is not absolute: there is a long tradition in China of religious secrecy: teachings, texts, and practices that are only for the eyes of a select few. Nevertheless, the expectation that a strong deity would reveal his power by visibly protecting his followers is one that would certainly have been strong among the mass of potential converts. Whatever the reason, the new successes of the Christians in the post-​Boxer period broadly conformed to these expectations, and certain elements, such as the ability of the Catholics to successfully invoke rain, fit squarely into a Chinese idiom. At the same time, we can see in the success of the missions an impact that would prove larger than Christianity itself. The school of religious rational choice, also expressed as a religious marketplace, gives us a language to express the sort of pan-​confessional sectoral change to religion. In questions of divine efficacy, Christianity and Chinese religion were direct competitors: the Boxers’ loss was the Christians’ gain. But the growing prominence of Christians and Christianity as agents of social miraculous was not solely a Christian phenomenon:  Chinese religions experienced the same during these same years. See Steve A. Smith, “Local Cadres Confront the Supernatural: The Politics of Holy Water (Shenshui) in the People’s Republic of China, 1949–​66,” China Quarterly 186 (2006): 999–​1022; and DuBois, Sacred Village, 127–​151.

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change introduced something that was quite new. Christian mission introduced new arenas for civic activism, personal moral development, and, especially as they grew increasingly convinced of their own responsibility to China, of national transformation. The rapid growth of post-​ Boxer Christianity, especially the wild enthusiasm of events such as the Manchurian Revival, shows the sense of possibility, as Christianity began flooding into roles where religion had never been as prominent. In the new century, the prominence of mission Christianity would drive an expansive model that created new roles for religion in public life. Over the next decades, Chinese reformed religions, such as the re-​energized Buddhism of the Republic, or the new religious movements we will encounter in Chapter 6, would rise to meet these new opportunities.83

83 On the spread of Republican-​era Buddhism to Harbin, see James Hugh Carter, Heart of Buddha, Heart of China: The Life of Tanxu, a Twentieth-​Century Monk (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011).

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3

The Mind of Empire



Manchuria and Religion in the Eyes of Asian Social Science

In this chapter, we shift our focus from the faithful to the perspective of the scholarly observer. We begin with the introduction of Western academic disciplines, which took root in Japan and China during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and provided new ways of gathering and structuring social knowledge. As the first generations of Japanese university academics turned their attention to questions of existential significance, they branched into distinct schools of thought about Japan’s spiritual essence. In doing so, they developed an academic language of religion that was mobilized to speak for Japan, and its destiny on the continent. Manchuria became the culmination of intellectual currents that were incubated in Japan and a mirror in which scholars could see themselves and imagine the future of Asia. Japanese scholars portrayed the region alternately as a cautionary tale of Chinese misrule, a museum of primordial cultural commonality, and a site of pan-​Asianist destiny. As important as the specific content of these scholarly debates is the evolving substrate of assumptions about the relationship between ideas and spiritual essence. In various ways, Japanese scholars of the nineteenth century had sought to reveal quintessential principles about their own society: its values, its cultural genius, or its core problems. Those of the twentieth century, the scholars who imagined Manchuria from afar, as well as those who actually lived there, would make the leap from understanding national essence to engineering it.

Indigenization of Social Science in Japan

The introduction of Western social science provided Japanese scholars with a new set of tools for understanding and shaping vision for a society that was in profound transition. The current constellation of academic disciplines 63

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reached and took root in Japan during the early years of the Meiji period, a time when pioneering Japanese scholars traveled abroad to study in search of the latest and most advanced knowledge the world had to offer. They brought back new disciplines such as physical anthropology and sociology, as well as new ways to interpret existing fields of inquiry, such as the study of local customs. By the end of the century, Japanese social science had come into its own. Based in a well-​funded and growing network of imperial universities, late nineteenth-​century Japanese social science was at the global cutting edge: Tokyo University introduced its chair in sociology in 1893, long before most American universities had adopted the discipline.1 It was also self-​consciously Japanese: each of the disciplines and schools of social science had coalesced around issues of unique and existential significance to Japanese society. The social sciences that would eventually serve the Japanese Empire abroad had first formed by looking inward. One of the first to arrive was the field of physical anthropology. This discipline was introduced to Japan by Tsuboi Shōgorō 坪井正五郎 (1863–​1919), a man of impressively eclectic background. Tsuboi had started out as a student of zoology, gradually developing an interest first in archeology, and finally in the anthropology of E. B. Tylor (1832–​1917), which prompted him to study anthropology in England. Tsuboi returned to Japan in 1884 to establish the Tokyo Anthropological Society, and was named the founding chair of anthropology at Tokyo Imperial University in 1893. Tsuboi focused his attention on an existential question of Japanese national identity:  who were the prehistoric inhabitants of the archipelago? Utilizing his background in zoology and anatomy, Tsuboi relied heavily on physical indicators such as cranial shape and tooth size in archeological remains, and spent much of his career refuting the theory that the original inhabitants of Japan were related to the Ainu.2 Tsuboi’s most famous student, Torii Ryūzō 鳥居龍藏 (1870–​1953), began by continuing this same line of investigation (eventually coming to quite different conclusions concerning the Ainu) before going on to employ the methodology of physical anthropology outside of Japan. Torii conducted extensive surveys on native peoples throughout Asia, creating physical taxonomies that were welcomed by early advocates of 1 Okada Kunio, “Japanese Sociology: Past and Present,” Social Forces 28, 4 (1950): 402. John C. Pelzel, “Japanese Ethnological and Sociological Research,” American Anthropologist 50, 1 (1948): 58. 2 Despite his Western background, Tsuboi was also determined to assert Japanese scholarly control over the study of his native land. After taking up his chair in Tokyo, for example, he had the archeological findings of Edward Sylvester Morse (1838–​1925) removed from the university. See David Askew, “Debating the Japanese ‘Race’ in Meiji Japan,” in The Making of Anthropology in East and Southeast Asia, ed. Shinji Yamashita, Joseph Bosco, and J. S. Eades (New York and Oxford: Berghan Books, 2004), 62–​64.

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Japanese expansion. His work on Taiwan showed a strong strain of racial Darwinism, and his claim about the racial similarities between Japanese and Koreans became an important ideological backbone of Japanese colonization of the peninsula. Even after Torii’s style of anthropology began to fall out of favor within Japan itself, it continued to thrive in Korea. By the 1930s, the center of the discipline had moved to the Department of Anatomy at Keijō Imperial University 京城帝国大学 (the forerunner of Seoul National University).3 The field of sociology followed a similar trajectory. The discipline was first brought to Japan by Toyama Shōichi 外山正一 (1848–​1900), who had been among the first generation of Meiji students to study in England. There Toyama was heavily influenced by Herbert Spencer (1820–​1903), specifically the idea that societies behave as organisms that must continually evolve. After another period of study at the University of Michigan, Toyama was named to the first chair in sociology at Tokyo Imperial University in 1893, and for the remainder of his career continued to promote a theory of social evolutionism. Toyama was followed by the immensely influential Takebe Tongo 建部遯吾 (1871–​1945), who held the sociology chair for two decades, and continued to develop Toyama’s organic view of society.4 It was only with Takabe’s 1922 retirement that Japanese sociology began moving in two distinct directions. Beginning with Matsumoto Junichiro 松本潤一郎 (1893–​ 1947) and Toda Teizō 戶田貞三 (1887–​1955), the school based at Tokyo Imperial University aimed to direct academic sociology towards specific social problems, such as the dislocation caused by industrialism and the decline of village society. Toda was especially influenced by the Social Survey Movement pioneered by the Pittsburgh Survey of 1907–​1908, and carried out extensive surveys of family structure and problems in Japan. In 1933, he penned his own guide to social surveying methodology.5 3 Atsushi Nobayashi, “Physical Anthropology in Wartime Japan,” in Wartime Japanese Anthropology in Asia and the Pacific, ed. Akitoshi Shimizu and Jan van Bremen (Osaka: National Museum of Ethnology, 2003), 144–​145. Takao Sofue, “Anthropology in Japan:  Historical Review and Modern Trends,” Biennial Review of Anthropology 2 (1961):  173–​214. Hideo Nishioka and W. Egbert Schenck, “An Outline of Theories Concerning the Prehistoric People of Japan,” American Anthropologist 39, 1 (1937): 23–​ 25. Paul D. Barclay, “An Historian among the Anthropologists: The Ino Kanori Revival and the Legacy of Japanese Colonial Ethnography in Taiwan,” Japanese Studies 21, 2 (2001): 117–​136. Pelzel, “Japanese Ethnological,” 54–​56. Ka F. Wong, “Entanglements of Ethnographic Images:  Torii Ryūzō’s Photographic Record of Taiwan Aborigines (1896–​1900),” Japanese Studies 24, 3 (2004): 283–​299. 4 Teruhito Sako and Suzanne K. Steinmetz, Japanese Family and Society: Words from Tongo Takebe, a Meiji Era Sociologist (New York: Haworth Press, 2007). 5 Jesse Frederick Steiner, “The Development and Present Status of Sociology in Japanese Universities,” American Journal of Sociology 41, 6 (1936):  707–​722; Howard Becker,

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The second school was more theoretical. Beginning with Endō Ryūkichi 遠藤隆吉 (1874–​1946) and Yoneda Shotaro 米田庄太郎 (1873–​ 1945), this school was based in the Kyoto Imperial University School of Economics, and was influenced by the formalist perspective of Georg Simmel. One key concern of this school under Endō and Yoneda had been group theory: whether social groups were natural or willed associations, a question that Takata Yasuma 高田保馬 (1883–​1972) turned to the Japanese nation. The leading figure in this school during the 1930s, Takata insisted that identities such as Japanese ethnicity or nationhood were subjective, but still real, and that they could be channeled to productive ends. From there, it was a small step to imagine an ethnic composition of Japan’s Asian empire, what he would refer to as a “broad Asian ethnicity.” Rather than a primordial entity, this identity was to be created and encouraged by the state.6 What is this idea I have of an “East Asian ethnicity?” It is a unity of emotion that already exists. Where it does not yet exist, the foundation for a real unity still lies dormant. Moreover, through the completion and unity of this East Asian ethnicity, [the peoples of East Asia] confront the peoples of different blood and different culture, and through this resistance, they will hold the destiny to liberate themselves … In order to achieve this goal, on the one hand, people must first develop a consciousness of this unity. In other words, the common sense of East Asian ethnicity must be elevated into an objective. On the other hand, there is a need for institutions to bring it to fruition. To this end, I believe that an ideology of East Asian ethnicity (tō-​A minzoku shugi) is useful.7

The discipline of folklore (minzokugaku 民俗学) followed a similar pattern.8 The study of customs was itself not new to Japan. Earlier generations of scholars had scoured ancient texts for the lifeways of a supposedly unspoiled past, and occasionally produced national catalogues of local customs using information collected by domainal authorities. But the formation of Western-​style folklore studies can be attributed primarily to the influence of Yanagita Kunio 柳田國男 (1875–​1962), a former civil servant who left his position in order to record and preserve the quickly eroding culture and traditions of Japanese rural society. Seeking the most “Sociology in Japan,” American Sociological Review 1, 3 (1936):  455–​ 471; Kenneth K. Morioka and Jesse F. Steiner, “American Sociology in Japan,” American Journal of Sociology 64, 6 (1959): 606–​609. 6 A similar tendency shaped the thinking of liberal critics such as Ōyama Ikuo, for whom “neither the nation nor the state were a natural body … rather, both were artificial constructs peculiar to the modern period.” Kevin Doak. “What Is a Nation and Who Belongs? National Narratives and the Ethnic Imagination in Twentieth-​Century Japan,” American Historical Review 102, 2 (1997): 291. 7 Takata Yasuma, Tō-​A minzoku ron (Tokyo: Iwanami shoten, 1939), 16. 8 With the inrush of American academics to Japan during the late 1940s, this same field came to be equated with cultural anthropology.

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advanced methods, Yanagita went to England to study with the Polish anthropologist Bronislaw Malinowski (1884–​ 1942). Yanagita eagerly accepted Malinowski’s organic view of society, one in which actions and customs all work to maintain the structure of the group, but was also quick to reorient this view for his own work in Japan. Malinowski had held that the functional elements of custom were euphemized within a society, and thus were only visible to an observant outsider. Yanagita claimed precisely the opposite, that only a cultural insider could understand not only the social function, but also the emotive purpose of folk customs.9 Japanese customs, in other words, were only comprehensible to a Japanese folklorist. Despite their obvious differences, each of these disciplines developed along a similar trajectory. Successive generations of scholars produced characteristic schools of anthropology, sociology, and folklore by adapting Western social science to suit Japanese concerns and problems. Moreover, despite its many internal fissures, there was also an impetus for Japanese social science to coalesce around the big questions: schools such as Takata’s sociology or Yanagita’s folkloristics were linked by an organic thread that encouraged scholars to place the smallest actions, structures, and customs within the context of a greater whole. For the founding generation, that whole was easily recognized as Japan. For their students, the field would be much larger.

Social Science and Social Reform in China

In China, the development of social science was shaped by a similar process, albeit some decades later and within a much shorter period of time. Like their Japanese counterparts, pioneering scholars in China quickly adapted Western academic schools and methods to local problems, ones that at their core derived from a changing definition of the nation. Western social sciences only reached China in a meaningful way in the early twentieth century. While the first generation of Japanese scholars had studied in England, their Chinese counterparts were overwhelmingly influenced by the United States. American academia had deep roots in China. After the Boxer Uprising, the US government had converted its share of the indemnity into scholarships for Chinese students to study in the United States, while missionary-​linked universities such as Yale enjoyed strong networks among the Christian educated elite. It was through the offices of Princeton-​in-​Peking that John Stewart 9 On Yanagita, see also Thomas David DuBois, “Local Religion and the Cultural Imaginary:  The Development of Japanese Ethnography in Occupied Manchuria,” American Historical Review 111, 1 (2006): 58–​60.

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Burgess (1883–​1949) first introduced the social survey methodology that would so profoundly shape Chinese social science. The American influence continued over the next decade. Many of the key figures at Beijing and Nankai universities, such as Burgess’s own classmate, Columbia-​ trained sociologist Wu Wenzao 吴文藻 (1901–​1985), had studied in the United States. The first permanent social science programs at Yanjing University were supported by the Rockefeller Foundation. Chicago sociologist Robert Park visited Yanjing in 1932, just as Wu Wenzao’s group of students (which would include such promising figures as the young Fei Xiaotong 費孝通 and C. K. Yang 楊慶堃) was taking shape.10 Park’s social survey methodology would become one of the distinguishing features of Chinese social science during this period. Chinese scholars embraced the methodology of American social science because it fit their needs. The hard empiricism and problem solving of the Social Survey Movement were a perfect match for the new burst of Chinese scholarly activism, in areas such as the Rural Reconstruction Movement (xiangcun jianshe yundong 鄉村建設運動) of the 1920s, which produced a wide spectrum of studies aimed at improving China’s countryside, many of which shared the techniques of mass scientific surveying. The team of scholars under American agronomist John Lossing Buck sought the source of endemic rural poverty in inefficient methods of agricultural production, and employed massive surveys of tens of thousands of farms across China, gathering data on cropping patterns, consumption, and agricultural prices.11 Although more concerned with the inequalities of productive capital, particularly land, Marxist scholars such as Chen Hansheng 陳翰笙 (1887–​2004) employed the same methodology, conducting surveys in Baoding 保定, Hebei that (like Mao Zedong’s reports on the Hunan peasantry) presented the countryside primarily in terms of Leninist categories of rich and poor peasants. Yet another school of thought, represented by James Yen (Yan Yangchu 晏 陽初) and Liang Shuming 梁漱溟, aimed not at material poverty, but at ignorance. Their experimental reforms in Ding County produced and relied upon extensive data on rural education and literacy. However they defined China’s woes, these three schools all shared one foundational idea: the first step to solving problems was to collect as much data as possible.

10 Yung-​chen Chiang, Social Engineering and the Social Sciences in China, 1919–​ 1949 (Cambridge University Press, 2001), 25–​57. 11 John Lossing Buck, Land Utilization in China: A Study of 16,786 Farms in 168 Localities, and 38,256 Farm Families in Twenty-​Two Provinces in China, 1929–​1933 (New York: Paragon Book Reprint Corp., 1964).

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The new empiricism influenced the ethnological study of minorities. Interest in minorities was itself not new –​the study of “barbarian” customs and racial differences had a long imperial-​era history. But China of the twentieth century had yet to come to terms with exactly how minorities would fit into the new, multiethnic national body. Having come to reject as unreliable and unscientific an earlier focus on proving a common bloodline, Chinese scholars turned their attention to cultural ties, and from there to ethnology.12 The need to make sense of ethnic diversity within the new nation drove the work of Cai Yuanpei 蔡元培 (1886–​ 1940), the towering figure of Chinese social science and founder of the discipline of ethnology in China. Having spent two years in Germany studying broadly in a variety of disciplines, Cai developed a unique ability to combine the work of scholars across the social sciences. Upon returning to China, Cai coordinated the activities of historians, archeologists, and physical anthropologists towards the goal of creating a new narrative for the Chinese nation. Ethnology, especially that of minority peoples, would play a prominent role. Cai formed an ethnology section within the Social Research Institute of his newly established Academia Sinica, and from there sent researchers to conduct detailed ethnographic studies in minority areas of Yunnan, Taiwan, and Hunan. His favorite researcher for such assignments was the young Ling Chunsheng 凌純聲 (1902–​1981). Ling had studied overseas during the 1920s, graduating from the University of Paris in 1929. In 1930, Cai sent him to conduct an extensive investigation of the Hezhe 赫哲 people of northern Manchuria and eastern Siberia. The resulting study surpassed anything of its type:  one author has described it as the “first modern ethnological study in Chinese history.”13 It was, in a word, encyclopedic. Ling’s study drew upon classical Chinese and modern Western sources, as well as methodologies from across the social sciences. Ling covered a vast variety of topics: the origins and history of the Hezhe, their songs and stories, language and family structure, but he had a particular interest in material culture. Ling documented and described clothes, tools, toys, and weapons in precise detail. His study of religion consists in no small part of documenting its material artifacts: ritual objects, clothing, and offerings. Ling explains the reason for his interest: Before we begin to describe the culture of the Hezhe, just what is it that we are calling culture? There is a need to explain it. There are many definitions of 12 James Leibold, “Competing Narratives of Racial Unity in Republican China from the Yellow Emperor to Peking Man,” Modern China 32, 2 (2006): 181–​220. 13 Gregory Eliyu Guldin, The Saga of Anthropology in China: From Malinowski to Moscow to Mao (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1994), 30–​34.

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culture, for the moment we might simply say that “culture is the product of how mankind copes with his living environment.” For example, since people needed to maintain their physical existence, they created the cultures of food, clothing and housing. To maintain life’s order and solve life’s problems, and bring some happiness to life, mankind created the cultures of moral law, government, religion and art.14

One point of interest is the relationship between the Hezhe and China. Nationalists such as Dai Jitao 戴季陶 (1891–​1949) had devoted their energies to preserving China’s borders as they had stood in the Qing. Writing in 1910, just a year before the fall of the Manchu dynasty, Dai saw foreign predation at every turn: “The English station troops in Tibet, and the Germans in Qingdao. Soon, the Japanese will cross over to Manchuria, and the Russians will rampage through Mongolia. Those in government have no plan to anticipate such events, and no policy of resistance after they happen.” The founding of a nominally independent Mongolia (with strong Soviet influence), and especially Japanese activity in Manchuria, prompted fears of China’s dismemberment along ethnic faultlines, that the Mongols, Tibetans, and Hui would one by one be peeled away by foreign powers. From a scholarly standpoint, there was a strong impetus to establish as an irrefutable fact the historical, racial, and cultural integration of China’s minorities.15 Ling was physically at the heart of this conflict, yet remained distant from it. He conducted his fieldwork in Eastern Siberia, just as the state of Manchukuo was brought into being, but remained quite ambivalent about demonstrating any historical connections between the Hezhe and China. The fact that Ling did not politicize his work with the Hezhe was not a function of his nationalism, but rather of his approach to group theory, the way he understood the relationship between societies and customs. One of the most prominent features of Hezhe religious life was the role of shamans. Scholars such as Sergei Shirokogoroff, a dominant presence in anthropology in Beijing, argued that this characteristic practice identified the Hezhe as part of a pan-​Tungic culture that stretched across Siberia to Scandinavia, while others proposed a lineage between the Hezhe and ancient Chinese shamans called wu 巫. Rather than taking either side, Ling rejected the argument altogether, insisting that since customs spring from the needs of a society, any search for cultural origins was misguided. In a theme that would carry over to his work during the 1950s, Ling actually took pains to mute any suggestion of a direct relationship by noting that the sort of shamanism seen among the Hezhe 14 Ibid., 44–​46. 15 Dong Shikui, “Dai Jitao de zaoqi guojia sixiang yu Jian Keyan,” Shandong shifan daxue xuebao (renwen shehui kexue ban) 54, 3 (2009): 89.

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and in ancient China was also prevalent among completely unrelated cultures, such as those of pre-​Columbian America. Like material culture, Ling viewed religion as a culturally specific approach to problems and concerns that were experienced universally.16 Nor was he alone in doing so. Ling’s emphasis on the functions of culture was also prominent in Chinese anthropology, including the work of such important figures as Fei Xiaotong and Wu Wenzao. Here again, Malinowski cast a long shadow. At the strong suggestion of Sergei Shirokogoroff, Fei Xiaotong had gone to study with Malinowski in London. Wu Wenzao as well praised the holistic approach of functionalism, seeing in it a model for the future of village studies in China. In 1936, he invited Malinowski to give lectures in Beijing, a plan that was interrupted by the Japanese invasion. Moreover, the basic ideas of structural functionalism provided a bridge to scholars in Japan. Yanagita Kunio had himself been a student of Malinowski, and developed an approach to folk customs that closely paralleled the way that Shirokogoroff or Ling Chunsheng would later view material culture. Even those who had never personally worked with Malinowski, such as Takata Yasuma, accepted this basic understanding of social groups as subjective and utilitarian. The common foundation that links these various approaches becomes clear when they are compared against more primordial explanations, such as the idea of biological determinism, common descent, or the “blood and soil” ideas of German Völkerkunde, all of which had proponents in both Japan and China. It is beyond the scope of this book to try to establish a causal relationship behind this similarity, but without straining these connections too far, I think it is fair to say that functionalist view of culture had a special appeal for scholars in both Japan and China, precisely because it fit so well naturally with activism, providing an easy transition from understanding society into policies aimed at shaping group consciousness.17

Universities in Manchuria: The Role of Institutions

Even if scholars in China and Japan did share many of the same assumptions and influences, the worsening political situation of the 1920s complicated their ability to communicate directly with each other. During the early years of the twentieth century, Chinese and Japanese scholars 16 Ling Chunsheng, Songhua jiang xia you di Hezhe zu (Nanjing: Guoli zhongyang yanjiu yuan, Lishi yuyan yanjiusuo, 1934), 104. 17 In a variation of what Yanagita had done in Japan, Cai advocated using ethnology to find the “origin of current cultural practices among ‘backward’ peoples.” Guldin, The Saga of Anthropology, 31.

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had interacted freely:  Zhou Zuoren 周作人 (1885–​1967) had studied with Yanagita Kunio, and even the intensely nationalistic Dai Jitao had studied under Katsuhiko Kakehi 筧克彥 (1872–​1961).18 But such interaction became increasingly difficult. At the same time that Japan sought to promote education as a way of building its own influence on the continent, the politicization of Chinese universities and student movements was driven in no small part by a growing tide of sentiment against Japan. Universities thus became an active front in a region-​wide competition for institutions and influence. This competition grew particularly hot in Manchuria during the teens and twenties, but was brought to a quick end by the establishment of Manchukuo in 1932. Through the new state, Japan invested heavily in education, vastly expanding the university system and establishing numerous research institutes, including an experimental humanities curriculum in the National Foundation University (kenkoku daigaku 建國大學). It was under these unique circumstances that a new generation of Japanese social scientists came to conduct research on religion and society in Manchuria. At the beginning of the century, education in the Northeast consisted largely of the small private schools that were the norm elsewhere in Qing China. But even with energetic attempts to institute modern village schools, educational reform in the Northeast remained quite modest during the 1910s and 1920s. Long after the rest of China had switched to the vernacular language, authorities in Manchuria asserted their independence by retaining use of the classical language in the school curriculum.19 Higher education was rare and, until the 1920s, entirely dominated by foreigners. Scottish missionaries opened the Manchuria Christian College and Moukden Medical College in Shenyang, but operated on a very limited scale. The greater influence on higher education was that exerted by Japan. Within the Kantō Leased Territory (around the city of Dalian), the Japanese Cultural Bureau (Monbushō 文部省) established the Lüshun Technological University 旅順工科大學 during the late years of the Meiji reign, and the Southern Manchuria Railway Engineering School 南滿鐵道工程學院 in 1922. The first Japanese school outside Kantō was the Southern Manchuria Medical University (Nan-​Man igakudō 南滿醫學堂, later changed to Manshū ika daigaku 滿 洲醫科大學) commissioned in Shenyang by a 1911 Japanese Imperial Ordinance.

18 Dong Shikui, “Dai Jitao.” 19 VanderVen, “Village–​State Cooperation.” Manshū nenkan (Shinkyō:  Manshū bunka kyōkai, 1933), 536. Mackenzie, Church and Missions, 19–​21.

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The Japanese educational system was from an early stage designed to promote political loyalty and social values. A 1905 ordinance shaped the curriculum of schools within the Kantō Territory, demanding that all students learn not only Japanese language, but also ideological content regarding “thought and moral perspective.” Over the next few years, a series of similar ordinances extended this regulation to the Japanese-​administered concession area adjacent to the South Manchuria Railway.20 University education was, to use a modern idiom, an extension of Japanese “soft power” in the Northeast. And it was effective: just as they went to study in Japan, large numbers of Chinese students enrolled in Japanese universities in Manchuria. In response to the potentially overwhelming influence of Japan in university education, Zhang Zuolin drew up plans to establish a Chinese university in Shenyang. In 1922, Zhang arranged a ten-​member planning committee for the Northeast University (Dongbei daxue 東北大學), which included the imperial-​era tutor Wang Yongjiang 王永江 (1872–​ 1927) as head of the nascent humanities (wenke 文科) curriculum. The Japanese response was less than enthusiastic. During the first year of planning, Wang was contacted by a Japanese consular representative who advised him that establishing a university would be not only expensive but also superfluous, given the presence of Japanese institutions: “if you want engineering, we have that in Lüshun, if you want medicine, we have Southern Manchuria Medical, if you want humanities, we can send students to Imperial University.” The effect of this warning was to redouble Zhang’s resolve. In 1923, the new university accepted its first class of 480 students, of whom 130 enrolled in a handful of humanities departments that included English, Russian, politics, and law. The humanities curriculum expanded over the subsequent years, adding national (i.e., Chinese) studies (guoxue 國學) in 1926 and philosophy in 1928. The nationalistic character of the university was clear from the composition of its teaching staff. Nearly all were Chinese (the only exceptions being for language instruction), and the vast majority had studied either in the United States or in China’s premier institutions. Notably absent were the Japanese-​trained elite.21 This character of Northeast University as a bulwark against Japanese influence would intensify after the 1928 assassination of Zhang Zuolin, and the accession of his son Zhang Xueliang 張學良 (1901–​2001). The younger Zhang was named president of the university, and took an active 20 Qu Tiehua, Riben qin Hua jiaoyu quanshi, vol. I (Dongbei juan Beijing: Renmin jiaoyu chubanshe, 2005), 89–​90. 21 Wang Zhenquan et al., Dongbei daxue shi gao (Changchun: Dongbei shifan daxue chubanshe, 1988), 2–​12.

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role in promoting new study groups and journals. In 1929, the university established a new fellowship that allowed the top graduating student of each discipline to study abroad in a variety of destinations, a list from which Japan was notably excluded. Rather like its progressive counterparts in Beijing and Tianjin, the political loyalties of the faculty were divided between the two Guomindang factions, supporters of Chiang Kai-​shek and Wang Jingwei 汪精衛, respectively, while members of the small pro-​Japanese faction were increasingly pushed to the sidelines. But the best indication of the university’s political stance came in 1931, when the outbreak of military hostilities prompted the faculty to pick up and follow Zhang Xueliang into exile. The university re-​established itself in Beijing until 1935, when the establishment of a pro-​Japanese regime there prompted yet another move to Xi’an and finally to Chongqing.22 The political formation of Manchukuo removed the possibility of further competition of this sort, giving Japan a free hand to vastly expand its education infrastructure. The greatest changes came at the lower levels. During the first ten years, the number of elementary schools nearly doubled: from 11,595 in 1932 to 21,940 in 1942, while the number of students grew more than threefold, from 661,795 to 2,159,864. The expansion of higher education was comparatively less dramatic: only 84,060 students were enrolled in Manchukuo high schools in 1942, meaning that for most students, education stopped at age thirteen. Nevertheless, Manchukuo founded no fewer than twenty new universities. These not only anticipated a growing number of students from Manchukuo itself, but were also intended to be integrated into the educational system of Greater Japan. Like Taibei/​Taihoku Imperial University in Taiwan or Keijō Imperial University in Korea, the universities in Manchukuo accepted large numbers of Japanese students, expanding educational opportunities for secondary students in Japan, while building networks that would ensure the smooth integration of the empire.23 Among these new universities, the National Foundation University was unique. Most new universities were technical or vocational, specializing in agriculture, industry, or medicine. Only a select few institutions, such as the National Teachers’ University (Guoli shidao daxue 國立師道 大學), offered any humanities coursework at all. While all universities in Manchukuo maintained a regimen of spiritual indoctrination and ideological training, the focus of most curricula lay elsewhere. The National Foundation University was, in contrast, overtly devoted to ideology, and 22 Ibid. 23 Liu Dingming, “Wei-​Man daxue jiaoyu shikuang ji kangzhan shengli hou zhengli yijian,” Minguo dang’an 4 (2001): 31–​41.

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Figure  3.1.  Flags of Japan and Manchukuo fly over the front gate of National Foundation University. Manchoukuo Photo Service, 1941.

was intended to be a unique educational experience for the brightest students of the Japanese Empire. In addition to regular classroom study, students practiced military drill and Buddhist meditation. To promote a sense of self-​reliance, they grew their own food on the university farm. Fifteen college heads (shutou 塾頭) were charged with the “character education” (xingge jiaoyu 性格教育) of the students. The ideological purpose of the university is perhaps best expressed in the curriculum: students could choose to study government, economics, or humanities, with the expected courses in politics and geography supplemented by ones in Japanese spirit, planned economics, and anti-​Communism. In Japan, the university was considered quite prestigious, and its graduates could expect to return home to secure careers among the civil service elite.24 Faculty members were handpicked by Sakuta Sōichi 作田荘一 (1878–​ 1973), who had worked at Takata Yasuma’s National Spiritual Training Institute at Kyoto University. Some of the new faculty members were indeed rabid ideologues. Students remembered the twenty-​six-​year-​old college head Terada Go 寺田剛 as fanatically nationalistic, and devoted to a central role for Shinto in both his personal life and in his understanding of history. Terada was openly hostile towards Chinese students, 24 Yamane Yukio, Kenkoku Daigaku no kenkyū:  Nihon Teikoku shugi no ichi danmen (Tokyo: Kyūko Shoin, 2003), 294–​301, lists the thesis topics from twenty-​five graduating humanities students in 1942.

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Figure 3.2.  Students of National Foundation University on daily march. Athletic activities including drill and martial arts aimed to build character and military preparedness. Manchoukuo Photo Service, 1941.

and was described as prowling the grounds of the campus “like a police dog” searching for banned books.25 But not all faculty were so hostile. In fact, Foundation University also became a magnet for many of the Japanese leftist intellectuals who “flocked to the Manchurian research organizations and state think tanks.”26 For some, an academic position in Manchukuo represented a chance to move on from a politically checkered past. For others, it was a chance to leave behind the world of stale academic theory and take a place on the front lines of a vast social experiment. It was not, however, an ideological badge. Not only did students secretly read banned journals such as Thought for the Masses (da zhong zhexue 大眾哲學) and books by Sun Yat-​sen, Marx, and Mao Zedong, they discussed banned books with their own professors, and sometimes even borrowed the books from them.27 Rather than ideological purity,

25 Ibid., 339–​344. 26 Akitoshi Shimizu, “Anthropology and the Wartime Situation of the 1930s and 1940s:  Masao Oka, Yoshitarō Hirano, Eiichirō Ishida and Their Negotiations with the Situation,” in Shimizu and van Bremen, Wartime Japanese Anthropology, 49–​108; Young, Japan’s Total Empire, 268–​282, quotation from 278. 27 Yamane Yukio, Kenkoku Daigaku, 256–​264. 342.

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employment at Foundation University reflected professional status within Japanese social science circles.

Japanese Social Science and Manchurian Religion

Whatever their origins or reasons for coming to Manchuria, the scholars who were recruited to Foundation University were transformed by life on the frontier. For one, the new arrangements forced them to work together. Japanese scholars in colonial institutions found it much easier to cross the factional and disciplinary lines that would have kept them divided at home. The atmosphere at Keijō Imperial University in Korea provides an instructive example. The center for Akiba Takashi’s study of physical anthropology, intellectual heir to the work of Torii Ryūzō, was a natural fit for anthropologists such as Ueda Tsunekichi 上田常吉 (1887–​1966), who propounded the racial similarities between Japanese and Koreans.28 But it also hired such diverse talents as sociologist Suzuki Eitaro 鈴木栄太郎 (1894–​1966) and Buddhist scholar Akamatsu Chijō 赤松智城 (1886–​1960), who found ways not merely to coexist alongside the school, but also to integrate their research with it. Akamatsu and Akiba, who shared an interest in folklore, also collaborated on extensive studies of religion and shamanism in Korea, Manchuria, and Mongolia, a task that was certainly enriched by Suzuki’s sociological survey methods. Proximity, in short, created possibilities for cooperation and communication that would not have existed in Japan. Even after the university had been disbanded, this diverse group of scholars still referred to themselves as the “Keijō anthropology school.”29 A similar situation shaped the study of religion at Foundation University. The three main scholars in this field came from very different backgrounds. Matsui Ryoon 松井了穩 (1897–​1947) had trained at the Buddhist Ryukoku University in Kyoto. Matsui had been introduced to French anthropology by Akamatsu Chijō and Enku Uno 宇野圆空 28 Atsushi Nobayashi, “Physical Anthropology,” 144; Sofue, “Anthropology in Japan”; Hideo Nishioka and W. Egbert Schenck, “An Outline of Theories Concerning the Prehistoric People of Japan,” American Anthropologist 39, 1 (1937):  23–​ 33. On racial theories generally, see Kevin M. Doak, “Building National Identity through Ethnicity:  Ethnology in Wartime Japan and After,” Journal of Japanese Studies 27, 1 (2001): 1–​39. 29 Akamatsu Chijō and Takashi Akiba, Man-​Mō no minzoku to shūkyō (Tokyo: Ōzorasha, 1996); Akamatsu Chijō and Takashi Akiba, Chōsen fuzoku no kenkyū (Tokyo: Ōzorasha, 1997), 24–​25; Nakao Katsumi, “The Imperial Past of Anthropology in Japan,” in A Companion to the Anthropology of Japan, ed. Jennifer Robertson (Malden, MA and Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2005), 22–​23. Although this school consisted primarily of Japanese, it did exert an influence on Korean scholars, such as Son Jin-​tae. Kwang-​ok Kim, “The Making and Indigenization of Anthropology in Korea,” in Yamashita, Bosco, and Eades, The Making of Anthropology, 254–​255.

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(1885–​1949) (who had been students of Durkheim and Mauss, respectively), and later spent three years studying in France before returning to Ryukoku to teach courses in the theory and origin of religion.30 Ōyama Hikoichi 大山彥一 (1900–​1965) had studied sociology at Tokyo University, and was later an Assistant Professor at the National Spiritual Culture Research Institute (kokumin seishin bunka kenkyūjō 国民精神文 化研所).31 There, he had worked with Takata Yasuma, who introduced him to Sakuda and thus to Foundation University. Omachi Tokuzō 大 間知篤三 (1900–​1970) had originally trained in German literature at Tokyo University, but developed a burning interest in the folklore studies of Yanagita Kunio. He was recruited by Kantō Army officer Tsuji Masanobu 辻政信 (1901–​1961). These three very different men shared much in common. They all carried the burden of a politically checkered past, including a history of having criticized imperial policy and associated with leftist student groups. More fundamentally, each was in a way a proponent of the functionalist perspectives discussed earlier. Despite coming from different disciplines, they all shared a foundational understanding of society as an organic whole, in which each component serves a specific purpose. For each of the three, Foundation University offered not only a new future, but also a unique ideological frontier for exploring the pressing questions of nation and empire.32 Scholars in Manchuria did not merely reproduce Japanese schools of thought, they actively developed them. One example of this development concerns ideas about the relationship between Japan and the continent itself. Scholars such as Okumura Yoshinobu 奥村義信 energetically asserted the existence of a prehistoric pan-​Asian culture. To various degrees, this primordial essence had evolved into different civilizations, of which Japan was the most advanced. This process was evident in the way that the ancient shamanistic culture had evolved into a hierarchy of religions: Manchuria and Mongolia preserved shamanism in its “pure” form, China had transformed it into the

30 Ōsawa Koji, “Shukyōgaku kenkyūsha to ‘Manshūkoku’ kenkoku daigaku no Matsui Ryoon,” Bukkyo bunka gakkai 15 (2007): 158–​179. 31 This center was supported by Monbushō and specialized in providing ideological training to middle and high school teachers, specifically in order to counter the rise of Marxism in schools. Other Foundation University scholars, such as Shinto scholar Katsuhiko Kaheki, had been affiliated with the Institute. Yamane Yukio, Kenkoku Daigaku, 58. 32 The empiricists of the Tokyo sociology school were absent: they were channeled into the Mantetsu research structure. Rather, the Foundation University was staffed by people with a more theoretical background. On the intellectual challenge of anthropology, see especially Kevin Doak, “Nakano Seiichi and Colonial Ethnic Studies,” in Shimizu and van Bremen, Wartime Japanese Anthropology, 109–​129.

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worship of animal spirits, but only Japan brought this tradition to pure expression in the high religion of Shinto.33 Yet the relationship between Japan and the continent was not always portrayed in evolutionary terms. Takata Yasuma had understood groups such as nation and state to be subjective, and thus had been able to alternate between the particular nationhood of Japan, and an Asian “super-​ nation” (chō minzoku 超民族). Having taken up a position at Foundation University, his student Nakano Seiichi continued to adapt Takata’s ideas in the direction of a pan-​Asian ethnic nationhood, of which Japan was only one part.34 In the same way, Akiba Takashi approached Korean religion as one manifestation of more broadly shared culture and aspirations. Having studied with Malinowski, Akiba sought in religion an expression the needs and composition of the group, and from that perspective compared them to phenomena in Japan, Mongolia, and Siberia. Since these different peoples expressed through religion variations of the same aspirations, they could still constitute a single minzoku. Conversely, Akiba saw no need to standardize religious customs within the national body, and thus argued that Japanese authorities should respect Korea’s distinct customs. Here he differed notably from those Korean scholars who sought in Korean religion something that was distinctly and essentially their own, and thus rejected Akiba’s search for the “existential self-​understanding” that linked Korea to Japan.35 The most extensive elaboration of these ideas is seen in the work of folklorist Ōmachi Tokuzo. Ōmachi came to Manchuria in 1939 thoroughly grounded in the methodology of the Yanagita school of folklore, including a cellular view of society that was based on the rural village. Yanagita had understood each village to be the nation in microcosm, and for this reason he opposed Meiji-​era attempts to force village religion into a national standard or hierarchy.36 In his writings form the 1930s, Ōmachi expounded upon the goal of understanding Japan through the village, by comparing customs “from Okinawa to Tōhoku … from deep

33 Okumura Yoshinobu, Manshū nyannyan kō (Shinkyō, 1940), 242–​245. 34 Doak, “Building National Identity”; Doak, “Nakano Seiichi.” 35 Other Japanese scholars took up Akiba’s perspective in their study of religion. In 1941, Akamatsu Chijo, Akiba’s colleague from Keijō, visited Foundation University, and together with Matsui together embarked on an investigation of religion in Harbin. Kim Chongsuh, “Kankoku shūkyō to shūkyōgaku,” Shūkyō kenkyū 79, 4 (2006): 893–​911. 36 Minoru Kawada, The Origin of Ethnography in Japan:  Yanagita Kunio and His Times (London: Kegan Paul International, 1993), 109. For one example of the lasting influence of Yanagita on village studies, see Yasuyuki Yagi, “‘Mura-​Zakai’:  The Japanese Village Boundary and Its Symbolic Interpretation,” Asian Folklore Studies 47, 1 (1988): 137–​151.

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mountains or outlying islands.”37 Rather than understating diversity, the task of the scholar is to see within it that which is essential about the nation, and thus to “unite Japan by drawing together research on all of its local customs.”38 Ōmachi continued to build upon these ideas in his new position at National Foundation University, where as lecturer in ethnology and head of the Society for the Study of Manchurian Customs (Manshū minzoku gakkai 满洲民俗学会), he produced an impressive body of research on local religion in Manchukuo and North China.39 Part of his work was official. Ōmachi was one of many (others included Ōyama and the legal scholar Chikusa Tatsuo [千種達夫 1901–​1981]) who were tasked with conducting research on family, inheritance, and other customs to aid the Japanese administration in civil adjudication. But beyond their official service, they also pursued scholarly interests. Ōmachi’s group conducted field research and held numerous scholarly and public conferences on topics clearly derived from Yanagita-​style ethnography (such as one held in 1943 on “The Religious Nature of the Village”), and released numerous publications, most notably as the Assorted Notes on the Peoples of Manchuria (Manshū minzoku zakki, 1941–​1944). Ōmachi’s training under Yanagita clearly shaped what he would hope to accomplish in Manchukuo. Even more strongly than he had in Japan, Ōmachi portrayed the village community in Manchukuo as the basic unit of religious life, and a natural object of study. In a 1943 essay, he outlined the necessary religious elements of the village, of which at least one shrine to the tutelary deity (tudi shen 土地神) is most important. Although such shrines and their deities are actually quite marginal to votive life in Chinese villages, Ōmachi understood them as similar in function to the ujigami 氏神 shrines in Japanese villages, inaccurately portraying them as “objects of collective village devotion” and “the center of village religion.” In ritual life as well, Ōmachi sought evidence that the village operated as a collective, for example when it assembled to pray for rain or protection. Although Ōmachi did mention the existence of other ritual bodies, such as the family, his reason for focusing on the village becomes clear when he confidently speaks of “the religious nature 37 Ōmachi Tokuzō, “Saishū hōhō no shurui” [Types of data collection methods], in Ōmachi Tokuzō chosaku shū (ŌTC), 6 vols. (Tokyo: Miraisha, 1975–​1982), vol. III, 220. 38 Ōmachi, “Minamiyo to minzoku kenkyū” [Minamiyo and ethnographic research],” ibid., vol. III, 308–​309; Ōmachi, “Saishū hōhō no shurui,” 220–​223. 39 Wagamori Tairō, Minzokugaku no hattatsu to kenjō (Tokyo:  Kōbundō, 1981), 33, discusses the formation of the “Manchu ethnological association” (Manshū minzoku dōkōkai), which was centered at Ōmachi’s university; chronology in Ōmachi, ŌTC, vol. VI, 583–​584.

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of the Han race, or more correctly, the religious nature of the village, which should be called the cell of Han society.”40 In Manchukuo, Ōmachi expanded the focus of this cellular interpretation from village to ethnicity. Ōmachi aimed to produce an organic view of Manchukuo as a whole, a task that demanded an understanding not only of the individual nature of each of its component ethnic groups, but more importantly of the underlying essence that bound them together. Ōmachi was confident that such a pan-​racial “Manchukuo spirit” did exist and moreover that, as a Japanese, he was the type of cultural insider who could recognize and understand it. Like Takata’s loose vision of a “broad” Asian ethnicity, or Akiba’s search for an “existential self-​understanding” between Japan and Korea, Ōmachi understood the essence of Manchukuo not as a uniform entity, but rather as a spirit that manifested independently within each of its five component races.41 For this reason, Ōmachi proudly emphasized both the ethnic diversity of his data and its essential similarities, for example in the way that that Han, Evenki, Oroquen, Mongols, and Daur all worshipped different deities, but entreated them to similar ends, such as prayers for children.42 Similarly, he presented the tendency of Han deities to supplant older Manchu beliefs as evidence of the fundamental continuity between the religious needs of the two races.43 For this reason, Ōmachi followed his teacher in rejecting the imposition of standardizing practice in the name of reform, and appears not to have supported the institution of Shinto shrines or worship in Manchurian villages. Ōmachi regarded Shinto as a religion for the Japanese only; nowhere does he suggest that other races be recruited into shrine communities. In a 1944 essay, Ōmachi outlined a number of logistic difficulties faced in trying to institute Shinto shrine worship in Manchuria, among which was the small number of Japanese settlers, which made it difficult to replicate the tightly knit shrine communities in Japan. He rejected the idea of using political Shinto as part of a “Japanification” (kōminka 皇民化) policy. Although such policies had been instituted in Korea, with the aim of transforming the population by incorporating

40 Ōmachi, “Tochikami to obaegaki: tamuro no shukyo teki no bunseki” [Records of the tutelary deity: towards an analysis of the religious character of the village], ŌTC, vol. VI, quotations from 21 and 17, respectively. 41 Ibid., 19. 42 Ōmachi, “Haru no kami nyannyan” [Niangniang spirit of spring], ŌTC, vol. VI, 31–​32. 43 Such continuity is seen in the number of Manchu village temples dedicated to Chinese deities such as Guandi. Ōmachi, “Ōaihata tamuro no shinkyō” [Belief in Greater Blue Banner Village], ŌTC, vol. VI, 62–​68.

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them into Shinto shrine communities, Ōmachi sought instead to preserve Manchukuo as a living example of pan-​Asian multiculturalism.44 The Manchukuo state was to play a key role in engineering this society by inculcating in its subjects a sense of common history, culture, and identity, while at the same time encouraging each of its five races to develop its own distinct culture. This type of civilizing mission was thus not assimilation strictly speaking, but rather the promise that multiracial Manchukuo would enable each race to independently perfect and refine itself, replicating the essence of Japanese spirit under the enlightened rule of the Manchukuo and Japanese emperors.45 Some faced a longer road than others: one author identified only by the religious pseudonym Daikyo Dōjin 大虛道人 (Master of Great Emptiness), wrote disparagingly of the Mongols and Manchus who had “never produced their own high religion.” He urged them to look to Japan since, like all of the races of Manchukuo, “their ancestors shared the same blood as the Japanese people.”46 He also rejected simple assimilation. Just as the 200,000 Japanese in Manchukuo would serve as an example of what the other races could aspire to be, Shinto was not a religion for Manchukuo, but a model for what its component religions should strive to become. These ideals of racially distinct spiritual revival necessitated an artificial parity of race and racially defined religion as units of observation and administration. Just as Shinto was the religion of the Japanese in Manchukuo, Ōmachi’s ethnography paired other races with their putative ancestral religions: a “Chinese religion” for the Han, Islam for the Hui, Lamaist Buddhism for the Mongols, and either Shamanism (often one that was modeled on the court ritual of the Manchu Qing dynasty) or Han-​style “Daoism” for the Manchus.47 44 Ōmachi, “Jinjya hōshi no mondai” [Problems with the ritual enshrinement of Shinto deities], ŌTC, vol. VI, 136–​140; On the preservation of ethnic diversity in greater Japan, see Tessa Morris-​Suzuki, “Becoming Japanese: Imperial Expansion and Identity Crisis in the Early Twentieth Century,” in Japan’s Competing Modernities: Issues in Culture and Democracy, 1900–​1930, ed. Sharon A. Minichiello (Honolulu:  University of Hawai’i Press, 1998), 157–​180; Ryoko Nakano, Beyond the Western Liberal Order:  Yanaihara Tadao and Empire as Society (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013). 45 Ōsawa Koji, “Shukyōgaku,” 6.  On the ambiguous place of the Japanese in the racial schema of Manchukuo, see Mariko Asano Tamanoi, “Classifications: The ‘Japanese’ in ‘Manchuria,’” Journal of Asian Studies 59, 2 (2000): 248–​276. 46 Although this essay was written in Japanese, the pseudonym of the author could be either Chinese or Japanese, complicating its translation. The former implies a Daoist affiliation, but the latter does not. Daikyo Dōjin, “Manmō kōkaron,” in Manmō mondai shiryō, ed. Teikoku zaigō gunjinkai honbu (Tokyo: Teikoku zaigō gunjinkai honbu, 1937), vol. X, 46–​83, quotation 78–​79. 47 Japanese sources seem divided as to whether to portray the Manchus as “sinicized” or to try to seek out a Manchu cultural tradition. Daikyo Dōjin, “Manmō kōkaron,” 78, represents the former, saying that while the Mongols were Lamaist, the Manchu race were Daoist. Others such as Ōmachi emphasized the shamanistic tradition of the

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In some cases the logic of the attempt to define in mutual terms ethnicity and religion led beyond the intellectual construction of religious traditions to the literal creation of new ones. One example concerns a Shinto shrine erected in the northern Hebei city of Kalgan (Zhangjiakou). More striking than the shrine itself, which was intended for use by Japanese residents, was the 1939 initiative of Japanese Buddhist activists to cast a statue of Chinggis Khan to be placed in the shrine for worship by the local Mongols. Such an act was part of a larger, and in this case popular, desire to effect Mongol spiritual reform through religion. Rather than reviving a lost tradition or bringing the Mongols into the Japanese orbit, it was designed to celebrate the shared history between Japan and the Mongols, and to give the latter religious tutelage to match the political. Such an invention would serve the interests of the Mongols, who, in the words of foreign ministry envoy Ogasawara Shōzō 小笠原省三 (1892–​1970), “need a new religion, specifically a new god.”48

Conclusion: Scholarly Formation of the Spiritual-​Imperial Self

The indigenization of Western social science in East Asia was at its core a process of existential exploration. In both Japan and China, new schools of academic sociology, anthropology, and folklore arose hand in hand with a process of rediscovering the identity, problems, and potential of the modern nation. The attraction of functionalist arguments for generations of scholars in both countries was precisely their ability to bring logic to the big picture of a society based on small details of history or culture. With such a perspective, the study of religion in the local context had immediate implications for larger questions of social value and civilizational development. Political events were more than a backdrop for the work of scholars. The same political realities that separated Chinese and Japanese scholars also brought others together, creating a unique intellectual climate for the scholars that sat on the frontier of empire. Scholars working on the front lines of the imperial project were more free and interdisciplinary Manchus, possibly due to the influence of the Russian ethnographer Shirokogoroff, who had worked extensively in Siberia. Duara, Sovereignty and Authenticity, 184. I have not been able to discover much about Ogasawara. In 1935, he edited one volume of the Tōa bunka ronshū [Collected reports on East Asian culture], suggesting that he may have been part of the scholarly intelligence network. Nakano Kyōtoku, Tennōsei kokka to shokuminchi dendō (Tokyo: Kokusho Kankōkai, 1976), 78–​81. A similar mobilization of religion towards the aims of social engineering was attempted by Japanese and Korean intellectuals in Korea, who were charged with deciding “what the right religion for the Korean people should be.” Boudewijn Walraven, “The Natives Next Door,” in Shimizu and van Bremen, Wartime Japanese Anthropology, 228. 48

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than they would have been at home, and found ways to adapt the foundational ideas of their discipline to a new framework. While an earlier generation had examined local customs, beliefs, and legends as manifestations of a transcendent national spirit, in Manchuria this same logic was transformed from a process of discovery to one of creation. For front-​line scholars like Ōmachi, the task of understanding the religion of Manchuria was inseparable from that of engineering the new society.

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Religion in the Pages of the Manchurian Press

This chapter examines the social ideologies propounded in the pages of the commercial press, in particular the question of when and how it discussed religion. To do so, it will focus on the Shengjing Times 盛京 時報 (Shengjing shibao), a Chinese-​language daily that published without interruption for thirty-​nine years.1 A  quick glance at the publication reveals an interest in religion that remained consistent in depth over the paper’s long lifespan, but this apparent consistency masks not only change, but also choices. The opinions of editors and writers, and no less importantly those of readers, shaped not only the content of each edition, but also the paper’s longer-​term evolution as a feature of daily life in Manchurian cities and towns. Nation and language provide an important twist to this story: the Shengjing Times was Japanese owned and run, but printed in Chinese for a Chinese readership. Knowing how the conflict with Japan would eventually play out, it would be easy to dismiss the paper in retrospect as little more than a mouthpiece for imperialist propaganda. By the end of its lifespan, it certainly was. However, the longer institutional and intellectual development of the newspaper was far more complex than this ending would suggest. The Shengjing Times was established during an era in which many Chinese newspapers were foreign-​owned and prized for their detached journalistic neutrality. More importantly, ownership of the paper changed hands a number of times, each time producing a perceptible change in tone and content. Reflecting a constantly shifting mix of social idealism, commercial viability, and political survival, the Japanese editors of the Shengjing Times portrayed religion in a way that was alternately condemnatory, salacious, and supportive. But neither editors nor censors were ever in complete control. Even during the 1 Strictly speaking, the Shengjing Times published for thirty-​eight years, since the name was changed to the Kangde News 康德新聞 (Kangde xinwen) late in 1944. Zhengfu gongbao issue 3080, September 15, 1944, 15.

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Manchukuo period, the press was never able to simply impose its will or ideas on its readership. The definition of heavily politicized concepts such as religion always remained at least to a small degree a matter of negotiation between what the paper wanted to say, and what the reading public was ready to accept.2

Commerce and Community

Before continuing, it is worth taking a moment to consider the place of commercial mass media in the history of ideas. It is generally accepted that print journalism developed hand in hand with the emergence of mass ideologies, in particular that of mass nationalism. Among many others, Benedict Anderson and Eugen Weber have both made this link between the development of a profit-​driven publication industry (i.e., print capitalism) and the formation of nationalizing ideologies in Europe. Focusing on the period of the Reformation, Anderson emphasizes the ability of language to serve as a locus of identity, noting specifically the transformation of Catholic Europe from a “sacred imagined community” of those who read ecclesiastical Latin to a new, lay readership of vernacular, primarily Protestant publications. These new publications were cheap and readily available, thanks to the “thrust of capitalism,” and the proliferation of small, profit-​driven printing houses. Jumping forward three centuries, Weber describes rural France of the early 1800s as a place that was still largely devoid of books and newspapers. Only with further technological improvements would the price of publication fall to a point that these materials could reach the countryside in significant numbers. Nevertheless Weber, like Anderson, emphasizes the novelty of mass publications, and their power to transform ideas and communities. For Weber, newspapers created a nation because they “established a unanimity of readership in which regional peculiarities no longer counted … the press advanced both the process of homogenization and the level of abstract thought.”3 2 There exists a vast literature on the interaction of religion and media, much of which concerns the influence of organized religious groups on media, or of media representations of specific beliefs or communities. However, as one recent article has noted, this scholarship rarely examines how negative or positive portrayals of religion affect “individual beliefs or behaviors” and even less often how the implicit definition of religion in media would influence society as a whole. Greg G. Armfield and R. Lance Holbert, “The Relationship between Religiosity and Internet Use,” Journal of Media and Religion 2, 3 (2003):  131. See also Daniel A. Stout and Judith M. Buddenbaum, eds., Religion and Mass Media: Audiences and Adaptations (Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications, 1996). 3 Eugen Weber, Peasants into Frenchmen:  The Modernization of Rural France, 1870–​1914 (Stanford University Press, 1999), 465–​470; Anderson, Imagined Communities, 37–​46. Quotations from Anderson, 39, and Weber, 469, respectively.

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On the surface, Anderson’s and Weber’s approaches might appear to portray the same process, albeit occurring at different times and places. Where they differ is on the question of causality. The difference between these two classic accounts is slight but significant, and turns on the question of whether mass media reflects existing identities or creates new ones, as well as on the changing role of commerce in negotiating the two. Anderson speaks of an existing stratum of literate, largely urban elites, who formed a self-​conscious reading community, based on their rejection of the language and ideas of the Catholic Church. In contrast, for Weber’s rural masses, a new sense of community did not develop as much it was thrust upon them by cheap national publications that flooded the local market and overwhelmed local identities.4 In other words, the former shows publications expanding to fit the contours of an existing community, the latter shows them creating a new one. I draw attention to this point because the causality between communication and community in fact runs both ways: the content of mass media simultaneously creates and is created by its readers. While print media has the power to shape ideas, a reading public is never simply a passive recipient, but rather what Kathryn Ragsdale (following Stanley Fish) has called a “community of interpretation.” Readers actively shape the production of print culture through various forms of correspondence, among themselves and with authors and editors.5 From an editorial standpoint, the ultimate concern is commercial viability –​readers express their agreement with the content of media by choosing to purchase it.

Nakashima Masao and Japanese Journalism in China

The Shengjing Times was founded in Shenyang on October 18, 1906, by publishing entrepreneur Nakashima Masao 中島真雄 (1859–​1943), and continued to operate under his guidance until 1925. A newspaperman for most of his life, Nakashima embodied the combination of entrepreneurial spirit and emergent nationalism characteristic of the late Meiji. Born in the waning years of the Tokugawa, Nakashima remained in his birthplace of Yamaguchi until 1877, when the eighteen-​year-​old went to 4 The same impact of mass publishing is seen in post-​Revolutionary France by Jeremy Popkin, “The Provincial Newspaper Press and Revolutionary Politics,” French Historical Studies 18, 2 (1993): 434–​456. 5 Kathryn Ragsdale, “Marriage, the Newspaper Business, and the Nation-​State: Ideology in the Late Meiji Serialized Katei Shōsetsu,” Journal of Japanese Studies 24, 2 (1998): 229–​ 255. On the difficulties faced in convincing the Chinese reading public to accept Western-​style newspapers, see Barbara Mittler, A Newspaper for China? Power, Identity, and Change in Shanghai’s News Media, 1872–​1912 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004).

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live with his uncle Miura Kanki 三浦観樹 (1847–​1926), then a low-​level military official (koshō 小将) in Tokyo. There he became acquainted with a circle of military and commercial elites who shared the outward-​looking optimism of the time. Nakashima soon found himself overseas, first visiting Shanghai in 1890 as a member of the Sino-​Japanese Trade Research Institute (Ni-​Sin bōeki kenkyūjō 日清貿易研究所), and while there began studying the Chinese language. He also gained his first experience with journalism, writing uncompensated articles for the Yamaguchi-​ based newspaper Choshu Weekly (Chōshū hō 長州報). In 1894, he returned to Japan and was immediately sent by the same newspaper to Taiwan to cover the outbreak of the Sino-​Japanese War, remaining in the newly acquired territory after the close of hostilities.6 In 1897, Nakashima returned to the Chinese mainland to head the Fujian branch of the East Asian Common Culture Association (tō-​A dōbunkai 東亞同文會), and it was there that he made the first of his many experiments with various types of business, most notably print journalism. That year, he and two business partners purchased the Chinese-​ language Fujian Gazette (Fu bao 福報) which he operated under the new (but essentially synonymous) name of Min bao 閩報. At the same time, he also opened a Japanese-​language school, and made plans to run a steamship line between Taiwan and Fuzhou. Although these early ventures came to naught, Nakashima remained in China. Again ready to try his hand at publishing, Nakashima in 1901 started the Shuntian Times (Junten jippō 順天日報), a Japanese-​language daily printed on the premises of the old imperial kilns in Beijing. In his business dealings, Nakashima made frequent use of high-​level contacts cultivated in Japan and the newly acquired Japanese colony of Taiwan. For all of his efforts, Nakashima seems to have been rather a poor businessman, such that his various ventures were constantly strapped for cash. Nevertheless, he found numerous ready backers, many of whom carried obvious political influence, as well. The 1897 purchase of Fu bao was financed by none other than Kodama Gentarō 兒玉源太郎 (1852–​ 1906), then Viceroy of Taiwan, who also saw to the improvement of the paper’s printing facilities, enabling it to increase production from once a week to every other day. Nakashima started the Shuntian Times with the financial assistance of Iizuka Matsutaro 飯塚松太郎, a friend from his time in Taiwan. Such high-​profile backing leads to the obvious question of whether Nakashima’s newspapers were simply a veiled outlet for the opinions of 6 Ri Sōtetsu, Manshū ni okeru Nihonjin keiei shinbun no rekishi (Tokyo: Gaifu sha, 2000), 63–​ 69; Inami Ryōichi, “Ō Kokuyui to ‘Shengjing shibao’,” Tōyō gakuhō 72 (2000): 525–​572.

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the Japanese government. They were certainly sympathetic to Japanese interests. In the run-​up to the Russo-​Japanese War, the Shuntian Times ran a series of articles on the “central battle,” which was highly popular in Japanese military and diplomatic circles and catapulted circulation to a yet unseen degree of prominence. However, such a stance was by no means unusual, considering the strong support for the war among ordinary Japanese.7 More telling was the continued business relationship between Nakashima and individuals within the Japanese government, particularly the interest of the latter in acquiring press assets in China. Soon after the close of the war, Nakashima sold the Shuntian Times directly to the Japanese Foreign Ministry, who continued to operate it under the editorship of Ueno Iwataro 上野岩太郎 (1867–​1925). Out of these smaller ventures, Nakashima set about establishing a publishing empire in Manchuria. Soon after the sale of the Shuntian Times, he founded yet another publication, the multilingual Manchuria Daily (Manshū Nippō 滿洲日報). Within its first year, this newspaper had grown to a circulation of 4,000, and had gained the financial backing of Kubota Korezō 窪田之三, the Japanese consul in Yingkou. The publication struggled in its initial stages due in part to its coincidence with the opening of the similarly named Manchuria Daily News (Manshū nichi nichi shinbun 滿洲日日新聞), which divided the as yet small market and compounded a scarcity of Japanese editors and writers. The greater problem appears to have been the backers themselves. Although Nakashima had from the outset expressed social commitment as the driving force behind his journalistic ventures, he was clearly deeply beholden to political interests. The mission statement of the Manchuria Daily, which appeared in its first issue, spoke of the responsibility of a newspaper to society, which in this case referred to its primarily Japanese and military readership. The ideological contradiction did not take long to surface; the same page that had promised a policy of strict editorial impartiality (fuhen futō 不偏不党) also included an overt commitment both to building “our eternal colony” (eikyū teki shokuminchi 永久的植民地) in Yingkou and to preventing a further southern advance of Russian influence. However, regardless of whether this reflected official pressure or Nakashima’s personal views, it was clear that he was no mere propagandist. After only half a year in operation, he came into conflict with 7 On the effect of these wars on journalism inside Japan, see Urs Matthias Zachman, China and Japan in the Late Meiji Period:  China Policy and the Japanese Discourse on National Identity, 1895–​1904 (London:  Routledge), 2009. On the Shengjing Times specifically, see Hua Jingshuo, “Manshū ni okeru Nihonjin keiei kanji shinbun Nihon no gaimushō no kanyō ni tsuite ‘Seikyō jihō’ to gaimushō to no kankei o chūshin ni,” Nihon masu komyunikeisyon gakkai kenkyū happyō ronbun shū, October 27, 2012, 1–​4.

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Kubota over the issue of head writer Inagaki Shintarō 稻垣伸太郎, whom the consul had wanted fired and replaced. In the end, Nakashima refused to do so and recused himself from the operations of the Manchuria Daily, which was then sold to Kubota and moved to Yingkou. This sale allowed Nakashima to focus his attention on his new venture, the Shengjing Times.8 Like his previous ventures, the Shengjing Times had to weigh the interests of its readership and its backers, a balancing act made significantly more complicated in a Chinese-​language publication. As had the Manchuria Daily, the first issue of the Shengjing Times began with a statement of social mission, although the difference in audience and content is immediately evident. Citing both the urgent need for self-​ strengthening through popular education and the underdeveloped state of the publishing industry in Manchuria, the new paper proclaimed that it existed “to help the Chinese people.” Taking its cue from papers such as the Shanghai-​based Shenbao 申報, the Shengjing Times adopted a hybrid newspaper idiom, which combined the Western ideal of journalistic objectivity with the moral tone of traditional Chinese social and political criticism. From the outset, the editorial staff was entirely Japanese, but the text was composed by Chinese writers, in some cases brought over from other publications. The writing itself was stylistically tailored to appeal to a diverse Chinese audience. The majority of articles were written in a highly literary style of newspaper prose and included pieces from such luminaries as Wang Guowei 王國維 (1877–​1927), who was paid handsomely for contributing a series of short pieces between 1913 and 1914.9 At the same time, the paper also included a small but regular number of articles in punctuated vernacular (baihua 白話) prose, demonstrating an attempt to court a non-​elite readership. However, it is clear that like Nakashima’s other ventures, the Shengjing Times also operated with the largesse of the Japanese business and diplomatic communities. In addition to the initial backing of the Yingkou consul, the paper would continue for the next twenty years to receive large subsidies from the Japanese Foreign Office. These increased from 9,000 yen in 1917 to 21,000 in 1918, the same year that the Foreign Office financed the purchase of a 12,000-​yen rotary press from Japan. However, this backing was not necessarily inimical to Chinese readership. 8 Ri Sōtetsu, Manshū ni okeru, 39–​46. 9 On the earlier adaptation of the newspaper medium to Chinese tastes, and the creation of the characteristic “new prose” (xin huati) often associated with Liang Qichao, see Mittler, A Newspaper for China? 69–​117. In 1913 Wang Guowei was paid 30 yuan for writing for the Shengjing Times. This was approximately half a month’s wages for him. Inami Ryōichi, “Ō Kokuyui,” 525; Ri Sōtetsu, Manshū ni okeru, 67–​68.

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In addition to funding, the fact of Japanese sponsorship also brought the Shengjing Times an unusual degree of freedom from domestic censors. When Zhang Zuolin imposed a press ban in 1916, the Shengjing Times was not only not affected, but was actually able to use the opportunity to increase circulation.10

Religion and Social Reform: 1906–​1924

The need to develop a Chinese readership and the ability to represent external, if not characteristically Japanese views extended to the treatment of religion as well, and here a number of themes are evident. Appeals to the Chinese elite readership are clearly seen in the most striking theme, that of anti-​superstition, a campaign that had found great credence among Chinese intellectuals as early as the late Qing Reforms (whence originated the call to “destroy temples and build schools”), and particularly among the iconoclastic May Fourth generation of the late teens and twenties.11 Judging by the number of articles alone, religion during the 1910s was discussed most frequently in terms of new restrictions placed on religious activity. Rather than sweeping policies against religion in general, these were primarily prohibitions on specific practices imposed by local and provincial governments, and featured as local news. Reportage of these banned practices provides an image of religion in inverse: in 1913, readers would have learned that young girls would not be permitted to burn incense at the temple festival of the Empress of Heaven (Tianhou 天后) in Shenyang, that firecrackers were to be banned at the temple festival of the God of Wealth (Caishen 財神) in the nearby village of Liu Family Shop 劉家店, and that healers were prohibited from engaging in spirit possession (tiaoshen 跳神) rituals.12 They also learned of the cancellation of larger events, such as the night opera in Lishu and the Empress of Heaven temple festival in Andong. Such items were reported simply and in a few sentences each, with relatively little editorial commentary.13 Despite the relatively straightforward tone of these items, the newspaper did seem to sympathize with this broadly anti-​religious vision of social progress. More overtly than in the above items relating to restrictions on practice, this editorial preference becomes apparent in the 10 Ri Sōtetsu, Manshū ni okeru, 120–​123. 11 Vincent Goossaert, “1898: The Beginning of the End for Chinese Religion?” Journal of Asian Studies 65, 2 (2008): 307–​336. 12 Shengjing Times (ST) February 16, 1913; ST March 8, 1913; ST March 9, 1913; ST March 12, 1913. 13 ST May 14, 1916; ST May 20, 1916.

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coverage of newsworthy events in which religion figured prominently, such as the activities of religious groups, conflict over religious property, and human-​interest pieces about unusual traditions or practices. Like the reportage of government actions, these items generally appeared within the context of local news. These articles, such as a piece on the conversion of a spirit writing (fuluan 扶鸞) temple in Jinzhou into a school for Mongol children, or another on the commencement of an annual festival of a mountain god, generally struck an objective tone, yet the writers’ prejudices would occasionally leak through in more or less subtle ways, such as the occasional reference to rural adherents of religious teachings as “bumpkins” (xiang yu 鄉愚), or calling the claims of local healers “nonsense” (hu shuo 胡說).14 Outright commentary, such as one short item ridiculing the crowd of women at a temple festival, or another on popular belief in a magical statue, which ended with an exasperated sigh at “the stupid honesty of our stupid people,” was rare at the outset, but became more frequent and overt towards the end of the 1910s.15 Even without this type of overt commentary, the constant inclusion of certain news items constituted an implicit criticism of popular practice, and by 1919, the peak of this trend, such stories appeared almost daily. The single month of April demonstrates the range of such criticism, including pieces lamenting the practice of divination among the poor, as well as spectacular cautionary tales about superstitious old women losing their property to religious charlatans, insane monks jumping into fires, and even an underground market in children for use in human sacrifices.16 The most stinging criticism of popular practice appeared in editorial essays that, unlike the news items, were often written in the baihua vernacular. The overall stance is augured from the very outset, such as in the 1906 essay that ridicules the custom of praying for fortune at the temples of the God of Wealth, and goes on to say that the custom of placing hope in the gods was itself responsible for the sad state of China’s trade and industry.17 Not surprisingly, this type of editorializing returned in greater force during the late teens and early twenties, reflecting the newly energized iconoclasm of Chinese intellectuals in the May Fourth era. A series of essays, entitled “The Difficulty of Rooting Out Superstition” (mixin nanchu 迷信難處), continued to warn against trusting shamans, and decried the beliefs and practices of the gullible populace. Another essay from 1921 echoed the sentiments of those fifteen years earlier, calling 14 ST May 13, 1916; ST May 21, 1916. 15 ST April 9, 1919. 16 ST January 27, 1919; ST April 20, 1919; ST January 9, 1919; ST January 9, 1919. 17 ST October 12, 1906.

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for the foundation of a “new religion,” one based on morality and self-​ sacrifice in the service of the greater good. Condemning both the passivity of prayer and the particularism of the Confucian family, this essay called on the new religion of China to “seek its blessings not in the next world, but in this one, good fortune not for the individual, but for society, for all mankind.”18 The conspicuous use of the vernacular in these essays is especially telling. While the call to write in the vernacular was typical of May Fourth-​era egalitarianism, the didactic tone of the essays themselves suggests that their intended effect was less the inclusion of the lower classes than their education and reform. Such hostility to popular practice was tempered by more neutral or even sympathetic portrayals of more institutionalized religions, especially Buddhism and Christianity. When these are mentioned, it is generally in the context of their charitable activities, such as pieces from 1913 on the founding of Buddhist grade schools, or of various instances of organizational reform, such as the integration of the local Buddhist Society in Miyun 密雲 County, near Beijing, into the Shanghai-​based national organization.19 Confucian societies also appear primarily in the context of institution building, although this sort of reporting is often tinged with a sense of regret that such efforts have not been more successful.20 Christians are mentioned generally favorably, although the missionaries themselves do not escape criticism. On the one hand, Christianity was felt to provide a model of social progress, as discussed in a 1906 editorial entitled “On the Relationship between Morality and Science,” which attributed Western civic-​mindedness to a mindset grounded in absolute moral concepts of good and evil, and in particular of heaven and hell.21 On the other hand, the paper was not sparing in its criticism of the sectarian nature of Christian mission. The same 1921 essay that had called for a “new religion” for China lamented the divisions caused by religion, Christianity in particular, and called for a society in which “temples and churches would exist only in our hearts.” One frequently reprinted essay went to great lengths to condemn the moral double standard employed both by the missionaries and by the Christian countries that supported them.22 The striking exception to this general preference for religious institutions is the treatment of popular religious teachings such as the Abiding Principle. Carrying over an imperial-​era mistrust of popular religious 18 ST March 14, 1921. 19 ST March 30, 1913; ST October 5, 1913. 20 ST March 9, 1919; ST March 6, 1919; ST February 27, 1919. 21 ST October 6, 1906. 22 ST April 10, 1919.

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organization, the Shengjing Times treats these teachings with open hostility. When these groups are mentioned at all, it is in the context of violent activity. A series of articles from 1913 singles out for criticism the Vast Yang (Hongyang jiao 弘陽教) and Yellow Yang (Huangyang jiao 黃陽教) teachings, with the substance of variously unflattering portrayals captured in a headline which rhetorically asked how such sects could possibly live up to being called a “religion.” A few years later, members of the Teaching of Yellow Heaven (Huangtian jiao 黃天教), who had been engaged in what the paper simply referred to as “banditry,” were featured on the occasion of the defeat of their main force, and again on the discovery and capture of their leader. In both cases, the paper referred to the members of the teaching with a pejorative characteristic of imperial-​era official sources, calling them “religious bandits” (jiaofei 教匪).23 A second theme, and one which is perhaps more difficult to immediately link to the interests of most readers, is the portrayal of central Asian religions, specifically Islam and lamaist Buddhism. Concerning the former, Islam is treated as a fundamentally Chinese religion, as evinced by the reportage of Muslim events from elsewhere in China, such as a 1924 meeting of Chinese Muslims in the southern province of Guangdong.24 The focus on lamaist Buddhism begins briefly in 1919 and returns rather abruptly in 1921, the year Mongolia declared independence from China. Both instances deal primarily with the movements and statements of important lamas and living Buddhas, most notably the political activities of the Jebtsundamba Living Buddha (houfo 活佛, khutuktu).25 While the political impact remains the primary focus of this reportage, a more sensationalist edge is seen in occasional items on the deviations of lamas from vinaya regulations and on the possible poisoning of the Jebtsundamba Living Buddha in 1924.26 Although the Shengjing Times was Japanese owned and run, Japan itself appears only very occasionally during this period, and then only towards the end. This somewhat conspicuous absence suggests strong editorial control over reportage of sensitive political events, the tendency being to underplay and euphemize Japanese influence, a prudent tactic given the sharp rise in anti-​Japanese sentiment within China throughout the 23 The Yellow Heaven is usually referred to as a Way (dao), rather than a teaching. Its nominal change to a “teaching” (jiao) could represent carelessness or ignorance in reporting, or simply a local variation. ST March 30, 1913; ST January 15, 1919. 24 ST June 29, 1924. 25 The Jebtsundamba Khutuktu (Ch. Zhebucundanba) was the de facto political leader of Mongolia after the fall of the Qing and was highly influential in the independence movement. ST April 20, 1919; ST April 10, 1919; ST December 8, 1921; ST April 9, 1919; ST April 10, 1919. 26 ST January 24, 1913.

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teens and twenties. Reportage on the unfolding of affairs in Mongolia, for example, focuses entirely on the influence of Soviet and Chinese actors, with little mention made of rapidly developing Japanese interests in the region.27 The 1919 independence movement in Japanese Korea was reported in some detail, and then with a rather high degree of editorial commentary condemning the suffering and loss of life caused by the riots, questioning the intentions and patriotism of the instigators, and using examples from the British Empire to defend the practice of colonialism in general. What was notably left unmentioned from many such articles was any discussion of the nation from which the rioters were seeking to gain independence, Japan itself.28 In this same way, Japanese religion was only briefly mentioned, and then only in the context of a handful of good-​will gestures. For example, readers in early 1919 would have learned that the Japanese consul of Nong’an 農安 had invited Chinese and Japanese citizens to a new year ceremony of reverence (literally a “bowing ceremony” yaobai shi 腰拜式) to celebrate the good relations between the two peoples. Similar ceremonies were performed by Japanese schoolchildren living in Manchuria, although by 1927 they were taking place in Chinese venues, such as the Empress of Heaven Temple of Shenyang.29 But again, such reportage was rare during this period. Whatever the Shengjing Times was, it was not an organ of pro-​Japanese political or cultural propaganda, at least not yet.

Reaching the Masses: 1925–​1935

In 1924 a majority interest in the Shengjing Times was sold to the Mantetsu. This sale ushered in a new era and new priorities for the paper that, like the Mantetsu itself, are difficult to characterize. On the one hand, the Mantetsu was a semi-​state entity, with pseudo-​colonial powers over the lands adjacent to its line from Changchun to Dairen, and the ability to act for the Japanese government on the ground, for example in the provision of public services within the Kantō Territory. On the other hand, it was also a business, a stock consortium with investments in the railway itself and a variety of interests in tourism, manufacturing, and agricultural processing. Other Mantetsu ventures into publishing reflect this same duality of political and commercial interests. The Mantetsu had financed the Manchuria Daily News, one of Nakashima’s early competitors, and were no doubt pleased when Nakashima decided 27 Kurihara Ken, Tai Man-​Mō seisakushi no ichimen:  Nichi-​Ro sengo yori taishōki ni itaru (Tokyo: Hara Shobō, 1966). 28 ST February 20, 1919; ST March 6, 1919. 29 ST January 9, 1919; ST January 13, 1927.

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to relocate his publication to another market. Although committed to expanding Japanese interests through the Shengjing Times, they would expect this new acquisition to pull in its share of profits, as well. Acquisition of the Shengjing Times by the Mantetsu consortium ushered in a new era of direct administration, beginning with the circumstances of the sale itself. Since the early 1920s, Nakashima had been considering leaving both publishing and China, and in late 1923 he began discussions with the Mantetsu concerning the sale of the newspaper. The sale was a matter of significant political interest in Japan. It was announced to the Kato cabinet by Nakashima himself and the details of the transition were managed by Foreign Minister Shidehara and the Fengtian Consul, Funatsu Choichiro. The Mantetsu consortium put up an 87  percent stake in the assets of the publication, with most of the remaining investment coming from the Foreign Ministry, East Asian Colonial Company, and individual stock-​holders. Against their initial inclinations to be silent partners, the Mantetsu majority holders were persuaded to take over the actual publication from Nakashima, who returned to Japan. Beginning with the January 1 issue of 1925, the Shengjing Times was an entirely new publication under a new editor, Chihara Atsusuke 佐原篤介 (1874–​1932).30 During these same years, press freedom in Japan itself had already entered into a steep decline. Initially aimed at curbing the socialist press, acts such as the 1925 Peace Preservation Law (chi’an iji hō 治安維持法) would eventually become the vehicle for a broader agenda of public censorship. Rather than demanding the inclusion of pro-​imperial propaganda, Japanese application of press controls in the 1920s had instead left the boundaries of acceptable content somewhat vague, encouraging publications to over-​police themselves.31 Despite the sensitivity of the topic, public interest in Manchuria was such that newspapers still vied with one another to deliver the best and fastest coverage.32 Within Manchuria itself, Mantetsu-​owned publications vocally supported Japanese policy. Throughout the 1920s the Mantetsu consortium had actively pursued a series of newspaper acquisitions and consolidations. By the end of the decade it had emerged as the most significant publisher in the region.33 Newly acquired publications, such as the 30 Ri Sōtetsu, Manshū ni okeru, 120–​123. 31 Gregory J. Kasza, The State and the Mass Media in Japan, 1918–​1945 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988). 32 Louise Young notes that the robust coverage of events in Manchuria represented a break from an earlier, more pacifistic stance taken by the publishing industry. Young, Japan’s Total Empire, 58–​88. 33 This purchase was part of a larger consolidation of the press under Mantetsu auspices. The Mantetsu had been investing in newspapers since 1907, when it founded the Manchuria Daily News (Manshū nichi nichi shimbun), which would in 1927 merge

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Japanese-​language Manchuria Daily (Manshū Nippō 満洲日報), became outlets for strongly pro-​Japanese reportage, as evinced by the coverage of the infamous Twenty-​One Demands made by Japan to the government of Yuan Shikai in 1915. Although these measures were deeply and violently resented in China, the Manchu Daily portrayed them in a positive light, as a necessary step to achieving peace in East Asia, and condemned as a sign of duplicity China’s unwillingness to accede. In 1932, the same newspaper, now published under the shortened name of Mannichi, actively supported the foundation of Manchukuo, highlighting the suffering that the people of Manchuria had endured under the misrule of Zhang Zuolin, and extolling the new nation as the true inheritor of the ideals of Sun Yat-​sen.34 In the years immediately after the founding of Manchukuo, the propaganda content of foreign-​ language publications, even those under Mantetsu ownership, grew somewhat more muted. While foreign observers continued to remark on the clumsiness of Japanese press propaganda, clear efforts were being made to tailor content to different reading communities. As part of the attempt to court good will during the brief window of time when the League of Nations Lytton Commission considered the new state’s legitimacy, Japan published large numbers of English-​ language publications aimed at winning over Anglophone audiences, even going as far as hiring a British journalist to pen sympathetic stories for the London Daily Telegraph. In contrast, Russian-​language publications, aimed largely at the Russian émigré population in Harbin, were virulently anti-​Communist and in that context often aggressively anti-​ Semitic.35 As such, it is not surprising that despite the vastly increased importance of Japan in Manchuria, Chinese-​language publications such as the Shengjing Times would attempt to appease their Chinese readers by continuing to downplay the Japanese role in local politics. Even more with the Manchuria Daily at a cost of 750,000 yen to form the Mannichi. By 1934, the Mantetsu had a controlling stake in four publications (including the Shengjing Times) and total press assets of 1.25 million yen. Ri Sōtetsu, Manshū ni okeru, 82–​83. 34 As would the Japanese-​supported regime of Wang Jingwei, the Manchu Daily had already begun speaking of the Kingly Way as the true inheritor of the vision of Sun Yat-​sen, even before the foundation of Manchukuo. Komagome Takeshi, Shokuminchi teikoku Nihon no Bunka tōgō (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1996), 240–​245. Ri Sōtetsu, Manshū ni okeru, 237–​239, 291–​294. 35 One example of the difference between English and Russian publications was the coverage of the kidnapping and murder of a murder of a French Jew named Simon Kaspe, the latter being more sympathetic to the “patriotic” motives of those involved. British Consular Report (hereafter as BCR), Harbin, March 31, 1933. In Japan and Dependencies: Political and Economic Reports, 1906–​1960, vols. XIV–​XVI, Manchukuo: political and economic reports, 1932/​ 33–​ 1935, 1935–​ 1937, 1937–​ 1941 (London:  Archive Editions, 1994). BCR, Mukden, December 24, 1934.

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than in English-​language reportage, Chinese-​language publications such as the Shengjing Times sought to portray the founding of Manchukuo as a spontaneous product of local dissatisfaction, with Japan itself appearing only as the sender of congratulatory telegrams. In short, while the Shengjing Times was unquestionably pro-​Japanese and actively supportive of Manchukuo, its new ownership had not yet transformed it into an active propaganda organ for either. Rather, the greater change to the Shengjing Times was its shift in orientation from a Chinese intellectual elite readership to a mass audience. In 1927, the paper changed its overall format to one that was more readable and accessible. Not unlike other publications elsewhere in China, it began printing exclusively in the punctuated vernacular, giving direct access to a much wider circle of readers.36 Similarly, although advertising had featured in the paper from the outset, the space devoted to large, pictorial advertising began expanding consistently from the late 1920s. Compared to earlier and later periods, religion appears less prominently during this decade. The most notable change is the near-​disappearance of articles advocating or even reporting religious reform of the sort sought by Chinese intellectuals before 1925. In its place, the theme of superstition in the portrayal of local religion gave way to human-​interest stories, often with a supernatural twist. Many of these, such as a story about a devout Buddhist couple in Yingkou who were spared a disaster through prayer, another about a rural cult featuring a beautiful woman who sacrificed live snakes, or one about statues of the Buddha and Guandi taking wing and flying away before a temple festival, had a distinctly sensationalist edge, and while still largely condemnatory, were in contrast with the more judgmental portrayals of the previous decade.37 This is not to say that commentary on religion was completely absent. Institutional religions, such as monastic Buddhism, continued to be 36 The question of how information from newspapers and print novels reached ordinary Chinese has been discussed by Joan Judge, Print and Politics: “Shibao” and the Culture of Reform in Late Qing China (Stanford University Press, 1996) and Cynthia Brokaw, “Reading the Best-​Sellers of the Nineteenth Century: Commercial Publishing in Sibao,” in Printing and Book Culture in Late Imperial China, ed. Cynthia Brokaw and Kai-​wing Chow (Berkeley:  University of California Press, 2005), 184–​234. A  single issue of a newspaper could reach numerous readers over a period of months, and was often read aloud or interpreted in villages. The transition to vernacular not only expanded the market, but also changed the nature of readership by obviating much of this type of mediated access. Henrietta Harrison, “Newspapers and Nationalism in Rural China 1890–​1929,” Past and Present 166 (2000): 181–​204. For a further introduction to Chinese newspapers during this period, see the theme issue of Twentieth Century China: “Studying the Daily Medium:  Newspapers as Subject and Source in Republican-​Era China, 1911–​1949,” 31, 2 (2006). 37 ST January 9, 1927; ST September 13, 1931; ST September 2, 1931.

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portrayed in a generally flattering light. Buddhists were shown praying for national salvation, while the newly created Buddhist Society organized disaster relief and enjoyed the personal support of major political figures, such as the governor of Fengtian.38 Most approvingly portrayed were the new generation of combined votive and charitable societies, such as the Daoyuan-​World Red Swastika Society (Daoyuan-​Shijie hongwanzi hui 道 院世界紅卍字會, the subject of Chapter 6). This organization and many of its contemporaries, such as the Morality Society (Daode hui 道德會) were at least passively supportive of Japan and Manchukuo, and in contrast to the earlier vilification of the Vast Yang and Yellow Yang Teachings, this new generation of lay teachings was now featured in a much more respectable light, particularly in the context of their high-​profile charitable activities. A series of articles from 1931 very prominently featured local activities of the World Red Swastika Society in cities across China and especially the Northeast, including the opening of an orphanage and charity fund in Dalian, soup kitchens in Changchun and Yingkou, and a locally collected fund for flood relief in southern China.39 The occasional negative portrayal of such groups hints at their potential political significance, as in a small piece from 1931 discouraging the Morality Society from using spirit-​writing to discuss political matters.40 Despite the increasing influence of Japanese imperialism and the new task of nation building in Manchukuo, there is relatively little during this period to suggest a program of active religious mobilization for either cause, and indeed Japanese religion continued to remain a very minor concern. Japanese religions were mentioned only in passing, as in the participation of Buddhists in a 1931 disaster relief effort held in Tokyo.41 Portentous of later events, articles promoting Shinto, and reporting the participation of Chinese in Fengtian and Dalian in ceremonies for the Japanese emperor of “reverence from afar” began to appear in 1927.42 As a named institution, Shinto appears only briefly, and even then in a highly circumscribed context. The construction of a shrine in Jilin, for example, in a piece in 1935, is presented as an internal concern of the local Japanese community that had donated the funds.43 It was really not until the second half of the decade that reportage of religion in the 38 ST January 24, 1927; ST October 31, 1931; ST October 21, 1931. 39 ST December 9, 1931; ST December 8, 1931; ST November 1, 1931; ST October 15, 1931; ST October 17, 1931; ST September 15, 1931; ST September 4, 1931; ST September 2, 1931. 40 ST July 25, 1937. 41 ST September 4, 1931. 42 ST January 13, 1927. 43 ST June 9, 1935.

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Shengjing Times would become part of a concerted effort to bring the Manchukuo population into a Japanese regimen of worship.

Religious Patriotism and National Spirit: 1936–​1944

Nothing sells newspapers like a war  –​and few things make control of the media more vital. The commencement of hostilities with China and later with the Allies during the 1930s and early 1940s prompted a radical transformation of the press throughout the whole of the Japanese Empire. In Japan, the 1937 institution of a “consultation system” for all media rapidly increased the influence of the state over the newspaper industry, followed by the 1938 National Total Mobilization Law (kokka sōdōin hō 国家総動員法), which enabled direct government control over all vital industries, including the press. Both to enforce compliance and to obviate supposedly “wasteful” competition, newspapers were consolidated beginning in 1941, resulting in the closure of large numbers of publications, particularly at the local level. By late 1942 the restructuring of newspapers was fairly complete, such that “no one familiar with the structure of Japan’s media industries in 1937 would have recognized them five years later.”44 In Manchukuo, this process of consolidation and control had begun slightly earlier. In 1935, the Manchukuo Press Association was formed under the control of one General Takayanagi, the notoriously jingoistic editor of the English-​language Manchuria Daily News.45 The process accelerated further after 1937, the year in which the British consul in Mukden reported, somewhat prematurely it seems, that the “emasculation of the press reached its climax.” As in Japan, newspapers in Manchukuo were closed or merged, leaving only one or two publications each in Chinese, Japanese, English, and Russian. In 1937 alone seven Chinese language newspapers were put out of business.46 Throughout the empire, this power over the press was utilized in line with a cultural vision that combined an idealized traditional Japanese spiritualism with bureaucratic modernity. This new vision required the active cooperation of the press. Unlike during earlier periods, it was no longer sufficient to simply discourage criticism; the role of the mass media 44 This process is explained in detail in Kasza, State and Mass Media, 194–​231. Quotation from 165. 45 Notably, Takayanagi spoke no English. BCR, Harbin, December 31, 1935; BCR, Harbin, March 1934. 46 BCR, Mukden, December 31, 1937. These closures included newspapers on the far right, as well. In 1938, the Russian fascist publication Our Path (Nash put’) was shut down, leaving only the Harbin Times (Kharbinskoe vremya). BCR, Harbin, March 1938.

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was now more overtly directed to educating and reshaping the reading public. This change is immediately evident in the aggressively nationalistic and propagandistic tone adopted by the Shengjing Times during the latter half of the 1930s. In contrast to the relatively muted coverage of earlier events such as the creation of Manchukuo or the 1934 crowning of Puyi as emperor (with the regnal name Kangde 康德), reportage from the late 1930s was steeped in politics. The January 1 issue of 1939 was crowned with pictures of the Manchukuo emperor and empress, and the front page of most issues thereafter contained some prominent reference to the Imperial House. The increasing control of central authorities over the Shengjing Times is visible not only in the politicization of content, but also in the rapidity with which topics rose and fell. While in earlier years, particular themes might have gradually evolved over a span of months or years, reportage during this period is marked by news saturation on a particular topic for a few days, after which it would often be quietly and completely dropped. Not surprisingly, the intensity of propaganda evolved in step with the military fortunes of the Japanese Empire, growing stronger as the tide turned against Japan. In its final two years of publication, the Shengjing Times had become devoted largely, although not entirely, to the war, with the exaggerated optimism of the headlines reflecting the increasing desperation of the military situation. The presentation of religion during this period was more overt and more immediately political than before, the most significant theme being the role of religion in the construction of Manchukuo society. As will be discussed in subsequent chapters, Manchukuo in the eyes of its creators was no mere colony, but rather a new type of nation based on as essential Asian spiritual principles. One early formulation of these principles was the “Kingly Way” (wangdao 王道), a modernist Confucian ideology promoted by diverse quarters, including Prime Minister Zheng Xiaoxu 鄭孝胥 (1860–​1938), former Confucian scholar and long-​time companion of Puyi, described by British consular reports as “the only Chinese personality of integrity” in the Manchukuo government, as well as by Ishihara Kanji 石原莞爾 (1889–​1949), one of the Japanese field officers who had been responsible for initiating military action in Manchuria.47 This political ideal had been coined in the early days of the new state, but was promoted most heavily after 1937, in which year the Shengjing Times printed a spate of articles extolling the unique virtues of the Kingly 47 BCR, Mukden, January 18, 1936. Ōsugi Kazuo, Nichi-​Chū jugonen no sensō shi (Tokyo: Chūō koron shinsha, 1996), 131–​153. The term Kingly Way was first used by Mencius as a moral alternative to the Way of the Hegemon (ba dao) propounded by the Legalist School.

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Way.48 Complementing this political ideal was an interest in Confucian ritual and morality. Even after interest in the Kingly Way as a political doctrine had begun to cool, the Shengjing Times continued to report heavily on the state-​sponsored Confucian revival, such as the spring and autumn sacrifices carried out by government officials, as well as on the exploits and official recognition of moral exemplars.49 At the same time as the Manchukuo government promoted the moral and spiritual facets of Confucianism, it had less patience for the magical and practical. As a result, the Shengjing Times returned to the topic of anti-​superstition, albeit as a minor theme. The greater concern of the state was the reform of popular customs. These government campaigns, such as the 1937 national convention to reform the customs of daily life, or the 1940 initiative to institute reformed marriage and funeral customs, each received enthusiastic coverage in the pages of the Shengjing Times.50 As the paper took on a more serious tone, it became less interested in recounting tales of the miraculous or mystical. This meant that the tales of flying Buddhas and snake-​charming women that had appeared over the previous decade gradually began to dry up. I encountered only one such story after 1937, a brief item from 1943 discussing what might be called a “filial miracle,” in which a son healed his ailing mother by cooking a piece of his own flesh for her to eat.51 Yet even when the virtues of Confucianism were the source of miraculous power, the government and the press clearly found such stories too distasteful to dwell upon. Events recounted in Chapter 7 reveal a rare instance in which it is possible to confirm that a significant event was not reported: A large ritual held in 1938 at the tomb of a miracle-​working “filial son” (xiaozi 孝子) near Changchun was conspicuously absent from the pages of the Shengjing Times, despite the participation of many high-​ranking Chinese officials of Manchukuo, as well as the attendance of many thousands of pilgrims. Just as the image of Confucianism revolved around the moral and political message of the Kingly Way, coverage of institutional religions emphasized their ardor for the nation. In an obvious parallel to the particular model of racial corporatism, leaders of different religious groups were frequently portrayed in various poses of interfaith unity, such as a 1937 48 ST August 26, 1937; ST July 27, 1937. 49 ST September 5–​10, 1937; ST April 27, 1943; ST March 17, 1943; ST January 25, 1943; ST January 5, 1944. 50 ST August 3, 1937; ST December 15, 1940. 51 The custom of cooking flesh to effect a miraculous cure, known as gu ge, was made famous by its inclusion in some versions of the Twenty-​Four Exemplars of Filial Piety. ST January 21, 1943. The event featuring the “filial son” was the completion of a three-​year mourning vigil at his mother’s grave. Although this event was well attended and took place near the capital, there is no mention of it in the weeks before or after.

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Christian–​Muslim dialogue session in Binjiang 濱江.52 More frequently, they are shown rallying in support of the war effort: sending letters and telegrams to the frontline troops, or gathering for interfaith prayer sessions. One article from 1937 begins with a photograph of the opening of one such session, showing few dozen robed figures, neatly arranged in a row so as to visibly demonstrate the unity of various faiths around a single sacred purpose.53 Christian organizations were only lightly covered, and then in highly patriotic terms, such as the visit of representatives of the National Christian Society to Japan in 1940, or the donations made by Protestant congregations to national defense in 1942.54 The activities of the World Red Swastika Society were again featured prominently in 1940 and 1941, during which time articles praised their patriotic and charitable activities as well as announcing more mundane administrative developments, such as the opening of new regional branches.55 In 1937, Buddhists in Gaiping were portrayed praying for world peace, while others in Harbin were shown holding a meeting of the “Guanyin National Salvation Society.” The patriotic efforts of religious groups received their most consistent attention as the war began to turn against Japan. In 1943, articles continued to relate Buddhist events, such as rituals held in Chengde, and the formation of a national Buddhist conference, but the real focus was their material and devotional contributions to the war effort, such as the organization of donation drives to purchase “Buddhist airplanes” for the military.56 This type of patriotic coverage was particularly important for minority religions. With the emphasis on racial pluralism, reportage of minority religions changed from a portrayal as separate but equal to one of fundamental integration. In the 1920s, for example, the reform of vajrayana Buddhism had been represented as the key to spiritual rebirth of the Mongols alone. In contrast, by the end of the 1930s, all religions in Manchukuo were being presented as inseparable from a national and imperial whole. Above all, the minority religions were shown to be patriotic. After a period of conflict in 1940 with lamas who could not be brought to heel (during which time one article called for the “sweeping 52 ST September 14, 1937. 53 ST July 30, 1937; ST September 4, 1937. 54 ST July 17, 1940; ST January 30, 1942; ST July 8, 1943. 55 ST August 26, 1937; ST August 4, 1937; ST January 7, 1939; ST July 2, 1940; ST July 4, 1940; ST July 17, 1940; ST July 17, 1940; ST July 23, 1940; ST December 6, 1940; ST January 21, 1943; ST January 25, 1943; ST April 7, 1943. 56 ST July 30, 1937; ST September 2, 1937; ST January 25, 1943; ST May 27, 1943; ST June 29, 1943; ST April 7, 1943; ST February 12, 1944. Not coincidentally, patriotic Buddhists in Japan and China also organized to raise money for “Buddhist airplanes.” Xue Yu, Buddhism, War, and Nationalism: Chinese Monks in the Struggle against Japanese Aggressions, 1931–​1945 (New York and London: Routledge, 2005).

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away of Lamaism”) the problem was solved with the establishment later that same year of the Manchukuo Lama Religious Society under the Chagan Living Buddha.57 A  series of subsequent articles praised the active participation of Mongols in the war effort; lamas in Chengde were repeatedly shown chanting scriptures for the benefit of the Japanese and Manchukuo emperors, and holding prayers to pacify the spirits of war dead.58 After this, the problem of minority religion seems to have died down. The similar Manchukuo Islamic Organization founded in 1941 was briefly alluded to in a 1943 article on the “soaring spirit” of patriotic Muslims, and again in 1944, when the organization issued a declaration obliging all Muslims to protect the nation.59 It was during this period that Japanese religion finally came to prominence, not as a replacement for the many faiths of Manchukuo, but as the spiritual banner around which they could rally. As had the ethnographic scholarship of people like Ōmachi Tokuzō, this new reportage projected the centrality of Japan to the independent spiritual development of Manchukuo, a theme that became increasingly prominent over the course of the war. The first large event to overtly feature the spiritual significance of Japan in Manchukuo was the lavish coverage given to religious activities of the Manchukuo emperor during his 1940 visit to Japan.60 Every aspect of this visit was closely reported, with special emphasis on his worship of the Japanese progenitress Amaterasu, prayers at the Yasukini Shrine and later visits to the National Foundation shrines (jianguo shenshe 建國神社) built in Manchukuo. This visit was very much the model for the new spiritual orientation of the Manchukuo citizenry, and it is during this time that Shinto ritual first made a prominent appearance as the foundation for the cult of the Manchukuo emperor. These integrative policies, including the creation of a new government Department of Worship (jisi bu 祭祀部), commenced in 1940, and were followed by a busy series of articles on the worship of the Manchukuo Imperial Rescript, the creation of National Foundation shrines, and solemn ceremonies marking the 2,600-​year anniversary of the Japanese Imperial House.61 The following year, a campaign of equal intensity 57 ST July 10, 1940. Li Narangoa, “Japanese Imperialism and Mongolian Buddhism, 1932–​1945,” Critical Asian Studies 35, 4 (2003): 500–​501. 58 ST July 23, 1940; ST December 6, 1940; ST December 9, 1940; ST December 10, 1940. 59 ST July 25, 1941; ST August 11, 1943; ST February 12, 1944. 60 ST July 2, 1940; ST July 4, 1940; ST July 4, 1940. 61 This period featured almost daily articles, of which the following were typical, but not exclusive. On the Department of Worship, see ST July 16, 1940; on the Rescript, ST July 17, 1940; ST July 24, 1940; ST July 18, 1940; ST January 10, 1942; ST January 17, 1942; on the Foundation Shrines, ST July 16, 1941; ST July 13, 1941; ST July 1, 1941; on the anniversary, ST July 19, 1940.

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surrounded the public worship of Amaterasu, who was presented somewhat euphemistically as the “Spirit of the Original Source” (yuanshen 元神).62 Towards the end of this period, the focus of reportage abruptly shifted to more traditional Shinto worship, in particular to mass ceremonies held to pray for a good harvest, for the health of the emperor, and especially for the sake of the nation and war effort. While such rituals had appeared periodically in the pages of the Shengjing Times, it was not until 1943 and 1944 that shrine worship, particularly that by the imperial family and in shrines integral to the war cult such as Yasukuni, emerged as a central and sustained concern.63 From the spiritual centrality of Japan, coverage also extended beyond Manchukuo to present the empire as a whole as a larger, fundamentally integrated region. The high point of this coverage was 1943, which featured a large number of articles on other parts of Asia, focusing especially on the role of the Japanese Empire in fomenting a spiritual revolution, particularly in former European colonies. From relatively innocuous pieces on marriage customs in Indonesia or Vesak celebrations in Thailand, such reportage also included calls to replace English and American culture with Asian, specifically as it had been perfected in Japan. The latter was expressed in pieces on the Japanese-​inspired “spiritual revolution” in the Philippines (often emphasizing the support of the Catholic Church), the enthusiasm of Malay Muslims for the war, and the hope that pan-​Asian unity would overcome sectarian violence in India.64 Given the intensity of the wartime propaganda that appeared in the Shengjing Times by the 1940s, it becomes difficult, if not impossible to assess the commercial viability of the paper. Yet even during the period of total war, newspapers did need to remain viable money-​making enterprises. Again taking Japan as a touchstone, the early 1940s saw a showdown between editors and the state censors, in which the latter won out, partially through their access to economic measures, such as paper rationing and punitive fines.65 By this point, the Shengjing Times was one of the few remaining Chinese-​language newspapers in Manchukuo and, 62 Amaterasu was also mentioned by name, which Chinese readers would have interpreted as “Supreme Deity of the Luminous Sky” (tianzhao dashen 天照大神). In a front-​page article from July 15, 1941 entitled “On the Significance of Worship of the Spirit of the Original Source,” the head of the Office of Worship, Hashimoto Toranosuke, explained the importance of this deity as the source of Asian spiritual unity. See also ST July 14, 1941; ST July 16, 1941; ST July 15, 1941; ST July 1, 1941; ST July 15, 1943. 63 ST January 30, 1942; ST January 21, 1942; ST April 10, 1943; ST March 24, 1943; ST January 8, 1943. 64 ST January 23, 1942; ST January 20, 1942; ST August 6, 1943; ST August 8, 1943; ST July 12, 1943; ST July 24, 1943; ST July 14, 1943; ST July 10, 1943. 65 Kasza, State and Mass Media, 210–​215.

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despite its monopoly and heavy government subsidies, still continued to operate at least to some degree as a commercial entity. Advertisements continued to appear in large numbers, with Japanese products prominently, but by no means exclusively represented. Moreover, the type of attractive human-​interest stories that became more prominent after the sale of the paper in 1923 continued to appear, and many of these featured a religious angle. These articles were less tales of the miraculous than simple entertainment. Some were simple ghost stories, travelogues of mountain temples, or accounts of local festivals, but others had a clear moral. A 1939 piece about Confucius’ and Mencius’ descendants engaging in an unseemly (and very un-​Confucian) lawsuit hinted at the decline of Confucian ethics in China, in contrast to the revival of the Kingly Way in Manchukuo. Other articles emphasize the feats of noble sacrifice undertaken by the pious –​a Daoist who single-​handedly built a temple on a mountaintop, and a filial son who prayed for the health of his mother.66 Such articles are indeed fewer in number than they had been a decade earlier. Yet their inclusion at all suggests that the propaganda net may have had a few gaps, and that even papers such as the Shengjing Times still needed to put forth an active effort to court public interest.

Conclusion: Marketplace of Ideas, Ideas in the Marketplace

The evolving portrayal of religion in the Shengjing Times in many ways mirrored the larger aims of Japan in the region. Under the early editorship of Nakashima Masao, the paper did seem to take seriously its professed desire to uplift the Chinese people, as seen in its round condemnation of benighted religious practices. After its purchase by the Mantetsu, at a time when other Japanese business interests were making rapid inroads into Manchuria, the paper oriented itself to capturing a larger market, and its presentation of religion shifted away from social reform and towards more interesting and sellable stories of ghosts and foxes. With the Japanese invasion of China in 1937, and increasingly so thereafter, the Shengjing Times adopted an overtly ideological portrayal of religion, one that was grounded in the Japanese civilizing mission and in the political structures of Manchukuo. Certain themes within this long evolution are worth notice. The respective periods of Chinese reformist and Japanese imperialist 66 ST January 13, 1939; ST July 17, 1940; ST December 6, 1940; ST July 30, 1941; ST April 15, 1944.

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ideology shared a common contempt for popular practice and enthusiasm for staid institutional religion. Broadly speaking, the reasons for this preference are surprisingly similar. Both ideological positions grew out of a general dislike for the miraculous and ecstatic facets of religion and, conversely, a belief in the power of public morals to create and transform the national body. Beyond these two trends, the entire run of the newspaper also reveals a consistent concern with the political impact of minority religions, and spins the activities of lamas, Christians, and Muslims in such a way as to include them in various national projects. In short, the images of religion featured in the Shengjing Times were inextricably related to both sweeping social trends and particularistic political needs. But returning to the ideas presented at the beginning of this chapter, how effective was this new era of mass media in shaping a dominant or hegemonic definition of religion? The answer is complicated not merely by the changing portrayal of religion itself, but more fundamentally by the fact that even in the context of this single publication, we cannot speak of print journalism as a unitary phenomenon. During its lifetime, the Shengjing Times underwent distinct transformations: from a reformist platform into a market product, and finally into a tool of social engineering. In other words, the paper alternately aimed to talk about, appeal to, or educate its readership. The Shengjing Times was most effective and innovative in its original incarnation –​when it sought to facilitate communication within a like-​ minded audience –​but was probably much less so in convincing skeptics, or educating the public at large. Of the many images of religion the paper produced, the most successful was likely to have been its early stance against superstition, precisely because this was a message that its readership was already very keen to hear. Conversely, even at its most propagandistic, the Shengjing Times was never able to simply impose its ideas on the reading public, and I  suspect that messages such as the constant drumbeat of support for the Kingly Way or Japanese spiritualism probably changed fewer minds than Eugen Weber’s example would suggest. The reason is simply that even if the paper enjoyed a largely captive audience, readers always had the ability to disagree with or simply ignore items that they did not like. Newspapers are, after all, newspapers:  products to be consumed and discarded. The same issue that waxed lofty and lyrical about the sacred national mission of Manchukuo also featured the supremely prosaic:  advertisements for skin whitener, bug spray, cigarettes, and acne cream. In retrospect, one wonders which of the two messages ultimately interested the average reader more.

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Law and Religion in Manchukuo

Over its short lifetime, the client state of Manchukuo adopted a clear, if evolving policy towards religion. The Manchukuo state was foundationally multi-​confessional, but was also heavily invested a discursive and practical program of social engineering that it assiduously avoided calling religion. Each of these projects relied heavily on law. This chapter examines the interaction of law and religion in Manchukuo, asking why a distinctly illiberal state would use law to pursue its social agenda, and how religious principles written into law both reflected and shaped the state’s understanding of its own political legitimacy.

Beyond Code and Church

Law and religion are close but contentious cousins. The two frequently appear in close proximity:  many of the world’s religions developed in tandem with the first legal codes, and some of the most iconic figures in the history of Western law  –​Constantine, Thomas Aquinas, Hugo Grotius, and Thomas Jefferson –​also stand with some prominence in the history of religion and religious thought. Law and religion interact in practice and in principle. Even when the two support each other, such as when religious oaths are recognized as legally binding, they will still need to negotiate boundaries of authority on a wide number of specific questions: whether tithing can be legally required, whether religious or legal structures take prominence in matters such as divorce, or whether religious symbolism can appear in public spaces. In most Western jurisdictions, such decisions are based on an understanding of a notional line between religious and secular authority, that line being drawn at the household, the door of the church, or in the individual conscience. Accommodation at this procedural level, separating God from Caesar, may require patience and negotiation, but at its core it is a straightforward matter of establishing and policing these 108

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jurisdictional boundaries. However, at the level of principle, law and religion occupy largely the same discursive space. Both law and religion are universalizing entities. Both appeal to transcendent principles of natural law, social justice, and universal order. These principles support and supersede human structures, be that the personal authority of sovereign and priest, or the institutional expression of code or Church. The two realms do not always reflect on each other:  disagreement in principle does not necessarily lead to conflict in practice, and vice versa. For the purposes of this chapter, we can categorize the interaction of law and religion into three types: proscriptive, normative, and transformative. While not exclusive, each of these three has a distinct logic. (1) Proscriptive: Law creates religion as a social institution by determining the boundaries of acceptable behavior and affiliation, and by outlawing various expressions of nonconformity or heresy. (2) Normative: Religion as a realm of theological or humanistic exploration creates law by elaborating the transcendent principles from which derive political authority. (3) Transformative: Law provides a vehicle and platform for the expression of transcendent ideas, particularly in the formation of social policy. In this sense lawmaking and social policy are not merely a passive platform for the expression of religious ideas, but a realm of ethical and theological exploration in their own right.

Precedents: Law and Religion in China and Japan

A similar circularity between law and religion runs deep in the history of East Asia. At first glance, law and religion in imperial China might seem a necessarily antagonistic pairing. Centuries before China’s unification, Confucian rhetoric had already established political coercion and moral virtue as opposing forces, the axiomatic superiority of the latter expressed in the dictum that “people who are led by laws and made uniform by punishments will evade the laws and have no sense of shame.”1 Yet by the time of the Han dynasty (206 BC–​220 AD), imperial governments had already found a way to marry the two principles, using codified regulations to enforce moral action. This trend came to fruition during the late fourteenth century, when the founding emperor of the Ming vastly expanded the legal regulation of religion. Ming law, much of which remained unaltered until the fall of the Qing, combined proscriptive, normative, and transformative elements. 1 “Dao zhi yi zheng, qi zhi yi xing, min mian er wu chi” (Analects, 2–​3). The common rendition of zheng as law (as seen in James Legge’s translation) might not be precisely accurate, given the connotations attached to the English term, but still resonates with the idea that morality cannot be commanded by force of governance.

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It divided all religious organizations and temples into grades of legality, with harsh measures enacted to eradicate those branded as heretical (xie 邪, often rendered as “heterodox”). It easily combined the normative and transformative, since in the Confucian idiom, the fundamental duty of the sovereign was precisely the moral transformation of the realm. Ming law took this charge seriously, enforcing ritual norms such as standard periods of mourning, and establishing ambitious guidelines for the dissemination and performance of moral texts.2 Despite some obvious changes, this same mix of elements would remain evident as China reinvented itself politically and socially into the early twentieth century. As well as a time of sweeping social reform, the early Republic was also a time of frenetic legislative activity: laws were made at the small and large scale, the latter culminating in the writing of new codes over the 1920s and the promulgation of a constitution in 1937.3 Although Republican law nominally espoused the principle of religious freedom, it did so in a way that excluded what it saw as religion’s particularly backward and superstitious manifestations, issuing measures to suppress millenarian organizations, spirit healing, wasteful rituals, and unhygienic burial practices. In practice, the enforcement of such laws provided convenient cover for a variety of other agendas, such as the appropriation of temple properties.4 At the same time, religious policy was also an expression of principles, explaining the legitimacy and purpose of the new state and its overriding mission of social tutelage. A 1927 proposal by the Zhejiang provincial legislature to weed out the backward elements from the pantheon 2 The best overall introduction to the central place of religion in Chinese statecraft is John Lagerwey, China: A Religious State (University of Hong Kong Press, 2010). Laws of the early Ming specifically banned the teachings of the White Lotus tradition, but the persecution of groups such as the Manicheans goes back far beyond that. Lin Wushu, “Moni jiao huaming bianxi,” Jiuzhou xuelin 15 (2003):  190–​243. On Ming law specifically, see Jiang Yonglin, The Mandate of Heaven and the Great Ming Code (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2013), and Edward Farmer, Zhu Yuanzhang and Early Ming Legislation: The Reordering of Chinese society Following the Era of Mongol Rule (Leiden and New  York:  E. J.  Brill, 1995), 163–​177, 197–​209. Zhao Yifeng, Mingdai guojia zongjiao guanli zhidu yu zhengce yanjiu (Beijing:  Zhongguo shehui kexue chubanshe, 2008). The oft-​quoted Ming law, adopted also by the Qing, demanded death by strangulation for leaders of heretical organizations, and banishment to 3,000 li for all followers. Da Qing lüli, juan 16. This and similar laws are cited in C. K. Yang, Religion in Chinese Society: A Study of Contemporary Social Functions of Religion and Some of Their Historical Factors (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1961), 204–​205. 3 See for example the 1937 Draft Constitution of the Republic of China, in China Law Review 10, 2 (1940): 293–​302. 4 Rebecca Nedostup, Superstitious Regimes:  Religion and the Politics of Chinese Modernity (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2010); Poon, Shuk-​wah Negotiating Religion in Modern China: State and Common People in Guangzhou, 1900–​1937 (Chinese University of Hong Kong, 2011).

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of popular gods is one example of how the new state aimed to shape the religious realm in terms that mirrored its own legitimacy.5 No less than its predecessor, the Republican government saw as one of its main goals the guiding of the Chinese people to social transformation and moral rebirth. This instinct was expressed in policies like Chiang Kai-​Shek’s pseudo-​ Confucian New Life Movement (xin shenghuo yundong 新生活運動), which had as its stated goal the formation of a new, morally aware citizen. While this movement is easily dismissed for its emphasis on minutiae, discouraging such behaviors as spitting or talking loudly in theaters, it was entirely consistent with what had become a tried and true approach to practical morality –​the expectation that proper behavior, even if coerced, would be conducive to the formation of a moral mindset.6 The history of law and religion in Japan reveals largely the same mix of concerns. The earliest interaction of law and religion was both proscriptive and coercive: soon after Buddhism was introduced to the country, Japanese rulers required every province to build a temple, not merely as expressions of imperial piety, but also as anchors of a sacred geography that simultaneously pacified and protected the nation, and integrated Buddhism into the state structure. Later decrees extended this geography into the home, requiring households to erect and maintain a Buddhist altar. At the same time, the state actively regulated the activities and fortunes of religious organizations, particularly the powerful and wealthy Buddhist monasteries, ensuring their subordination to state authority. As in China, Japanese rulers were especially vigilant against religious subordination of state authority. In a way that was somewhat different from China, Japanese political authority also rested on and embodied religious principles. Japanese rulers spoke of the law of the sovereign (obō 王法) and the law of the Buddha 5 “Standards for the Preservation or Eradication of Temples” (Shenci cunhui biaozhun), in Guomin zhengfu wenguan chu, Zhonghua minguo fagui huibian:  neizheng (Nanjing: Guomin zhengfu wenguan chu yinzhu ju, 1933), vol. III, 806–​814. This document has been discussed by Rebecca Nedostup and Vincent Goosaert, among others. 6 Arif Dirlik, “The Ideological Foundations of the New Life Movement:  A  Study in Counterrevolution,” Journal of Asian Studies 34, 4 (1975): 945–​980. Frederic Wakeman, Jr., “A Revisionist View of the Nanjing Decade: Confucian Fascism,” China Quarterly 150 (1997): 395–​432. Chiang was by no means alone in employing the rhetoric of Confucian revival. It was equally a feature of the warlord regimes of Wu Peifu and Yan Xishan; see Jerome Ch’en, “Defining Chinese Warlords and their Factions,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 31, 3 (1968):  570, and Donald G.  Gillin, Warlord Yen Hsi-​shan in Shansi Province, 1911–​1949 (Princeton University Press, 1967), 59. Equally important was the pseudo-​religious use of political ideology, most notably variations of the Three People’s Principles of Sun Yat-​sen. See Chi Zhen, “A Pragmatic Experiment in the Rural Construction Movement: The Self-​Government of Wanxi in Southwestern Henan, 1930–​1940” (PhD dissertation, Department of History, National University of Singapore, 2007).

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(buppō 佛法) as two wheels of the same cart.7 In addition to a close, if occasionally troubled relationship between political power and the various schools of monastic Buddhism, there was an understanding that the fate of the nation rested with the good will of the Buddhas and the kami, and that the responsibility for maintaining this relationship rested on those in political power. Like any political rhetoric, these ideas could be used cynically. Having spent many years of his own military career in violent campaigns against various Buddhist sects, Toyotomi Hideyoshi had no difficulty in presenting himself as a loyal servant of the dharma.8 The religious policies of the Meiji embodied the regime, and like those in Republican China, actively aimed to transform society. After the violent iconoclasm of the transition had cooled, reformers of various stripes began to articulate the place religion would occupy in a new, modern nation. On the one hand, this period saw the adoption of certain Western norms, most notably the legal guarantee of freedom of religious belief as enshrined in the 1889 Constitution. Yet just as in China, this promise of freedom was closely conscribed, and built on a conception of political authority that superseded and transcended private confessional interest. Activities such as the daily recitation of the Imperial Rescript on Education and reverence for the imperial institution were required of the new subject, but defined as civic rather than religious responsibilities. Many foreign observers (including, as we shall see, foreign missionaries living in Japan) observed this separation as disingenuous, a thinly veiled cover for anti-​Christian or anti-​Western sentiment, or else an evasion of Japan’s self-​professed commitment to religious freedom.9 At a certain level, these accusations do ring true. However, it would be a mistake to see them as solely an exercise in deception. Like the New Life Movement in China, the separation of civic from religious ritual in Japan was definitional to the purpose of the state, and in particular what it saw as not merely a right, but a responsibility to morally create the new citizen. During the twentieth century, these policies increased in significance and severity in Japan and its empire. Proscriptive measures against 7 To fully appreciate the complex interaction of political and religious power, see Joan R. Piggot, The Emergence of Japanese Kingship (Stanford University Press, 1997), 236–​ 279. For a shorter overview, see Neil McMullin, Buddhism and the State in Sixteenth-​ Century Japan (Princeton University Press, 1984), 17–​21. 8 The text of Hideyoshi’s proclamation is available in George Elison, Deus Destroyed: The Image of Christianity in Early Modern Japan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1973), 115–​116. 9 For the background on Japanese separation of Shinto into religious and civic (state and sect, respectively) elements, see Helen Hardacre, Shintō and the State, 1868–​1988 (Princeton University Press, 1989) For a contemporary criticism, see Daniel C. Holtom, “The State Cult of Modern Japan,” Journal of Religion 7, 4 (1927): 419–​446.

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non-​conformist religious groups such as Tenrikyō 天理教 and Ōmotokyō 大本教 had been enacted in Japan, but these measures were more urgently felt in Korea and Taiwan, where rebellions inspired by or organized through religion were put down with great violence.10 At the same time, laws were put into place to regulate the practice of religion, not merely to uncover potential subversion, but also to ensure that religious properties and services were properly paid for and duly taxed. The latter was the goal of a series of cadastral surveys, strict laws concerning the construction or sale of temple land, and numerous regulations applied to the activities of ritual specialists.11 Finally religion was fundamental to the image of Japan as a spiritual lodestar for a new Asia, one that would guide the transformation of colonial subjects into imperial ones. In an adapted version of policies that had been initiated a generation earlier in Japan, colonial authorities in Korea and Taiwan promoted Japanese sects of Buddhism and required attendance at state and Shinto rituals and expressions of allegiance to a divine emperor.12 As in Japan itself, they insisted that civic ritual was entirely divorced from, and certainly not contradictory to religion. The purpose here is not to propose an essentialist tradition of East Asian statecraft or political attitudes, but rather to point out patterns in the treatment of religion. Despite the very significant differences between China and Japan, between statecraft that we identify as premodern and that which was overtly modernizing, we can still see certain similarities in the interaction of law and religion. These patterns are not unique to Asia, but rather the same mix of elements identified earlier:  law delineates the boundaries of religion and punishes transgression, it defines political legitimacy in transcendent terms, and it gives the state the vehicle to 10 In both cases, the role of religion in fomenting rebellion was less the spread of subversive ideas than the formation of organizations and networks that served as an organizational conduit. Paul R. Katz, When Valleys Turned Blood Red: The Ta-​pa-​ni Incident in Colonial Taiwan (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2005); Kim Duk-​Whang, A History of Religions in Korea (Seoul: Daeji Moonwha-​sa, 1988), 376–​384, 393–​400. 11 Takaya Kawase, “The Jodo-​Shinshu Sect’s Missionary Work in Colonial Korea: Mission of Civilization?” Paper presented at the International Association of Historians of Religion, Tokyo, March 2005. In Taiwan, the ritual industry (jisi gongye, most notably, but exclusively that related to death ritual and ancestor worship) was highly regulated, extending to the hereditary licensure of specialists. The primary regulatory law was promulgated in 1926 as Imperial Ordinance 407, and was unique to Taiwan. Aneha Shohei, Sashi kogyo narabi ni Taiwan ni okeru tokushu hōritsu no kenkyū (Taibei: Nantian shudian, 1994). 12 Wan-​yao Chou, “The Kōminka Movement in Taiwan and Korea:  Comparisons and Interpretations,” in The Japanese Wartime Empire, 1931–​1945, ed. Peter Duus et  al., (Princeton University Press, 1996), 40–​70. For how this movement engaged religious policy in Taiwan, see ­chapters 2 and 3 of Charles Jones, Buddhism in Taiwan: Religion and the State, 1660–​1990 (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1999).

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effect social transformation. The law of Manchukuo, which drew heavily on legal traditions of both China and Japan, would continue these developments.

Manchukuo: Rule of Law under an Illegal Regime

The state of Manchukuo spent its short life heavily dependent upon, indeed immersed in, laws and legality. Beginning with the 1932 Declaration of Manchukuo Independence and the State Organization Law that operated in place of a constitution, the government of Manchukuo produced a voluminous body of law, with dozens of new statutes promulgated each month. It made extensive provisions for Manchukuo jurists to receive legal training in Japan, established a Law College in the new capital of Shinkyō (Xinjing 新京), and extended a system of courts and procurators to every city of the empire.13 It is tempting to dismiss the Manchukuo legal enterprise as purely ornamental. Appeals to law and legality provided a rhetorical cover for a state that had, not insignificantly, been declared illegitimate by the League of Nations.14 Rejection of the new state, and the subsequent outbreak of hostilities with China and the Allies did not lessen the appetite for law and legal institutions in Manchukuo; if anything, the growing desperation of the military situation increased it. Often this took somewhat incongruous forms –​in January 1945, just two months before Allied air forces began their bombing of the Japanese home islands, Manchukuo promulgated an elaborate, sixty-​five-​item ordinance governing state ritual, including such necessary information as the proper use of military salute while on parade, and the correct manner of holding a sword during dress occasions.15 13 For a more extensive discussion of the structure and ramifications of the Manchukuo legal system, see Thomas David DuBois, “Rule of Law in a Brave New Empire: Legal Rhetoric and Practice in Manchukuo,” Law and History Review 26, 2 (2008): 285–​317, and “Inauthentic Sovereignty:  Law and Legal Institutions in Manchukuo,” Journal of Asian Studies 69, 3 (2010): 7490nal. 14 Contravening precedents established in the peace of the Great War, the Manchukuo case would provide the grounds for American Secretary of State George Stimson to declare on the basis of the principle of “ex iniuria ius non oritur” (law does not flow from harm, i.e., illegal acts cannot produce legal results or rights) that the United States would not recognize the validity of states created by force of arms. This doctrine would again be tested with the crisis of the Baltic States. Robert Langer, Seizure of Territory: The Stimson Doctrine and Related Principles in Legal Theory and Diplomatic Practice (Princeton University Press, 1947). 15 I will cite Manchukuo laws first by the name of the law itself, followed by where they were reported in government publications. To avoid confusion from the custom of starting the new reign year on March 1, I will give dates according to the Western calendar. Gongnei fu shunling 7, Zhengfu gongbao, January 28, 1945 (3300).

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In other cases, the use of law was chillingly efficient. Dissent was crushed with widespread state-​sanctioned terror but, it is important to remember, not by naked violence alone. Terror and intimidation were also matched by an efflorescence of legalistic forms (many of which were already in use in Japan), such as “special” courts and “emergency” measures. These measures rhetorically euphemized state violence, terming resistance as banditry and the breakdown of order as a temporary setback, and gave authorities a free hand to channel convicts into a system of coerced labor.16 However, it would be a mistake to view the Manchukuo legal sphere solely in such utilitarian terms. Although the state was by no means fully sovereign, its legal sphere was a distinct entity. It made heavy reference to the Japanese legal system, but did not directly copy it. For the framers and stakeholders of Manchukuo, law was a practical concern, but also a discursive sphere, one where debates around the fundamental issues and identity of the state, and its place in the empire found expression. Manchukuo law drew inspiration from both of its neighbors. It was obviously very close to Japan, but could also draw on the Republic of China, which over the previous decade had emulated many of Japan’s legal reforms. Like both, Manchukuo promulgated law in a number of forms:  codes, ordinances, and judicial decisions.17 Although the long-​promised Manchukuo Constitution was ultimately never written, detailed codes, modeled largely on those used by its two neighbors, were promulgated during the mid 1930s. Codes were supplemented by a steady stream of detailed ordinances (ling/​rei 令) on specific topics. These ordinances appeared under a number of different names, each denoting the promulgating body (i.e., Imperial, Cabinet, Departmental, or Provincial) and designated with a number and the year of promulgation. The third type of lawmaking was the decisions of the judiciary, particularly the High Courts and the five-​person Supreme Court, which sat in the capital. In contrast to Anglo-​American legal systems, neither Japan nor Manchukuo gave legal weight to juridical precedent.18 Nevertheless, 16 Yaqin Li’s recent dissertation superbly demonstrates the interaction of rhetoric and public security policy. Yaqin Li, “ ‘Bandit Suppression’ in Manchukuo (1932–​1945)” (PhD dissertation, Princeton University, 2012). See especially her discussion of the public security courts, 146–​151. On the role of special courts in recruiting coerced labor, see DuBois, “Rule of Law,” 310–​315. 17 On the structure of Japanese law in Taiwan, see Wang Tay-​Sheng, Legal Reform in Taiwan under Japanese Colonial Rule, 1895–​ 1945:  The Reception of Western Law (Seattle and London: University of Washington Press, 2000). A detailed introduction to Manchukuo is presented in Iwasaki Yoshikaku, ed. Minpō sōsoku, Manshū teikoku shin hōritsu zenki (Shinkyō: Tōkō shōin, 1937), vol. I, 1–​16. 18 Kenzo Takayanagi, “Occidental Legal Ideas in Japan: Their Reception and Influence,” Pacific Affairs 3, 8 (1930): 740–​753.

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court decisions were an important point of reference for judges, particularly when they had to rule in the absence of codified law. Although nothing like a system of checks and balances, each of these different expressions represented a distinct aspect of the entire lawmaking process. They should not give the appearance of competing legal authority. Executive power in the colonies, including that to promulgate ordinances, was highly centralized in the hands of governors-​general. In Manchukuo, as well, lawmaking authority was exercised by a small number of individuals, and channeled through largely compliant agencies of government, such that the names attached to the ordinances reflect less the authority of promulgation than an internal shorthand for which arm of government maintained jurisdiction and responsibility for enforcement.19 Nevertheless, the difference in these expressions of law becomes visible in the very distinctive manner in which each one dealt with religion.

Absolute Values: Statutory Law

Religion is almost entirely absent from the codified laws of Manchukuo. Although the founding documents of Manchukuo make what might at first glance appear to be a formulaic nod to religious freedoms, stating that citizens “shall enjoy equal protection of the state regardless of race or religion,” the wording of this promise is prescient of its true aims.20 As was the case in both Japan and China, the guarantee of religious freedom is one that defines religion within very specific and fairly narrow parameters. Rather than a guarantee of individual religious conscience, what was being promised was the protection of religion as it was paired with the five racial structures discussed in Chapter 4: the reference to “equal protection” mandating that none of the five would be disproportionately advantaged.21 Religion is only minimally represented in the most complete collection of codified Manchukuo law, the Complete Six Codes (roppō zensho 六法全書).22 This entire compendium makes only one specific reference to what 19 Timothy Brook, among others, has revisited the question of agency within Japanese occupied areas. See especially Timothy Brook, Collaboration: Japanese Agents and Local Elites in Wartime China (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2005). 20 Renquan baozhang fa [Human Rights Protection Law], article 3. This and many other founding documents are available in Yamada Rikutsui, “Manshūkoku no soshiki oyobi kokuhō kōgi,” in Man-​Mō zenshū 2, ed. Sonoi Hideo (Tokyo:  Man-​Mō School Press, 1935), 1–​92, quotation from 25. 21 The ideal of racial governance occasionally produced parallel legal structures, such as the creation of distinct courts and customary law for Mongols in Xing’an Prefectures. 22 Waseda University Library holds editions of the Manchukuo Complete Six Codes from 1933, 1937, and 1941.

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might be easily identified as religion, in Chapter  19, Articles 179–​183 of the Criminal Code: The Crime of Desecrating Places of Worship or Graves. Even here, religion appears to be something of an afterthought –​ the primary concern of this law being the desecration of corpses, with the prohibition against destroying temples taking a place of secondary importance.23

Surveillance and Control: Religion in Policy

To understand the degree of official concern with religion, we must turn to the ordinances. In contrast to the overall absence of religion in the Complete Six Codes, collections of ordinances such as the Compiled Legal Ordinances of Manchukuo (Manshūkoku hōrei shūran 満州国法令 輯覧) or the Manchukuo Government Bulletin (Zhengfu gongbao 政府公 報) reveal a sustained interest in religion.24 Unlike codified law, ordinances addressed specific problems on a case-​by-​case basis. Throughout the life of Manchukuo, ordinances were promulgated at a phenomenal rate –​the single month of January 1940 saw 125 directives issued at the central, cabinet, and provincial levels. Most of these were superlatively routine: the issuance of economic regulations, constant reorganization of government departments and titles, and, increasingly, steps aimed at maintaining internal security.25 Religion was a small, but consistent part of this larger picture, and its regulation in ordinances reveals a number of themes and objectives. The first of these is an intense desire to know and regulate the practice of religion on the ground. Ordinances tasked every level of the government with extensive intelligence gathering: counting religious adherents, assessing the amount and value of temple property, and clarifying the lines of hierarchy within sects. Such efforts were most prominent in the early years of the state. In June of 1933, the Ministry of Culture and Education (Wenjiao bu 文教部) ordered the Jilin counties of Mengjiang 蒙江 and Aihun 璦琿 to conduct investigations into local belief, even

23 This article is nearly identical to Articles 188–​191 of the current Japanese code, the only change being that “temples and altars” (tan miao/​tan byō) is replaced with “Buddhist altars.” (fotan/​butsudan). On the long and storied legal significance of grave desecration in the Chinese context, see Weiting Guo, “Social Practice and Judicial Politics in ‘Grave Destruction’ Cases in Qing Taiwan, 1683–​1895,” in Chinese Law:  Knowledge, Practice, and Transformation, 1530s to 1950s, ed. Madeleine Zelin and Li Chen (Leiden:  Brill, 2015), 84–​123. 24 Manshūkoku hōseikyoku, Manshūkoku hōrei shūran, 9  vols. (Shinkyō:  Manshū gyōsei gakkai, 1944). 25 Zhengfu gongbao, January 1940 (3242–​3244).

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drawing up standard forms for them to use in doing so.26 Often information on religion was gathered in the context of other efforts, such as a census ordered by the Ministry of Employment (Minsheng bu 民生部) in February 1934, which included detailed employment information. This included a subcategory of religious professionals, which was further divided into Buddhist monks, Daoist priests, lamas, Christian priests, imams and “other religious specialists” (qita zongjiao jia 其他宗 教家).27 (Fortune tellers appeared under a subsequent category of “doctors and diviners,” rather than as religious specialists.) In October 1936 the Ministry of Culture and Education mandated a nationwide count of every temple and religious group, demanding such information as the location of the main headquarters, the sectarian affiliation of the branch, the number of missionaries, and number of ordinary members. As in the employment survey, groups were sorted into one of a few main religions:  Buddhism, Daoism, Islam, Lamaism (here again categorized as distinct from Buddhism), three branches of Christianity, and “other.”28 The religious groupings used in the surveys map more or less neatly (Christianity being the outlier) onto the same racial categories that were used elsewhere in Manchukuo. Like the scholarly images discussed in Chapter  4, the gathering of official intelligence on religion simultaneously understands and creates its object, but unlike scholars, governments have the power to transform their structures into policy. However, we should be careful of reading too much into the intention behind such efforts. In some cases, the sort of information being sought, such as precise details about the sect and lineage affiliation of each temple, suits a Japanese religious landscape better than the more fluid Chinese one. There was some very minimal effort to use categorization to impose some order on Chinese temple life, as seen for example in a 1945 ordinance that prohibited temples from switching their official designation from Buddhist to Daoist and vice versa.29 But again we should not read too much into this late attempt. The 1936 surveys included the caveat that religions without specific organizations (they give the example of shamanism) should simply be recorded under the name of the individual. At the same time, there appears to have been little sustained concern with religious movements as a security concern. Some of the new 26 These disbanded counties are parts of contemporary Jingyu 靖宇 County and Heihe 黑河 City, respectively. Wenjiaobu shunling 95. Zhengfu gongbao, July 4, 1933; Wenjiaobu shunling 96. Zhengfu gongbao, July 4, 1933 (3103). 27 Zhengfu gongbao, February 28, 1934 (3142). 28 Wenjiaobu shunling 107. Zhengfu gongbao, October 26, 1936 (3215). 29 Wenjiaobu shunling 93. Zhengfu gongbao, June 2, 1945 (3376). This type of casual imprecision was common in popular perception. See DuBois, Sacred Village, 98–​102.

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religious movements were felt to warrant observation. In June of 1933, orders were given to investigate the Datong Buddhist Organization 大同 佛教總會 (datong fojiao zonghui) in Jilin, and the Revive Fengtian Sagely Way Goodness Study Society 復奉天聖道立善研究總會 (fu Fengtian shengdao lishan yanjiu zonghui). Apparently, neither of these investigations raised any alarm, since no further action appears to have been taken against either group. Apart from these, the ordinances reveal very little interest in religion as a security threat. This apparent lack of concern is suggested by the 1934 religion survey, which included instructions for reporting potential threats to local authorities. This protocol included no fewer than eighteen types of suspicious individuals –​anarchists, anti-​ Manchukuo elements, anyone who had spoken against the government or was prone to violence, opium smokers, persons with a police record, those who had practiced female infanticide, or those who had suddenly become rich or poor –​but conspicuously absent from this elaborate rogues gallery is any mention of religion, secret or otherwise.30 Indeed, Manchukuo law seems to have had no special category for illegal, illicit, or immoral religion. In contrast to both China and Japan, there does not appear to have been an overt vehicle for legally criminalizing religions, at least not in such terms.31 The greater concern was Christian missionaries.32 Measures to control the movements of missionaries, most of whom would have been citizens of foreign countries, began to tighten during the late 1930s. In May of 1939, the “Temporary Regulations for Temples and Missionaries” (Ministry of Employment Ordinance 93) required missionaries to apply to the Ministry of Civil Affairs (Minzheng bu 民政部) for certification. The certification process required the applicant to affiliate with a specific Church that could then be held accountable for their actions. The license, being non-​transferable, was to be surrendered upon retirement or death, either to the government or to a temple representative. Initially enforced by the national government, this regulation was significant enough to warrant a second promulgation by provincial authorities the following year.33 Exerting control over religious property was another high concern. As with personnel, the process of bringing order to property began with 30 Minzheng bu shunling 106, Zhengfu gongbao, February 23, 1934 (3145). 31 The absence of criminalizing law does not mean that such groups were tolerated. In November 1936, Japanese members of Hitonomichi were arrested, following similar moves in Japan. BCR, January 6, 1937. 32 British consular reports mention the dilemma of missionaries who resisted registration. BCR, Fengtian (Mukden), March 20, 1939; BCR, Harbin, March 31, 1939. 33 Xing’an dong shengling 2, Zhengfu gongbao, June 7, 1940 (3357), Rehe shengling 2, Zhengfu gongbao, June 1, 1940 (3243).

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extensive surveying. Some of these investigations, such as the 1936 census, called for only general information, such as addresses of temples and the names of contact persons. Others reveal more specific aims. In August 1933, the Ministry of Culture and Education directed the government of Jilin Province to inventory its cultural treasures and ancient ruins. This directive was subsequently repeated in Xing’an 興安 and Rehe, with the apparent aim of preventing the looting of cultural treasures from Buddhist temples. Efforts were made not to alienate religious communities in dealing with property issues. When plans were made in 1934 to relocate Muslim Hui graves in Jilin and Fengtian, the Ministry of Education and Culture ordered local officials to meet with representatives from mosques and the major Hui clans, in order to demonstrate to them that the new government would respect religious customs.34 Surveys of religious property also aimed to establish legal rights of ownership. Adjudication of religious property was a well-​established concern of colonial governance. Lawsuits arising from disputed ownership of temple property had been an ongoing problem in Taiwan and China proper, and civil courts operating in Japanese-​administered areas of north China were heavily occupied with all sorts of private land disputes.35 Manchukuo had encountered legal conflicts over religious property, such as an ownership dispute brought by Beizhen 北鎮 County villager Duan Wenjian against a French Catholic missionary. The case eventually came before the Fengtian High Court, which was subsequently instructed by special order of the Judiciary Department to conduct its own investigation.36 Beginning in April 1941, Manchukuo issued a series of provincial-​ level ordinances aimed at establishing order over the ownership and use of religious property:  Heihe Provincial Regulations for the Protection and Administration of Temple Property, followed over the next few months by similar ordinances in Jilin, Rehe, Binjiang, and Mudanjiang 牡丹江. These sets of provincial regulations were nearly identical –​each required the registration of temple property through a designated representative under the name of the temple (if no representative was so named, the responsibility would fall by default to city, county, or banner authorities), and further stipulating that annual updates be submitted to provincial authorities each February. Regulations prohibited the sale of temple property except in special circumstances, and clarified that objects inside the temple, excepting the personal effects of missionaries living within, were also temple property. All except the Jilin ordinance 34 Wenjiao bu zi 28, Zhengfu gongbao, August 10, 1933 (3107). 35 Pekin chihō hōin minji hanketsu oyobi saitei, in Shina toshi fudōsan kankō chōsa shiryō, vol. VII (Dairen: Mantetsu chōsabu, 1941–​1942). 36 Sifa zhiling 2,766, Zhengfu gongbao, July 10, 1934 (3102).

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designate the management of temple property as the exclusive purview of resident monks and priests.37

By Any Other Name

The more activist use of ordinances was in the attempt to create a state religion for Manchukuo, although it was never named as such. The formation of state religion in Manchukuo can be divided into two distinct phases. The initial phase focused on the pseudo-​Confucian Kingly Way, but later gave way to a regimen of ritual focused on the war dead, National Foundation temples (sources are often surprisingly indiscriminate over whether these are temples, miao 廟, or shenshe神社, a term which evokes a Shinto shrine), and the person of the Manchukuo emperor. The rhetoric of the Kingly Way permeates most official pronouncements of the early years of Manchukuo. Although few observers found it especially convincing, it is clear that many within the government (particularly, it seems, among Chinese officials) did take the project quite seriously.38 The ideal of Confucian revival predated Manchukuo, and was shared by a broad swath of Chinese and Japanese observers, including the Guomindang advocates of the contemporary New Life Movement. The implementation of Confucian policy in Manchukuo was closely tied to Prime Minister Zheng Xiaoxu, and indeed the shift away from Kingly Way rhetoric followed not long after his resignation in 1935.39 But he was hardly alone. Apart from Zheng, Chinese officials such as classical scholar and Chief Procurator of the Manchukuo judiciary Luo Zhenyu 羅振玉(1866–​1940) saw in the Kingly Way hope for a Chinese moral and political rebirth.40 As a political project, Kingly Way Confucianism combined social education and state ritual. The former was an extension of policies seen in much earlier in China and Japan, focusing on various avenues of moral exhortation, such as the distribution of texts. In 1933, the Ministry of 37 Heihe shengling 6, Zhengfu gongbao, April 23, 1941; Jilin shengling 8, Zhengfu gongbao, May 28, 1941; Rehe shengling 8, Zhengfu gongbao, June 15, 1941; Mudanjiang shengling 9, Zhengfu gongbao, June 15, 1941; Mudanjiang shengling 9, Zhengfu gongbao, June 15, 1941. 38 BCR, Harbin, September 30, 1932 and BCR, Fengtian, January 18, 1936 note that the Kingly Way was intended to replace the Three People’s Principles of Sun Yat-​sen in textbooks. Such reports generally dismissed the teaching as clumsy propaganda. 39 BCR, Fengtian, January 18, 1936 presents two different views on the fate of the Kingly Way immediately following the departure of Zheng Xiaoxu, but later reports confirm that the trend was away from Kingly Way and towards emperor worship. BCR, Fengtian, January 6, 1937. 40 Both Zheng and Luo had been in close contact with Puyi since his exile in Tianjin during the 1920s. See Aixinjueluo Puyi, Wode qian ban sheng (Beijing: Qunzhong chubanshe, 2007), 178–​296.

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Culture and Education ordered schools in Xing’an Province to distribute the Cultural Education Monthly (Wenjiao yuekan 文教月刊), a title that suggests a didactic content.41 Even if these policies were widely discounted by outside observers, they could elicit an active response, such as when sixty-​six-​year-​old villager Sun Dianyun 孫殿鋆 wrote to the Ministry of Culture and Education extolling the virtues of the Classic of Filial Piety (Xiao jing 孝經), and requesting that the text be made the foundation of a national program of education based on the Kingly Way.42 They were not aimed solely at the masses. Late in 1934, the Ministry of Culture and Education arranged a series of lectures on the Kingly Way, and the problems and theory of social education. Rather than the public at large, the target of these lectures was educational officials in Binjiang and Andong Provinces: principals of all provincial and county schools, as well as provincial and county-​level cultural and educational officials, and representatives from all “social education” (shehui jiaohua 社會教化) organizations.43 As did the contemporary Republic of China, Manchukuo also revived the imperial-​era practice of officially recognizing moral exemplars. In January 1934, the Ministry of Culture and Education instructed the governor of Heilongjiang Province to seek out and publicly recognize the “filial sons and virtuous wives” (xiaozi jiefu 孝子節夫) in Tailai 泰來 County.44 Later that year, orders were given for all provincial governors to seek out moral exemplars for inclusion in a text called the Imperial Grand Register of the Filial, Virtuous and Respected Venerable (yu ji dadian baoyang jie xiao jinglao helu 御極大典褒揚節孝敬老合錄). Data for this text was first compiled by each county, and later made into a single national volume.45 This initiative soon transformed into an annual event. In 1944, the “Ninth Annual Compilation of the Virtuous, the Filial and Contributors to Social Education” –​a list of nearly 400 individuals ranging from teenagers to octogenarians, and hailing equally from city and countryside  –​was published in full in the Manchukuo Government Bulletin.46 Also reviving a much older practice, particularly 41 Wenjiao zhiling 32, Zhengfu gongbao, August 10, 1933 (3106). 42 Wenjiao bu pi 1, Zhengfu gongbao, January 15, 1934 (3137), Wenjiao bu pi 39, Zhengfu gongbao, October 9, 1934 (3183). Sun Dianyun’s letter dated from December 1933. Other than his residence in Bali Village, in Zhuanghe County, this source says no more about him. 43 Attendance was estimated at fifty and ninety representatives from Binjiang and Andong, respectively. Wenjiao shunling 86, Zhengfu gongbao, September 5, 1934 (3208). 44 Wenjiao zhiling 19, Zhengfu gongbao, February 7, 1934 (3141). 45 Wenjiao shunling 84, Zhengfu gongbao, November 10, 1934 (3187). This policy is also mentioned in Yamada Rikutsui, “Manshūkoku no soshiki,” 64. 46 Zhengfu gongbao, January 16, 1944.

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exemplary individuals were recognized with physical monuments, such as the plaque erected in 1935 (by government order and at government expense) in the Fengtian county of Tieling, to commemorate the virtue of one Madame Zhang.47 The other half of this program revived Confucian ritual and ritual space. The institution of state ritual coincided with the 1934 ascension of Puyi as emperor. In an arrangement obviously designed to emulate Qing practice, provincial and county governments were instructed months ahead of time to prepare Spring and Autumn Sacrifices on March 14, with some of the smaller counties (such as Yongji County in Jilin) receiving a subsidy to help cover the costs.48 The first national rituals were conducted in Xinjing by Prime Minister Zheng Xiaoxu.49 His successor, Zhang Jinghui 張景惠 (1871–​1959), would play a central ceremonial role in what was possibly the most elaborate of these rituals, that held in 1942 to mark the ten-​year anniversary of the state. Ordinances from the State Council (guowu yuan 國務院) planned this ceremony in painstaking detail. Carefully chosen representatives from each province were to offer samples of local produce, culminating in a variation of a classical gesture, with Zhang offering up the Five Grains (wu gu 五穀) in gratitude for the kindness of the emperor.50 The revival of state ritual also necessitated the reconstitution of the network of Confucian temples (wen miao 文廟). In preparation for the first rituals of 1934, the Ministry of Culture and Education directed provincial governments to inspect the condition of county-​level Confucian temples.51 Soon thereafter, the ministry instructed each province, district, and administrative city to build and maintain a Confucian temple. Costs were to be borne locally, and details of funding to be reported to the central government, so as to ensure that these projects would not become an undue financial burden on the population.52 The direction of Manchukuo state religion took a sharp turn during the late 1930s, when existing policies were increasingly shaped by a new emphasis on reverence for the imperial institution and on Shinto-​ style ceremonies at national shrines. The semi-​divinity of the emperor is hinted at in the role he would play in the 1942 state anniversary ceremonies, yet as far as actual worship was concerned, the focus was not on the 47 Wenjiao zhiling 176, Zhengfu gongbao, August 3, 1933 (3206). 48 Wenjiao zhiling 70, Zhengfu gongbao, August 25, 1936 (3203); Wenjiao zhiling 20, Zhengfu gongbao, February 7, 1934 (3141). 49 Zhengfu gongbao, March 7, 1936 (3192). 50 Guowuyuan shunling 434, Zhengfu gongbao, January 30, 1944 (3274). Traditionally, it was the emperor who offered the Five Grains to Heaven. 51 For example the demand made of Heilongjiang Province in 1933. Wenjiaobu zhiling 92, Zhengfu gongbao, August 18, 1934 (3106). 52 Wenjiao zhiling 88, Zhengfu gongbao, November 10, 1934 (3190).

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person of the emperor, but rather the regalia of the imperial institution. In emulation of imperial ritual in Japan, officials, soldiers, and citizen groups were organized to bow before imperial rescripts, the imperial seal (shinji 神璽), and in the direction of the palaces in Xinjing and Tokyo.53 Like the Confucian revival, this new usage required a dedicated ritual space: these were the temples of National Foundation. Sacred objects such as the imperial seal were housed in the main branch of this temple (the enshrinement of the seal in 1944 was the occasion of a particularly large ceremony), but other such temples were to be built in every administrative city in Manchukuo. As with Confucian temples, law closely outlined the details of construction, including what sort of existing structures might be converted into National Foundation temples and restrictions on the sort of workers that could be employed.54 The regimen of worship, as well, was a matter of public policy. A series of ordinances outlined how one was to worship at National Foundation temples and what sort of persons (such as those in mourning) were not to visit the temple.55 A parallel set of regimens was created for the monuments erected to the souls of the loyal war dead (zhongling ta 忠靈塔). By the very final months of Manchukuo, the two sorts of monuments (and the rituals surrounding them) had largely merged together.56

Judicial Decisions

Judicial rulings present a third, and again quite different picture. Although case records from Manchukuo courts are incomplete, those of higher-​ level courts are fairly well represented.57 The Manchukuo Supreme 53 Wenjiao zhiling 26, Zhengfu gongbao, February 2, 1945 (3292). 54 Yuanling 1, Zhengfu gongbao, January 28, 1944 (3298); Wenjiao zhiling 32, Zhengfu gongbao, February 19, 1944 (3293). 55 Guowuyuan shunling 434, Zhengfu gongbao, January 30, 1944 (3274); Zhengfu gongbao, February 15, 1944 (3266); Yuanling 1, Zhengfu gongbao, January 28, 1944 (3298); Gongneifu shunling 7, Zhengfu gongbao, January 28, 1945 (3298). 56 Gongneifu shunling 7, Zhengfu gongbao, January 28, 1945 (3298); Zhengfu gongbao, March 8, 1944 (3324); Zhengfu gongbao, July 5, 1945 (3384). The most significant such commemoration was the 1939 funeral of Zheng Xiaoxu. Guowuyuan bugao 7, Zhengfu gongbao, April 11, 1939 (3309). An interesting comparison could be made between the policies promulgated in Manchukuo and those by some of the other client regimes established by Japan in China, particularly the Wang Jingwei government in Nanjing. While one might expect a great deal of similarity among these regimes, contemporary observers noted that each retained a high degree of bureaucratic autonomy, and that relations among them were often bitterly contentious. George Edward Taylor, Japanese Sponsored Regime in North China (New York: Garland, 1980), 143. 57 Few lower-​court case records remain in existence, with the exception of a two-​volume collection of land disputes heard in Japanese operated courts in Beijing and Qingdao. Pekin chihō hōin minji hanketsu oyobi saitei.

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Figure 5.1.  Postcard of the military cenotaph (literally the “loyal souls stele”) in Qingdao. Lafayette College East Asia Image Collection.

Court published its rulings in a monthly journal, for which I have been able to locate the years 1932–​1936 and 1940–​1945.58 A single issue of this journal contains from one to four Supreme or Fengtian High Court case records, each containing an outline of the case itself, explanation 58 Supreme Court [Manchukuo], Saikō hōin hanketsurei, unnumbered volume, 1935; vols. V–​VIII, 1940–​1945 (Shinkyō:  Hōsōkai). Some of these cases are repeated in

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of the reason it was under appeal, list of the laws consulted, and finally a lengthy discussion of the reasons behind the court decision. Records are slightly more complete from the longer-​serving High Court in the jurisdictionally distinct Kantō Leased Territory. The Liaoning Provincial Library contains journalized rulings of the Kantō Court, which predated the founding of Manchukuo by over two decades, and thus offers an important perspective on the longer-​term evolution of Japanese legal thought on the mainland.59 I have been able to uncover 281 rulings from Kantō, and 280 from Manchukuo, spanning a period of roughly thirty years. Together, these provide a clear picture of the rulings that shaped the interpretation of law in Kantō and Manchukuo, and in particular the sort of information that higher judicial officials would have regarded as essential for lower-​level courts. Like codified law, case records are largely silent on the topic of religion. Most cases concern criminal matters, but within the still significant minority of civil cases, the focus was primarily on commercial issues, such as the validity of certain types of land rent (dian 佃), or the rights of property holders in tenant disputes. Occasionally the courts did specifically address issues under the heading of “custom,” but these deliberations consisted primarily of establishing the validity of contractual arrangements.60 Courts established the limits of custom in areas such as family law, defining what constituted a valid marriage or adoption, proper grounds for divorce or cancellation of marriage contract, as well as a valid claim to inheritance.61 What is notably and quite unmistakably Supreme Court [Manchukuo], Saikō hōin minji hanketsurei shū, vol. V, undated (Shinkyō: Hōsōkai), and in Manshū shihō kyōkai, ed., Manshū teikoku saikō hōin hanketsurei yōran (Shinkyō: Ganshōdō, 1938). The two sets of court records are available in the Hokkaido University and Liaoning Provincial libraries, respectively. 59 Available records from the Kantō courts consist of Kawabata Gen’ichirō, ed, Kantō kōtō hōin jōkoku bu hanrei shū, vol. I (Dairen: Hōritsu jippō, 1926) and Kwantung Territory High Court, Kantō todokufu kōtō hōin min, keiji hanrei shū, (Dairen: Manshū Nichinichi, 1915). Further comparison with Korea or Taiwan would certainly be useful, but is beyond the scope of this study. 60 Questions raised in criminal deliberations include establishing degrees of guilt in criminal cases involving involved human harm, and how to try two concurrent crimes, such as a murder committed in the context of a robbery. 61 The role of court decisions in defining the grey areas of commercial and family law is evident in the publication of the rulings of Japanese and Manchukuo courts. Such rulings were disseminated widely. In addition to the sources previously mentioned, court rulings were also published in the Journal of the Japan-​Manchukuo Legal Advisory Society (Nichi-​Man Hōsōkai zakki), and Manshūkoku shihōbu, ed., Dairiin kan’o minji shūkan no hanrei oyobi kaishakushu, in Shihō shiryō, 3 (n.p.: Shihōbu sōmushi chōsaka, 1935). Courts in Republican China addressed very similar questions. See Margaret Kuo, “The Handmaid of the Revolution:  Gender Equity and the Law of Domestic Relations in Republican China, 1912–​1949” (PhD dissertation, Department of History, University of California, Los Angeles, 2004).

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absent from any of these rulings is any issue related, even tangentially, the exercise or definition of religion. Judicial silence on the topic of religion was not unique to Manchukuo. While Manchukuo and Kantō did not make the interpretation of religion the explicit purview of the courts, neither did contemporary Japan or the Republic of China. In Japan, a number of new religious movements, most notably Ōmotokyō, had sought unsuccessfully to legally lay claim to the religious freedoms guaranteed under the Meiji Constitution, but even this small window of opportunity was slammed shut with the arrest of sect leaders (also known as the Second Ōmotokyō Incident) in 1935.62 Between the years 1923 and 1944, the few civil cases concerning religion heard by the Japanese Supreme Court were restricted to a handful of disputes over the ownership and disposition of shrine and temple property. These consisted of no more than four cases, heard during 1930 and 1931, which outlined the relation between shrine and government land, inheritance of the right to conduct commercial activity within temple precincts, the renting out of temple land, and the dissolution of the corporate status of a temple.63 In Republican China, as well, conflict over religion rarely played out in a courtroom. When it did, as in a 1946 case involving a scandal at the Beijing White Cloud Temple (Baiyun guan 白雲觀), what was at issue were questions involving authority to dispose of property, rather than any question that would hinge on the definition or interpretation of religion or religious rights.64 In eighteen years (1922–​1940) of judicial decisions and legal essays, the Chinese Law Review only once mentions religion, and then in a somewhat tangential reference to a 1920 Supreme Court decision ruling that a marriage retroactively deemed to be counter to the Catholic faith of one of the participants would still be recognized as valid by the state.65 Such silence on the topic of religion notably contrasts not only with the activism displayed in government ordinances, but also with the pivotal role that other judiciaries have subsequently played in the interpretation 62 Sheldon Garon, “State and Religion in Imperial Japan, 1912–​1945,” Journal of Japanese Studies 12, 2 (1986): 285–​301. During the 1920s, the relationship between the state and established religious groups had been somewhat more reciprocal, as evidenced by the difficulty in passing religious legislation during this decade. 63 Minpō hanrei kenkyūkai, Hanrei minjihō (Tokyo:  Minjihō Hanrei Kenkyūkai, 1932–​ 1944). Cases mentioned from (1930) 217–​222, (1930) 325–​328, (1930) 167–​169, and (1931) 327–​329, respectively. 64 Fu Haiyan, “An Shilin de beiju: 1946 nian Baiyun guan shao an yanjiu,” Bulletin of the Institute of Modern History Academia Sinica 62 (2008): 4308e. 65 China Law Review, 1922–​1940, vols. 1–​10 (Dobbs Ferry, NY:  Oceana Publications). The case mentioned was heard in reply to the Shanxi High Court, and appears in vol. 2, page 321. This is in contrast to the active discussion of topics such as gender equality, both in legal journals and in court decisions. See Kuo, Handmaid of the Revolution.

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of religion.66 In the American and European experience, court decisions have frequently been the site of the most sweeping and controversial interpretations of fundamental freedoms of speech and belief, as well as of the definition of religion itself. Indeed in both systems, it would be rare to see such issues debated in such detail by any other legal body. Courts in postwar Japan have heard a number of high-​profile cases that involved the establishment of religion by the state, and conversely, the right of the individual to opt out of certain elements of civic life on the grounds that these conflict with religious conscience. Some of the cases are well known:  conscientious objectors have sued against state support for Shinto war memorials (particularly the controversial Yasukuni Shrine), and during the 1980s, the Christian widow Nakaya Takafumi sued to prevent the soul of her deceased husband from being enshrined in a provincial gokoku 護國 (national protection) shrine in Yamaguchi Prefecture. Such cases have been instrumental in shaping the parameters of religion in postwar Japan.67 The contrast with the prominence of religion in postwar jurisprudence is worth closer examination. It would be a mistake to simply attribute the absence of religious matters to a lack of trust in the courts themselves: Chinese claimants frequently appealed to the Manchukuo courts in civil matters, while the state felt sufficiently secure as to entrust to the judiciary a key role in its extensive security activities. Rather, the absence of religion from Manchukuo case law was due to the simple fact that neither the appeal to religious freedom nor the specific designation as religion implied any real benefits or protections. The lack of incentive is made evident by comparing the Japanese Constitution of 1889, which elevated the civic duties of the subject over religious freedom, to that of 1947, which defined religious freedom as against the power of the state to coerce religious activity.68 The new Japanese constitution was followed 66 Even in the United States, judicial scrutiny of religious freedoms is primarily a phenomenon of the twentieth century, particularly the second half. Winnifred Fallers Sullivan notes that modern jurisprudence of the United States First Amendment began in earnest only during the 1940s. Paying the Words Extra:  Religious Discourse in the Supreme Court of the United States (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Center for the Study of World Religions, 1994), 113–​114. 67 A number of the more important cases are discussed in David M. O’Brien and Yasuo Ogoshi, To Dream of Dreams: Religious Freedom and Constitutional Politics in Postwar Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1996). Sullivan, Paying the Words Extra, discusses the Nakaya case in comparative perspective. Other cases are listed in Bunkachō shūmuka shūkyō hōjin hōrei kenkyūkai, ed., Shūkyō hōjinhō no kaisetsu to unyō (Tokyo: Daiichi Hōki Shuppan, 1974). The full text of important postwar rulings may be found on the webpage of the Japanese Supreme Court: www.courts.go.jp. 68 Dai Nippon Teikoku Kenpō, Article 28 “Japanese subjects shall, within limits not prejudicial to peace and order, and not antagonistic to their duties as subjects, enjoy freedom of religious belief.” 1947 Constitution Article 20: “(1) Freedom of religion is guaranteed

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by the 1954  “Religious persons law” (Shūkyō hōjin hō 宗教法人法), which outlined exactly who the law would recognize as a religious specialist or corporation, thus creating religion as a notional and legal sphere that existed outside the context of specific organizations or beliefs.69 This new legal framework established religion as a protected space, one that was legally protected from incursion by the state. Because the appeal to religious freedom now brought tangible rights, the definition of religion became a point of contestation. The fact that there is now something legally at stake in the label of religion (as well as in judicial decisions that in the postwar system do bear the weight of precedent) explains why the issue began to appear in courts. There was nothing comparable at stake for religion in Manchukuo. Conclusions Religion clearly had a very prominent role to play at every level of the political life and imagined future of Manchukuo. Returning to the parameters established at the beginning of this chapter, we see in Manchukuo both the specific influence of developments in Japan and China, and slightly different iterations of the three types of interaction of law and religion. Manchukuo law set the boundaries of religion as an institution, but was less proscriptive than coercive, that is, it was less invested in the purgation of nonconformist religious beliefs than it was in the project of spiritual engineering. The real focus of religion in Manchukuo was as a foundation and expression of spiritual principles. Religion was engineered to mirror and embody the ideals of the state at two levels. That which was called religion was channeled and reshaped to conform to the state’s highly structured form of ethnic corporatism, while the deeper spiritual principles of Confucian rebirth and reverence for the state and emperor were nominally elevated above religion, and thus made to transcend both individual conscience and ethnic divisions within Manchukuo or between Manchukuo and Japan. These principles, projected through education and embodied in state ritual, were the foundation for both the Manchukuo state and a new Manchukuo subject. At the same time, legal discourse is highly diverse. Even in a tightly controlled and centralized state such as Manchukuo, different to all. No religious organization shall receive any privileges from the State, nor exercise any political authority. (2) No person shall be compelled to take part in any religious acts, celebration, rite or practice. (3) The State and its organs shall refrain from religious education or any other religious activity.” 69 Shūkyō hōjinhō no kaisetsu, 1974.

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expressions of law appear quite dissimilar because they were written to very individuated purposes. The difference in the making and use of law produces completely divergent images of religion: consistent prominence in policy ordinances, and almost complete absence from both code and case law.

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A Charitable View



New Religions and the Birth of Public Philanthropy

In 2000, the late scholar of Chinese religion Li Shiyu published a review of Boxer historian Lu Yao’s Popular Religions in Shandong. The review was on the whole strongly positive, excepting the criticism Lu Yao had erred in neglecting to include in his study the World Red Swastika Society (a group that we have encountered in previous chapters). To this, Lu Yao (whose book did include the Boxer movement) replied that the WRSS was not a religion, but a charitable society.1 This seemingly mild dispute over terminology hints at deeper assumptions about the evolution and lineage of Chinese religious teachings in the twentieth century. In his review, Li Shiyu held to the position that as an outgrowth of Daoyuan, groups like the World Red Swastika Society were a continuation of the older tradition of banned religious teachings known collectively as the White Lotus. Many of the movement’s early critics had gone much further, characterizing the WRSS (as well as such contemporaries as the United Benevolence Society, tongshanshe 同善社, and the Enlightened Goodness Society, wushanshe 悟善社) as neither religion nor charity, but as a part of a longer tradition of religious-​inspired underground organizations which they characterized as “secret societies” (mimi jieshe 秘密結社).2 1 Li Shiyu, “Minjian mimi zongjiao yanjiu zhi fangfa zaiyi –​jianping Lu Yao ‘Shandong minjian jiaomen,’ ” in Shehui lishixue wenji (Tianjin: Tianjin guji chubanshe, 2007), 39–​ 45; Lu Yao, Shandong minjian mimi jiaomen (Beijing: Dangdai Zhongguo chubanshe). Lu Yao responded to Li during a 2001 conference presentation at the Chinese University of Hong Kong. 2 Barend Ter Haar, The White Lotus Teachings in Chinese Religious History (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1999). Chao Wei-​pang, “The Origin and Growth of the Fu Chi,” Folklore Studies 1: 9–​27. One reason is that many contemporaries of the WRSS, such as the Tongshanshe, were indeed secret, and reminded Western observers of organizations such as the Freemasons. See Paul de Witt Twinem, “Modern Syncretic Religious Societies in China. I,” Journal of Religion 5, 5 (1925): 463–​482; Li Yingwu, “Dongbei lunxian shiqi de minjian zongjiao yu mimi jieshe,” Dongbeiya luntan 1 (2002): 94. On the origin of the term “secret society,” see Barend Ter Haar, Ritual and Mythology of the Chinese Triads: Creating an Identity (Leiden: Brill, 1993), 36–​37. The Japanese scholar

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This book thus far has avoided trying to define groups such as Daoyuan-​World Red Swastika Society, referring to them simply, and somewhat obliquely, as lay votive or charitable societies. But these names do matter, and over recent years much effort has gone into developing a set of concepts that more accurately depict the evolution and nature of Chinese lay religion, beginning with a critical analysis of terms inherited from Chinese. Barend ter Haar’s classic history of the so-​called White Lotus Teaching demonstrates conclusively that no such teaching actually existed; the term as it was used in the Chinese sources existed solely as a political pejorative. More recently, David Palmer and David Ownby have done much to bring conceptual and terminological precision to the question of exactly what these groups were, and how they have changed over the past century. Following Prasenjit Duara, Palmer and Ownby have both advocated the use of the term “redemptive societies,” to refer to the broad variety of groups that developed in the late Qing and early Republic. This term avoids the connotation of illegality that tainted terms such as “sectarian,” and encompasses both groups for whom redemption meant personal moral cultivation, and those for whom it might have meant violence.3 This critical examination of terminology has without question transformed the study of Chinese religion. Yet I would suggest that we should not wish to lose sight of the historical language entirely. We have already seen the effect of criminalizing terms like “religious bandits” (jiaofei) and “heretical” (xie) as they were used in the press, in scholarship, and in legal documents. For good or for ill, these terms were part of the conceptual vocabulary with which these movements’ contemporaries understood and described religion. This chapter will examine a related transformation, the creation of the charitable sphere as an individuated entity, and the notional and practical separation of charity from religion. Large-​scale public charities first emerged in close conjunction with the new religious movements of the late Qing and early Republic. In many cases, such as the Daoyuan-​ WRSS, the two processes were intertwined. The early twentieth century produced a generation of lay teachings oriented towards public moral transformation. These teachings drew adherents and leadership from Sakai Tadao rejected the portrayal of these groups as “secret societies,” but stopped short of proposing an alternative. Sakai Tadao, “Minguo chuqi de xinxing zongjiao yundong yu xin shidai chaoliu,” Minjian zongjiao 1 (1944): 1–​36. 3 See David Palmer’s introduction to “Redemptive Societies and Religious Movements in Republican China,” in the 2011 special issue of the Journal of Chinese Theatre, Ritual and Folklore /​Minsu Qüyi 172, and David Ownby’s “Sect and Secularism in Reading the Modern Chinese Religious Experience,” Archives de Sciences Sociales des Religions 144 (2008): 1308i.

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among the political elite, were civic-​minded and eager to prove their social value, and emerged at a time when political turmoil had created an immense vacuum in public services. The turn to charity was thus a natural step, and one in which these groups proved immensely capable. At the same time, religion and charity had begun to separate. The fact that groups such as the Daoyuan-​WRSS maintained an internal bifurcation between their religious and charitable identities demonstrates that they felt a need to maintain some distance between the two missions. This separation was partially ideological –​based on the conviction that religion could be particular, but charity should be universal –​but also reflected the political stakes of the charitable sphere. As the political situation in China began to stabilize over the 1920s, both national and local governments sought to wrest control of the charitable sphere from private hands, and in particular to separate it from religion. Both of these trends, the growing distance of charities from their religious origins and the political attempt to take direct control over charitable welfare provision, were well advanced in Manchuria, and took new directions under the Manchukuo regime.

New Religions in Republican China

Although the early decades of the Chinese Republic are often characterized as a time of secularist iconoclasm, captured in the anti-​religious themes of the May Fourth Movement, these same years also saw a burst of religious enthusiasm: the reformation of Buddhism, numerous Christian revivals, and an explosion of interest in what was generally called “spiritualism” (lingxue 靈學).4 One immediate change following 1911 was political: the promise of religious freedom and reversal of centuries old proscriptions of those teachings identified as heretical. We should be realistic about the depth of this change. Centuries of criminalization had done little to remove these teachings from local society, nor did their new status erase official hostility overnight.5 Soon after seizing power in 1912, Yuan Shikai initiated the military suppression of a variety of “old style” religious teachings (such as the aforementioned Way of Yellow Heaven, and the Golden Elixir Teaching, among others) in the Northeast, an event that we have already seen portrayed in the local press.6 4 Goossaert, “1898: The Beginning of the End?” 5 One important change of the nineteenth century was the relative disintegration of authority within teachings, allowing large numbers of new groups to splinter off with relative ease. The extreme of this phenomenon was the Boxer Movement, which was effectively leaderless. See Lu Yao, “Exploring the History of the Yihetuan.” 6 Liang Jiagui, Minguo Shandong jiaomen shi (Beijing: Renmin chubanshe, 2008), 25–​26.

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Nevertheless, the combination of political and social changes in the twentieth century had set the stage for this vibrant lay tradition to strive for public prominence by laying claim to orthodox religious and civic credentials. Existing teachings such as the Abiding Principle now began to disseminate new scriptures and acquire temple property in Tianjin and Beijing.7 Other new teachings, many of which were based around spirit writing activities, were formed in rapid succession. These included the Way of Penetrating Unity (yiguan dao 一貫道) in Shandong, the Morality Teaching in Guangdong, and the Morality Study Society (daode xue she 道 德學社) in Sichuan.8 The new teachings immediately set about establishing a public presence. Just four years after founding the Morality Study Society in 1912, Duan Zhengyuan 段正元 was invited by senior military leaders to establish its national headquarters in Beijing. The Goodness and Unity Society, also from Sichuan, was formed at roughly the same time, and registered as a national organization in 1917. Further north, Ma Shiwei 馬士偉 established the “Single Heart Hall” (yixin tang 一心堂) in 1913 near Zouping 鄒平 in Shandong, and from there, began to spread his “Holy Teaching of the Single Heart Longhua Heavenly Way” 一心天 道龍華聖教會.9 Befitting their aspirations to respectability, many of these new teachings drew adherents from among the political and commercial elite, who saw in them a forum for moral and civic activism.10 Daoyuan was typical of this new wave of lay movements, and would go on to become one of the most successful. The origins of Daoyuan date to around 1916, when two officials in northeastern Shandong –​magistrate Wu Fusen 吳福森 and Garrison Captain Liu Shaoji 劉紹基 –​began holding spirit-​writing sessions in the yamen of rural Bin 賓 County. Joined by a couple dozen local notables and mid-​grade functionaries, Wu and Liu met in what they termed the Hall of the Great Immortal (da xian ci 大仙祠) to ask a variety of Buddhas, immortals, and sages for sacred counsel (tan xun 壇訓, literally the “counsel of the altar”) through the medium of 7 DuBois, Sacred Village, 112–​121. 8 The Way of Penetrating Unity (yiguandao) had coalesced from a number of smaller teachings during the later decades of the Qing (1644–​1911) and expanded rapidly during the Republican period. Lu Yao, Shandong minjian mimi jiaomen, 370–​391. Bernard Formoso, De Jiao: A Religious Movement in Contemporary China and Overseas: Purple qi from the East (Singapore: NUS Press, 2010). Komukai Sakurako, “Seimatsu Shisen no rantō to shūkyō kessha –​Kassen kai zentō jizen kai zenshi,” Tōhō shūkyō 5 (2008): 50–​71. 9 Shao Yong, Zhongguo huidaomen (Shanghai: Shanghai renmin chubanshe, 1997), 167–​ 180, 197–​198; Shiga Ichiko, Chūgoku no kokkuri san  –​furan shinkō to kajin shakai (Tokyo: Taishūkan, 2003), 163–​175. 10 The magazine Philosophy (Zhebao) published by the Ji’nan Daoyuan contains numerous notices for local morality and Buddhist study societies.

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the planchette.11 Among the many deities that this group consulted, the most important was a unique figure called the Grand Immortal or Grand Perfected (shang xian 尚仙, shang zhen ren 尚真人). Over time, this deity revealed more of his identity, including some of the names by which he would later be known: the Ancestor of Former Heaven (xiantian laozu 先天老祖) and, more commonly, the Great Progenitor (laozu 老祖). The Great Progenitor presided over the Five Teachers (Confucius, Laozi, the Buddha, Jesus, and Muhammad), as well as a host of lesser deities. This “five-​in-​one” theology (itself a variation of a well-​established theology based on the Eternal Venerable Mother wusheng laomu 無生老母) would form the basis of Daoyuan religious life, its multitude of deities speaking directly through the planchette to believers. By the early 1920s, the loose association of spirit-​writing adherents in Bin had coalesced into a distinct teaching. In 1921, a group of forty-​ eight disciples, led by sixty-​eight-​year-​old Jiangsu native Du Bingyin 杜秉寅, relocated to permanent premises in the provincial capital of Ji’nan 濟南, where on February 9 they established the first Daoyuan.12 Soon thereafter, the new Daoyuan began receiving writings of a more substantial nature: installments of a scripture. Over the next three months, the Great Progenitor, now known by his more complete title of the Original Singular Three Primordial Progenitor of the Dark and Mysterious Palace (Qingxuan gong yixuan zhenzong sanyuan shiji taiyi laozu 青玄宮一玄真宗 三元始紀太乙老祖), the Singular Progenitor (Taiyi laozu 太乙老祖) for short, revealed a text known as the Scripture of the Polar Singularity (Taiyi beiji zhenjing 太乙北極真經). The text itself is of rather esoteric interest. Most of its twelve short sections are taken up in matters of metaphysical speculation, such as the formation of the universe from primordial qi (written with the characteristic character 炁), the division of time, the creation of the taiji 太極, and Former and Latter Heaven. Each section follows roughly the same pattern, contrasting how important concepts 11 This particular narrative of the history of Daoyuan, including the stylized division into periods (birth, growth, etc.) is repeated almost verbatim in a number of different sources, including Yuancheng, Daoci gangyao dadao pian (Shenyang: Shenyang wanzi xinwen yinshuabu, 1922); Uchida Ryōhei, Manmō no dokuritsu to Sekai Kōmanjikai no undō (Tokyo: Senshinsha, 1931); and Kōa shūkyō kyōkai, Sekai Kōmanjikai Dōin no jittai (Beijing: Kōa shūkyō kyōkai, 1943). Li Guangwei, “Daoyuan, Daodeshe Shijie hongwanzi hui –​xinxing zongjiao cishan zuzhi de lishi kaocha (1916–​1954)” (Master’s thesis, Shandong Normal University, 2008), 49, refers to these two individuals by their Dao names Wu Fuyong and Liu Fuyuan, respectively, but is otherwise consistent about their details. Although the term da xian often refers to animal spirits, here it signifies the teaching’s Great Progenitor. 12 Kōa shūkyō kyōkai, Sekai Kōmanjikai Dōin no jittai, 15–​16.

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are generally understood (yanyi zhi 言意旨) with their true meaning (zhen quan 真詮).13 Yet even if its esoteric content was of limited interest to most believers, the revelation of the Scripture of the Polar Singularity marked the transformation of Daoyuan from a collection of like-​minded devotees into a distinct religious movement. With a permanent center and its first revealed scripture, the newly formed Daoyuan began to spread through north China. Late in 1921 it registered with the Beiyang government, and within just over a year, well-​traveled leaders from the “mother” Daoyuan (mutan 母壇) in Ji’nan had founded three new branches in Tianjin, Beijing, and Jining 濟寧. As its base expanded to include members of the commercial classes (merchants would eventually comprise 63 percent of the Ji’nan Daoyuan), the growing core of members had no trouble coming up with funds for ambitious mission activity locally, as well as to more distant cities to the south. Daoyuan continued to multiply throughout the 1920s, and by the end of the decade appeared in nearly every province in China. The movement remained centered in the North: Ji’nan would continued to act as its spiritual heart, joined by an administrative center (zong yuan 總院) in Beijing. Through the decade, the largest numbers of Daoyuan were in Shandong and the immediately adjacent provinces of Zhili, Jiangsu, and Anhui.14 The quickly growing network was only loosely structured. Individual Daoyuan were largely autonomous, and ritual life largely a matter of personal preference. The basic ritual calendar was based on the Five Religions, combining the major occasions of the three religions with the observance of Christmas, as well as an unnamed holiday to represent Islam.15 The inside of a typical Daoyuan each housed a variety of deities, each signified by a decorous spirit tablet in place of a statue. A special effort was made to establish visual and ritual parity among the founders of the five religions:  Ritual protocol for most occasions called for an identical offering at each of the five tablets, with the obvious exceptions of not offering meat to the Buddha, or pork to Muhammad. Special consideration was made for the Five Teachers’ birthdays, each of which was marked by the recitation of an appropriate scripture.16 However, 13 Taiyi beiji zhenjing (Hong Kong: Zongmu zong zhu Gang banshichu, 1960). Earlier editions are held by libraries at Harvard and UC Berkeley library, but I  have not had a chance to compare the various versions. 14 Yuancheng, Daoci gangyao, 67; Li Guangwei, “Minguo Shandong Daoyuan ji Shijie hongwanzihui shishi gouchen,” Shandong jiaoyu xueyuan bao 125, 1 (2008):  52; Guo Dasong, “‘Ji’nan Daoyuan ji Hongwanzihui zhi diaocha’ bianzheng,” Qingdao daxue shifan xueyuan xuebao 22, 3 (2005): 31. 15 Kōa shūkyō kyōkai, Sekai Kōmanjikai Dōin no jittai, 119, places the date of this unnamed Muslim observance on the sixth day of the fifth lunar month. 16 Uchida Ryōhei, Manmō no dokuritsu, 127.

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this ritual regimen was less doctrine than a platform upon which each Daoyuan, as well as the individual believer, was free to expand. Some of the largest Daoyuan may have maintained the rigorous ritual calendar later recorded by Japanese investigators in places like Beijing, but most probably resembled the thirty-​member Daoyuan in Panshi 磐石, Jilin, which simply made daily offerings of incense and candles for each of their deities.17 The teaching made few demands of its ordinary members –​the only specific mention of practice in Polar Singularity is advice for how and when to meditate. Quite the opposite, its inclusive nature allowed individual members to pursue their personal beliefs, practices, and needs through Daoyuan.18 The one ritual activity seen in nearly all Daoyuan was spirit writing. Even after the revelation of Polar Singularity, individual Daoyuan each continued to produce their own writings, with content ranging from general statements of philosophy and doctrine to very specific advice. The Great Progenitor remained the most consistent voice, but he was joined by the Five Teachers, as well as famous historical figures such as the monk Huineng 慧能, poet Su Dongpo 蘇東坡, generals Yue Fei 岳 飛 and Guandi, and the Virgin Mary, among many others. Deities spoke about topics that interested them: Laozi would most likely discourse on the Dao, Confucius on filial piety, and Jesus on universal love as well as the particular place of Christians in China.19 They also revealed individual personalities. When worshippers in Ji’nan asked one deity about his background, he revealed wounded pride at not having been recognized more quickly: “Ha ha! You ask about my history? I lived in ancient times, and like the Old Man of the Southern Seas, I studied with the Heavenly Matron. Then I spent 2,600 years refining myself in Kongdong 崆峒 Mountain. Your so-​called ‘Eight Immortals,’ they’re all my disciples!”20 Spirit writing also gave specific guidance, such as the instruction to 17 Japanese sources report that larger Daoyuan kept a busy schedule of Greater and Ordinary Celebrations (daqing, changqing), Standard and Ordinary Rituals (dianyi, changyi), as well as Daoyuan variations of personal rituals, such as weddings and funerals. Kōa shūkyō kyōkai, Sekai Kōmanjikai Dōin no jittai, 111–​122, 137. Yuancheng, Daoci gangyao dadao pian, 82–​85; Jia Zhanyi and Jin Lianshan, “Panshi xian Daode hui, Wanzi hui,” in Wei Man shehui, ed. Sun Bang et  al. (Changchun:  Jilin renmin chubanshe, 1993), 579–​581. 18 In this sense, Daoyuan was typical of its contemporaries, most of which included some form of healing. Wang Zhixin, Zhongguo zongjiao sixiang shi dagang (Taibei: Taiwan zhonghua shuju, 1996), 215–​221. In a short 1921 essay, Chen Duxiu ridiculed the Common Goodness Society precisely for the faith its members placed in healing practices he rather imprecisely terms shamanism. Chen Duxiu, “Da He Qiansheng,” Minguo congshu 1, 92 (1990): 282–​289. On the attraction of healing in the early Way of Penetrating Unity, see DuBois, Sacred Village, 146–​147. 19 A large number of these writings are reproduced in Kōa shūkyō kyōkai, Sekai Kōmanjikai Dōin no jittai, 5–​10, 61–​80, and Yuancheng, Daoci gangyao dadao pian, 48–​60. 20 Kōa shūkyō kyōkai, Sekai Kōmanjikai Dōin no jittai, 4.

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move from Bin to Ji’nan. Over the next two decades, individual Daoyuan would make many of their most important strategic decisions based on instructions delivered through this same medium. However, because there was no real attempt to coordinate or rectify locally produced revelations against each other, the practice of spirit writing did little to draw the teaching together, and (like the centripetal effect of direct possession on the Boxer movement, or of spirit writing on the Way of Penetrating Unity) had the potential to do just the opposite. Early publications reveal a high degree of intellectual diversity within the movement. Many branches produced their own newspapers, including Morality Magazine (daode zazhi 道德雜誌), Morality Monthly (daode yuekan 道德月刊), and Swastika Daily News (wan zi ri ri xinwen 卍字 日日新聞), among others, which explored topics in theology and social philosophy. Like the religious thought of Daoyuan itself, these publications are all highly syncretic. The magazine Philosophy (zhe bao 哲報) illustrates the breadth of beliefs and ideas that found their way into the group’s intellectual cauldron.21 The cover of each issue combined titles in Chinese, English, and Arabic, and was followed by a standard statement declaring the publication open to any discussion of religion, philosophy, spiritualism, morality, charity, or items of a similar nature. Articles themselves covered a wide variety of topics: the nature of forgiveness in the Christian New Testament, a comparison of Confucian, Daoist, and Buddhist approaches to meditation, and pronunciation guides for reciting Buddhist sutras, as well as expositions on metaphysics, Confucian morality lectures, Buddhist sermons, and biographies of famous monks. Although it did occasionally include items of specific Daoyuan interest, such as excerpts from spirit-​written texts, the thrust of Philosophy was less synthesis than breadth. As viewed in its own publications, Daoyuan was less a single intellectual agenda and more an umbrella for a wide variety of ideas and individuals. Less a new religion than an umbrella for religious syncretism, Daoyuan was not especially innovative theologically. Most of its ideas and practices were already prevalent throughout China. Its formulation of Five Religions under the Singular Progenitor was just one of many variations on the basic “three-​in-​one” or “five-​in-​one” formulation that sectarian teachings, and popular theology more generally, had already embraced for centuries. Spirit writing, the practice that lay at the heart of the group, was commonplace in popular practice, and also featured 21 I am extremely grateful to Professor Guo Dasong for sharing with me his copies of this rare publication. Shao Yong, Zhongguo huidaomen, 183.

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prominently in many other contemporary movements.22 And while publications like Philosophy did provide an arena for members to explore an eclectic mix of ideas, they never aspired to present anything like a coherent doctrine. At the same time, the overall philosophy of convergence provided a sound platform for Daoyuan to expand as a social movement, even as aspects of its theology and identity remained somewhat inchoate. In this sense, Daoyuan was a reflection of its times. The deregulation of religion provided a legally and socially acceptable forum for movements like Daoyuan to expand, driven by a search for meaning and purpose among the post-​imperial elite.

Confucian Revival and the Turn to Charity

While the founding of the Republic had opened doors for new types of religious expression, it also prompted a radical reassessment of what we can call Confucianism so named, and moral transformation more broadly. Over the previous centuries, the ideas and institutions of Confucianism had become so inextricably intertwined with the legitimacy of the imperial state that as the Qing fell into decline, it became possible to imagine that this central pillar of Chinese culture might be pulled down along with it. However, once the shock of political change had subsided, many intellectuals of the early Republic came to see that the fall of the Qing had not doomed Confucius’ teachings, but rather it had liberated them from the moribund institutions of the imperial system. Seeing new opportunities on the horizon, a spectrum of elites bridging the old and new regimes now sought to revive Confucianism for a new age. Most of the new religious movements of the period would revolve in some way or another around the restoration or preservation of Confucian morality.23 The Confucian resurgence of the early twentieth century was a forward-​looking vision of moral rebirth for China and the entire world. It created opportunities for displaced scholarly elites to reclaim the moral high ground, to join and even lead the forces of political change. As Prasenjit Duara has argued, these groups did not intend to retreat to tradition, but rather to make Confucian ethics the center of a new civilization that would transcend the boundaries of nations and of religious faiths.24 Such ideas were evident in the wave of new religions such as 22 Tian Hailin, “Wanguo daodehui de lishi kaocha” (Master’s thesis, Shandong Normal University, 2008), 75–​79. Shiga Ichiko, Chūgoku no kokkuri san, 169–​175. 23 Tian Hailin, “Wanguo daodehui de lishi kaocha,” 75–​ 79; Liang Jiagui, Minguo Shandong, 26–​27. 24 Duara, Sovereignty and Authenticity, especially 103–​111.

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Daoyuan, but also in the variety of new societies that were more strictly oriented towards ethics and morality. Among the earliest of these, the Confucian Society (Kongjiao hui 孔教會) was founded in August of 1913, just over one year after the fall of the Qing. Like Daoyuan, this society was consciously integrative –​it did not envision Confucianism replacing the world’s religions, as much as transcending and uniting them. At the society’s founding ceremony in Confucius’ own hometown of Qufu 曲 阜, the child prodigy Jiang Xizhang 江希張 spoke eloquently of the “way of Confucius,” calling the sage’s teaching “the very idea of world unification,” and adding that “there is nothing that it does not penetrate, it accepts all teachings, and it has the power to accept the cultures of the world.” When pressed further, he replied with a four-​line poem: Trains and steamships connect the five continents, Heaven instructs me to visit them all. Christianity, Islam, Daoism, and Buddhism emerge together, The rain of Lu and the wind of Zou sweep the globe. 鐵路輪船遍五洲, 天教小子再周遊. 基回道佛同開化, 魯雨鄒風滿地球.

Jiang’s spontaneous poem was apparently not well received, but its ideas were indeed prescient: Just as the speaker could now travel the four corners of the world, so too should Confucian teachings (Lu and Zou being the birthplaces of Confucius and Mencius, respectively) nourish and unite the world’s religions. In its optimistic view of worldwide unity, the Confucian revival was by no means unique. The early twentieth century was charged with this sense of imminent global transformation. Just a few years before Jiang voiced his ideas about a global tide of Confucian rebirth, the American missionary John Mott had urged his fellow Christians to evangelize the entire world “in this generation.”25 The names of Chinese moral organizations from the time –​ the Global Ethical Society (huanqiu daode hui 環球道德會), World Religious Unification Society (shijie zongjiao datong hui 世界宗教大同會), and Jiang Xizhang’s own International Ethical Society (wanguo daode hui 萬國道德會) –​reveal similarly grand aspirations.26 A series of new opportunities propelled this Confucian revival into an expanding public sphere. Distressed elites had been bewailing China’s moral decline with increasing urgency since the mid nineteenth century, and by the early twentieth century the idiom of moral regeneration

25 Timothy E. Yates, Christian Mission in the Twentieth Century (Cambridge University Press, 1994), 7–​31. 26 Tian Hailin, “Wanguo daodehui,” 8–​28, 75. These names were more than mere convention. When asked to change its name to something more patriotic, the International Ethical Society refused, on the grounds that this idea was central to its philosophy.

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(literally the “moral rescue of the world” daode jiushi 道德救世) transcended ideological factions and pervaded every corner of political discourse.27 As the Republic opened up new avenues for private initiative, the emphasis shifted towards the need for citizens to take action to alleviate ignorance and suffering within society. The result would be a vast expansion of social reform movements, moral societies, and private charities. Charity was nothing new in China. Providing charitable relief had long been an expression of Confucian benevolence, and increasingly since the late Ming dynasty, local officials, gentry, and merchants had taken it upon themselves to support “Halls of Benevolence” (shantang 善堂), to care for orphans and widows, distribute food, and provide decent burials for the indigent dead. Such initiatives bridged any notional gap between public and private:  They supplemented the official relief structure, and often worked with government support, even as their activities and finances were closely monitored. The charitable realm began to expand during the late nineteenth century, as the rapid deterioration of public security following the Taiping Rebellion left the population increasingly vulnerable to a variety of crises. Even then, charity often remained a piecemeal effort. Concerned elites might band together to provide emergency relief during a local disaster, but such arrangements were often temporary. Even the more established shantang tended to operate individually, serving local needs, and often relying on the largesse of a single patron.28 It was only during the 1870s that the charitable realm began a more substantive consolidation. The construction of telegraph lines out of Shanghai facilitated communication between scattered shantang, allowing them to coordinate relief activities. All along the coast, and increasingly in the interior, Christian missionaries established schools, hospitals, and orphanages, inspiring local shantang to conduct their own operations on a more ambitious scale. Moments of immediate crisis forced the transformation of good intentions into actual institutions. The North China Famine of 1876 not only revealed the complete breakdown of the formerly effective system of official relief granaries, but also prompted a period of self-​examination by the Chinese elites who were inspired and in some ways embarrassed by the scope and effectiveness of the response by foreign mission charities.29 Such was 27 Zhao Yancai, “Qingmo-​Minchu daode jiushi sichao de lishi kaocha,” Zhejiang luntan 1 (2006): 79–​83. 28 Fuma Susumu, Chūgoku zenkai zendōshi kenkyū (Kyōto: Dōhōsha Shuppan, 2008), 644. 29 Xiao Lingbo, Huang Huan, and Wei Zhudeng, “Huabei 1743–​1744 nian yu 1876–​1878 nian hanzai zhong de zhengfu liangshi diaodu yu shehui houguo duibi,” Zaihai xue 27, 1 (2012): 101–​106; Zhu Xu, “‘Dingwu qihuang’ dui Jiangnan de chongji ji difang shehui zhi fanying –​jianlun Guangxu er nian Jiangnan chishen Subei zhenzai xingdong de

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also the case for epidemic disease  –​when bubonic plague struck the city of Guangzhou in 1894, “private charities mushroomed all over the city.”30 But beyond the sad litany of disasters –​floods, droughts, famine, and female infanticide –​it was the Sino-​Japanese and Russo-​Japanese wars, each fought at great price to Chinese civilians, that prompted the formation of the first large-​scale charities, such as the Red Cross of China, founded in 1904.31 Private charities were poised to expand during the Republican period, as war and disaster increased in severity, just as the Great War in Europe began diverting vital foreign funds and personnel away from the mission institutions. As was the case with religion, the charitable sphere benefitted from a period of initial deregulation (new regulations would be imposed later), while the burgeoning world of print media and public opinion gave charitable initiatives greater visibility and social capital than ever before.32 I would argue that the institutional growth of the charitable sphere outpaced even that of religion, and moreover changed the direction that the new religions themselves would take. Although many of the traditional religions had devoted resources to public acts of benevolence, the needs of the new era changed charity from sideline to central focus. Komukai Sakurako shows the Tongshanshe undergoing precisely this transition, changing into what she refers to as a “religious-​style charitable society.”33 xingzhi,” Shehui kexue yanjiu 1 (2008): 129–​139; Kathryn Edgerton-​Tarpley, Tears from Iron: Cultural Responses to Famine in Nineteenth-​Century China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008). 30 A great deal of historical scholarship has addressed elite-​ led charitable institutions and their evolving relationship with the Chinese state. On the late imperial period, see Fuma Susumu, Chūgoku zenkai, esp.  493–​496; Joanna F. Handlin Smith, “Benevolent Societies:  The Reshaping of Charity during the Late Ming and Early Ch’ing,” Journal of Asian Studies 2 (1987): 309–​337; Mary Backus Rankin, “Managed by the People: Officials, Gentry and the Foshan Charitable Granary, 1795–​1845,” Late Imperial China 15, 2 (1994): 1–​52; and Angela Ki Che Leung, “To Chasten Society: The Development of Widow Homes in the Qing, 1773–​1911,” Late Imperial China, 14, 2 (1993):  1–​32. On the early twentieth century, see Vivienne Shue, “The Quality of Mercy:  Confucian Charity and the Mixed Metaphors of Modernity in Tianjin,” Modern China 4 (2006): 411–​452 and Alfred H. Y. Lin, “Warlord, Social Welfare and Philanthropy: The Case of Guangzhou under Chen Jitang, 1929–​1936,” Modern China 2 (2004): 151–​198. Quotation from 161. 31 Jin Huanyu, Wan Qing yizhen zuzhi yanjiu (Changsha: Hunan renmin chubanshe, 2008), 160–​193. 32 Li Guangwei, “20 shiji shangbanye zhongguo minjian cishan jiuzhu shiye de dianfan –​ shijie hongwanzi hui Yantai fenhui xuyang yuan de lishi kaozheng,” Ludong daxue xuebao (zhexue shehui kexue ban) 24, 3 (2007): 17–​22. Gong Rufu, “Minguo shiqi jianji cishan tuanti lifa ji qi qishi,” Fashang yanjiu 135, 5 (2009): 155–​160. 33 Liang Jiagui, Minguo Shandong, 98; DuBois, SacredVillage, 113–​117; Komukai Sakurako, “Seimatsu Shisen,” 50–​71.

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Figure  6.1. Ceremony marking the 1905 repatriation of Red Cross workers to Japan. The Japanese Red Cross had provided free medical care to Chinese civilians during the Russo-​Japanese War. Danmission Photo Archive.

The same process shaped Daoyuan, which over the 1920s was gradually eclipsed by the charitable work of the WRSS. From the outset, Daoyuan had set its sights on performing good works –​the 1921 charter declared as the aims of the movement to “raise morality and practice charity.” Social activism fit easily into Daoyuan’s vision of world transformation. Much as it was in political discourse, the single idiom of “world salvation” (jiu shi 救世) was infinitely expansive. In a theological sense, it was raised as the single goal of the Five Religions, as in an article from Philosophy: All religions that people believe in today are at their root all the same holy faith. The way at their core is to work to realize the task of world salvation … People’s hearts are corrupt, how should we save them? The way of the world is in decline, how should we save it? The teaching of Confucius says to first correct men’s hearts. The teaching of Jesus says to spread universal love. The teachings of the Buddha and Laozi say to save yourself and to save all men, rescue them from pain and difficulty. The religion of the Muslims says to maintain purity.34 34 Li Shizhong, “Wu da shengjiao jiushi shishi ji,” Zhebao (November 10, 1923).

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Figure 6.2.  Front gate of the Tongshanshe Charity Hospital in Mukden (Shenyang). Lafayette College East Asia Image Collection.

In the same way, the practice of charity was not merely another route to this same goal, it was the one foundation that each of the Five Religions shared, the essence of each of their teachings. With its growing network of faithful, and the backing of such well-​ placed figures as Xu Shiguang 徐世光 (1857–​1929), younger brother of President Xu Shichang 徐世昌 (1855–​1939), Daoyuan was poised to make its mark on the rapidly growing charitable sphere. But it soon became clear that good intentions alone were far from enough. In 1921, the same year that Daoyuan was founded, the Yellow River broke its banks, flooding dozens of villages over hundreds of li in northeastern Shandong. Flooding in these dusty lowlands is particularly devastating, as it destroys agriculture and washes away earthen houses, sending waves of refugees into neighboring cities. Leaders of the newly formed Daoyuan soon found themselves faced with a massive human tragedy taking shape on their doorstep. Volunteers did what they could, gathering 120,000 yuan in donations, sufficient to buy food, clothing, and basic possessions such as pots and pans for over 40,000, but they had been caught unprepared.35 35 Uchida Ryōhei, Manmō no dokuritsu, 90–​ 91; Li Guangwei, “Daoyuan, Daodeshe,” 51–​52. Kōa shūkyō kyōkai, Sekai Kōmanjikai Dōin no jittai, 17–​18.

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Figure 6.3.  Refugees arriving in Ji’nan during the 1928 famine. Special Collections, Yale Divinity School Library.

Figure 6.4.  Rows of reed mats erected as temporary shelters for famine refugees, Ji’nan, 1928. Special Collections, Yale Divinity School Library.

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This traumatic event, which followed so soon after Daoyuan’s formation, was undoubtedly instrumental in prompting the group to form the WRSS as a dedicated charitable organization.36 Soon after the Ji’nan Daoyuan began sending out missionaries, the Great Progenitor sent instructions to form a branch organization devoted solely to public welfare. This new organization was formally inaugurated on October 28, 1922, to “provide disaster relief and advance world peace,” and would be a part of Daoyuan, yet separate from it.37 In emulation of the International Red Cross, founders chose a Buddhist swastika as the symbol and name of the new society. Although the two organizations would remain technically distinct, the World Red Swastika Society quickly became the public face of Daoyuan, and the outlet for its many social, intellectual, and charitable initiatives. The WRSS quickly developed a sophisticated relief infrastructure, and was soon organizing activities on a monumental scale. Certainly there was more than enough work to be done: incessant war and natural calamity throughout China had left cities and countryside alike to care for their own destitute as well as waves of refugees.38 The work of the WRSS during the 1920s rose to these challenges in a way that quickly dwarfed the piecemeal charitable efforts of earlier decades. Just one year after the disaster in Shandong, the WRSS of Tianjin responded to a similar flood that had devastated twelve counties along the banks of the Grand Canal in southern Zhili, sending teams out to assess damage, and raising 120,000 yuan to provide material assistance for 50,000 of those affected.39 It subsequently coordinated a response to flooding in Zhili, Hunan, Hubei, Fujian, and Jiangxi provinces that raised over 100,000 yuan to provide blankets, food, and medicine for over 120,000 people. Victims of war were treated on a similar scale. In 1924 alone, WRSS branches in Jiangnan provided relief to 18,500 war refugees, a number which would grow to nearly 116,000 after the initiation of the Northern Expedition in 1925. By the mid 1930s, the largest coordinated relief efforts were reaching well over a million people.

36 Liu Benjing, Jilin yuanhui daoci shiye er shi zai gailüe (unpublished MS, 1940s [?]‌), 17, explains that the WRSS was founded because the Daoyuan alone could not keep up with the pace of disasters. 37 Fang Jing and Cai Zhuanbin, “Minguo chuqi de shijie hong wanzi hui ji qi zhenji huodong,” Zhongguo shehui jingji shi yanjiu 2 (2005):  75; Kōa shūkyō kyōkai, Sekai Kōmanjikai Dōin no jittai, 20. 38 One estimate counts no less than seventy-​seven major natural disasters between 1911 and 1937, including twenty-​four floods, fourteen droughts, and nineteen earthquakes. Fang and Cai, “Minguo chuqi,” 77–​78. See also Li Guangwei, “20 shiji shangbanye.” 39 Shijie hong wanzi hui, Shijie hong wanzi hui linian zhenjiu gongzuo baogao shu (1930), 5–​6.

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Table 6.1.  Meals served at WRSS soup kitchens in Beijing.

1928 1929 1930 1931 1932 1933

East Gate

West Gate

177,564 320,110 274,151 167,584 105,120 118,039

160,475 319,640 216,169 204,741 140,121 171,623

Source: Shijie hongwanzi hui, Shijie hongwanzi hui linian zhenjiu gongzuo baogao shu. N.p., 1932, 35–​36; 1935, 42.

The relief efforts of the WRSS grew not only larger, but also more specialized. In addition to raising money for food and clothing, the WRSS also began organizing dedicated teams of volunteers who could provide specialized assistance to disaster victims. As widespread warfare engulfed much of China during the mid 1920s, the WRSS established triage hospitals for sick and wounded soldiers, shelters for women and children, and soup kitchens for the refugees who poured into the unprepared cities. In Beijing alone, two WRSS soup kitchens served well over a million free meals each. One of the most characteristic WRSS activities was to organize teams of volunteers to bury the thousands of corpses that would otherwise rot on the battlefield or in the deserted homes of famine-​stricken villages (see Appendix). Along with these large-​ scale coordinated efforts, individual WRSS branches continued to work locally. The Harbin branch, founded in August of 1922, established a local network of soup kitchens six years later. By the mid 1930s, this effort had expanded to include over a hundred volunteers, who served free meals to as many as 2,000 people per day, and included a free clinic to provide medical care to the city’s poor.40 When floods struck mountainous Chahar in 1924, local branches established ten relief stations and four soup kitchens that served over 4,800 refugees. In the coastal city of Yantai 煙臺, which was largely spared the disasters faced by the interior, a branch of the WRSS built charitable institutions of a more durable nature. Between 1929 and 1933, the WRSS in Yantai built an orphanage, a hospital, and homes for the aged and disabled, as well as initiating anti-​smoking campaigns. In Yantai, as elsewhere, it was the 40 Jia Yingzhe, “Haerbin hong wanzihui de lishi jiazhi kaozheng,” Heilongjiang shehui kexue 2 (2007): 126.

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merchant and political elite who took the initiative in WRSS projects.41 The report of charitable activities published biannually by the WRSS is mostly taken up with records of donations, ranging from the very large (by both individuals and corporate donors such as banks) to a few yuan, and including donations in kind by grain merchants.42 The unimpeded flowering of private charities would not last long. The re-​established Guomindang moved to rein in the occupational organizations, labor unions, chambers of commerce, and literary associations that had formed over the previous decade.43 Religions were not exempt. Buddhists and Christians were harassed, and any religion unlucky enough to be labeled heretical or superstitious was banned outright. Also not exempt were private charities, which at least some in the new government saw as rife with corruption. Following an accounting of sixty private charities in Nanjing, disgusted officials claimed that “not one or two out of ten provided accurate information.” Between 1928 and 1933, local and national governments enacted a series of new regulations to scrutinize the organization and funding of charities, and even very high-​ profile organizations such as the Red Cross of China found themselves facing an unusual degree of political scrutiny.44 In the same way, different levels of government began taking steps to regularize and regulate the charitable sector. In 1928, charities in Shanghai were first ordered to register with municipal authorities, a demand that would soon be replicated at the national level. A  close examination of the process of registration shows that regulation was aimed largely at two specific threats:  the influence of religious groups (particularly foreign missions) and the potential for financial mismanagement. In order to successfully register as a legal institution, charities had to strictly divest themselves of religious propagation and receipt of foreign funds, and had to submit to strict forensic and ongoing annual accounting of their internal finances. The problem of bringing charities under control was clearly a high political priority: even the concerted intercession of commercial and religious luminaries such as Wang Yiting failed in the end to gain significant 41 Li Guangwei, “20 shiji shangbanye.” 42 Shijie hong wanzi hui, Shijie hong wanzi hui linian zhenjiu gongzuo baogao shu, 1930, 1932, 1935. 43 David Strand, Rickshaw Beijing: City People and Politics in the 1920s (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989), 216–​221. 44 Gong Rufu, “Minguo shiqi”, 155–​ 156; Thomas David DuBois, “Before the NGO:  Chinese Charities in Historical Perspective,” Asian Studies Review, 39, 4 (2015):  541–​553; Zeng Guilin, “Minguo shiqi cishan lifa zhong de minjian canyu  –​ yi Shanghao cishan tuanti lianhehui wei zhongxin kaocha,” Xuexi yu tansuo 197, 6 (2011): 212–​218.

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concessions.45 During this period many religions, and most charities, including Daoyuan-​WRSS, automatically lost the legal status that they had enjoyed under the Beiyang government, and were forced to reapply for government recognition. Although in the end Daoyuan-​WRSS was able to reregister with relatively little difficulty, it remained under suspicion in many quarters, owing both to the spirit-​writing activities of Daoyuan and to the continued portrayal of the WRSS as a “secret society.”46 In addition to increasing the pressure on existing charities, local and national political elites enacted measures to exert direct control over the sector. Following the massive Yellow River flood of 1933, Nanjing allocated over 4 million yuan to refugee aid. Even if these funds were used to poor effect, one can still see in such efforts a desire to take the mantle of charity from Christian missions and from groups like the WRSS.47 Similar initiatives were tried at the local level, such as in 1934, when Canton warlord Chen Jitang 陳濟棠 (1890–​1954) established the Ren’ai 仁愛 (Benevolence and Love) shantang to serve as a clearing house for charities in the city. Both Chen and the Guangzhou municipal government had over previous years made numerous donations to local charities, with the dual purpose of supporting and exercising control over the charitable realm, which Alfred Lim characterizes as the “paradoxical desire to both serve and gag the public.” The same instinct to take direct charge of public welfare would drive the even more generous financial support that the Guomindang regime and the Japanese occupation would continue to provide to a variety of national charities.48

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The WRSS developed in a period that was characterized by violence, the near-​constant warfare that had plagued parts of China since the death of Yuan Shikai. Of course, war and war relief go hand in hand: it was the growing frequency and violence of war in nineteenth-​century Europe that had led to the creation and expansion of the International 45 Lin, “Warlord, Social Welfare,” 151–​156 46 Shue, “The Quality of Mercy,” 441, mentions strained relations between the Guomindang Social Bureau and private charities in Tianjin during that same year. Xu Feng, “Nanjing zhengfu zongjiao zhengce” (Master’s thesis, Shandong Normal University), 44; Yuancheng, Daoci gangyao dadao pian, 68; Guo Dasong, “ ‘Ji’nan Daoyuan’,” 24–​34; Shao Yong, Zhongguo huidaomen, 301–​306. 47 Yue Zongfu, “Minguo shiqi de zaihuang jiuji lifa,” Shandong gongshang xueyuan xuebao 20, 3 (2006):  89–​93; Zhang Ming’ai and Cai Jinyu, “Minguo shiqi de zhengfu jiuji zhidu lunxi,” Dongfang luntan 2 (2003): 95–​100; Wang Lin, “1933 nian Ji Lu Xiang Yu Huanghe shuizai yu jiuji,” Lanzhou xuebao 8 (2007): 170. 48 Lin, “Warlord, Social Welfare,” 185.

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Red Cross. The unique difficulties that relief organizations would face in a militarized environment had also shaped their outlook and tactics, most notably their guarantee of neutrality. The Red Cross of China had already displayed this stance in conflicts such as the 1911 Revolution, and the WRSS followed suit in providing relief to victims of the domestic wars of the 1920s.49 Like the Red Cross, the WRSS announced their neutrality to all belligerents, entering the ruins of battle bearing their symbol on flags and tunics, and promising to give aid to any soldier who approached them unarmed. The practical need to project neutrality while conducting relief activities during active military conflict reflected an ethical stance of placing human need above politics, including national loyalties. It also drove the WRSS in new directions politically. Soon after its founding, the WRSS began limited operations outside of China. Despite the growing wave of anti-​Japanese sentiment during the 1920s, their first destination was Japan. Again, the impetus was provided by external events, the Kantō earthquake that decimated the Tokyo region in 1923. In response to this disaster, the WRSS sent three representatives: (Hou) Sushuang 侯素爽, (Feng) Huahe 馮華和, and (Yang) Yuancheng 楊圓誠 to Japan to deliver 2,000 shi of rice, and a message of good will.50 But this was not their only mission. Before leaving China, Sushuang had met in Nanjing with the Japanese consul to Ningbo, Hayashide Kenjirō 林出賢次郎 (1882–​1970), who gave him a book about a new Japanese religion named Ōmotokyō, the Teaching of the Great Source. After Huahe and Yuancheng had already returned to China via the port city of Kobe (where they converted a handful of influential Chinese, including the vice-​consul and the head of the Chinese Chamber of Commerce), Sushuang stayed on to meet with Deguchi Onisaburō 出口王仁三郎 (1871–​1948), Ōmotokyō’s charismatic leader.51 The two immediately perceived significant similarities between 49 Chi Zihua, “Zhongguo hong shizi hui Xinhai zhan shi jiuhu xingdong,” Minguo dang’an 1 (2004): 40–​46. 50 Most sources refer to these three without their surnames. 51 Sushuang and Huahe were at the time affiliated with Daoyuan in Ji’nan and Beijing, respectively. Yuancheng, the author of one source, does not give much information about his own background, except to state that he held simultaneous positions in Daoyuan in Ji’nan, Nanjing, and Beijing. Shijie hong wanzi hui, Shijie hong wanzi hui linian zhenjiu gongzuo baogao shu, 1932, p. 11; Yuancheng, Daoci gangyao dadao pian, 80. On Ōmotokyō, see Li Narangoa, “Universal Values and Pan-​Asianism:  The Vision of Ōmotokyō,” in Pan-​Asianism in Modern Japanese History:  Colonialism, Regionalism and Borders, ed. Sven Saaler and J. Victor Koschmann (London and New York: Routledge, 2007), 52–​66. Sun Jiang has recently uncovered more detail on Hiyashide Kenjirō’s own religious motivations, “A Salvation Religion’s Journey of Disaster Relief: The World Red Swastika Society Delegation’s 1923 Japan Visit and Ōmotokyō.” Paper presented at “Text and Context:  Redemptive Societies and New Religious Movements in Modern and Contemporary China and Southeast Asia,” Hong Kong University, November 4, 2014.

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their respective teachings, and with Deguchi’s blessing, Daoyuan opened its first foreign branch in Kobe in 1924. Both sides were willing to learn from each other; two years after this meeting, Deguchi went on to found the Universal Love and Brotherhood Association (jinrui aizenkai 人類 愛善會), a charitable organization very similar to the WRSS. Yuancheng would retain close ties with Deguchi, and returned to Japan after the smaller Kansai earthquake of 1927.52 Although Japanese observers such as Uchida Ryōhei 内田良平 (1874–​ 1937), an advocate of Japan’s continental expansion and active member of Ōmotokyō, would later portray these events as the beginning of a clear trajectory that propelled WRSS and other ethically minded Chinese to Japan, we should not underestimate the patriotism of WRSS’s Chinese members. The mission to Japan had indeed laid the foundation for a cosmopolitan alliance that included both influential Japanese in China and Chinese in Japan, and certainly enhanced the identity of the WRSS as an international organization in the model of the Red Cross. Despite their high profile, such international efforts paled in comparison to the work of the WRSS within China itself. While the 2,000 shi (approximately 145,000  kg) of rice that the 1923 mission brought to Kobe was certainly much more than a token gesture (particularly given the existence of a Chinese ban on rice exports), a 1928 relief effort closer to home had distributed no less than 80,000 shi, much of which was donated by nationalistically minded grain merchants. The WRSS was actually only one of forty major Chinese donors to Japanese earthquake relief, nor was it even the most significant. The Chinese government itself made a sizeable donation, and Foreign Ministry head Wellington Koo (顧維鈞) had called for patriotic Chinese to aid their neighbors in a time of distress, even going as far as to suggest that the Chinese government itself should take charge of the relief effort: “China is grounded in the ethic of aiding the stricken and helping neighbors, and cannot stand idly by. The government should take charge, and urge all of its citizens to send aid.”53 Given the growing tensions between the two countries, aid for Japan was more than humanitarian in motive: Such a display of Chinese magnanimity was also diplomatically useful for China. This and other WRSS efforts overseas were aided by Chinese diplomats, and demonstrate the clout the group carried in political circles. When a Chinese attempt to seize the Russian-​owned China Eastern Railway in 1928 prompted a brief but disastrous border conflict with the Soviet Union, teams of 52 WRSS made a donation of 5,000 yuan through the Japanese consul to relief efforts, Shao Yong, Zhongguo huidaomen, 185. 53 Li Xuezhi, “1923 nian Zhongguo ren dui Riben zhenzai de chenjiu xingdong,” Jindai shi yanjiu 3, (1998): 281.

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WRSS doctors were sent to the railway cities of Harbin, Manzhouli, and Suifenhe. Pinned down by Soviet shelling, these teams appealed to the Foreign Ministry in Nanjing, which assured Soviet authorities (through third-​country diplomatic intermediaries) that the group was solely interested in providing medical relief.54 This balance of interests shifted dramatically after the Japanese occupation of Manchuria in 1931. The quick but brutal assault on Chinese territory presented a real challenge to the naive internationalism that people such as Jiang Xizhang had championed during the halcyon days of the Confucian revival, and left organizations like the WRSS in a very difficult position. At the commencement of the fighting, the WRSS was already well established in Manchuria, and local branches mobilized to provide what relief they could to the civilian population.55 Representatives from Beijing, Tianjin, Jiaodong, Yingkou, and Andong met in Dalian to coordinate efforts to feed and clothe the multitude of refugees just beginning to pour south. Relief stations in Shenyang began by feeding 5,000 per day, a number that eventually rose to 20,000. It is impossible to speak for the political beliefs of WRSS members on the ground, but all parties involved had an interest in maintaining the appearance of strict humanitarian neutrality. The only publicly known contact between WRSS leaders and the Japanese high command concerned the very modest request to allow the WRSS to organize teams of volunteers to bury the dead. Already under Mantetsu management, the Shengjing Times presented a somewhat rosier picture of WRSS activities. During the final months of 1931, the Times frequently reported on WRSS activities, but did not dwell on their response to the war. Rather, it focused on the efforts of WRSS branches in cities such as Dalian, which was largely spared the ill effects of the fighting, raising funds for relief from natural disasters in Manchuria, as well for flood-​ravaged provinces further south. Other articles presented the local WRSS opening a new school and funding a Buddhist festival in Huadian 樺甸, near Changchun. One short article briefly mentioned that the Changchun

54 Shijie hong wanzi hui, Shijie hong wanzi hui linian zhenjiu gongzuo baogao shu, 1932, 1–​2; 1935, 24 55 It should be noted that the charitable sector in Manchuria was already highly developed and extremely cosmopolitan. In addition to a foundation of medical institutions created by Scottish Presbyterian missionaries, there was also a highly developed plague-​ prevention infrastructure, which was formed in response to the pneumonic epidemic of 1910–​1911, and enjoyed the support of the Nanjing government and the League of Nations. The Manchurian Plague Prevention Service ceased operations in 1931. See Wu Lien-​teh, Plague Fighter: The Autobiography of a Modern Chinese Physician (Cambridge: W. Heffer & Sons, 1959), 375–​402.

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branch had begun operation of a soup kitchen, but stated the reason simply as expectation of a cold winter.56 Even before the formation of Manchukuo cut the local Daoyuan-​ WRSS off from the national organization, the network of branches in the Northeast had already been developing into something of an independent entity. The teaching had first spread north during the early 1920s, and initially required a period of nurturing: even large branches like Jilin had to occasionally send leaders to study at the mother Daoyuan in Ji’nan.57 Yet by the end of the decade, a time when Daoyuan expansion in the rest of China had begun to wane, a burst of new energy invigorated Daoyuan in the Northeast.58 With the Shenyang Daoyuan at the center, new Manchurian branches were opened, ties between existing Daoyuan were rejuvenated, and groups of WRSS branches banded together to mount regional relief efforts. In one unique expression of unity, a text called the Essence of the True Scripture of the Polar Singularity (taiyi beiji zhenjing jingsui 太乙北極真經經髓) was preached in rotation among Daoyuan in Manchuria. Daoyuan in Beijing and Tianjin had initiated the practice by preaching introductory sections of this scripture in 1929, after which the movement proceeded northward, with Daoyuan in Shenyang, Yingkou, Binjiang, Changchun, Dalian, and Andong each expounding one section. Over the next thirty-​three days, the network of Manchurian Daoyuan completed the entire scripture.59 This core of Manchurian Daoyuan began gravitating towards Japan through their relationship with Ōmotokyō. In 1929, a flurry of spirit writings in Beijing and Shenyang laid the plans for a Daoyuan mission to Japan. This “Eastern Sea Mission” (dongying budao tuan 東瀛佈道團) was to become a very Manchurian project: Fourteen of its eighteen members came from the Northeast, seven from Shenyang alone.60 Once in Japan, the mission visited Kobe, Kameoka, and Osaka before reaching Kyoto, where they again met with Deguchi. This meeting named Deguchi as the head of the small but expanding network of Daoyuan in Japan, in return for which he agreed to visit China that August. Daoyuan delegates also promised to send a second mission to the Great Religions Exposition 56 Even after the fighting in Manchuria had commenced, Dalian merchants connected with WRSS made interest-​free loans worth tens of thousands of yuan to flood-​stricken provinces in the south. A collection of Japanese businesses and newspapers made a high-​ profile donation to the same relief effort. ST, 1931: September 2, 4, 15; October 15, 17; November 1; December 8, 9. 57 Liu Benjing, Jilin yuanhui daoci, 25–​27, 33. 58 Kōa shūkyō kyōkai, Sekai Kōmanjikai Dōin no jittai, 33. 59 Yuancheng, Daoci gangyao dadao pian, 89–​91; Kōa shūkyō kyōkai, Sekai Kōmanjikai Dōin no jittai, 33–​34. 60 Yuancheng, Daoci gangyao dadao pian, 80–​82, 94–​96.

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(Dai shūkyō hakurankai 大宗教博覧會), to be held in Kyoto in February of the following year.61 This Second Eastern Sea Mission, like the first, consisted primarily of delegates from Manchuria. (In this case, seven of the nine delegates came from Andong, one from Dalian, and another from Beijing.) It was only after this trip that the two teachings formally merged, thus giving nearly 500 branches of Ōmotokyō in Japan a new dual identity as Daoyuan.62 While we cannot know how typical such sentiment might have been within Manchurian Daoyuan before 1932, it is obvious why those interested in the Manchukuo project would wish to exaggerate both the ties between WRSS and Japan and the enthusiasm within WRSS for an internationalism that might resemble Japanese pan-​Asianism. Perhaps the best example of this sort of wishful thinking is Uchida’s 1931 World Red Swastika Society and the Manchuria-​Mongolia Independence Movement. Published soon after the commencement of hostilities, but before the actual founding of Manchukuo, this short book aimed to convince Japanese readers of their natural allies in the contested territory. Only after spending eighty pages, more than half of the book, reminding readers of the vital economic and military importance of Manchuria to Japan (a relationship that Uchida refers to as the “Manchurian lifeline”), does the book finally go on to introduce the WRSS itself, albeit in specialized terms. In describing the religious beliefs of Daoyuan, Uchida simultaneously reaches out to a number of audiences, employing again the dichotomy between essential (xiantian 先天) and common (houtian 後天) meanings of the teaching, in order to compare Daoyuan to the “Way of the Gods” (kannagara no michi 惟神の道), an unambiguous reference to Shinto. He ends with an implicit reference to Ōmotokyō, the Teaching of the Great Source. The “Dao” in Daoyuan refers to the great Way of the Gods, it most decidedly does not derive from Daoism. Actually, “Dao” has both a xiantian and a houtian meaning. Daoyuan is most certainly not a religion. It is a pure belief organization (shinkō dantai 信仰団體) whose teaching spreads the xiantian meaning (of Dao), that is, the great Way of the Gods, and is purely devoted to reform of the world. The Way that Daoyuan promotes is that all things come from a single source. It is extremely inclusive.63 61 On the popularity of the Ōmotokyō at the Great Religions Exposition, see Nancy Stalker, “Showing Faith: Exhibiting Ōmoto to Consumers in Early Twentieth Century Japan,” in Casting Faiths: Imperialism and the Transformation of Religion in East and Southeast Asia, ed. Thomas David DuBois. Basingstoke, UK: Palgrave, 2009), 239–​256. 62 Uchida Ryōhei, Manmō no dokuritsu:  109; Yuancheng, Daoci gangyao dadao pian, 94–​ 101; Kōa shūkyō kyōkai, Sekai Kōmanjikai Dōin no jittai, 30. 63 Xiantian and houtian are often translated literally as Former and Latter Heaven, but here and in other Daoyuan writings, the terms refer respectively to a true, original essence, and the limited understanding used in the current world. This conception is

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Uchida goes on to make the tenuous case that Daoyuan actively supported Japanese intervention in Manchuria. He begins with the ideological argument:  since the Daoyan teaching of unity among religions and nations was so perfectly in tune with the promise of an independent Manchuria, Daoyuan branches throughout the country would naturally welcome Japanese liberation from Chinese misrule. He notes that late in 1931, just as provincial governments in Manchuria were severing ties with Nanjing, the Daoyuan of Japan (i.e., Ōmotokyō) had sent a message to their brethren in Manchuria and Beijing encouraging them to take hold of this unique opportunity to “press on for the common good of all humanity, the benefit of society, and peace and unity in the world.” He further claims that spirit writings had foretold the Manchurian independence movement before it broke out, but offers no proof more substantial than a few vague statements about Chinese–​Japanese unity.64 The weakest argument is the claim that the leadership of the WRSS represented the progressive elite of Manchuria, who were eager and prepared to take the reins of a new state. Here again, Uchida proves stronger on slogans than evidence, and is able to mention only a handful of military figures such as Zhang Haipeng 張海鵬 (1867–​1949) and Tang Yulin 湯玉麟 (1871–​1937) as specific examples.65 Returning to the question of how groups like Daoyuan were perceived, Uchida saw in them a fundamentally new type of religion that fit the new form of society being initiated in Manchukuo. It is of course difficult to know where Uchida’s understanding of Daoyuan stops and his own thoughts begin. As Uchida was himself an enthusiastic convert to Ōmotokyō, and believed unreservedly that the teachings of Ōmotokyō and Daoyuan were “absolutely the same,” it is not at all clear that he was particularly concerned with such distinctions. He confidently places into the mouth of Manchurian Daoyuan (or more specifically, the Great Progenitor) the grand political ideal of the “Bright Land” (Mingguang guo/​Meikōkoku 明光國), which Uchida describes as nothing less than the “the unity of god and man in an independent kingdom.” He further comparable to the two levels of meaning discussed in Primal Singularity. No doubt many Japanese readers would have recognized the similar idea of “true essence and manifest traces” (honji suijaku) from Japanese Mahayana Buddhism. Uchida Ryōhei, Manmō no dokuritsu, 85. 64 Many of the spirit writings Uchida cites center upon on Deguchi, often mentioned by his religious name of Jinjin 尋仁. Messages attributed to the Great Progenitor predict that Deguchi’s light or teaching will spread across the Eastern Sea, a vision of Asian spiritual unity that closely mirrored that of Japanese imperialism. 65 At the time of writing, both were former members of Zhang Zuolin’s military command. Zhang Haipeng would go on to lead the military campaign against loyalist general Ma Zhanshan and the capture of Rehe. Tang was later named governor of Rehe Province. Uchida Ryōhei, Manmō no dokuritsu, 103–​105, 111–​112

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asserts that the entire organization would be willing to work towards building this new state “in the land of the Xiongnu” as a foundation for the “unity and mutual benefit” of the people of Japan and China. Here again, Uchida is speaking of Japanese Daoyuan, in other words, of Ōmotokyō. Like many of the ideas he attributes to Chinese Daoyuan, the idea of a “Bright Land” in Manchuria in fact derives from Deguchi, who had as early as 1926 sent one of his followers to Tianjin to promote it to the former Qing emperor Puyi.66 The question of wishful thinking or willful misrepresentation aside, the founding of Manchukuo ushered in a new era for the WRSS in the Northeast. In March of 1934, the same month that Puyi ascended to the throne and Manchukuo was upgraded to the status of empire, local Daoyuan leaders met in the new capital of Xinjing, and formally renounced all ties with the organization in Beijing and Ji’nan. The renamed “Daoyuan-​World Red Swastika Society of Manchukuo” 滿洲 國總道院世界紅卍字會 now found itself under a completely new set of leaders, few of whom had been particularly prominent in the organization before 1932.67 The organization prospered. In 1934, the Manchukuo Daoyuan-​ WRSS moved its headquarters from Shenyang to a new building, built in the style of a Chinese temple on a busy corner of the main thoroughfare in Xinjing. There it attracted a significant following among prominent Chinese members of the Manchukuo government, such as Xi Qia 熙洽 (1883–​1950), Zhang Jinghui, Yu Zhishan 于芷山 (1879–​1951), and Sun Qichang 孫其昌 (1885–​1954).68 The general Zhang Haipeng, identified early on by Uchida, became its national president. The mass membership grew, as well. Between 1932 and 1941, the number of branches expanded from thirty-​five to ninety-​nine. In three years, from 1939 to 1941, the number of members more than doubled from 5,151 to 13,954, while the operating budget of the Manchukuo WRSS mushroomed from 448,736 to 1,295,253 yuan.69 Yet, in spite of what appears to have been a mutually beneficial relationship, the Daoyuan-​WRSS and the government of Manchukuo were

66 Li Narangoa, “Universal Values,” 62; Uchida Ryōhei, Manmō no dokuritsu, 117–​118. 67 Manshūkoku kokumin minseibu, kōseishi kyōkaka, “Manshūkoku Dōen Kōmanjikai no gaiyō,” Kyōka dantai chōsa shiryō 2 (1943): 161–​175. 68 Xi Qia was a former general, and later the Minister of Finance and Minister of the Interior for Manchukuo. Yu Zhishan was a former military subordinate of Zhang Zuolin, who later became a member of the Manchukuo National Assembly, while Sun held a variety of mid-​level positions. 69 Manshūkoku kokumin minseibu, “Manshūkoku Dōen,” 162–​165.

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Table 6.2.  Number of Daoyuan in Manchuria/​ Manchukuo, by year.

1926 1927 1928 1929 1930 1931 1932 1933 1934 1935 1936 1937 1938 1939 1940 1941

New

Total

1 4 7 10 6 2 5 4 22 15 2 2 0 2 9 8

1 5 12 22 28 30 35 39 61 76 78 80 80 82 91 99

Source: “Manshūkoku Dōen Kōmanjikai no gaiyō,” Kyōka dantai chōsa shiryō 2 (1943): 169–​170.

careful to maintain a certain distance from each other. At no point was Daoyuan actually persecuted, nor does it appear to have been directly affected by the turn against Ōmotokyō within Japan (following the Second Ōmotokyō Incident of 1935). Nor, however, did it have any official place in Manchukuo propaganda or policy. It certainly was not promoted in the press, which as we have seen was coming under increasingly direct government control. While the activities and personages related to Confucianism, Shinto, certain sects of Buddhism (notably Soto Zen and Ōtani Pure Land from Japan), and the Catholic Church were all highly visible in the pages of publications like the Shengjing Times, mention of Daoyuan and WRSS fell off dramatically after its peak in 1931. Nor did state-​sponsored organizations like the Unity Society (xiehe hui/​kyōwa kai 協和會), an umbrella association created in February 1936 to lead and coordinate a variety of social engineering initiatives, ever officially promote the organization. Each issue of the Unity Movement (Kyōwa Undō 協和運動), the society’s monthly magazine, contained at least two dozen articles, including frequent pieces on religion, reverence for the emperor, “national spirit” (jianguo jingshen 建國精神), and the various state-​led campaigns promoted to raise public morality. Yet in a six-​year print run,

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it never once mentioned Daoyuan or the WRSS by name.70 The reticence seems to have originated in the Japanese side: while many Chinese within the Manchukuo government were well-​known Daoyuan-​WRSS members, their Japanese counterparts steered clear of public association with either group. As Chapter  7 will show, Japanese officials remained conspicuously absent from the rituals that Daoyuan members began performing at the grave of a Confucian “filial son.” Moreover, the government of Manchukuo was at least as determined as the Guomindang to take direct control over the charitable sector. Beginning with the 1905 establishment of the Kantō Leasehold, the Japanese and leasehold governments had given substantial financial support to Japanese medical charities in Manchuria and, it seems, tolerated and even welcomed the private initiatives of groups like the WRSS. This support continued under Manchukuo, but was not without its price. Just as under the Guomindang, the government of Manchukuo eventually aimed not only to bring the charitable sector under control, but to operate it directly. On March 1, 1934, the date that the state of Manchukuo formally named itself an empire, the Ministry of Civil Affairs established a national charity, a group called the Spreading Welfare Society (Puji hui 普濟). While the WRSS had enjoyed high-​level political support, the Spreading Welfare Society was directly tied to the newly crowned Emperor of Manchuria, who seeded the society with a personal donation of a million yuan. The Spreading Welfare Society was particularly concerned with medical welfare: among other activities, it operated medical teams that visited temple festivals to provide free medical care to remote areas.71 In 1939, the Spreading Welfare Society formally merged with local branches of the Red Cross of Japan to form the Red Cross of Manchukuo. The Spreading Welfare Society’s own records portray this merger primarily as an internal fiscal decision –​income from interest on the million yuan seed funding was far too low to fulfill their mission of providing medical services to the entire country.72 This merger was broadly supported by the Manchukuo government, the Mantetsu, and the Kantō Army. One of the key figures in the actual merger was Department of Welfare minister Sun Qichang, who was active not only in the Spreading Welfare Society, but also in the WRSS. Sun served as a go-​between for both sides of the merger: in 1937, he traveled to Tokyo to discuss the idea 70 Manshū teikoku kyōwa kai, Kyōwa Undō (Tokyo:  Ryokuin shōbo, September, 1939–​April, 1945). 71 Onshi Zaidan Fushikaishi (Shinkyō: n.p., 1939), 1–​4, 40–​43, 61–​70. 72 Relying on interest and investments, the society calculated that a fund of 10  million would be necessary. Ibid., 64.

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with the Red Cross of Japan, and later headed the merger committee of the Spreading Welfare Society. The merger was formally carried out in January of 1939, by directive of the Kantō administration.73 While the WRSS was not itself disadvantaged by these new developments, it is hard to escape the conclusion that it was on the road to planned obsolescence. The new hybrid model of nationalist charity was clearly intended as the future of the sector. Further south, the Japanese attack on Chinese soil had pushed the idealistic internationalism of the WRSS to breaking point. WRSS branches in Beijing, Tianjin, and Shandong had all been involved in the Manchurian relief effort of 1931. The Japanese assault on Shanghai just one year later prompted the Jiangnan branches to organize a similar response. In conjunction with other charitable societies, the WRSS in Shanghai alone created six temporary hospitals, provided medical care to thousands of soldiers and civilians, and sheltered tens of thousands of refugees. Japanese troops had apparently come to know and trust the WRSS. (In the wake of the Manchuria fighting, one report proudly announced that “Chinese and foreign personnel all recognized how those wearing the swastika ignored the danger and put all their energies to providing relief on a huge scale. How could anyone not admire such an achievement?”) But as first-​hand witnesses to the suffering caused by Japanese assaults on Chinese cities, it would be hard to imagine WRSS members retaining any of the high-​minded internationalist sentiment once expressed by people such as Yuancheng, much less the affection for Japan claimed by Uchida.74 Internationalist discourse aside, the actions of the WRSS continued to reveal strong nationalist sympathies, as members mobilized a variety of national and international contacts to pursue what contemporaries referred to as “citizen diplomacy” (guomin waijiao 國民外交) on China’s behalf.75 In 1933, just as Chinese diplomats were frantically seeking to secure international condemnation of Japanese actions in Manchuria, the WRSS made a massive donation of 100,000 yuan to victims of an earthquake in Los Angeles though the vocally pro-​Chinese American ambassador Nelson T. Johnson. More than just an expression of good will (for which WRSS was rewarded with a letter of thanks from President Franklin Roosevelt himself), this gesture was most certainly 73 Onshi Zaidan Fushikaishi, 22–​24; Minsei Nenkan 1934, 450–​51. For more on the transition of medical charities, see Thomas David DuBois, “Public Health and Private Charity in Manchuria, 1905–​1945,” Frontiers of History in China 9, 4 (2014): 506–​553. 74 Shijie hong wanzi hui, Shijie hong wanzi hui linian zhenjiu gongzuo baogao shu, 1932, 6–​9. 75 Zhou Bin, “Qingmo-​Minchu ‘guomin waijiao’ yici de xingcheng ji qi hanyi shulun,” Anhui shixue 5 (2008): 22–​32.

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also an attempt to reach out to the United States as a diplomatic ally.76 In the wake of the massacre at Nanjing, the WRSS was one of many Chinese organizations that sought refuge in the foreign concessions of Shanghai, emerging to establish shelters and soup kitchens. According to one report, Swastika Society volunteers provided relief for over a hundred thousand. In Nanjing alone, they disposed of over 27,000 corpses.77 The Guomindang retreat to Sichuan left the Daoyuan-​WRSS in a difficult position. Throughout northern China, the WRSS maintained a working relationship with Japanese-​sponsored authorities. Some of these figures, such as the widely reviled governor of Shandong, Tang Yangdu 唐仰杜 (1898–​1951), actively promoted the society and its activities. As in Manchukuo, Japanese authorities themselves appear to have been cordial but wary of forming too close a bond, preferring instead a long-​term strategy of replacing the WRSS with groups of their own making, such as the New People’s Society (xinmin hui 新民會) and Pacification Teams (xuanfu ban/​senbu han 宣撫班).78 Few records of WRSS activities in wartime Sichuan exist, most likely because the organization had never been particularly strong there. Befitting the group’s many protestations of internationalist neutrality, there was never any sort of public rift between the branches in Japanese-​, Guomindang-​, or Communist-​controlled territory, nor was the WRSS censured by the Guomindang government for continuing its work under the Japanese occupation. (It is also worth noting that the WRSS was one of the few groups of this sort to have escaped the charge of Japanese collaboration after the founding of the People’s Republic.) This is not to say that the Guomindang government embraced the organization entirely. In 1940, the party Mobilization Committee (dongyuan weiyuan hui 動員委 員會) enacted an anti-​superstition law, which banned heretical teachings and their writings, and singled out Daoyuan by name for special castigation. The WRSS was also mentioned: it would be allowed to continue its charitable work, so long as it broke all ties with Daoyuan.79 76 Shijie hong wanzi hui, Shijie hong wanzi hui linian zhenjiu gongzuo baogao shu, 1935, 16–​17. 77 “Shijie Hongwanzi hui Nanjing da tusha hou anli jiuji gongzuo baogao.” Dang’an yu shixue 4 (1997): 11–​18. Shao Yong, Zhongguo huidaomen, 390, cites a higher figure of 31,791 burials. 78 On the Pacification Teams, see Cao Dajun, “Riben zhanling Huazhong chuqi de jiceng kongzhi moshi –​yi Taicang xian wei zhongxin (1937–​1940),” Minguo dang’an 1 (2004): 60–​65; Liu Dage, “Shandong lunxian qu Xinminhui ji qi huodong,” Shandong shehui kexue 3 (2001): 50–​55; Zhang Taishan, “Lun kangzhan shiqi Ri-​Wei zai Hubei lunxian qu de wenhua kongzhi moshi,” Wuhan keji daxue xuebao (shehui kexue ban) 7, 4 (2005), 30–​34. 79 Shao Yong, Zhongguo huidaomen, 391.

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Conclusion: New Religions, “Redemptive Societies,” and Secular Charities. What’s Really in a Name?

How should we understand the votive movements of the twentieth century? There is something to be said for seeing them as a continuation of an earlier tradition. Their basic religious beliefs and practices, ethical and charitable impulses all had deep roots in the ideas and institutions of the late imperial era, including a division between a tradition of thought that was world-​affirming and another that was world-​rejecting (i.e., apocalyptic). Equally, there is something to be said for seeing them as substantively different phenomena, the products of a wave of internationalism, a new era of legal regulation, and a new configuration of political and social forces. The problem of how to characterize these movements –​and specifically what to call them –​ultimately derives from the fact that they were actually many things to many people. The question of names derives in part from this problem. Adopting the criminalizing terminology of a deeply hostile ruling elite is more than a cosmetic issue. The uncritical use of these perspectives for understanding Chinese religion is (to mix some metaphors) like “trying to get a sense of everyday American political life from FBI files.”80 Understanding the place of these movements in the way that religion was defined is rather a different issue. Here, we seek a variety of different social perspectives, including inaccurate or unflattering ones. We might begin by asking how they would have thought of themselves. In this sense, the answer is quite unequivocal:  Daoyuan and its contemporaries used a language and idiom of mysticism, revelation, and ritual that portrayed them in unambiguously religious terms. They did this by looking simultaneously to the past and the future. The new movements wanted to return to the unadorned essence of the classic teachings, but they also saw and portrayed themselves as a new generation of religion, one that had a particular mission to unite other religions and bring them to fruition. This image of religion had a particular appeal for the new elites of the post-​imperial era, a generation that was drawn to civic action and social progress, but did not find an appeal in the pure religious iconoclasm of the May Fourth Movement. One may recognize in this trust in convergence a certain similarity to other bridging faiths, such as Bahá‘í, or to the pretensions of early twentieth-​century Zen Buddhism, which portrayed itself as above the label of religion.81 Yet if one is seeking 80 This comparison was used in William A. Christian, Local Religion in Sixteenth-​Century Spain (Princeton University Press, 1981), 4. 81 See Judith Snodgrass, “Publishing Eastern Buddhism:  D.T. Suzuki’s Journey to the West,” in Casting Faiths:  Imperialism and the Transformation of Religion in East and Southeast Asia, ed. Thomas David DuBois (Basingstoke, UK: Palgrave, 2009), 46–​74.

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continuity with the Chinese tradition, it is also hard to overlook the similarity to the idea of a True Teaching that motivated end-​of-​time scenarios in earlier generations of Chinese apocalyptic thought. I suggest that we need not choose one or the other. If these connections are visible to us in retrospect, how much more so would they have been to movements’ own contemporaries? The question then is why these movements turned to charity, and why they did so through the very particular form of parallel organizations. Charity had long been a preoccupation of religious groups, both associations and the individuals who supported benevolent halls, and of groups such as native place associations, which combined a strong ritual core with often extensive programs of mutual aid. The shift to charity in the twentieth century was motivated by both unusual need and unusual opportunity, and in the case of the WRSS, quickly came to eclipse the religious group, at least in public prominence. Even within a single organization, religion and public service remained distinct. My only misgiving about the characterization of groups such as Daoyuan as redemptive societies is that it risks conflating very distinct sorts of redemption. These different salvationist images could naturally resonate with each other, such as when Christian medical missionaries traveled the countryside performing cataract surgery  –​a necessary medical procedure, but also a fairly obvious metaphor for the spiritually blind coming to see the light of Christ. In the same way, characteristically Buddhist idioms of salvation resonated with a real need for charitable organization. Sometimes these different programs coincided so thoroughly as to appear indivisible. Like the Buddhism-​infused social activism of political figures such as Wang Yiting, or the policy aims of Buddhist reformers such as the monk Taixu, the complex mixture of motivations and interests that fueled the work of the WRSS defies simple characterization as religious, charitable, or political.82 Nevertheless, we must take care not to artificially flatten what was in fact a very complex and internally divided phenomenon. The interwar world was one of great ideas, and a palpable sense of a globality that was by no means restricted to China  –​the anticipation of worldwide Christian conversion was itself a global phenomenon. The general sense of imminence of global transformation, particularly one that would take place through the convergence of traditions and peoples, was voiced in a variety of social and religious movements –​Wilsonian democracy, 82 Paul R. Katz, “Wang Yiting and the Enchantment of Chinese Modernity.” Paper presented at International Conference on Folk Confucianism and Redemptive Societies, Foguang University, Taiwan, June 9, 2009.

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pan-​Asianism, pan-​Islam, international labor, and world socialism, to name but a few –​all of which drew inspiration from the same sense of moment and anticipation, but nevertheless remained distinct from one another. I believe that the same may be said for the existence of two distinct movements within a single organization. The Daoyuan and WRSS each had a very different mission. The two were related, but the distinction between them was still worth preserving. In political terms, preservation of this distinction was a very wise decision. The expansion of the charitable sphere had been prompted by need: a general absence of social services on the small scale, coinciding with a sudden disappearance of state management of mass disasters such as war and famine. Each of the political actors in this chapter, local and national governments under the Guomindang, as well as the Manchukuo state, aspired to establish direct control over the charitable realm. This desire derived partially from a new ambition to control and standardize society within a legal-​administrative framework. Given that few of the charities in Shanghai had ever opened their books before, the Nanjing investigators were quite probably right to suspect them of mismanagement, if not actual fraud. But at least as important was the desire to lay claim to some of what the charitable sphere represented. This desire would explain the particular concern with the influence in the charitable realm of religious groups, who it was feared were using charities as a cover for foreign funds and agendas, or as a “Trojan horse” for proselytization.83 The result, and one that remains evident in China today, is a desire expressed in policy not only to strip the charitable sphere of religion, but to insist on a strict operational and administrative separation within religion of its theological and social missions.

83 Bernard Formoso uses this term to characterize the use of charitable activities by the Morality Teaching in Southeast Asia today. Formoso, De Jiao.

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Graveside Piety and the Transformation of Popular Practice

On October 23, 1938, Li Zhongsan 李中三, known better as “Filial Son Li” (Li Xiaozi 李孝子), emerged from the hut in which he had lived for three years while keeping watch over his mother’s grave. During his vigil, a custom known as “guarding the grave” (shou mu 守墓), the site near the town of Jiutai 九台 in central Jilin Province had gained a reputation as a “filial tomb” (xiaozi fen 孝子墓), one of a handful that sprouted up in the heartland of Manchukuo. Each day, hundreds of pilgrims from throughout the area visited the tomb to pray, burn incense, and take back handfuls of earth for its reputed spiritual power. When Li did complete his prescribed period of mourning, the occasion was marked by a formal Confucian ritual, attended by thousands, and presided over by a number of Manchukuo’s political luminaries. At first glance, this story might seem less than remarkable. Graveside piety had long been an important part of Chinese mourning practice. For centuries the imperial Chinese state had extended its support and recognition for such expressions of filial devotion, and even as many in Republican China were turning their backs on Confucian tradition, the Manchukuo government had spared no effort in portraying itself as the champion of a Confucian revival. It had invested heavily in the ideals and trappings of Confucian ritual, and it is easy to imagine that the new state might have wished to bask in the ambient glow of even somewhat extreme customs such as the mourning regimen of filial sons. However, Manchukuo’s filial tombs reveal something rather more complex than simple state appropriation or manipulation of a popular custom. Neither the Manchukuo government nor its Japanese officials actively encouraged extreme practices such as filial vigils or the transformation of these graves into sacred sites. Rather, it was the stratum of Chinese officials, in particular those who had ties to religious organizations such as Daoyuan, that supported the sites with money and 164

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public prestige. Moreover, these Chinese elites did not create the custom of graveside vigils, they merely laid claim to a custom that was already spreading on its own. The filial sons themselves took up their vigils voluntarily, and for a variety of different reasons. The relatively weak influence of Manchukuo officialdom over the proliferation of filial tombs hints at their unorthodox nature –​the vigils themselves were a departure from traditional Confucian mourning practice, and the tombs were foci of the same very un-​Confucian regimen of vows, prayers, and healing that would characterize any Chinese sacred site. This weak official influence also explains how the tombs were able to survive the fall of the Manchukuo state, and why they were tolerated well into the 1950s (and some cases later). The combined story of filial tombs before, during, and after the existence of Manchukuo reveals the density of commercial, political, and devotional interests that develop around religious practice, in which the state is only one voice, and even then rarely a unified one. As further proof that history never really dies, these same debates have been to some degree reconstituted in a recent proposal by the Changchun Department of Tourism (Changchun shi lüyou ju 長春市旅游局) to reconstruct a filial tomb as part of their planned Chinese Filial Virtue Culture Park (Zhonghua xiaoxian wenhua yuan 中華孝賢文化園).

State Perspectives on Confucian Ritual

Previous chapters have already discussed in detail the commitment of the Manchukuo state to programs of social transformation that it identified as Confucian. Following the precedent of the Qing and subsequent Republic, Manchukuo provided legal, moral, and financial support for the dissemination of didactic texts, and recognition of moral exemplars. It surpassed them in its investment in sacred sites. This process had actually begun much earlier, with the construction of Shinto shrines and monuments to the war dead throughout Manchuria during the years following the Russo-​Japanese War. By the 1930s, such shrines had become a feature of nearly every city in Manchuria, but existed primarily for the convenience and inspiration of the resident Japanese.1 Under the Manchukuo state these energies were directed to the construction first of Confucian temples, and later shrines of the Shinto-​inspired “Spirit of National Foundation,” and monuments to the “loyal spirits,” i.e., the dead of the ongoing “sacred battle” throughout Asia. By the early 1940s, every administrative center, market town, and military garrison had at 1 See for example, Yamauchi Matsuo, ed., Hōten jinja shi (Fengtian:  Hōten jinja jimujo, 1939).

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Figure 7.1.  Confucian ceremony in Changchun. Uniformed Japanese soldiers are clearly visible in the background. Manchoukuo Photo Service, 1941.

least one of these sacred sites, with Chinese and Japanese local officials presiding over a regular regimen of rituals. Each type of shrine acted as a node in a hierarchically defined network of official ritual sites and activities and, along with them, maintained a visible presence of state-​centered religiosity throughout the nation.2 Each of these developments, the pains taken to identify the Manchukuo state with Confucian revival, the state’s policy of recognizing Confucian moral exemplars, and its construction of a network of state-​sponsored 2 Although rarely named as such, the Spirit of National Foundation was in fact Amaterasu, the progenitress of the Japanese imperial household. On the conduct and attendance of state Confucian rituals in Manchukuo, see Wang Hongze, “Jisifu zayi,” Changchun wenshi ziliao 5 (1988):  262–​279. On Japanese shrines in Manchuria, see Hishiki Masaharu, “Kindai kokumin kokka to senshisha girei no hensen  –​Hakugyokusan ‘Biaozhong ta’ dō miru ka,” in Nitchū ryōgoku no shiten kara kataru shokuminchiki Manshū no shūkyō, ed. Kiba Akeshi and Cheng Shuwei (Tokyo: Kashiwa shōbō, 2007), 368–​400; Nakajima Michio, “Kyū Mansūkoku ni okeru jinja no setsuristu ni tsuite,” in Kiba and Cheng, Nitchū ryōgoku, 139–​170; Cheng Shuwei, “Shokuminchi jiki no Manshū no sho shūkyō yakuatsu,” in Kiba and Cheng, Nitchū ryōgoku, 19–​44.

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Figure 7.2.  Artist’s portrayal of the war-dead shrine in Xinjing. From Jianguomiao zaoying gaiyao. Unpublished sketch, Changchun library.

religious sites, would seem to be eminently compatible with the cult of graveside piety. Indeed, it would have made very good sense for authorities to seek some accommodation with this custom. For centuries, graveside worship had been extremely common throughout northern China, where it remains deeply significant to local religious life. Not only moral exemplars, but also efficacious healers, sectarian teachers, and local military figures have all been known to inspire worship, centered on the grave as a sacred site.3 Such sites could become deeply integrated into local or more extensive cults. The grave of Yu Wu 于五, a late Qing healer who lived and was buried in the Tianjin suburb of Yangliuqing 楊 柳青, inspired the construction of the Precious Spreading Light Pagoda (Puliang baota 普亮寶塔) by members of the neighborhood committee, who still gather on the premises for votive and social activities. The grave of Liu Lisan 劉力三, a mid-​nineteenth-​century missionary who is credited with having brought the Heaven and Earth Teaching to Cang 滄 County in southern Hebei, remains a place of special veneration for a 3 See Stevan Harrell. “When a Ghost Becomes a God,” in Religion and Ritual in Chinese Society, ed. Arthur Wolf (Stanford University Press, 1974), 193–​206.

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nearby cluster of villages, in particular for the adherents of the teaching itself. Other expressions of the same teaching have inspired a broader base of worship. The grave of Dong Sihai 董四海, the teaching’s founder, had for three centuries attracted pilgrims to Huimin County in northern Shandong, so much so that the local government has had the tomb razed on more than one occasion. Back in Hebei, the grave of another Heaven and Earth teacher, known simply as Sister Zheng 鄭, inspired the very public construction of a large three-​room temple and an annual festival that draws over 50,000 pilgrims and fairgoers.4 However, whatever the size or legality of the grave and its cult, the primary attraction of these particular sites is the magical power of the grave’s occupant. Members of the Heaven and Earth Teaching in Cang County will commemorate the birthday of Liu Lisan with a decorous ceremony at his grave, but few would think to visit it on other days, primarily because Liu has not developed a postmortem reputation for healing, granting wishes, protection, or any of the other needs people will bring to the sacred. The grave of Yu Wu, in contrast, is clearly a site of popular piety, its walls draped with layers of red cloth bearing the inscription “ask and you shall receive” (you qiu bi ying 有求必應). At the far extreme is the grave of Sister Zheng. Although Sister Zheng was herself a revered member of the Heaven and Earth Teaching, most of the pilgrims to her sizeable tomb in Huanghua 黄驊 County know her better as a healer, and this is what they seek when they visit her grave. Far from decorous Confucian ritual, the thousands who visit this site each year come to burn incense, make offerings, and pray for their health and that of their loved ones.5 Even if the imperial state might have at times tolerated or ignored popular gravesite cults, it certainly did not promote them. Fundamental to the Confucian understanding of ritual was that it must be correct ritual, which improper mourning most certainly was not. Generally speaking, the imperial state frowned upon excessive mourning for persons outside one’s own circle of prescribed relationships, particularly those outside of one’s own family.6 At best, such behavior was considered an unbecoming 4 Interviews:  Huimin County, Shandong, February 14, 1998; Cang County, Hebei, November 13, 1997; and Huanghua County, Hebei, April 11, 1998. 5 DuBois, Sacred Village, 180–​ 184. Interviews:  Yangliuqing, Tianjin, March 15, 1998, June  10, 1998; Cang County, Hebei, November 13, 1997; Huanghua County, Hebei, April 11, 1998. 6 Norman Alan Kutcher, Mourning in Late Imperial China:  Filial Piety and the State, Cambridge Studies in Chinese History, Literature, and Institutions (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 50. Ming law spelled out the precise mourning regimen, including length of mourning and type of clothes to be worn, for every conceivable relation. Friends and even teachers feature only briefly in this long list. See Farmer, ZhuYuanzhang and Early Ming Legislation, 163–​177, 197–​209. For a view of such rituals from the point

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distraction; at worst, it cheapened the significance of obligatory ritual. Universalized piety was not encouraged –​there was no Confucian corollary to the Buddhist practice of praying for all souls –​and admiration for moral exemplars was never intended to lead to the type of worship seen at gravesites such as those of Yu Wu or Sister Zheng. Even taking into account James Watson’s famous statement on orthopraxy, that the imperial state was primarily interested in creating only the outward appearance of conformity, and was thus more concerned with policing visible behavior than internal belief, most of the activities associated with popular gravesite worship remain far outside the pale of acceptable practice.7 Finally, the manifestation of graveside piety in the worship of “filial tombs” itself represents something of a deviation even from more common mourning practice. Although in its original usage, the term “filial son” (xiaozi) often referred specifically to a son engaged in the three-​year mourning vigil for a parent, the more common meaning is simply that of a son who exhibits an unusual degree of filial piety.8 This looser meaning is implied in the tale of one so-​named “Filial Wang,” recorded in the “illustrious personages” section of the 1891 Jilin Gazetteer. Although this Filial Wang shares the same honorific title as the hero of our own story below, he was not remembered for his filial vigil, but rather for the more prosaic virtues of supporting his aged mother with food and clothing.9 Nor do other Qing and Republican period gazetteers from the area, even those that are not shy about reporting questionable temples, practices, or groups, mention filial tombs among their local religious sites, or extreme mourning practices among their local customs.10 of view of the family, see Patricia Buckley Ebrey, Confucianism and Family Rituals in Imperial China A Social History of Writing about Rites (Princeton University Press, 1991). 7 In brief, the concept of orthopraxy (correct practice) is presented as a contrast to orthodoxy (correct belief), the latter being seen as more of a concern of Western religions. In imperial China, however, control over religion extended only to such external manifestations as ritual participation, while the judicious use of symbolism purposely euphemized any conflict over the inner realms of belief and interpretation. James L. Watson, “Standardizing the Gods: The Promotion of T’ien Hou (Empress of Heaven) along the South China Coast, 960–​1960,” in Popular Culture in Late Imperial China, ed. David Johnson, Andrew Nathan, and Evelyn Rawski (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), 292–​324. Much has been written on the topic since the publication of this influential article, including a recent symposium in the journal Modern China 33, 3 (2007). 8 An early and very specific use of the term appears in the Book of Rites (Liji 20, zaji 32), which states that “when conducting ancestral sacrifices, a son or grandson is called filial (xiao 孝), during the funeral ceremonies, he is called bereaved (ai 哀).” 9 Jilin tongzhi (Changchun: Jilin wenshi chubanshe, 1986. Original publication, 1930), 530. 10 Ding Shiliang et al., eds., Difang zhi minsu ziliao huibian, dongbei juan (Beijing: Beijing tushuguan chubanshe, 1991) and Chen Jianwei, ed., Dongbei minsu ziliao huicui (Jilin: Jilin wenshi chubanshe, 1993) each presents data excerpted from hundreds of gazetteers. The small number of county gazetteers produced during the Manchukuo period continued the practice of devoting a significant portion of the “local personages” section to recognition of Confucian exemplars. See gazetteers of Jiutai and Yushu counties, from

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At the same time, such practices would have been very familiar to contemporary observers. The tradition of mourning a parent for three years (a reference to the constant care required by infants during their first three years of life) was already well established by the Han dynasty, and was written into law during the early years of the Ming, even if relatively few people had the willpower to live out the strict mourning regimen. Yet many did mourn for the full three years, and a very few even surpassed these harsh requirements. This tradition of “exceeding the rites,” of extending the ritual requirements of filial piety to an extreme and often dangerous degree, was at once frowned upon and admired, and had developed as a literary theme since the time the ritual requirements themselves began to be codified. The Twenty-​Four Exemplars of Filial Piety (Ershi si xiao 二十四孝) famously depicts adult children serving their parents through such extreme acts as cooking their own flesh into medicine, but beyond this particular text, individual tales of especially sincere or harsh mourning, often culminating in the death of the mourner, were a well-​worn leitmotif in tales of filial piety, and no doubt in oral tradition as well.11 In other words, even if the harsh mourning regimen represented in filial vigils was highly anomalous in practice, it was also a common and easily recognized cultural idiom. Along with the tide of Han migrants, this idiom would travel to the Northeast, to inspire the first of Manchuria’s filial sons.

A Tale of Two Sons

Filial Wang Not much is known about the life of Wang Mengxing 王夢惺. He was a Han Chinese who lived in the waning years of the Qing dynasty in Changchun, which at the time was a small town on the edge of Jilin province. Wang was by all accounts poor, most likely a peasant or tradesman, and probably an only child. Most accounts mention that Wang was raised by his mother, Madame Han 韓, his father having died while Wang was a child. Very little else can be said with any certainty. Some accounts claim that Wang spent some years of his adulthood in the Qianshan wuliang Daoist monastery in Liaoning, but others omit this detail, and there is no particular reason to suspect that it is true or false. Many accounts neglect

1936 and 1937, respectively, in Beijing tushuguan, ed., Difangzhi renwu zhuan ji ziliao congkan. Dongbei, vol. IX (Beijing: Beijing tushuguan chubanshe 2001). 11 Keith Nathaniel Knapp, Selfless Offspring:  Filial Children and Social Order in Early Medieval China (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2005), 137–​163.

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to mention even his name, referring to him simply by his postmortem moniker of Filial Wang (Wang xiaozi 王孝子). The fact that Filial Wang is remembered at all owes less to the circumstances of his life than to those of his death. Perhaps the only thing that can be said with certainty about Wang Mengxing is that he was deeply attached to his mother. In good Confucian fashion, she had raised her child in dignified poverty after his father’s death (any educated person would immediately have recognized a parallel to the upbringing of the sage Mencius), and Wang repaid her kindness by caring for her in her old age. When she finally died in 1910, Wang was grief-​stricken and kept a vigil over her grave for three years. Throughout his vigil, Wang lived on the edge of subsistence, sheltering in a straw hut, eating only raw rice, and developing a reputation for both piety and spiritual power. At the end of the three years, weakened by grief and exposure, Wang himself died, and was interred next to his mother.12 The grave of Wang Mengxing became known as the “tomb of the filial son” (xiaozi fen), and gradually developed into something of a local landmark. A sizeable brick stupa was constructed atop the grave mound, and important political figures who passed through the area, including the warlord Wu Peifu 吴佩孚 (1874–​1939), stopped to pay their respects to Wang Mengxing’s filial sacrifice and leave a gift of their calligraphy. Yan Shiqing 顏世清 (1873–​1929), the Republican governor (daoyin 道尹) of Jilin, and future Beiyang government president Cao Kun 曹錕 (1862–​ 1938) built a commemorative arch at the entrance of the site.Yan personally penned the characters “a model of piety” (xiao you ke feng 孝有可風) for its inscription.13 Beyond such expressions of respect for Wang, the site also developed a reputation for miraculous power. Already during his vigil, Wang had become known for his ability to heal, and after his death a steady stream of people continued to visit the grave for fortune-​telling and medicine, and to make vows. The magical efficacy of the site may be one reason behind the claim that Wang had spent time in a Daoist monastery, where he presumably would have learned the arts that he took with him beyond the grave. The site manifested its power in other ways, as well. On one occasion when Wang and his mother were to be disinterred and moved 12 “ ‘Bainian laojie’ wangbuliao Renmin dajie xiaozifen” cites the folklorist Cao Baoming as the source of this story. Roughly similar retellings include Jiao Yingtang, “Changchun xiaozifen,” Changchun wenshi ziliao 5 (1988): 299–​309, and Jiang Dongping, “Xiaoshi de ‘Changchun xiaozi fen’,” Wenshi jinghua 3, 130 (2000): 57–​60. Some of these accounts are heavily stylized. One adds the story, taken from the Twenty-​Four Exemplars of Filial Piety, of Wang catching fish for his mother by using his body heat to melt the ice covering the river, “ ‘Xiaozifen’ de huiyi.” 13 Jiang Dongping, “Xiaoshi de ‘Changchun xiaozi fen’,” 58; “Bainian laojie.”

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to a new grave farther from the town, it was revealed that the roots of the elm tree planted on top of the grave mound had reached down and bound the two bodies together. In the end, this discovery was considered sufficient evidence of Filial Wang’s divine power at work to discourage the planned move.14 The site received its greatest boost in 1932, with the founding of Manchukuo and redesignation of Changchun as the “New Capital” of Xinjing. While old Changchun had been a smallish railway stop of relatively little importance, Xinjing was destined to become the modern showcase of the new nation. Manchukuo authorities outlined an ambitious plan for Xinjing, which at the time consisted of a Chinese quarter, adjacent to a small but dense Japanese commercial district. The new plan would more than double the size of the city, crisscrossing it with a grid of stately promenades. A wide new road, named Unification Road (Datong lu 大同路, later renamed as Stalin Road, and again as the Great Way of the People), was planned to run directly south from the railway station and bisect the city. The tomb of Filial Wang partially blocked the planned route of this central artery, and was scheduled for demolition. The imminent destruction of his grave prompted Wang Mengxing to display his power in spectacular fashion. According to Jiao Yingtang, who at the time was a child living in an orphanage adjacent to the grave, Wang expressed his displeasure with a number of signs. The trees surrounding the grave began to bleed and the workers themselves experienced headaches, mysterious pains, and vomiting. One laborer who tried to dig under the grave began bleeding from the seven bodily orifices, and died on the spot. Soon workers refused to go to the site altogether. An attempt to destroy the grave with artillery was equally unsuccessful, with one shell flying to the right, another to the left, and one that hit square on the top bouncing off without exploding. These signs were enough to convince most observers, but just to make sure that the grave would be well and truly protected in the future, Wang appeared in a dream to the head of the Japanese general headquarters, informing him of dire consequences (the destruction of country and family, guo po jia wang 國破家亡) were the grave to be harmed. The grave was indeed preserved and, buoyed by these stories of spiritual efficacy and a new burst of respectability, grew into a major attraction. Physically, the site was made more formal and imposing, and enhanced with a fence and stone staircase. The road was indeed made to curve slightly and avoid the grave, a visible reminder of its power and 14 Jiao Yingtang, “Changchun xiaozifen,” 299–​ 310. Jiang Dongping, “Xiaoshi de ‘Changchun xiaozifen’,” 59.

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importance. Collections of postcards from Xinjing include the grave along with other important sites, such as the city’s Shinto shrine and Buddhist Banruo 般若 Monastery. Beyond its cultural attraction, the site continued to enjoy a reputation for spiritual efficacy. A  postcard from the period shows the stupa covered in signs, including one in which the inscription “ask and you shall receive,” the typical expression of thanks for a prayer answered, is clearly visible. The grave attracted a variety of worshippers. Jiao remembers most having been old, and noted that many arrived in something of a holiday mood –​visiting the site to relax and socialize in the quiet, tree-​lined surroundings of adjacent Peony Park (Mudan gongyuan 牡丹公園). Others were more serious, visiting to pray or make votive offerings. One Auntie Dan, an elderly woman who used to mend clothes for the orphans, frequented the grave to recite scriptures, and often left carrying a vial of blessed water or a black ball of medicine, a testament to the continued association between the tomb and healing. (Clearly Auntie Dan had few other places to go:  When she died, her body was kept at the orphanage, and she was eventually buried without a coffin.) On one occasion that particularly affected the young viewer, a half-​starved beggar, walking with a limp and appearing as though he had been beaten, came to make

Figure 7.3.  Postcard image of Filial Tomb.

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offerings of fruit and mantou at the shrine. After some time, a young man emerged from the crowd and escorted the beggar to a hospital. A Daoist temple located adjacent to the tomb provided the site with its unofficial custodians. Although the temple and the grave were separate entities, in practice the handful of resident priests took custodial care of the site, and received its more important pilgrims. On special occasions, such as the Lunar New Year, the Daoists would perform a solemn ceremony at the tomb and distribute charms (fu 符) and medicine to large crowds of faithful. Such occasions also demonstrate the limited support of the state for the tomb and its activities. Owing to its public association with Manchukuo, it is easy to assume that the tomb was, like Shinto or war-​dead shrines, part of an ideological pacification program engineered by traitors who, in the nationalistic perspective of one Chinese historian, “spoke the name of filial piety in order to betray their country.”15 Certainly the willingness of authorities to alter the route of Unification Road in order to preserve the tomb demonstrates a great deal of sympathy on the part of the state for what the site represented. The feeling would appear to have been mutual: walls and trees around the grave were often hung with banners proclaiming Manchukuo–​Japanese friendship. Yet official support was not unconditional. In contrast to their very public role in the state calendar of Shinto and Confucian rites, Japanese members of the government were conspicuously absent from the ritual activities of the Filial Tomb. Similarly, although the grave was touted as a tourist destination, it was rarely mentioned in the Japanese-​controlled press, a silence that stands in contrast to the frequent and sympathetic reportage given to occasions such as Shinto rites, or the annual Spring and Autumn Sacrifices held at Confucian temples. On the other hand, many Chinese officials of the Manchukuo government were actively and visibly involved in the ritual life of the tomb. At one particularly large ceremony in 1941, the names of sponsors painted on a specially prepared stele read like a Who’s Who of the Manchukuo’s Chinese elite, beginning with Prime Minister Zhang Jinghui, followed by other political notables Zhang Haipeng, Zang Shiyi, and Yu Zhishan.16 The patronage of these individuals is significant, due to their prominence not merely within the Manchukuo government, but also within 15 Jiang Dongping, “Xiaoshi de ‘Changchun xiaozifen’,” 59. 16 Like most of those in the inner circle of power in Manchukuo, Zhang Haipeng, Zang Shiyi, and Yu Zhishan each rotated in and out of a number of high political positions. Zhang Haipeng had been a general under Zhang Zuolin, and later spent some time as a member and later Vice-​Chair of the Manchukuo National Assembly. Zang Shiyi was for a time the Chair of the Assembly, and Minister of Domestic Affairs.

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To Jilin

175 Tomb of Filial Wang

Banruo Temple

Manchukuo Red Swastika Society

Yitong River Temple of National Foundation

Old city

Old city U n i f i c a t i o n

R o a d

Southern Lake (nan hu)

Railway Station

Planned site of new imperial palace

To S h

eny an g

Peony Park

N

1000 m Parks or open spaces

Map 7.1.  Xinjing, showing the location of the Tomb of Filial Wang.

the World Red Swastika Society. Each of these signatories was a member of the society, and Zhang Haipeng was its national head. The tomb itself, not coincidentally, was located adjacent to the national headquarters of the Manchukuo Red Swastika Society at the intersection of Unification and Great Benevolence (Xingren 興仁) roads. Filial Li A second filial tomb grew up about 45 kilometers away in the village of Rongjia wanzi 榮家灣子 (currently Lujia cun 陆家村) in the Yinmahe 飲馬河 district of Jiutai County. This site was directly inspired by the Xinjing tomb of Filial Wang, but is in many ways distinct from it. The

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tomb itself was of a more recent vintage, and was not the resting place of a filial son, but rather one in which a son was keeping vigil over the grave of a parent. Filial Li was thus able to take an active role in the economic development of the site, even as Manchukuo officials and pilgrims continued to visit it for their own purposes. Events were set in motion in 1935, with the death of a female leader of the Morality Society. Soon after her funeral and interment just outside Rongjia wanzi, another Morality Society teacher named Li Zhongsan arrived on the scene from nearby Yushu County. Although Li was unknown to those assembled, he insisted that the deceased was his mother, and demanded to be taken to her grave. These dramatic developments prompted an assembly of the local Morality Society chapter, with over a hundred in attendance, including such members as Sun Qichang and Feng Hanqing 馮涵清 (b. 1892), who were also prominent figures in the Manchukuo government. The village head, Qin Zhongyuan 秦中原, set the solemn tone for the meeting by delivering a long speech about the importance of filial behavior, to which Li Zhongsan responded by kneeling before Qin and decrying his own lack of such virtues. In the end, the assembled members were sufficiently convinced by Li’s reaction as to allow him to take up residence in a straw hut near the grave, where he announced his intention to keep the customary three-​year filial vigil. Soon thereafter his wife, brothers, and sisters also came to join him in Rongjia wanzi. He found no lack of local support: Neighboring villagers provided Li with food and daily necessities, and the local government posted notices warning nearby peasants and shepherds not to bother him with excessive noise. People did visit, however, as pilgrims. As they had at the grave of Filial Wang, pilgrims came to pray and burn incense, and in particular to be healed. Li himself was the center of activity, presiding over the crowd of worshippers and doling out handfuls of earth from the grave for sale as medicine. As the vigil demanded, Li almost never spoke, and would communicate only in writing. Li’s calligraphy was also offered for sale, and he was known for his ability to write simultaneously with his left and right hand. And there was no shortage of buyers. Every morning, the eight o’clock train from Xinjing stopped at the Yinmahe station, and from there all manner of sick and disabled people would make their way, by horse, by cart, or on foot (often walking with expressions of votive penitence, such as stopping every few paces to bow or kneel) to the grave. On an ordinary day, roughly 200 people might visit; on special occasions, the number could be much higher. In addition to the pilgrims, the popularity of the site attracted various support industries, providers of

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transportation from the station to the gravesite, as well as restaurants, opium houses, inns, and purveyors of flowers, paper, and other votive goods.17 As with the tomb of Filial Wang, there was a Chinese religious organization at the heart of the cult of Filial Li. Both Li and many of his backers were members of the Morality Society, another organization that, like the World Red Swastika Society, maintained strong ties to figures within the Manchukuo government. The history of the two teachings is similar, as well. The Morality Society was already well established in the Northeast before the formation of Manchukuo. Just like the World Red Swastika Society, its local branches eventually came to operate as a separate organization. Late in 1935, these branches formed a breakaway organization in Xinjing, and upon receiving government approval, changed their name to the Morality Society of Manchukuo. In 1937, the Manchukuo society initiated a campaign to extend into the countryside. Older residents in Yinmahe confirmed that most nearby towns and villages maintained a chapter of the organization, each consisting of a handful of wealthier families who would organize lectures on Confucian ethics.18 According to Shao Yong, the society actively encouraged its members to cooperate with Manchukuo authorities, a claim which seems plausible considering the number of prominent Manchukuo political figures active in its leadership. The leaders of the national organization, Sun Qichang, Feng Hanqing, and Ruan Zhenduo 阮振鐸 (1893–​ 1973), were all department-​level ministers in the Manchukuo government. As was the case with the World Red Swastika Society, Japanese authorities were largely absent from the active membership of the Morality Society, although they appeared to view it as harmless, even beneficial to the larger program of social transformation the government hoped to enact.19 For the Chinese officials who supported Filial Li’s vigil, a commercial incentive is somewhat more apparent than it had been at the tomb of Filial Wang. With its constant supply of pilgrims, the tomb of Filial Li promised significant financial returns. Moreover, Sun Qichang, one of the most visible backers, had a history in the lucrative field of temple administration. Before the founding of Manchukuo, Sun had apparently promoted a miracle-​working Daoist in his native Liaoyang and within a 17 Wang Zhuanye, “Huoshi daoming de Li xiaozi,” Changchun wenshi ziliao 5 (1988): 311–​317. 18 Unlike Daoyuan, the Morality Society had very little religious content or ritual life. None of my interviewees associated the society with religion, although a few did confuse them with Christians. Interviews in Jiutai and Yinmahe, Jilin, December 26, 2007. 19 Shao Yong, Zhongguo huidaomen, 320–​322.

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few months had raised enough money to rebuild the local Guandi temple, and reportedly to make a tidy profit for himself.20 Powerful forces within the Manchukuo government did encourage the popular veneration of Filial Li. The extent of high-​level support for the cult of Filial Li was fully in evidence on the day that he emerged from his three years of mourning. As mentioned in the opening paragraph of this chapter, the event was marked by a formal ceremony, in which Li Zhongsan, wearing the long robes of a scholar, and flanked by Sun Qichang and Feng Hanqing, mounted a specially prepared stage to lecture the waiting crowd on the virtues of filial piety. Though no doubt more interested in miracles than lectures, roughly 2,000 came to witness the spectacle. One source suggests, not implausibly, that the miracles themselves, and even Li’s connection to the deceased teacher, were all staged by agents within the Manchukuo government.21 Yet upon closer inspection, the claim that the tomb of Filial Li was simply a creation of the Manchukuo government does not quite hold up. Despite the support of influential Chinese members of the Morality Society, both the Manchukuo state as a whole and the stratum of Japanese officials at its core remained cool to all that was taking place in Rongjia wanzi. In addition to Sun Qichang and Feng Hanqing, other Chinese of note, such as the mayor of Jiutai, as well as police officials and local elites, all made an appearance at the ceremony marking the end of Li’s vigil, yet no mention is made of any Japanese officials having been in attendance.22 None of the interviewees in Rongjia wanzi or neighboring Yinmahe associated the tomb with Japan, nor did they remember ever having seen Japanese visit the site.23 Certain types of institutional support were also notably lacking. One account claimed that official media spread news of miracles at the site, that they were announced on the trains to Jiutai, and published in the Manchukuo press. Yet the Shengjing Times, which was by this point the largest-​ circulation Chinese-​language daily, made no reference at all to Filial Li or his vigil during the weeks before or after the momentous day it was to be completed. Admittedly, this event came at a time when the invasion of the Chinese heartland was well underway, and when 20 Sun allegedly also used his position to turn a profit in land speculation, including the purchase of monastic property at an artificially low price. “Sun Qichang,” Liaoning wenshi ziliao 9 (1997): 162–​181. 21 Wang Zhuanye, “Huoshi daoming,” 312–​314. 22 Ibid., 314. 23 Again, this absence is in contrast to the very visible role that Japanese officials played in other rituals. Although there was no Japanese troop presence in Yinmahe, Japanese from Xinjing did occasionally visit the area on hunting expeditions. Interviews: Yinmahe and Lujia cun, Jilin, December 26, 2007.

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daily reportage consisted largely of news from the Japanese capture of Wuhan. However, during these same weeks that the Shengjing Times neglected to publicize items related to the cult of Filial Li, it did run a number of articles on the far more mundane Autumn Confucian Sacrifices being performed by local officials in various mid-​sized locations. Even the Xinjing-​based Unification Daily (Datong shibao) ignored the two filial tombs completely during the month of March 1937, despite publishing articles on state-​sponsored Confucian rituals and lectures on almost a daily basis during this time.24 In other words, not only did the Manchukuo state media not actively promote the cult of Filial Li, it seems that it specifically went out of their way to avoid publicizing its single most dramatic moment.25 Although Li Zhongsan and his backers in the Morality Society both proved highly adept at manipulating the magical and financial power of the filial tomb, I believe that the initiative for the vigil came largely or completely from Li himself. The cult that developed around Filial Li was inspired by the famous grave of Filial Wang, with the obvious difference that it was based around a living filial son. This change was not necessarily a disadvantage, and was in some ways an improvement. The centuries-​ old association between extreme filial piety and miraculous power was equally viable pre-​and post-​mortem, and basing the site on a living filial son created an additional draw for pilgrims. However, the person who benefited the most from the change was obviously Li Zhongsan himself. Had the tomb been nothing more than a propaganda and commercial stunt, as has been claimed, planners would no doubt have found it much easier to promote the mythology of an existing gravesite. Moreover, the tomb of Filial Li presents one obvious problem from a commercial perspective: it is remote. Rongjia wanzi is roughly 18 kilometers from Jiutai, and well over twice that distance from the capital. Even with the morning train stopping in Yinmahe, the location is not convenient to either city. One older resident of Rongjia wanzi described long lines of private cars lined up on the dirt road leading up to the tomb, a backhanded testament to the inaccessibility of the site. Had the grave been simply an attempt to franchise the tomb of Filial Wang, it would logically have been placed in a location more convenient to pilgrims. Taken together, such inconsistencies suggest that Li himself, perhaps with a small group of local supporters, took up the vigil independently, with higher-​level actors such as Sun Qichang acting in response. 24 I was able to gain access to only a single month of this publication. The tone and content are very similar to the Shengjing Times. Datong shibao, March, 1937. 25 ST, October, 1938.

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Despite their differences, the cults of Filial Wang and Filial Li reveal the same network of interests at work in the administration and practice of religion in Manchukuo. Although supporters had portrayed the two filial sons as the pinnacle of Confucian respectability, the Manchukuo state never officially endorsed either tomb in a manner approaching its own official temples, simply because it did not consider the vigils or their cults to be proper religion. In his 1988 account of the tomb of Filial Li, Wang Zhuanye asked rhetorically “how the scientific Japanese could have supported such superstitious nonsense.”26 He was actually quite correct. Manchukuo state documents and official media reveal an overwhelming concern among the Japanese architects of Manchukuo for the spiritual and transformative potential of religion, Confucianism in particular, and conversely, a tangible distaste for the ecstatic and miraculous. It is no surprise, then, to see that Japanese officials were conspicuously uninterested in the tomb of Filial Wang, and even less supportive of Filial Li. In contrast, the support that the two tombs received from elite Chinese such as Zheng Xiaoxu or Sun Qichang has less to do with the civilizational aims of the Manchukuo government than with the private religious and commercial initiatives of the Red Swastika and Morality Societies. Finally, in terms of popular devotion, both sites became known for miracles, and especially for healing. As mentioned earlier, this theme is integral to graveside piety in general, and would similarly characterize the new generation of tombs that would develop in the late 1940s. Even if the filial tombs did receive the backing of Manchukuo elites, it was the pervasiveness of this cultural idiom that allowed the cult to catch on.

A Death Cult Lives On

Perhaps owing to their equivocal relationship with the Manchukuo government, each of these tombs easily weathered the fall of the state in 1945, and both continued to thrive under the Guomindang, and even briefly under the Communist regime that followed. After the Japanese surrender, Guomindang forces held southern and part of central Manchuria, and there briefly re-​established a semblance of local administrative control. During this period, both the tombs and the votive practices they inspired continued to evolve. Thanks to the entrepreneurial spirit of Filial Li, the tomb in Rongjia wanzi expanded from a simple grave into a full-​blown temple, while elsewhere new filial sons took up vigils of their own. All of these sites, even those that had been associated with Manchukuo officialdom, continued to enjoy a limited degree 26 Wang Zhuanye, “Huoshi daoming,” 315–​317.

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of prosperity lasting into the early years of the People’s Republic, ending only during the mass campaigns of the late 1950s. The tombs of Filial Wang and Filial Li thrived under the brief stewardship of the Guomindang. At least from the perspective of these sites, the transition between regimes was surprisingly smooth. When the Daoists at the grave of Filial Wang held their annual ritual late in 1945, the only apparent change was that banners that had once supported Manchukuo–​Japan friendship now professed loyalty to Chiang Kai-​shek. Similarly, the tomb of Filial Li continued to enjoy high official patronage under the new regime. Despite having had friendly ties to his erstwhile Manchukuo patrons, Li quickly won over the new Guomindang county authorities, particularly Magistrate Qiao Shufen 喬樹芬 and Secretary Hu Daosheng 胡道生. From them, Li won permission to expand the gravesite with a complex of permanent buildings, which he grandiosely named the Temple of Filial Power (xiaoling si 孝靈寺). More than just granting permission, the Guomindang county government also donated building materials, or so at least claimed Filial Li, when he appeared one morning at a bridge construction site demanding a donation of six large timbers for the temple. The following year, a large ceremony was held to formally inaugurate the temple. Although there is no record of Guomindang officials having been in attendance, a good 10,000 others were, with Filial Li presiding over the affair and entertaining dignitaries in grand style. The temple itself was an ostentatious three-​room building, with a pagoda near the grave. The political nature of the temple is evident in the main hall, where the central deities were arranged in three tiers. At the peak was the tablet of the High Emperor (i.e., Yellow Emperor –​xuanyuan huangdi 軒轅皇帝), below which was a tablet for Sun Yat-​sen and, finally, one proclaiming “Long Live the Republic!” The theme of political orthodoxy extended to the Eastern Hall, which contained marble statues of Confucius and his four major students, along with tablets of another seventy-​two minor disciples. This hall also contained tablets of three generations of Li ancestors and four plaques bearing names of Morality Society donors.27 After the founding of the People’s Republic, both sites entered a slow decline. In 1951, Jiao Yingtang returned as an adult to his old orphanage, and was saddened to learn that the old Daoists who had lived nearby had all left. Most were rumored to have returned to the Qianshan wuliang guan in Liaoning, where Wang Mengxing himself was supposed to have once lived. The head Daoist, Chen Zhisheng 陳至生 (alternately given as Chen Shengsheng 陳聖生), was apparently not so lucky –​Jiao saw him 27 Ibid.

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reduced to selling melon seeds on the streets of Changchun, and in June of the following year, the priest was arrested in the wake of a nationwide movement to “suppress reactionaries” (zhenya fangeming 鎮壓反革命).28 Yet as late as 1957, locals continued to visit the tomb for its healing power. As a result, the tomb was finally destroyed the following year. In a similar manner, the tomb of Filial Li was “placed under the control of the masses.” Things went badly for Filial Li himself, who had not been wise enough to take flight and was “struggled” by the Songjiang Armed Brigade. Nothing further is known of his fate.29 The cult of filial tombs continued to expand throughout the late 1940s. Local historian Zhang Yingchun describes three new tombs founded in Liaoyuan (now in Jilin, but at the time part of Fengtian Province) during these turbulent years. Like the tomb of Filial Li, each of these new sites was inspired by the famous tomb in Changchun, but each also reveals individual eccentricities. Near the end of the Manchukuo regime, Ma Qingshan 馬青山 visited Xinjing, and returned to his home of Xi’an County (now Xi’an 西安 District of Liaoyuan County) carrying with him a photograph of the grave of Filial Wang. When his own mother died in February of 1945 (only a few months before the demise of the state itself), thirty-​three-​year-​old Ma followed Wang’s example and entered into a three-​year vigil that outlasted the brief period of Guomindang rule, ending only after the area had already come under Communist control. The grave itself was located in his family village of Daliang tun 大良屯, where Ma was able to count on the kindness of relations to supply him with food and a small hut. During his vigil, Filial Ma came to resemble what was now a recognizable pattern for filial sons. Three times each day, Ma performed mourning rituals for his mother, burning grass in place of incense and pieces of wood for candles, and never speaking except to bewail his own lack of propriety. During this time, Ma became known, not surprisingly, as a healer. In May of 1947, the area was taken by the Communists, who, after some discussion of whether the custom was too superstitious to permit, decided to allow Ma to complete the vigil, which he did in February of 1948. Yang Zemin 陽澤民, also from Xi’an City, began a vigil for his mother in his home village of Huapi tun 樺皮屯 in August of 1946. Yang’s father had been a minor official under the Manchukuo regime, and as the regime deteriorated, so too did the family’s meager fortunes. By the time 28 Jiao Yingtang, “Changchun xiaozifen,” 308–​309. For the effect of this movement on religious groups, see DuBois, Sacred Village, 141–​147. 29 Wang Zhuanye, “Huoshi daoming,” 316; Hao Youquan, “Xiaozifen shendao bei,” Changchun wenshi ziliao 5 (1988): 318–​319.

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Manchukuo fell, the family was in abject poverty, selling personal effects to survive, and weathering the various epidemics that swept through Manchuria. Yang’s father died just before the fall of Manchukuo, his mother not long after, and it was at her grave that thirty-​three-​year-​old Yang set up his mourning vigil. Yang’s family initially did not accept his undertaking, but seeing his resolve to remain at the grave, they came to support him, his two older sisters supplying him with the basic necessities of sustenance. Like Ma, Filial Yang began to study medicine and practice gongfu, and became known as a healer, attracting patients from far and wide. Somewhat atypically, when his three years of mourning were completed, Yang remained at the grave for an additional eighteen months, only returning to society in January of 1951. The third was Qin Chongshan 秦崇山, a peasant from Fusheng tun 福 盛屯, who began mourning for his father and mother in April of 1947. As might be expected, Filial Qin spent the three years of his vigil studying and practicing medicine, gaining fame for his detailed theory of the five elements and five organs, and accepting payment only in the paper and incense he required to continue his mourning rituals. Unlike the other cases mentioned thus far, Qin was not located near a village, but rather on a mountain, where he was able to subsist on wild plants. Even after his three years had passed, Qin remained on the mountain and would not leave until well over a decade later, at which point he was forcibly removed by a group of Red Guards.30 The sudden burst of interest in filial vigils in Liaoyuan shows with unusual clarity the spread of the custom into a new area. Ma Qingshan, the first of Liaoyuan’s filial sons, was clearly affected by his visit to the tomb of Filial Wang, and in turn inspired two more vigils in nearby communities. Yet unlike the earlier tombs, these Liaoyuan vigils did not have the support of government officials or of organized religious societies. The fact that all five sites developed such remarkably similar cults, most notably the association with healing, has less to do with planning or direction than the fact that all developed out of the same cultural context.

A Tomb to Remember

When interviewed over half a century later, residents of Changchun were very uneven in their memory of the tomb of Filial Wang. While many remembered the site in detail, a surprising number who had lived in Changchun during the 1940s had absolutely no knowledge of the tomb 30 Zhang Jinchun, Liaocheng jiushi (Liaoyuan: Jilin sheng Liaoyuan shi minjian wenyi jia xiehui, 1999), 87–​97. Interview with Zhang Jinchun, Liaoyuan, January 2, 2008.

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whatsoever. This situation is likely to change with the construction of the Chinese Filial Culture Park, which is intended to feature a reconstruction of the original Filial Tomb. While this particular plan is a product of the tourist authority in Changchun, it fits with a broader desire of Chinese authorities to promote Confucianism as China’s unique cultural export. Nationally, this initiative includes a massive expansion of the temple complexes at Confucius’ birthplace at Qufu, while in Changchun it is reflected most clearly in the Confucian temple, which was rebuilt in 2002 and is slated for expansion into a neighboring lot.31 This enthusiasm for Confucianism extended to Wang Mengxing’s original Filial Tomb, as well. Early in 2005, the mayor of Changchun, Zhang Chunren 張純仁, raised the idea of rebuilding the tomb, and in April of that year the Changchun Department of Tourism proposed the plan publicly. In December, folklorist Shi Lixue 施立學 proposed the construction of a Chinese Filial Culture Park, and it was decided to combine the two in a single project. Designs were drawn up for the Chinese Filial Culture Park to feature two halls and three pavilions, containing statues and carvings of texts such as the Classic of Filial Piety. The filial tomb, reconstructed from old photographs to look exactly like the original, would stand at the center. This plan did not please everyone. Shi felt that the tomb should be included, but not as a focal point. He agreed that Wang’s actions were unquestionably laudable, and that the tomb should be retained for its value as a tourist attraction. However, placing the tomb at the center of the complex risked legitimating the unhealthy, conservative side of Confucianism, rather than the social responsibility, family values, and civic mindedness of modern Confucianism. Liu Guoping 劉國平, folklorist with the Jilin Provincial Academy of Social Sciences, argued the point more forcefully, saying that the tomb should not be included at all. For Liu, the Filial Tomb represented nothing more than “mindless loyalty and idiotic piety” (yuzhong yuxiao 愚忠愚孝). The reason was clear: in a modern socialist society, Confucianism should mean respect for the state, care for society, and love for the family  –​and absolutely nothing more.32 31 The reasons behind the state-​led resurgence of Confucianism, too numerous to explore fully here, are discussed in Sébastien Billioud, “Confucianisme, ‘tradition culturelle’ et discours officiels dans la Chine des années 2000,” Perspectives Chinoises, special issue on “Harmonious Society” (2007). Interviews: Changchun, Jilin, December 25, 2007. 32 A great deal of material on the new Confucianism is available online through the “Chinese filial culture festival” (Zhonghua xiao wenhua jie). Specific information on the reconstruction of the Changchun Filial Tomb can be found in “ ‘Xiaoshun yuan’ youle minjian moxing,” reprinted from Xin wenhua bao (New Culture Paper). For further comments by Liu Guoping, see “Yong kexue taidu dui chi lishi wenhua.”

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Conclusion: Orthodoxy, Orthopraxy, or Something Else?

The spread of filial tombs attests to the intensity and diversity of interest in religion before, during, and after the brief existence of Manchukuo. The Manchukuo state, far stronger and more developmentally ambitious than its predecessors, cast a long shadow over religious practice. The state was predicated upon a Confucian revival, and placed great confidence in its ability to transform religious institutions and engineer a new spiritual subject. Similar programs had already been attempted elsewhere in East Asia, but nowhere was the impulse to spiritual engineering stronger or more ambitious than in Manchukuo. However, filial tombs were not part of this state-​led transformation, and the story of their spread attests to the influence of other actors in the formation of religious culture. In contrast to the staid, moralistic, and tightly choreographed Confucianism promoted by the state, the tombs were sites of miraculous cures and emotional exuberance, a type of religion that is dangerously unpredictable and generally unwelcome to the forces of orthodoxy. This reaction is not unique to Manchukuo, or even to Asia. In modern Europe, expanding states and the Catholic Church often proved the staunchest opponents of miracle cults, stepping in to crush such movements before they could take root. Of course, European miracle cults also had their champions as well, not merely the faithful, but also local merchants, semi-​state actors, and religious entrepreneurs who realized the vast power of a sacred site to generate blessings, fame, and income.33 A  similar difference in interests and perspectives explains why Japanese representatives of the Manchukuo state remained cool to the cult of filial tombs, while so many within the second tier of Chinese officials actively and publicly embraced it. Somewhat ironically, the resurgence of official support for Confucianism in China since the 1990s in many ways mirrors the perspective and concerns expressed in Manchukuo, particularly a desire to define the tradition purely in terms of its integrative philosophical and cultural aspects. In the end, filial vigils were fundamentally acts of individual initiative and piety, and developed out of a culture that would be ready to receive them. Although the forces of orthodoxy in Manchukuo would have found much about the filial tombs singularly distasteful, their own promotion of Confucianism and implicit recognition of Wang Mengxing’s tomb did much to provide the ideological foundation for a new generation of filial 33 See for example William A. Christian, Visionaries:  The Spanish Republic and the Reign of Christ (Berkeley:  University of California Press, 1996), and David Blackbourn, Marpingen:  Apparitions of the Virgin Mary in Bismarckian Germany (New  York: Knopf, 1994).

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sons. Yet it did not create them. The continued evolution and spontaneous generation of new tombs after the fall of Manchukuo demonstrates the limited influence of the state or religious groups over the tombs or the votive practices that they inspired. Even with the ground so thoroughly prepared for the cults to take root, events could only be set in motion by an individual who was ready to take up a vigil of his own. This initiative, I believe, can never be completely controlled by even the most ambitious program of spiritual engineering. The current generation of leadership in Changchun may someday find themselves facing a similar problem in their attempt to maintain control over the memory of the filial tombs. It is worth remembering that another Changchun native, Li Hongzhi 李洪志 (b. 1951), developed his Falungong 法輪功 out of a craze for qigong that was encouraged by the Chinese government during the 1990s.34 Much as they would desire to dictate the ideas and feelings that the new Filial Tomb at the Chinese Filial Culture Park will generate, this realm will ultimately remain beyond the ability of the state or anyone else to control.

34 David A. Palmer, Qigong Fever: Body, Science, and Utopia in China (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007).

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Religion and Diplomacy in Northeast Asia

On September 10, 1938 Pope Pius XI (r. 1922–​1939) and his Secretary of State Eugenio Pacelli (1876–​1958) received in the papal palace of Castel Gandolfo the members of a large Goodwill and Economic Mission from the Empire of Manchukuo. The highly scripted meeting had been months in the making. Reports in the press dwelt on symbolism and ceremony: the conferment of honors upon the delegation, presentation of greetings and a jade scent bottle from the Manchukuo emperor, and cordial banter between the two sides, summed up best in the words of Pius XI himself: “May God Bless Manchukuo. We have great religious interests there.”1 But as is often the case, the placid surface of this meeting masked significant controversy lying beneath. Bearing letters and gifts from their emperor and Prime Minister Zhang Jinghui, the Manchukuo delegates had to scramble at the last minute to ensure that Secretary of State Pacelli (the future Pius XII) would be in attendance. Even as the meeting was taking place, Paolo Marella (1895–​ 1984), long-​ serving Apostolic Delegate of the Holy See to Japan, was preparing a confidential report outlining in detail the real dangers the Catholic Church faced in Manchukuo.2 Even without these hints of looming crisis, this official meeting of the Vatican and the state of Manchukuo raises some obvious questions:  were the words of the pontiff simply an expression of good will, or did they imply papal recognition of Manchukuo? What would either Manchukuo or Japan have to gain from courting relations with the Catholic Church, and why would Rome wish to extend its hand to a 1 The diplomatic repercussions of the visit, as well as its reportage in the Chinese press, are closely analyzed in a latter from the Apostolic Delegate to China, Mario Zanin. The precise words of the pontiff are rendered slightly differently in English and French. See Zanin to Pacelli, October 15, 1938 in Giovanni Coco, Santa sede e Manciukuò, 1932–​1945 (Vatican City: Libreria editrice vaticana, 2006), document 122 (hereafter as SSM, document number). 2 Letter from Marella to Fumasoni-​Biondi, October 28, 1938. SSM, 126.

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state whose legitimacy had by this point been firmly rejected by all but a handful of powers? To better answer these questions, we must step back and view the diplomatic meeting between the Vatican and the Manchukuo delegates as one moment in the evolving relationship between Church and state in East Asia. Foregrounding the meeting were years of negotiation between the Holy See and the governments and churches, not only of Manchukuo, but also of China and Japan, as well as of the internal evolution of the Catholic Church as both a religious and a diplomatic entity. The formation of Manchukuo presented a challenge to a model of Church–​state relations that had evolved through a succession of crises: over the fate of national missions, the indigenization of the clergy, and place of state ritual in the lives of native Catholics. This chapter examines how Church and state came to an accommodation in Asia, and how these solutions presaged changes that decades later would be implemented throughout the Catholic world.

Transformations of Catholic Mission in East Asia

As international entities, overseas missions represent a meeting of interests, both of religious organizations and of the sending and receiving nations. During the apex of Western empire, this relation had been weighted heavily, though by no means exclusively in favor of the Christian powers. The twentieth-​century meeting of global empire and nationalist aspiration forced the rebalancing and reconfiguration of interests around the mission enterprise. This series of interconnected political and practical transformations took place simultaneously in Europe and in Asia.

From Paris to Rome: The Waning of National Mission

The first of these changes was a reassessment of nationalist mission. As discussed earlier, Catholic mission in China during the nineteenth century was a disproportionately French endeavor. France provided to the China mission the largest contingent (at times up to 70 percent) of Catholic priests, as well as the majority of lay donations. At the same time, the French government took it upon itself to represent the interests of the Catholic missions through its self-​proclaimed protectorate. An adaptation of the earlier Portuguese right of padroado, this arrangement theoretically placed the Catholic Church throughout Asia under French diplomatic and military protection.3 3 Young, Ecclesiastical Colony, 23–​24. Comparable structures were also invoked to justify French military action in Indochina, and against Korea in 1866.

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In practice, the protectorate was focused on China, where it had developed as something of a historical accident, and often proved to be a mixed blessing. The 1856 torture and execution of a French missionary in southern China enraged public opinion in France, sparking a diplomatic row between the two countries, and ultimately leading to a French punitive expedition that laid siege to the city of Canton. In the treaty negotiations that followed, French envoy Théodore de Lagrené (1800–​ 1862) persuaded the Manchu diplomat Qiying 耆英 (1787–​1858) to voluntarily accept a certain toleration of foreign missions, and to place the entire Catholic endeavor under French diplomatic representation.4 The diplomatic umbrella would cover all Catholic missionaries, who, regardless of nationality, were often issued French passports upon arrival in China.5 For France, the primary dividends of this arrangement came in the form of prestige, and the promise of an advantageous position as the Chinese government continued to weaken. The latter was something of a self-​fulfilling prophecy; to the chagrin of those who had to deal with its consequences, the protectorate relied on and in some ways encouraged conflict in order to constantly demonstrate and expand its relevance. French minister to China Alphonse de Bourboulon (1809–​1887) would complain that Catholic missionaries “totally lack prudence” in their dealings with Chinese officials, and urged his government to clarify to the overly zealous missions that “if they persist in contravening Chinese law, it should be, to a certain extent, at their own risk.”6 French claims over the missions in China would soon run up against the growing desire of the Vatican to assert central control over the global Church. The trend to centralization was not an entirely new one. Rome had in the past worked to limit or mediate the expression of national interest in missions; early support for the MEP was in part in a bid to force Portugal to cede its own special rights in Asia. But the late nineteenth-​century attempt at Roman control was more sweeping and ambitious: it coincided with attempts to restore relations with non-​ Roman rite churches, and with the first Vatican Council (1868–​1870), which affirmed as doctrine papal authority over the global Church. Threats to the papal institution in Europe, such as the pan-​European Kulturkampf, and particularly the 1870 dissolution of the Papal States, intensified this drive towards a global Church centered on Rome.7

4 Young, Ecclesiastical Colony, 25–​27; Latourette, A History of Christian Missions, 228–​232. 5 Young, Ecclesiastical Colony, 33, 62, 92. 6 Wiest, “Catholic Activities in Kwangtung,” 42–​48. 7 Giuliana Chamedes, “The Vatican and the Making of the Atlantic Order, 1920–​1932” (PhD dissertation, Columbia University, 2013), 27–​34.

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Conflict over the mission church in China intensified during the late nineteenth century, but began to subside in the twentieth. The low point came in the 1880s, as France obstructed attempts by the Vatican to post a diplomatic representative to the Qing court. Both Rome and the Qing (represented by Li Hongzhang) had expressed interest in opening a direct diplomatic channel as a way of limiting the sort of national intrigues that had fed the rise of violent anti-​Catholic reaction in places like Tianjin. The government of France (as had Portugal two centuries earlier) bitterly resisted these efforts to erode its position, threatening the Vatican with denial of funds if they continued.8 Relations grew further strained in the wake of the Boxer Uprising, which demonstrated on the one hand the need for military protection of the missions, and on the other the folly and hypocrisy of forwarding the aims of mission through force of arms. In the end, the conflict was resolved less by mutual accord than by the diminution of France’s ability to assert its claims. The 1905 severing of the French Concordat with Rome effectively silenced France’s voice in the Vatican, while the Great War reduced both the French missionary presence and French donations to foreign missions by roughly one third.9 Even then, France continued to resist the dismantling of the protectorate. When in 1918 the Holy See announced plans to establish direct relations with the Republic of China, naming Mgr. Joseph Petrelli (1873–​1962) as the papal nuncio, France intervened with the United States to block the appointment.10 France’s dogged interest in Catholic mission in China stands in stark contrast to the very different approach its diplomats took to the same issue in Japan. Catholic missionaries began returning to Japan during the mid nineteenth century, and as in China, the MEP constituted the majority of the new generation of missionaries, and initially all of the mission fields. Yet despite these similarities, French diplomats in Japan showed little inclination to pose as champions of mission interests, flatly refusing to assist missionaries in crises such as their 1867 dispute with the Buddhists. Rather than using the missions as a pretext to pressure the Japanese government, French diplomats instead opted to demonstrate good will by policing the missionaries, such as when they and Tokyo 8 Young, Ecclesiastical Colony, 8, 55–​62. 9 In 1914 France accounted for 850 of the 1,500 foreign priests in China. Of these, 200–​ 300 were called home as reservists. By 1916, the number of French priests had fallen by 260. Latourette, A History of Christian Missions, 705–​706. See also “France and the Holy See: Movement in the French Chamber to Renew Diplomatic Relations with the Vatican,” New York Times Current History (May 1, 1920), 363–​364. 10 David J. Alvarez, “The Department of State and the Abortive Papal Mission to China, August, 1918,” Catholic Historical Review 62, 3 (1976): 455–​463; “France and the Holy See: Movement in the French Chamber.”

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archbishop Pierre-​Marie Osouf (1829–​1906) conspired to send home a young priest who had been too public in his criticism of the Japanese government.11 For their part, Catholic missionaries in Japan tended from the second half of the nineteenth century to take a much more conciliatory attitude towards the government, and many became eager to present themselves and native Catholics as loyal subjects of the emperor. Here they faced a substantial challenge. The transition from shogun to the new Meiji state had marked the end of two and a half centuries of state support for Buddhism, and unleashed a wave of anti-​ecclesiastical sentiment that augmented existing prejudices against Christianity. Even before the new Meiji state had fully consolidated, the threat of anti-​Christian sentiment that pervaded all levels of society prompted French diplomats to take a more judicious stance. These pressures affected the behavior of resident priests as well. While American and British Protestants often chafed at the new regulations placed on mission institutions, the Catholics, particularly those of the MEP, were generally cooperative.12 The political challenges of subsequent decades would give the Catholics in Japan ample opportunity to display their loyalty.13 Both as individuals and as an institution, the Catholics participated actively in the decade of war between 1894 and 1905. MEP priests blessed the troops as they boarded transports for the front. They reported proudly the patriotism of Japanese Christians, such the officer who was mortally wounded during the war with Russia, and proclaimed to his comrades, “my heart is with God and my body with the Emperor!”14 Catholic patriotism extended to the empire, as well. Following the Korean Independence Movement of 1919, even as many among the community of Anglo-​American Protestant missionaries developed an irremediably antagonistic stance towards colonial authorities, the MEP reasserted the conviction that “Korea was sailing towards progress with Japan at the rudder,” and contrasted the political agitation of the Protestants, to the “beautiful example of loyalty” maintained by Korean Catholics.15 11 Richard Sims, French Policy towards the Bakufu and Meiji Japan 1854–​95 (Richmond, UK: Japan Library, 1998), 69, 85, 188. 12 Thomas Winburn Townshed, Protestant Beginnings in Japan:  The First Three Decades, 1859–​1889 (Tokyo and Rutland, VT: C. E. Tuttle Co., 1959), 183–​206. 13 Catholic efforts may be compared to the conspicuous displays of patriotism by newly reformed Buddhists during the same period. James Edward Ketelaar, “Hokkaido Buddhism and the Early Meiji State,” in New Directions in the Study of Meiji Japan, ed. Helen Hardacre and Adam L. Kern (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 531–​548. 14 RAE, Tokyo, 1895, Osouf. 15 Quotation from RAE, South Korea, 1908, Camille Doucet; RAE, South Korea, 1919, Mutel; Ion, The Cross and the Rising Sun, 178–​214; L. George Paik, The History of Protestant Missions in Korea, 1832–​1910 (Seoul: Yonsel University Press, 1980), 41–​43,

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In return, Catholic missions earned the praise of Japanese authorities such as Governor-​General Saitō Makoto (1858–​1936), who told a 1922 assembly of MEP priests and French consular officials that “the religion you teach, like your wise councils, contribute to making the people faithful and honest.”16 National mission was a remnant of the nineteenth century within a religious landscape that was deeply but not uniformly politicized. The relationship between Rome and Paris, and between the Church and Asian political power, was at times antagonistic and at times cooperative. As a diplomatic initiative, the French protectorate of the missions was less an expression of Catholic zealotry than a tactic to use the missions to further political advantage over a weakened Chinese government. Precisely the opposite tack was taken in Japan, which had a much longer and bloodier history of repression, but also a more promising future as a cooperative partner. The missions themselves were both pawns and players.

A Church of One’s Own

These political transformations, particularly those faced in moments of crisis, would inevitably come to shape questions of belief and practice. One of the most pressing of these questions concerned indigenization, when and by what measures the missions should become churches in their own right. At least in theory, missions were understood to be a temporary measure, a period of tutelage for a native Church. The process of indigenization was thus at its core a transfer of authority, marked by milestones such as the appointment of native priests, and ultimately the elevation of a native bishop, as well as the nominal redesignation of a territory from a mission field (such as an apostolic vicariate) to an ordinary diocese. The question of whether a Church was ready to stand on its own was subject to a number of vague and movable parameters, and it is hardly surprising that native Christians and clergy would grow increasingly impatient over the slow transfer of authority. The deeper problems of indigenization were often much more ordinary: native priests chafed at having an inferior status to foreign missionaries, and some came to question whether the missions were genuinely committed to handing over real authority. Conflict over indigenization closely followed the vicissitudes of the Church as a foreign presence. The question of whether Asian churches 68–​69; Wi Jo Kang, Christ and Caesar in Modern Korea: A History of Christianity and Politics (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1997), 57. RAE, South Korea, 1921, Devred. 16

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were spiritually and politically able to stand on their own had already been prominent during the initial period of Iberian mission in China, and continued after the after the 1742 ban on mission activity created a space for native Christianity to thrive. When the foreign priests returned in the nineteenth century, they found that native Christians, who had for generations been operating independently and often under duress, were not always eager to have them back. The priests reasserted their authority by banning as semi-​heretical many of the lay groups that had thrived in their absence.17 Nationalist agitation for native control over the Church began in earnest during the early twentieth century. In China, the Boxer Uprising, through which native Catholics had remained steadfast, became a tipping point for those seeking a program of reform. At the same time, Chinese nationalism of the twentieth century was growing noticeably less patient with the notion of enclaves of Western privilege. Calls for reform in Japan lacked the spark of the Boxer crisis, but were driven by a pace of domestic reform that was intensely sensitive to the suggestion that Japanese were in any way inferior to Westerners, particularly on their own soil. Critics both within the Church and outside of it grew increasingly vocal in their criticism of the slow pace of long-​promised reform within the Catholic hierarchy. These movements found an ally in the Vatican, which began to increase pressure on the missions to begin raising native clergy to positions of authority. Rome’s concern was twofold: not only preventing the rising tide of nationalism in Asia from turning against the Church, but also chastising missions that seemed content to drag their feet on a key Vatican initiative. Two successive popes responded to these challenges with apostolic letters that simultaneously asserted Vatican authority, and championed the cause of indigenization in the strongest terms. The letter Maximum illud (Benedict XV, 1919) lamented those missionaries who “displayed more zeal for the profit of some particular nation than for the growth of the kingdom of God,” and was followed by Rerum ecclesiae (Pius XI, 1926), which urged the missions to “prefer native priests to all others,” adding that “it is they who will one day govern the churches and Catholic communities founded by your sweat and labor.”18 The letters hit their mark, perhaps too well. Long-​serving missionaries in China complained that they were being characterized unfairly, to which the Vatican responded by recalling the outspoken mission critic 17 Young, Ecclesiastical Colony, 14. On conflict between native Christians and returned missionaries, see Harrison, Missionary’s Curse, 65–​91. 18 The text of these and most other papal letters may be found at the site Papal Encyclicals Online, www.papalencyclicals.net.

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Table 8.1.  Leadership of dioceses in Japan.

Year of foundation Fukuoka

1927

Hiroshima Kagoshima Kyoto Nagasaki Nagoya

1923 1927 1937 1876 AV; 1891 D 1922

Sendai

1891

Tokyo Yokohama

1846 AV; 1891 D 1937

Responsible mission order

Appointment of Japanese bishop

Missions étrangères de Paris (MEP) Jesuits (SJ) Franciscans (OFM) Maryknoll (MM) MEP Society of the Divine Word (DVM) MEP to Dominicans (OP) 1931 MEP MEP

1944 1959 1936 1945 (Dec.) 1927 1945 (Dec.) 1941 1937 Vacant 1940–​1947

Source: Acta Apostolicae Sedis. Notes AV = Apostolic Vicariate D = Diocese

Vincent Lebbe (1877–​1940).19 But this was only a tactical retreat. In 1926, Rome demonstrated its willingness bypass the missions and pursue the issue of indigenization by elevating the first Chinese bishops, in a ceremony conducted in Rome by Pius IX himself. Just one year later, the first Japanese bishop was named for the key diocese of Nagasaki. By 1940, native priests headed three of the nine dioceses in Japan (see Table 8.1), and 22 of the 137 ecclesiastical jurisdictions in China. The second of these crises was a reassessment of native ritual practices. Like the problem of indigenization, that of interpreting custom was ultimately one of authority. In China, such questions reached back to the so-​ called Rites Controversy, a disagreement over whether funerary rites and ancestor reverence were acceptable practices for Chinese Catholics. This matter of doctrine had pitted competing orders against each other and was ultimately settled by papal arbitration in the early eighteenth century.20 During the early twentieth century, the interpretation of native practice would provide a similar moment of crisis that divided the Church in China and Japan. For most missionaries in both countries, private ritual obligations had ceased to be a concern. While technically under 19 Young, Ecclesiastical Colony, 211–​232. 20 A similar crisis played out in India over the Malabar Rites.

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instruction to disallow Catholics from participating in (or even viewing) traditional funerals, most missionaries were more than willing to look the other way at the social obligations of ancestor reverence, or the preference of Japanese Catholics for cremation instead of burial.21 Instead the problem was acquiescence to political programs. In China, the problem of state ritual was solved largely by the 1911 Revolution. The imperial Confucian ceremonies quickly faded from memory, and most missionaries were in general ideological sympathy with the new state, particularly with Chiang Kai-​shek, who was baptized a Christian (albeit a Methodist) in 1929. Sharing the same conviction that moral reform was the best way to combat the growing threat of communism, many Catholic missions actively supported in Guomindang social programs such as the New Life Movement.22 Rome actively promoted this moral-​political alliance. One American missionary recalled that, “under the strong leadership of Rome, most of the missioners in China embrace the nationalist government programs … put up pictures of Sun Yat-​sen, taught patriotism, and used the San Min Chu I (Three People’s Principles) as a textbook.”23 While state ritual was not unanimously accepted, the extension of Vatican authority necessarily silenced competing voices. When Apostolic Delegate Celso Constantini (1876–​1958) convened the first plenary council of the Chinese Catholic Church in 1924, he was careful to remove the “hornet’s nest” issue of state ritual from the items of discussion, instead deferring authority for its resolution to Rome.24 In Japan and its empire, missionaries had grown less willing to accept the growing intrusion of political ritual. Since the decade of war at the turn of the century, public displays of reverence for the imperial institution and for the military, and especially for the war dead, had become increasingly prominent in Japanese life. Although the state was quick to explain that such observances were purely civic in nature, they produced for many MEP missionaries a crisis of conscience, especially as Franco-​Japanese relations began to sour. In 1912, Bishop Jean-​ Claude Combaz (1856–​ 1926) of Nagasaki voiced concerns at the intensification of ritual obligations during the period of mourning for the Meiji emperor, adding specifically that “we 21 Jean-​Paul Wiest, Maryknoll in China: A History, 1918–​1955 (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1988), 310. 22 This association was often evident in Japan, as well. Mitsui, for example, hired Christian workers as a defense against communist infiltration of its labor force. RAE, Hakodate, 1925. 23 Wiest, Maryknoll in China, 341. 24 Referring to the place of Peter (and thus his papal successors) as the head of the twelve apostles, an apostolic delegate is a direct representative of the pope to a mission church. George Minamiki, The Chinese Rites Controversy from its Beginning to Modern Times (Chicago: Loyola University Press, 1985), 193.

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Figure 8.1.  Left to right, Jean-​Claude Combaz, Archbishop Jean-​Pierre Rey of Tokyo, and Joseph Petrelli. Maryknoll Mission Archives.

regret exceedingly that as Catholics we cannot accept the interpretation of shrine worship given by the government.”25 A formal intervention by the governor of Nagasaki, who in 1915 met with Combaz to reiterate that rituals such as shrine visits were purely expressions of respect and civic loyalty, appears to have had no effect. The following year Combaz reiterated his objection to the rituals in a pastoral letter to the Catholics of his diocese.26 In 1925, MEP bishop Émile Devred (1877–​1926) expressed similar concerns over the imposition of state ritual in Korea: It is necessary to note the efforts made this year by the Japanese authorities to make Koreans accept the worship of national heroes and emperors. The Government has sought to convince Christians to take part in these ceremonies by making the distinction that they are civil ceremonies, devoid of any religious ideas. To this end, the temples dedicated to the Emperors and to the heroes were moved from under the direction of the Office of the Religion, and placed under that of the Ministry of the Interior. Unfortunately, apart from this change, everything else retained the same Shinto ritual apparatus, and thus Catholics could not take part.27

25 RAE, Nagasaki,1912, Combaz. 26 Míchéal Thompson, “Choosing Among the Long Spoons:  The MEP, the Catholic Church and Manchuria: 1900–​1940,” Comparative Culture 14 (2008): 84. 27 RAE, Korea, 1925, Devred.

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Conflict over state ritual proved to be a key catalyst in strengthening Vatican resolve and authority over the missions in Japan. In contrast to bishops Combaz and Devred, the Vatican was inclined to accept the explanation of Japanese authorities concerning the civic nature of ritual, and less prepared to support missionaries who contravened civil authorities without good reason. Just as in China, the Vatican was initially unable to challenge the missions in Japan directly, and thus took steps to forge its own relationship with Tokyo. In 1905, it sent American bishop William Henry O’Connell (1859–​1944) as a special envoy to Tokyo to thank the Meiji emperor for his protection of Catholics during the Russo-​Japanese War. Japan reciprocated with its own visit in 1907. In 1916, just as Combaz was voicing his unwillingness to accept the government’s demands, Rome dispatched Joseph Petrelli (at the time Apostolic Delegate to the Philippines) to Japan bearing a personal greeting from the pontiff to the emperor.28 In 1919, Pietro Fumasoni-​Biondi was sent as Apostolic Delegate to the Church in Japan. His successor Mario Giardini (1877–​1947) called a provincial synod in 1924 (the same year as the conference in China, and the first in Japan since 1895) to discuss the question of state ritual. Although the final report of this synod, which explained that Catholics could only participate passively in Shinto ceremonies, represented a significant accommodation to MEP objections, it was clear that the mission would no longer enjoy decisive authority on such matters. The clearest expression of the change was the elevation of the first Japanese bishop, Gennaro (Kyūnosuke) Hayasaka (1857–​1939), who succeeded Combaz in 1926, and like his Chinese counterparts was consecrated personally by Pius XI.29 This maneuvering was punctuated by another public incident, when in 1932 a group of students at Tokyo’s Sophia University refused to pay reverence at Yasukuni Shrine.30 By this time, such ritual observations had become much more deeply institutionalized, and the students’ act was immediately brought up for investigation by the Army Ministry, which threatened to revoke the school’s charter. While undoubtedly a crisis, this incident also gave the Catholic hierarchy both inside and

28 Thompson, “Choosing Among the Long Spoons,” 84. “Breve de erezione della delegazione apostolica del Giappone, nov 26 1919,” in Leo Magnino, ed., Pontifica Nipponica: le relazioni tra la Santa Sede e il Giappone attraverso i documenti pontifici. (Rome: Officium Libri Catholici, 1948), 106–​108 (hereafter PN). 29 Thompson, “Choosing Among the Long Spoons,” 85. “Omelia per la consacrazione del vescovo di Nagasaki,” October 30, 1926, PN, 118–​120. 30 The Yasukuni Shrine was built in the early Meiji period to commemorate those who had died in the restoration. It grew to particular prominence in the decade between the Sino-​ Japanese War and the Russo-​Japanese War.

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outside of Japan an occasion to settle the question of ritual more publicly and definitively than they had done before. Through the mediation of a high-​ranking Japanese Catholic in the Imperial Navy, Tokyo archbishop Jean Baptiste Chambon (1875–​1948) asked the Ministry of Education for a formal statement explaining the meaning of the ceremonies. Chambon was covering very well-​trodden ground –​what he was seeking was not new information, but rather a highly placed confirmation of a stance that the Church had known for well over a decade. The response that ceremonies were purely civic in nature was then presented to skeptics as definitive defense of the official policy that not only accepted the validity of the ceremonies, but also restated the stance that the Church would as a matter of principle separate itself from interference in political affairs. Viewed individually, the problems of indigenization and political ritual are easily interpreted as a simple tug of war between a foreign Church and awakened Asian nationalism. In fact, they were much more. Drawn out over decades, both problems intertwined with each other, and with long-​standing tensions over the fate of the mission enterprise and the source of Church authority in Asia. Both produced moments of crisis and decision that solidified the authority of the Vatican at the expense of the missions, while affirming the legitimacy of nationalist aspiration, both by empowering the native Christians to take charge of the Church, and by recognizing the legitimate authority of states to make limited spiritual demands of its citizens. The accommodation reached between the Church and secular authorities in both China and Japan was one that relied on the voluntary redefinition of both theological and social space so as to keep the two conceptually separate.

Developments in Manchuria

These decades of transformation of Church, state, and mission in China and Japan were the prelude to developments in Manchuria. Responding to the same issues as Beijing and Tokyo, Manchuria was distinct by virtue of its unique mix of personalities, and because the timing of key decisions and events was delayed by a crucial decade or more. The most striking departures emerged after 1932, as the Catholic Church faced the problematic legitimacy of the Manchukuo state.

The Catholic Church during the Transition to Japanese Rule

Compared to the rest of China, French interest in the Manchurian Church was relatively muted. French diplomatic and strategic attention

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was largely focused in the south and southwest, and commercial investment was overwhelmingly concentrated in and around the cities of Shanghai and Tianjin. (In 1930, missionary properties alone constituted nearly half of the 38 million US dollars of French investment in Shanghai.) In comparison, French interest in Manchuria was fairly minor, and certainly not something for which France would be willing to antagonize Japan.31 Nor were the MEP as institutionally rooted in Manchuria as they were in other parts of China. The shoestring mission operations in Manchuria had suffered especially from the combination of declining political interest in overseas missions and the repatriation of manpower and resources to Europe during the Great War –​at its close, only one European priest, Bishop Marie-​Félix Choulet (1854–​1923), remained in the once thriving vicariate of Southern Manchuria.32 At the same time, the MEP was forced to cede much of its territory to new mission orders. During the 1920s, new ecclesiastical districts were opened to the Belgian Scheutist (CIHM), the Benedictine (OSB), and the American Maryknoll (MM) missions (see Table  8.2). Even when these changes represented a simple redistricting of existing missions in border regions near Korea and Mongolia, they created a more pluralistic mission presence, in which the MEP represented only one of many voices.33 At the same time, the Church in Manchuria remained largely a mission field. While the number of catechists grew throughout the early twentieth century, the lack of native priests slowed the deepening of indigenization at an institutional level.34 Bishop Jean-​Marie-​Michel Blois (1881–​1946) of Mukden frequently voiced concern about the decline in native ordinations, a problem that was compounded by the constant emigration of Christians from the region.35 In 1932, Bishop Auguste Gaspais (1884–​1952) counted a total of only twenty-​nine indigenous 31 C. F. Remer, Foreign Investments in China (New York: Macmillan Co., 1933), 631–​632. In 1935, the total French investment in Manchuria came to 21 million yen, or just under 6 million US dollars. This figure represented less than 1 percent of the total investment in the region. John R. Stewart, “Foreign Investments in Manchuria,” Far Eastern Survey 4, 11 (June 5, 1935): 81–​85. 32 Latourette, A History of Christian Missions, 705. 33 The new districts were still administratively subject to the two MEP vicariates of Mukden and Jilin, which were increasingly referred to as Southern and Central Manchuria, respectively. 34 Li, God’s Little Daughters, 108–​113. In contrast to Manchuria, Japanese Korea made great advances in indigenization of the church. In 1937 the Vicariate of Southern Korea consisted of “four parishes, of which one –​the parish of the cathedral –​is managed by a missionary assisted by a Korean priest; the other parishes are headed by indigenous clergy.” RAE, South Korea, 1938, Larribeau. 35 RAE, Shenyang, 1927, Blois.

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Table 8.2.  Ecclesiastic jurisdictions in Manchuria, 1928–​1945. Apostolic Prefecture “sui iuris”a

Apostolic Prefectureb

Apostolic Vicariatec

Diocese

Mission order(s)

Detached from

Shenyang

–​

–​

1838

1946

Beijing

Jinzhou/​Rehe

–​

–​

1883

1946

Jilin Chifeng

–​ –​

–​ 1932

1898 –​

1946 1949

Fushun

1932

1932

1940

1946

Jiamusui

1928

–​

–​

–​

Lintong Qiqihaer

–​ 1928

1937 –​

–​ –​

–​ –​

Siping Yanji Yingkou

–​ –​ –​

1929 1928 –​

1932 1937 –​

–​ 1946 1949

Missions étrangères de Paris (MEP) Scheutists (CICM, Belgium) MEP Erected under Chinese bishop Maryknoll (MM, USA) OFM (Franciscan) 1934 MEP None, Society of Bethlehem Mission Immensee (SMB, Swiss) 1934 MEP 1930 Benedictines (OSB) MEP

Mongolia (as eastern Mongolia) –​ Jinzhou Shenyang Wonsan (OSB) Siping (MEP) Jilin and Jinzhou

Shenyang and Rehe Wonsan (OSB) Shenyang

Source: Acta Apostolicae Sedis. Notes a De facto apostolic prefecture, remote and often without foreign guidance. b  Precursor to vicariate, generally led by a priest. c  Precursor to diocese, generally led by a bishop.

2

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priests in his entire vicariate of Northern Manchuria, a number so small that many of the outlying districts could only be served by lay ministers of the indigenous order of the Sacred Heart of Mary.36 The problem of indigenous vocations worsened during the 1930s. In 1938, Blois celebrated only two native ordinations, and these were his first in seven years.37 We may speculate on the reasons for the unusual difficulty the Manchurian Church faced in attracting native priests, but it is worth noting that none of the sources places blame on political interference with ordination or training.38 Manchuria’s complex and shifting immigrant population itself complicated the meaning of indigenous, producing unique variations on established arguments for and against promoting indigenization. By the 1920s, new arrivals from Korea and Japan constituted one of the fastest-​ growing segments of the Catholic population in Manchuria. The Church responded accordingly. In 1927, Shenyang created the parish of François-​ Xavier specifically for Japanese and Korean Catholics (although it was also open to foreigners of any nationality). In 1933, a Korean-​speaking missionary priest was brought in from Seoul to minister to rural Korean areas of southern Manchuria, where “after hearing for the first time a priest speak in their language … almost all were baptized.” Over subsequent years, Korean priests were brought to Shenyang and Xinjing, as were Japanese nuns from Fukuoka.39 While the Catholic sources never portrayed it in such terms, it is worth noting that this policy of creating separate accommodation for ethnic communities fit perfectly the Manchukuo model of ethnic communitarianism. At the same time, the foreign identification of the Church again shifted from being a liability to an asset. One of the original arguments for delaying indigenization is that foreign bishops would be better positioned than native ones to defend the interests of the local Church against political pressure, whatever its origin.40 In Manchuria as much as elsewhere, such arguments had been a consistent irritant to popular nationalism. In 1927, Blois warned of a rising hostility to Church privileges among government officials in Shenyang, adding that “the spirit of independence seized even our Christians, who no longer show the same eagerness to 36 RAE, Kirin, 1932, Gaspais. On women’s vocations, see Li, God’s Little Daughters, 120–​124. 37 RAE, Southern Manchuria, 1938, Blois; RAE, Shenyang, 1938. 38 It is worth noting that resources became increasingly scarce after the commencement of war with China in 1937. For example, RAE, South Korea, 1939, Larribeau. 39 RAE, Southern Manchuria, 1927, 1936, 1938, Blois; RAE, Central Manchuria, 1933, 1938, Gaspais. 40 Latourette, A History of Christian Missions, 557.

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Figure  8.2. Japanese kindergarten students pose beneath flags of Japan and Manchukuo at the Fushun Catholic mission, 1934. Schools were especially important as a bridge to the large but relatively insular Japanese community. Maryknoll Mission Archives.

follow the instructions of their priests.”41 The formation of Manchukuo presented a reverse image of this same logic. While the governments of Japan and China had each lobbied aggressively to remove the foreign privileges enjoyed by the missions on their own soil, the foreign identity of the Church presented certain advantages to the new Manchukuo state. As foreign clerical leadership presented a certain level of ornamental support, and implicit legitimation for the new state, the government of Manchukuo was not eager to speed the elevation of indigenous bishops in Shenyang or Xinjing.

The Diplomatic Stance: The Mandate of Gaspais

The problem of how the Church should respond to the new state reverberated from Xinjing, through Beijing and Tokyo, and finally to Rome. It is important to remember that those on the ground had deeply held and often divergent opinions about Japan. In some cases, these opinions grew out of decades of personal experience:  on hand when 41 RAE, 1927, Blois.

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Japanese troops were ordered to protect the missions from predation by Russian troops, Bishop Choulet of Mukden wrote in 1905 that “had Russia become the main power in Manchuria, the Catholic missionaries would undoubtedly have found it difficult to maintain their position there.”42 Decades later, Blois would greet the founding of Manchukuo with a degree of guarded optimism, writing in 1932 that “the new Government has been on the whole respectful of the people, works and goods of the Catholic Church,” and that it represented a return to public order that was in any case far preferable to previous years, when Japanese-​held cities were the only places of refuge from the “gangsters who under the pretext of holding national territory, plunder, destroy and burn without cease or remorse for the suffering of their countrymen.” Four years later, Blois remained less concerned about Japan than he was about the threat posed by the unsecured countryside.43 For their part, many within the government of the new state remained convinced that “the ideals of the Catholic Church and of the Japanese Nation, coincided insomuch as both parties were directly opposed to Bolshevism.”44 Further north, Gaspais was particularly optimistic about the future of the Church under Manchukuo. Like Blois, Gaspais initially perceived the founding of the state in terms of a return to peace, especially in the rural areas where many of the Catholics lived. Over the next few years he grew absolutely effusive about the state’s progress and the cordial, even friendly relations that he enjoyed with Manchukuo officials. From 1932, nearly every one of his annual reports from the Jilin Vicariate began with a lengthy description of the good relations between the new government and the Catholic missions. In addition to frequent polite exchanges, the new government extended more tangible expressions of good will, such as when the Office of Worship in 1934 offered Gaspais the chance to review in draft manuscript an official publication about the religions in the empire. In that same year, one in ten of the honorary decorations awarded by the Office of Social Affairs went to Catholic missionaries.45 The benefits flowed two ways: Gaspais attributed the good will of regime officials to the Church’s understanding of its “obligation to preach respect and obedience to the authorities.” In return, the Church thrived.

42 A more positive view of Russian troops is expressed in RAE, Central Manchuria, 1905, Lalouyer; RAE, Southern Manchuria, 1904, 1905, Choulet. 43 RAE, Southern Manchuria, 1932, 1936, Blois. 44 Japanese military official, quoted in letter from Paul Taguchi to unstated recipient (probably Paolo Marella), November 3, 1937. Maryknoll Mission Archives. 45 RAE, Central Manchuria, 1934, Gaspais.

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Between 1930 and 1936, the Catholic population of the Jilin Vicariate grew from 21,380 to 30,619.46 Relations were not quite as sunny as Gaspais was reporting. There were tensions with the new authorities. American Maryknoll priests in Fushun were accused of being undercover military officers (a suspicion that Blois cannily noted derived from Japan’s own history of planting agents in civilian roles) and suspected of teaching Sun Yat-​sen’s Three People’s Principles (and thus loyalty to the Guomindang regime) in their schools.47 The discovery of an anonymous anti-​Manchukuo tract entitled “Religion Will Save the Nation” (zongjiao jiuguo 宗教救國) brought the entire Church under suspicion, resulting in new restrictions being placed on the movement of missionaries.48 Although the new government made few overt demands of the Church (one being that they cut internal administrative ties with Constantini in Beijing and deal instead with Marella in Tokyo), it always made present a threat against the arrest of individuals or the seizure of Church property.49 The question of legitimacy aside, external Church authorities were suspicious of the conduct of the Manchukuo government. In 1932, Rome caught wind of a spate of false reports in the Japanese press of Church support for the newly founded state, and made quick and vigorous demands for a retraction.50 Reports sent to the Vatican were often less than flattering. From Beijing, Constantini’s successor, Ildebrando Antoniutti (1898–​1974), described the new emperor as a man of “weak character, ordinary intelligence, and no political experience.”51 A confidential report compiled in June of 1934 by Paul Yoshigoro Taguchi (1902–​1978) the special emissary of the Tokyo Vicariate (and future bishop of Osaka) stated unequivocally that the new state was none other than a Japanese colony.52 Yet both sides had a clear interest in maintaining at least the appearance of good relations, and in this Gaspais played a key role. As the bishop closest to the new capital, Gaspais was treated as the head of the Church in Manchukuo, and as the de facto ambassador of the Holy See, 46 RAE, Central Manchuria, 1934, 1936, 1937, Gaspais. 47 This text would have been taken as Chinese nationalist propaganda. 48 Letter from Blois to Antoniutti, undated. SSM, 18. 49 On relations with the Apostolic Delegate in China, see Antoniutti, undated SSM, 16. Property is mentioned in a letter from Fumasoni-​Biondi to Pacelli, May 24, 1934. SSM, 59. 50 The most egregious of these misrepresentations was a series of political comments in the Japanese press that were attributed to the priest and economist Johannes Kraus (1892–​1946), then of Sophia University. Kraus was not only quoted as having criticized the Washington Conference and urged a Japan Mandate in Asia, but also as having done so as the Apostolic Delegate of Tokyo. See the documents in SSM, 1–​10. 51 Antoniutti to Pacelli, March 21, 1934. SSM, 29. 52 Taguchi memorial. SSM, 67.

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a fiction that he seemed more than willing to maintain. Particularly after 1934, Gaspais was in constant demand for ceremonial functions in the new imperial court: he was granted an audience with the new emperor soon after the imperial coronation, and again two years later, at which time Pu Yi presented the bishop with a gift of a gold medal. Gaspais represented the Catholic Church in official events such as the religious conference held in May of 1934 by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and was regularly feted by Japanese military and diplomatic officials, as well as Manchukuo cabinet ministers, particularly Minister of Foreign Affairs Xie Jieshi 謝介石 (1878–​1954).53 For their part, the Vatican officials in Tokyo and Beijing who took the lead on the Church’s Asia policy were not averse to working legally with the new state, at least within certain parameters. From Tokyo, Marella advocated proactively extending diplomatic recognition to Manchukuo, suggesting that doing so would be perceived as an expression of impartiality, and demonstration that the Holy See had “no political or commercial goal … none other than one motive of the salvation of souls and the existence of the Church.”54 The damning report of the League of Nations’ Lytton Commission was itself not an impediment: the Foreign Office of the Holy See wore proudly its opposition to the overly punitive stance the League had taken towards the defeated powers after the Great War. Marella argued precisely this point, optimistically predicting that recognizing Manchukuo would enhance the prestige of the Church, “even in China, where it will be clear that the independent moral force of the Holy See is not constrained by the League of Nations or any other shackles.”55 Requests for diplomatic recognition were raised repeatedly from the Manchukuo side:  in a 1932 letter from Pu Yi to Pius XI, in numerous letters from Xie Jieshi, by the 1938 delegation, and no doubt informally on a fairly regular basis, as well. Rome deftly evaded the issue, neither confirming nor denying its intentions. Responding to one such overture from Xie Jieshi, Pacelli simply stated that “we note with pleasure your desire for diplomatic relations.”56 Unmoved by Marella’s predictions, voices such as Antoniutti cautioned that any public recognition of Manchukuo would destroy relations with China, especially after Wang Jingwei officially urged foreign leaders to shun the new state.57 53 RAE, Central Manchuria, 1934, Gaspais. 54 Letter from Marella to Fumasoni-​Biondi, May 27, 1934. SSM, 61. 55 Letter from Marella to Fumasoni-​Biondi, May 27, 1934. SSM, 61. On Vatican reservations over the Paris Peace settlement, see Chamedes, “The Vatican and the Making of the Atlantic Order,” 65–​90. 56 Letter Pu Yi to Pius XI, September 28, 19, SSM, 13; Xie Jieshi to Pacelli, March 1, 1934; SSM, 22; Pacelli to Xie Jieshi, March 3, 1934, SSM, 25. 57 Letter from Antoniutti to Pacelli, March 21, 1934. SSM, 29.

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The solution was to be found in a diplomatic loophole. The nomination of a nuncio, a political representative of the Holy See to a head of state, would have placed the country on a diplomatically even footing with both Japan and China, and thus be perceived as recognizing the existence, if not necessarily the legitimacy of the Manchukuo government. Not wishing to go quite so far, Rome solved the issue through what it called the “mandate of Gaspais.” It named Gaspais the Apostolic Delegate of the Vatican to the Church in Manchukuo, an important title, but explicitly not of the sort of diplomatic appointment the Holy See would make to a state. It similarly acceded to the demand that the Manchukuo Church break ties with Beijing by allowing the coordinating body for missions, the Congregation for the Propagation of the Faith (Propaganda Fide), to separate Manchukuo from China as an ecclesiastic jurisdiction. Pacelli presented such arrangements as a compromise that would save face for all parties: [T]‌he nomination of a Apostolic Delegate may suffice for the Manchurian government, to see her country treated by the Holy See in the same way as China, Japan or the United States, gaining for the Catholic Church the sympathy of the officials and the local Japanese. On the other hand, the nomination of a Delegate does not imply the de jure recognition of the new state, and hopefully would not evoke such a violent reaction in China.58



Rites and Religion: A Church for Manchukuo

Soon after the 1934 coronation of PuYi as emperor, Gaspais convened in Jilin a synod of Catholic clergy from throughout Manchukuo. Like the plenary council that Constantini had called in China a few years earlier, this meeting was intended to clarify a policy and identity for the entire Church as a national body. The question of ritual was high on the list of items for discussion. As elsewhere in China, missionaries in Manchuria had long been sympathetic to allowing local Catholics to practice traditional funerary rites. Although they were technically required to punish transgressions by the faithful, it appears that most recognized and even joked about the absurdity of pursuing the issue in earnest: when an American priest was reported for the “superstitious” activity of praying over the coffin during a funeral, his superior told him with mock solemnity, “well, you are excommunicated.” Such sentiment was not limited to the Americans: when asked about a Japanese parishioner who wished to cremate his deceased daughter instead of interment in the Catholic fashion, Blois advised the priest simply to “close your eyes, and let it be.”59 58 Minutes of the Secretary of State, June 8, 1934. SSM, 63. 59 Wiest, Maryknoll in China, 310–​311.

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In contrast, the concerns around state ritual resembled those encountered in Japan. Although the passing of the Qing had removed many of the Confucian rites, and thus the issue of state ritual, from the concerns of Chinese missionaries, the state of Manchukuo did not merely revive the old rites, it expanded them into the foundation of a program that closely resembled the place that Shinto observance was intended to occupy in Japan or Korea. By the time of the 1934 Manchukuo synod, these initiatives were fully developed, and had already begun to incorporate expressions of obeisance to the imperial house (including the erection of shrines to Amaterasu) and reverence for the war dead. For the missionaries, the new regime of state ritual was many things, but was first and foremost an expression of political loyalty to a state had grown highly vigilant to any perceived slight. Much of the interaction between the Church and the new government thus consisted of large and small tests of de facto political support. Missionaries interpreted and debated the question of Manchukuo state ritual largely in this light, according to the same criteria as other expressions of civic loyalty such as raising the Manchukuo flag on Church property, or including prayers for the emperor in Church services. They decided as a body to accede, reasoning that the Church owed civic loyalty to whatever state was in power, and that whatever courtesies had been offered to the previous sovereign should be extended to the current one as well.60 At least such was the case behind closed doors. While the private discussions dealt extensively with political ritual, the public pronouncements on ritual in Manchukuo –​the letter that was sent from the synod to Apostolic Delegates in Tokyo and Beijing, and from there to the Vatican, as well as the Vatican response –​all dealt specifically and exclusively with ritual in its less inflammatory image as a private matter. At the same time, developments in Japan show a growing acceptance of state ritual, not merely as a legal requirement, but as something essential to Japan itself. Soon after the Manchurian synod had prepared its report, Propaganda Fide requested a similar statement of Marella in Tokyo. His response, which went out to all ordinaries of Japan on December 8, 1935, voiced more clearly than before the two compelling reasons for Catholics to participate in the rites: refusal to participate in the rites places the Church in violation of Japanese law and marked it as a foreign institution.61 The latter point is worth noting. More than simply evading 60 Letter from Antoniutti to Pacelli, March 21, 1934. SSM, 29. It is worth noting that this decision and its consequences were only those of the Manchurian dioceses. While the issue seems to have largely been settled in Manchuria. In Korea it remained a point of acrimony for another few years. RAE, Korea, 1938; SSM, 29. 61 “Instruzione del delagato Apostolico in Giappone,” December 8, 1935. PN, 130–​140.

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official scrutiny, Marella was providing an early glimpse of a transition to a Church that was not merely native-​led, but moreover would actively seek to encourage the development of native Christianities. This included the integration of native priests and ritual, as well as artistic expression:  in 1935 Fumasoni-​Biondi urged the Japanese Church to support the work of local artisans, ones who could portray Christianity in a Japanese style, creating for the Church “an art that is simultaneously profoundly Catholic and demonstrative of a characteristically nationalist sensibility.”62 Confirmation of the legal status of Shinto ritual was more than an implicit assurance that Japanese Catholics would be safe, it was a contract by which the Church and Japanese state agreed upon the line between the secular and religious. Six months after receiving Marella’s report, Propaganda Fide responded with the encyclical letter Pluries instanterque. Exceeding Marella, Pluries emphasized the place of religion under Japanese law as definitive proof of the sincerity and continuity of the official interpretation of the rites. It cites the ban in the 1889 Meiji Constitution on the promotion of religion in public education, concluding that Japan would be unwilling to contravene its own highest law by promoting activity that it believed to be religious in nature.63 The Church would occasionally hold Japan to its word. When colonial authorities in Korea attempted to force priests to add Shinto elements to the Catholic Mass, they responded that the churches being a place of prayer and religious ceremony, it was improper for them to add elements of a civil nature. This argument was apparently sufficient to convince the Government General, which dropped the demand.64 But outside of the question of legitimacy, Manchukuo still presented unique problems. When Marella and Fumasoni-​Biondi urged the acceptance of shrine worship as a duty of Japanese subjects, and thus as an integral part of a genuinely Japanese Christianity, they were merging an understanding of native Christianity with a national one. Such an equation of native and national may be defensible in Japan, where the nation is fairly easy to identify, but presented distinct problems in Manchukuo. The problem was less the legitimacy of the state, a point on which the Church would have remained silent as a matter of principle, but the fact that the “nation” of Manchukuo existed primarily as an aspiration. Whether as an attempt to gloss over unwelcome political questions or 62 “Lettera del Prefetto di Propaganda a Mons. Marella Sull’arte Giapponese,” June 1, 1935. PN, 128–​129. 63 Pluries instanterque. Text available in Acta Apostolicae Sedis 28 (1936), 406–​409. 64 RAE, Korea, 1938, Larribeau.

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simply because it was not yet convinced of the cultural uniqueness of Manchukuo, the Church still treated the new nation in the same breath and with the same criteria as it did China. In contrast to the commitment to developing a genuinely native Church in both China and Japan, there was no call for the creation of a “Manchukuo Christianity.” Conclusions Convened from 1962 to 1965, the Second Vatican Council represented the most sweeping Catholic repudiation of past antagonisms with non-​ Catholic churches, and non-​Christian cultures, and especially the historical ties of the Church to imperialism. It made clear a policy of respecting the dignity of cultures within a global, and increasingly non-​Western Catholic world. It is clear, however, that many of the processes that led up to this momentous change had been set in motion decades before, and were presaged by events in Asia.65 The difficulty of delineating the authority of state and Church is that each sort of institution has both a political face and a cultural one. The two faces are never easy to separate, but in nineteenth-​century and early twentieth-​century East Asia, they were virtually indistinguishable. As has been discussed, both traditional and overtly modernizing statecraft in China and Japan relied heavily on the responsibility of the state to shape society by ethically transforming the individual. The Catholic Church was an overtly political entity, particularly in places like China where it enjoyed a state of virtual extraterritoriality. The lines that were drawn around religion during the crises of the twentieth century did not deny the state its transformative role, nor the Church its political significance. Republican China, Japan, and Manchukuo each maintained the right to shape the citizen through education and through ritual that would once have been identified as religious. The Church was not denied its political status –​if anything conflict increased the importance of the Holy See as an independent diplomatic entity. Rather, the accommodation that was reached was one that defined rather than denied the legitimate boundaries of states as a cultural actors, and of churches as a political ones. Urged on by crisis in Manchuria, this process of establishing the political boundaries of religion would continue long after the demise of the Manchukuo state.

65 See especially the 1965 decree on missions Ad gentes, which makes liberal reference to Maximum illud and Rerum ecclesiae.

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Concluding Thoughts



Discourse and Differentiation

Over the years spent researching and writing this book, I saw almost daily its content reflected in contemporary events: debates over the boundaries of religious expression in the United States and Europe, charges of pro-​ and anti-​religious bias in the reportage of various national medias, the debate and passage of the American International Religious Freedoms Act, the unprecedented advance of foreign NGOs into China, the rise and global impact of an Islamic charitable sector, and legal challenge raised by Malaysian Muslims to prohibit the nation’s Christians from referring to the Christian God as Allah. That both author and reader would draw parallels between seemingly similar events in very different times, places, and circumstances is perhaps inevitable, and is not necessarily undesirable. By connecting historical events past and present, we highlight those processes and struggles that have a tendency to reappear independently in different times and places, at the same time uncovering the historical origins of the evolving phenomena that continue to shape the world today. A comparative perspective allows us to better separate that which is universal from that which is historically conditioned and perhaps historically specific. The danger is, of course, that one might take these similarities and analogues too far, willing into existence ties and connections that do not really exist. The promises and pitfalls of comparative perspectives are evident not only when facing the present day, but also when trying to adapt other scholarly approaches to religion in society. Despite a large number of outstanding studies on the development of religion in China, Japan, and East Asia more broadly, the study of religion as a whole remains overwhelmingly centered on the experience of the Judeo-​Christian West. Like comparisons to the present, the location of the disciplinary center in a very different part of the world presents both opportunities and challenges. The task for scholars is to draw comparisons in a such a way that they reveal rather than obscure. 210

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Discourse and Differentiation

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In order to develop parameters for comparison that properly locate and do justice to the uniqueness of the East Asian case, while remaining intelligible outside of it, we must know exactly what it is we are comparing. Many have speculated on the ways that greater attention to the non-​Christian world might supplement or challenge the theories put forward by Western-​centered sociology. In a retrospective on his 1994 Public Religions in the Modern World, José Casanova speculated that the ethical content of Asian religions –​the worldly nature of Confucianism or Daoism –​might reveal a very different relationship between religion and the state. A similar argument has been made regarding the political expression of so-​called Asian values.1 While it is certainly gratifying to hear this sort of call being made, the present volume is not the one to answer it. This book has placed relatively little emphasis on the theological uniqueness of Asian religions, especially as a determinative factor in their political development. Rather, it has built a case that Manchuria during the early twentieth century was unique as a historical moment, its uniqueness deriving primarily from the circumstances of the time and place. This is less a story of Manchurian religion as such, and more a story of religion in Manchuria, and of the unique and varied collection of people who sought to represent, shape, or direct it. Less than religion itself, what matters most to this story are the factors that control the shape of the society that religion lived in: the legacies of national conflict and state-​ led development, the globalization of ideas and free flow of people, and the pioneering spirit of the frontier. The key feature in this story is the rapid proliferation of professional societies and niche interests, each of which brought to its portrayal of religion a highly specialized set of concerns. Christian missionaries dealt primarily in issues of importance to their own faith, in clarifying the boundary between the saved and the unsaved, and in revealing God’s plan for his Church on earth. Social scientists were concerned with the workings of religion as a human phenomenon, either in fact or in potential. Newspapermen who reported on religion walked a line between news as content and as a saleable commodity. The legal community was equally Janus-​faced, tasked with both the mission of facilitating a state religious policy and the more abstract task of clarifying the principles upon which policy was built. The charitable sphere was engaged in a process of self-​definition, one that operationally and philosophically clarified 1 José Casanova, “Public Religions Revisited,” in Religion: Beyond a Concept, ed. Hent de Vries (New York: Fordham University Press, 2008), 101–​ 119. Doh Chull Shin, Confucianism and Democratization in East Asia (Cambridge University Press, 2013).

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Concluding Thoughts

its divorce from religion and its marriage to the state. Votive activities such as graveside piety were contested not merely in content but in the abstract, even as the logic of belief and practice remained beyond the reach of any single party to control. Diplomats in Rome, Beijing, and Tokyo worked through concert and conflict to clarify the boundaries of authority between state and religion. Within each of these groups, people spoke disproportionately to one another, and did so in a way that was distinctively interesting to themselves. This book has referred to these groups as discourse communities, to emphasize that they are distinguished by talk rather than action, and to distinguish them from the epistemic communities that broadly agree on norms and values. In order to connect the experience of the communities in this book to groups and phenomena elsewhere, we may draw a parallel between discourse communities and the idea of functional differentiation. The idea of functional differentiation derives originally from observation of the natural world, seen for example in the way that a variety of specialized fauna together form a symbiotic ecosystem, or how specialized organs and systems within the body work together to keep an organism alive. In terms of human societies, the concept has featured in the work of both Adam Smith and Karl Marx, in each case to describe increasingly specialized productive activity, and in the ideas of Georg Simmel and Émile Durkheim, who may be credited with founding the modern school of social functional differentiation.2 At its core, the idea of social functional differentiation is simply that human society is a system, and as this system becomes more complex it finds ways to break into dedicated subsystems. This idea is not a precise parallel to the concepts used in this book –​functional differentiation looks at what groups do, while discourse communities describe how they communicate  –​but at their core both are concerned with how societies manage increasing complexity, particularly the complexity that derives from the sort of economic, political, and social specialization that this book sees in Manchuria’s empires of experts. A string of logic stretching from Marx to Casanova himself presents increasing differentiation as the essential expression of modernity. The concept of functional differentiation resonates with and enhances the findings of this book in two ways. The first is that its emphasis on systems is a good antidote to the natural drive towards national histories. 2 Émile Durkheim, The Division of Labor in Society (New York: Free Press, 1964); Georg Simmel, “Fundamental Problems of Sociology: Individual and Society,” in The Sociology of Georg Simmel, ed. Kurt H. Wolff (Glencoe, IL: Free Press, 1950), 3–​84.

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The overall story of Manchuria presented here is inseparable from national competition, ending as it did in a period of spectacular conflict. Most contemporaries saw the stakes of Manchuria in such terms, and it is no surprise that historians would follow suit. The perspectives of national history cannot be avoided entirely, particularly considering the high degree of state input that went into many of the Japanese projects, and the nationalist drive behind the Chinese ones. Yet on its own, the nationalist perspective quickly becomes reductive –​attributing all motivations, aspirations, and loyalties to a single source. Such a perspective not only irons flat a great deal of complexity within overtly nationalist objectives, but also overlooks or artificially divides the very strong currents of internationalism that were so influential in the formation of Manchukuo, as well as its high degree of integration into regional and global networks. More fundamentally, the idea of functional differentiation gives us tools to think about the place of religion in complex societies. The field of religious sociology has used functional differentiation to postulate how religion would respond to increasing social specialization. We may see two basic examples of where this line of inquiry can lead. The first is to see (as Durkheim did) religion itself as a specialized sphere. As society grows more complex, and the number of such spheres multiplies, religion would be increasingly pushed to the margins, and as a result gradually crowded out of public life. We know this process of purgation as secularization, and underlies the perspective advanced in Casanova’s Public Religions.3 The second views religion not as a sphere in itself, but rather as a motif that creates value by identifying and embodying transcendence. This idea is that the human condition demands aspiration beyond our own finite existence, and that we transfer these longings onto external values, be they divine, political, or social. In this view, the essential meaning of religion does not disappear, although it might evolve from otherworldly aspirations to values that are more immediately recognizable as political or social (what Thomas Luckmann refers to as “intermediate transcendence”). Even as society becomes more complex, religion is not excluded, but rather continues to pervade its component parts.4 These two ideas are not necessarily in competition because each one refers to a very different sort of religion. Casanova is speaking primarily of ecclesiastic structures, particularly the political retreat of the Catholic 3 José Casanova, Public Religions in the Modern World (University of Chicago Press, 1994). 4 Thomas Luckmann, “Shrinking Transcendence, Expanding Religion?” Sociological Analysis 51, 2 (1990): 127–​138.

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Church in line with the policies of the Second Vatican Council. He is thus careful to limit his depiction of secularization to a European model, one in which the process consists of an articulated Church divesting itself from many areas of civic and public life. This model, he notes, does not apply to places like the United States, which is both highly functionally differentiated and without question very publicly religious.5 It would, however, apply to a very particular slice of religion in twentieth century Manchuria. Beginning with the Christians, it is clear that the missionary churches that emerged triumphant from the Boxer suppression were quite different from the ones that went into it.To no small degree conditioned by the bitter lessons of the Boxer Uprising itself, the trend in global mission perceptibly shifted away from aggressive political mission and towards social gospel, which defined the place of Christian mission in terms of charity, political non-​interference, and respect for cultural diversity.6 The Protestant missions in Manchuria were at the forefront of this global trend, with figures such as the Scottish physician Dugald Christie (1855–​1936) advocating it at missionary conferences in China and abroad.7 The power of these ideas extended beyond the Christian sphere, and was arguably already in evidence by the time the new generation of modern Chinese charities made their organizational debut. The restriction of religious identity of public charities was enshrined in both Japanese and Guomindang law, and tangibly expressed in the dual organizational identity of the religious Daoyuan and the charitable World Red Swastika Society. (It remains evident today in the policies of the People’s Republic of China, in where being labeled as a religion grants a strictly constrained right to exist that –​precisely as per Casanova’s definition of secularization –​comes at the cost of being forced out of all public life.) Although the Catholic missions initially remained somewhat more reticent to give up their political profile, the negotiation over the diplomatic status of the Church in Japan, China, and Manchukuo reveals how completely the Holy See had abandoned its pretentions to theologically defined political authority, and recast its legal personality in a light that was now divorced from religion. For purposes of humanitarian and diplomatic negotiation, the Catholic Church in Manchukuo was in effect a secular institution. At the same time, the goals of political and social development took on a tone of transcendence that clearly and overtly referenced the language 5 Casanova, “Public Religions Revisited,” 101–​119. 6 Yates, Christian Mission. 7 Dugald Christie. Thirty Years in Moukden, 1883–​1913: Being the Experiences and Recollections of Dugald Christie (London: Constable and Co., 1914), 220.

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and images, if not the name of religion. The limited impact of missionary religions in Manchuria (Christian, Buddhist, and in a much more restricted sense Shinto) may be contrasted first and foremost with the ubiquity of transcendent language and imagery in social engineering and political propaganda: the shrines and cult of the war dead, the portrayal of the war against the Allies as the “sacred battle,” and what may be called a sacralization (more so than deification) of the imperial institution in Japan and later in Manchukuo. When the language of the sacred was not employed, that of national or racial destiny quite often was. These political and social goals fit Luckmann’s image of an “intermediate transcendence,” in that they were timeless absolutes that justified sacrifice and were ultimately worth dying for. As a topic of discourse, these transcendent goals gave religion, at least of a sort, the power to pervade the otherwise private concerns and conversations of an increasingly specialized and fragmented world.

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Appendix Major WRSS Relief Efforts 1921–​1932 Year

Crisis

Responding Daoyuan

Response

1921 1923

Yellow River flood, Shandong Yunhe flood, 18 counties in Zhili Floods in Zhili, Hunan, Hubei, Jianxi, Fujian Flood, Chahar

Ji’nan, local benefactors Tianjin

Raised 120,000 yuan. Bought food and coats for 40,000. Raised 120,000 yuan. Provided relief to 50,000.

Coordinated national effort

Raised 100,000 yuan. Provided relief for 120,000.

Chahar

1925

War in Jiangnan Zhi-​Feng wars War in Jiangnan-​Huaihai. War in Jinzhou and near Tianjin. War in Huaihai

Nanjing-​Wuxi Central hui (Beijing) Thirty teams from Taiyuan, Chahar, Tianjin and Ji’nan Nanjing-​Hangzhou

–​ –​ 1926

War along Jin-​Pu railway War in Shandong War in Tianjin area

Beijing, Tianjin Ji’nan-​Jining-​Tai’an Beijing-​Tianjin-​Ji’nan

1927

War along Jin-​Pu railway

Ji’nan-​Xuzhou-​Nanjing

–​

War in Chahar

Chahar

1928

War, drought and pests in 60 counties of Shandong

Manchurian Wanguo daode hui, with organizations in Fengtian, Jilin, Heilongjiang and Rehe

Raised 10,000 yuan. Established 10 shelters and four soup kitchens. Buried over 100. Provided food and clothing for 32,800 refugees. Provided 2,000 shi of grain for over 10,000 refugees. Sheltered or treated 115,900 soldiers and civilians. Buried 5,200. Sheltered 54,000 women and children. Donated 7,100 sacks of flour and 17,000 coats. Rescued 26,200 people. Donated 800 shi of rice and 4,000 coats. Rescued 6,800. Aided 35,000. Donated over 10,000 shi of grain, 5,000 coats. Aided 57,500. Raised over 40,000 yuan. Donated 5,000 shi of grain, and 7,000 sacks of flour. Aided 162,500. Raised 10,000 yuan, donated 6,000 shi of grain. Aided 80,000. Donated 80,000 shi of grain. Sponsored free rail travel for 10,000 homeless to migrate to Manchuria.

1924 –​ –​ –​ 1925

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–​

–​

–​ –​ –​ –​ –​ –​

–​ Yellow River floods, Shandong –​ War in Tianjin and Hebei –​ –​

1929

Border war with Soviet Union

1930

War in Shandong-​Hebei

1931

War in southern Hebei

1931

Japanese aggression in Manchuria

1932

Japanese attack on Shanghai

Ji’nan

Established 10 soup kitchens. Raised grain to feed a million people. Beijing-​Baoding Donated 10,000 shi of grain to 100,000. Ji’nan Donated 10,000 yuan. 1,500 shi of grain. Hangzhou Donated 2,000 yuan, 200 shi of millet. Guomindang government Donated 40,000 yuan. Tianjin Donated 4,000 shi of grain. Aided 345,000. Yan (Xishan?) and Tianjin mayor Donated 20,000 and 3,000 yuan, respectively. Purchased 437,565 jin of corn for 12 assistance stations in Beijing. Aided 218,700. All branches in Manchuria, orga- Hospital and triage teams. Buried 150 corpses, treated nized by Beijing and Shenyang. 520 soldiers. National effort involving branches Altogether provided medical relief to 158,000 soldiers across the country. and civilians. Gave shelter to 56,000 women and children. Buried over 3,000 corpses. Beijing –​ Tianjin Established four shelters and two medical centers. Sheltered 4,000 women and children. Provided medical care to over 1,000 soldiers and civilians, and buried 230 corpses. Coordinated response from Received permission from Japanese military to bury Beijing-​Ji’nan-​Jiaodong and all over 400 corpses. Treated 100 wounded soldiers, and Manchurian branches. buried 207 corpses in Changchun. Treated 89 soldiers and buried 206 in Binjiang. Donated 300 shi of millet and established 19 shelters for refugees. Raised 5,000 yuan for soup kitchens in Shenyang and Changchun, and 3,000–​4,000 yuan for clothes. Shanghai branch and other chari- Established 6 hospitals, each of which took in from table societies 2,000 to 17,000 people, and gave medical care to up to 300. Sheltered 26,000. Buried 200 corpses.

(continued)

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Year

Crisis

Responding Daoyuan

Response

International 1923 1927

Kanto earthquake Kansai earthquake

–​ –​

1933

Los Angeles earthquake

–​

Donated 2,000 shi of rice Donated 5,000 yuan through Japanese consul Donated 100,000 yuan though US Ambassador Nelson T. Johnson

One shi is approximately 72.5 kg. Source: Shijie hongwanzi hui, Shijie hongwanzi hui linian zhenjiu gongzuo baogao shu. N.p., 1930, 1–​25; 1932, 1–​33; 1935, 1–​31.

2

219

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242

Index

Page numbers in italics are figures; with ‘n’ are notes. Abiding Principle 27–​29, 93–​94, 134 uprising 35 Akamatsu Chijō 77 Akiba Takashi 77, 79 Amaterasu 104–​105 ancestor worship 21, 26 Anderson, Benedict 12, 86–​87 Andong 53 anthropology Japan 64–​65 Korea 77 anti-​Christian sentiment 30, 34–​38, 191 Antoniutti, Ildebrando 204, 205 Asad, Talal 7, 9 Bainbridge, William Sim 58 Bajiazi 38, 49 bandits 15, 25, 37, 50, 94, 132 baptisms, Catholic 32, 32, 52–​53 Beijing, soup kitchens 147, 147 Blind Chang 40–​41, 57 Blois, Jean-​Marie-​Michel 199, 201–​202, 203 Bourboulon, Alphonse de 189 bowing ceremonies 95, 105 Boxer Uprising 30–​31, 43–​47 see also United Righteous Fists “Bright Land” 155–​156 Broughton, Douglas 42 Buck, John Lossing 68 Buddhism 22–​23, 215 Datong Buddhist Organization 119 introduction of 21–​22 in Japan 111–​112 and the media 98–​99, 103–​104 and Protestant missionaries 42 and Qing rule 23–​24 on salvation 162 in the Shengjing Times 93, 94

242

Burgess, John Stewart 67–​68 Burns, William C. 39 Cai Yuanpei 69 Cao Kun 171 Casanova, José, Public Religion in the Modern World 211, 213 Catholic Church diplomacy 187–​209, 211–​212 and the Manchurian Revival 58–​61 and miracles 185 mission after 1900 47–​51 mission to 1900 31–​38, 39 and the Protestant missions 43 and recognition of Manchuria 202–​206 Second Vatican Council 209 social services 52–​53 and state ritual 195–​198, 206–​209 and transition of Manchuria to Japanese rule ​198–202, 200, 202 Catholic Foreign Mission Society of America (Maryknoll) 199, 202, 204 Chabanel, Father 60 Chahar, soup kitchens 147 Chambon, Jean Baptiste 198 Changchun and Filial Wang 170, 172 WRSS 152–​153 charitable societies 131–​133, 141–​149, 161–​163, 211–​212 see also Daoyuan-​World Red Swastika Society (WRSS) Chen Hansheng 68 Chen Jitang 149 Chiang Kai-​shek 15, 74, 195 New Life Movement 111 Chihara Atsusuke 96 Chikusa Tatsuo 80 China Eastern Railway 151–​152

243

Index Chinese Christians 36–​37, 47 Chinese Filial Culture Park 183–​184 Chometon, Eugène 49 Choulet, Marie-​Felix 37, 199, 203 Christianity 30, 162 and laws regulating 119 media portrayal 103 missionaries 7–​8, 30–​31, 141, 162, 211, 214 native/​national 208–​209 in the Shengjing Times 93 see also Catholic Church; Presbyterians Christie, Dugald 52, 214 “citizen diplomacy” 159 Classic of Filial Piety 122 codes, legal 115, 116–​117 Combaz, Jean-​Claude 195–​197, 196 communication, and community 87 Complete Six Codes 116–​117 Confucian Society 140 Confucianism 22 Kingly Way 101–​102, 121–​122 media portrayal 106 and Qing rule 23 revival 102, 121, 123, 139–​141, 184 and graveside piety 164–​170, 166, 167 in the Shengjing Times 93, 102 Conraux, Louis-​Dominique 34–​35 Constantini, Celso 195 Constitution, Manchukuo 115 cooking flesh for medicine 102, 170 cults and filial tombs 180–​183 see also Filial Li; Filial Wang Cultural Education Monthly 122 Dai Jitao 70, 72 Daikyo Dōjin 82, 82n. 47 Dan, Auntie 173 Danish Presbyterians 39 Daodejing 22 Daoism and Filial Wang tomb 174, 181–​182 introduction of 21–​22 and Ōmotokyō 154 Daoyuan-​World Red Swastika Society (WRSS) 131–​133, 134–​139, 143–​163, 157 and the Filial Wang tomb 175 media portrayal 99, 103 relief 1921–​32 216–​218 Datong Buddhist Organization 119 Dawkins, Richard 7

243 Deguchi Onisaburō 150–​151, 153–​154, 156 Devred, Émile 196 “Difficulty of Rooting Out Superstition, The” (Shengjing Times) 92–​93 diplomacy, Catholic Church 187–​209, 211–​212 “citizen” 159 discourse communities 13, 212 Dong Sihai 168 Du Bingyin 135 Du Bois, W. E. B. 5 Duan Wenjian 120 Duan Zhengyuan 134 Duara, Prasenjit 16, 139 Dubail, Constant 34, 35, 38 Durkheim, Émile 6 earthquakes 151 Kantō 150 Los Angeles 159 Eastern Sea Missions 153–​154 education 72–​73, 74 and Christian missions 50–​52 social 121–​122 eight trigrams 27 Endō Ryūkichi 66 Enku Uno 77–​78 Enlightened Goodness Society 131 Essence of the True Scripture of the Polar Singularity 153 ethnicity 23–​24, 66 policy 9–​10 ethnology 69–​71, 78–​83 famine Ji’nan 145 North China 141 Fei Xiaotong 68, 71 Feng Hanqing 176, 177–​178 festivals 26 Filial Li (Li Zhongsan) 164, 175–​180, 181–​182 filial piety/​sons 102, 122, 169, 179 filial tombs 164–​165, 169–​170, 173, 180–​183, 185–​186 miracles 102, 171–​172 Filial Wang (Wang Mengxing) 169, 170–​175, 173, 175 rebuilding of the tomb 183–​184 Finney, Robert 57 Five Religions 136–​137, 143–​144 Five Teachers 135, 136, 137 Five Year Plan 16

244

244

Index

flooding 146n. 38 and Daoyuan 144 Zhili 146 folklore 66–​67, 79–​80 fortune tellers 118 freedom, religious 127, 128–​129, 133 Freud, Sigmund 6 Fumasoni-​Biondi, Pietro 197 functional differentiation 212–​214 functionalism 83 structural 71 Fushun Catholic mission 202 Gaspais, Auguste 199–​201, 202–​206 geography 20 Giardini, Mario 197 Global Ethical Society 140 Goforth, Jonathan 54, 57 graveside piety 164–​170, 166, 167, 185–​186 Great Progenitor 135–​136, 137, 146 group theory 66 Guangzhou, bubonic plague 142 Guillon, Laurent 37, 38, 43, 45 Guomindang and filial tombs 180–​181 and the regulation of charities 148–​149 Han Chinese 19, 24–​28, 81, 109 Harbin 2, 10, 147 Hayasaka, Gennaro (Kyūnosuke) 197 Hayashide Kenjirō 150 healing and Filial Li 180 and Filial Wang 171–​172, 180, 182 and graveside ritual 168 and Ma Qingshan 182 Heaven and Earth Teaching 27, 167–​168 Hezhe people 69–​71 history, before Qing dynasty 19–​23 History of the Three Kingdoms 22 Hong Bin 28 Hongshan culture 20 Hu Daosheng 181 Huahe 150–​151 Huang Tingkui 45 Huangtian jiao see Teaching of Yellow Heaven Huchet, Father 48 Hui graves 120 Hulan 34–​35, 47, 48 human-​interest stories 106 Hunt, Bruce Finlay 42

Iizuka Matsutaro 88 Imperial Grand Register of the Filial,Virtuous and Respected Venerable 122–​123 Inagaki Shintarō 90 indigenization 192–​193, 194, 198, 199–​202 institutions 12–​14 interfaith unity 102–​103 “intermediate transcendence” 213, 215 International Ethical Society 140 internationalism 152, 154, 159, 161 Irish Presbyterian Mission 39–​40 Ishihara Kanji 101 Islam 7, 94 media portrayal 104 relocation of Hui graves 120 Japan 2, 15–​18 assault on Shanghai 159 and the Catholic Church 190–​192 educational system 73 and Filial Li 178–​179, 180 and Filial Wang 180 images of Manchuria 33 law 111–​114 media control 100–​106 native priest/​bishops 194, 194, 197 Ōmotokyō movement 127, 150–​151, 153–​156, 157 press controls 96 Red Cross 143, 158–​159 relationship with continent 78–​79 and the Shengjing Times 94–​95 social science 63–​67 sociology 65–​66 state religion 128 state ritual 195–​198, 207–​209 and the WRSS 150–​153 “Japanification” 81–​82 Jiang Xizhang 140, 152 Jiao Yingtang 172, 173–​174, 181–​182 Jilin Boxers in 45–​46 and the Christians 49–​50 Ji’nan, famine 145 Joseph, St. 59 judiciary rulings on religion 115–​116, 124–​129 Kantō 15–​16 earthquake 150 educational institutions 72, 73 judicial rulings 126 Katsuhiko Kakehi 72

245

Index Keijō Imperial University (Korea) 77 Kingly Way 101–​102, 121–​122 Komukai Sakurako 142 Koo, Wellington 151 Korea 208 Keijō Imperial University 77 migrants to Manchuria 201 Kraus, Johannes 204n. 50 Kubota Korezō 89 Kyōwakai see Unity Society Lacroix, Louis-​Marie-​François 49 Lagrené, Théodore de 189 Lalouyer, Pierre-​Marie-​François 47, 48, 49–​50, 59 language 11 in education 72 in the Shengjing Times 85–​86, 90, 92 law/​legal system 13–​14, 108–​111, 114–​116, 211 anti-​superstition law 160 codes 115, 116–​117 judiciary rulings on religion 115–​116, 124–​129 National Total Mobilization Law (1938) (Japan) 100 ordinances 115, 117–​121, 123 Peace Preservation Law (1925) (Japan) 96 State Organization Law (1932) (Manchukuo) 114 League of Nations 114 Lebbe, Vincent 194 Li Hongzhang 15, 28, 190 Li Hongzhi 186 Li Shiyu 131 Li Zhongsan (Filial Li) 164, 175–​180, 181–​182 Liang Shuming 68 Lin, Alfred H.Y. 149 Ling Chunsheng 69–​71 Liu Guoping 184 Liu Lisan 167–​168 Liu Shaoji 134–​135 Los Angeles, earthquake 159–​160 Luckmann, Thomas 213, 215 Luo Zhenyu 121 Lüshun Technological University 72 Luther, Martin 6 Ma Kaishan 27 Ma Qingshan 182, 183 Ma Shiwei 134 MacKenzie, Alexander 52

245 Makdisi, Ussama 8 Malinowski, Bronislaw 67, 71 Manchukuo, creation of 3–​5 Manchukuo Press Association 100 Manchuria Christian College 72 Manchuria Daily News (Mannichi) 89–​90, 95–​96, 97 Manchurian Revival 46, 48, 53–61, 56 mandate of Gaspais 206 Mantetsu see South Manchuria Railway Mao Zedong 76 maps Catholic missions (c. 1889) 33 Protestant mission stations (1919) 55 Xinjing showing location of Filial Tomb 175 Marella, Paolo 187, 205, 207–​208 martial arts 44–​45 martyrdom 36–​37 Marx, Karl 6, 7, 76 Maryknoll (Catholic Foreign Mission Society of America) 199, 202, 204 mass media 12, 86–​87, 211 1906–​1924 91–​95 1925–​1935 95–​100 1936–​1944 100–​106 foreign language 97–​98 and religion 98–​100, 101–​106 see also Shengjing Times Masuzawa, Tomoko 9 Matsui Ryoon 77–​78 Matsumoto Junichiro 65 Maximum illud (Benedict XV) (1919) 193 May Fourth Movement 133, 161 medicine, and missions 52–​53 MEP (Missions Etrangères de Paris) 31–​34, 31, 188–​192, 198–​202 migration 19, 24–​28, 201–​202 Military Cenotaph 125 Ming dynasty 22–​23 and charity 141 and regulation of religion 109–​110 miracles 37–​38, 59–​61, 59n. 79, 172 and Catholic Church 185 filial 102, 178, 179, 180 missionaries 215 Christian 7–​8, 30–​31, 141, 162, 211 and education 50–​52, 72 see also individual mission societies; Manchurian Revival

246

246

Index

Missions étrangères de Paris (MEP) 31–​34, 31 Miura Kanki 88 monuments, to war dead 124, 125, 128 moral exemplars 122–​123, 165–​167 see also filial sons; filial tombs moral regeneration 140–​141 Morality Society (Daode hui) and Filial Li 176, 177 media portrayal 99 Morality Study Society 134 Morality Teaching (Dejiao) 134 Mott, John 140 Moukden Medical College 72 Nakano Seiichi 79 Nakashima Masao 87–​91, 96, 106 Nakaya Takafumi 128 Nanjing charities 148, 149, 163 massacre 160 National Foundation Temples ​123 National Foundation University 72, 74–​79, 75, 76 National Total Mobilization Law (1938) (Japan) 100 nationalism 12, 159, 193–​194, 213 nationhood 66 native/​national Christianity 208–​209 natural disasters 146n. 38, 216–​218 New Life Movement 111, 121, 195 “new religion,” and essay in Shengjing Times 93 new religious movements 118–​119 Japan 127 and philanthropy 131–​133 and republican China 133–​139 see also individual religions newspapers see mass media; Shengjing Times normative interaction between law and religion 109 Northeast University 73–​74 O’Connell, William Henry 197 Ogasawara Shōzō 83 Okumura Yoshinobu 78 Ōmachi Tokuzō 78, 79–​82, 82n. 47 Ōmotokyō (Teaching of the Great Source) movement, Japan 127, 150–​151, 153–​156, 157 “On the Relationship between Morality and Science” (Shengjing Times) 93 O’Neill, F. W. S. 42, 51

ordinances, legal 115, 117–​121, 123 orthodoxy 169n. 7, 185–​186 orthopraxy 168–​169, 185–​186 Osouf, Pierre-​Marie 191 Ownby, David 132 Ōyama Hikoichi 78 Pacelli, Eugenio (future Pius XII) 187, 205, 206 Palmer, David 132 Park, Robert 68 Peace Preservation Law (1925) (Japan) 96 People’s Republic of China, and filial tombs 181–​182 Petrelli, Joseph 190, 196 philosophy, moral 21 Philosophy (magazine) 138–​139, 143 pillarization see discourse communities Pius XI 187, 193, 194, 197 Pius XII see Pacelli, Eugenio plague 142 Pluries instanterque (Propaganda Fide) (1936) 208 poem (Jiang Xizhang) 140 Polar Singularity see Scripture of the Polar Singularity policy, ethnicity 9–​10 Popular Religions in Shandong (Lu Yao) 131 population, and migration  24–​28 practice, religious 11–​12 Presbyterians 54 Danish 39 Irish Presbyterian Mission 39–​40 United Presbyterian Church of Scotland 39–​40, 40 Primordial Chaos Sect 27, 46 Propaganda Fide 207, 208 property, religious 119–​121 proscriptive interaction between law and religion 109 protection from violence 28 Protestant missions 7–​8, 39–​43, 47, 51–​53, 55, 214 Pruitt, Ida 25 Public Religion in the Modern World (Casanova) 211, 213 Puyi, Emperor 16, 101 Qiao Shufen 181 qigong 186 Qin Chongshan 183 Qin Zhongyuan 176

247

Index Qing dynasty 1, 14–​15, 23–​24 Qiying 189 race, paired with religion 82–​83 Ragsdale, Kathryn 87 railways 15, 17 and the Boxer Uprising 47 China Eastern Railway 151–​152 rain, miracles 60 Red Cross Chinese 150 Japanese 143, 158–​159 Manchukuo 158–​159 Red Lanterns 45 redemptive societies 132, 162 religion, defined 5–​8, 9 “Religion will save the nation” 204 religious freedom 127, 128–​129, 133 “Religious persons law” (1954) (Japan) 129 Rerum ecclesiae (Pius XI) 193 revealed efficacy 61 Revival, Manchurian 53–​61 revivalism 55–​57 Revive Fengtian Sagely Way Goodness Study Society 119 Rites Controversy 194 ritual bowing ceremonies 95, 105 graveside piety 164–​170 national 123 native practice 194 spirit writing 134–​139 state/​political 195–​198, 206–​209 ritual space 123 Robertson, D. T. 54 Rongjia wanzi 175, 178, 179 Ross, John 41, 42–​43 Roubin, Father 60 Ruan Zhenduo 177 Russia 15 and the Boxer Uprising 47 Russo-​Japanese War 142, 143 sacralization 215 St. Nikolas Orthodox church (Harbin) 10 Saitō Makoto 192 Sakuta Sōichi 75 Scripture of the Polar Singularity 135–​136, 137 Second Vatican Council 209 secrecy, religious 61 secret societies 131, 149 sects 26–​28, 45–​46, 93–​94 secularization 213–​214

247 security, and religious movements 118–​119 shamanism 22, 70, 78–​79 Shanghai, Japanese assault 159 shantang 141–​142, 149 Shao Yong 177 Shek, Richard 28–​29 Shengjing Times 85–​86, 87–​91, 106–​107 1906–​1924 91–​95 1925–​1935 95–​100, 157 1936–​1944 101–​106 and Filial Li 178–​179 on religion 100, 101–​106, 157 on WRSS 152–​153 Shenyang cathedral 45 Moukden Medical College 72 Shi Lixue 184 Shintō 79, 215 media portrayal 99–​100, 104–​105 shrines 81–​82, 83, 165–​166 shrines 80–​82 national foundation 123–​124 Yakusuni 105, 128, 197 Shuntian Times 88–​89 Sichuan, and the WRSS 160 silos see discourse communities “Single Heart Hall” 134 Sino-​Japanese War and charities 142 Smith, Jonathan Z. 6 Smith, Wilfred Cantwell 6 social education 121–​122 social reform, and the Shengjing Times 1906–​1924 91–​95 social science 211 China 67–​71 Japan 63–​67 and social reform 67–​71 Social Survey Movement 65, 68 societies, religious 26–​28 sociology Japan 64, 65–​66 religious 213 Sophia University incident 197–​198 soup kitchens Beijing 147, 147 Chahar 147 Harbin 147 South Manchuria Railway 2, 15, 95–​97, 106 Southern Manchuria Medical University 72 Southern Manchuria Railway Engineering School 72 Souvignet, Régis 35–​36 Soviet Union see Russia

248

248

Index

specialization, social 213–​214 spirit writing 134–​139, 155 spiritual engineering 18, 185 spiritualism 133 Spreading Welfare Society 158–​159 Stark, Rodney 58 State Organization Law (1932) (Manchukuo) 114 state religion, creation of 121–​124 state ritual 195–​198, 206–​209 structural functionalism 71, 83 suffering 30 of Catholics 35–​38 Sun Dianyun 122 Sun Qichang 156, 158–​159, 176, 177–​178, 180 Sun Yat-​sen 9, 76, 97 superstition 10 anti-​ 91, 160 Supreme Court 115, 124–​126, 127 surveys of religions 117–​118 Sushuang 150–​151 Suzuki Eitaro 77 synods 1924 197 1934 206–​207 Taguchi, Paul Yoshigoro 204 Takata Yasuma 66, 71, 78, 79 Takayanagi, General 100 Takebe Tongo 65 Tang Yangdu 160 Tang Yulin 155 Teaching of the Abiding Principle 27–​29, 93–​94, 134 uprising 35 Teaching of the Great Source see Ōmotokyō movement Teaching of Yellow Heaven 94, 133 teachings, religious, and Han migration 26–​28 Temple of Filial Power 181 Temples of National Foundation 124–​125 “Temporary Regulations for Temples and Missionaries” 119 Ter Har, Barend 132 Terada Go 75–​76 Tertullian 36–​37 Three People’s Principles 195, 204 Tieling 46 Toda Teizō 65 Tongkenhe, miracle 60 Tongshanshe see United Benevolence Society Torii Ryūzō 64–​65

Toyama Shōichi 65 Toyotomi Hideyoshi 112 transformative interaction between law and religion 109 Treaty of Tianjin (1858) 32 Tsuboi Shōgorō 64 Tsuji Masanobu 78 Twenty-​Four Exemplars of Filial Piety, The 170 Twenty-​One Demands 97 Uchida Ryōhei 151, 154–​156 Ueda Tsunekichi 77 Ueno Iwataro 89 United Benevolence Society 131, 134 Tongshanshe Charity Hospital 142, 144 United Presbyterian Church of Scotland 39–​40, 40 United Righteous Fists 46 United Six Fists 46 United States influence 67–​68 and the Los Angeles earthquake 159–​160 Unity Society (Kyōwakai) 157 Universal Love and Brotherhood Association 151 universities 71–​77 Van der Veer, Peter 7 Vast Yang 94 Verrolles, Emmanuel-​Jean-​François 31–​32 village, as nation in microcosm 79–​81 violence against Christians 34–​38 Boxer Uprising 43–​47 Völkerkunde 71 Wang Guowei 90 Wang Jingwei 74, 205 Wang Mengxing see Filial Wang Wang Yiting 148–​149 Wang Yongjiang 73 Wang Zhuanye 180 Wang Ziya 45 Watson, James 169 Way of Penetrating Unity 134 Weber, Eugen 86–​87 Weber, Max 6, 7 Western influence 9–​11 social science 63, 67–​68 White Cloud Temple 127 White Lotus Teaching 132

249

Index

249

World Red Swastika Society see Daoyuan-​World Red Swastika Society World Red Swastika Society and the Manchuria-​Mongolia  Independence Movement (Uchida) 154 World Religious Unification Society 140 world salvation 143–​144 WRSS see Daoyuan-​World Red Swastika Society (WRSS) Wu Fusen 134–​135 Wu Wenzao 68, 71

Yiguandao see Way of Penetrating Unity Yingkou and the Boxer Uprising 44 Catholic church burning 35 and the Manchuria Daily 89–​90 Yoneda Shotaro 66 Young, Louise 2, 96n. 32 Yu Wu 167, 168 Yu Zhishan 156, 174 Yuan Shikai 133 Yuancheng 150–​151

Xi Qia 156 Xiajiadian culture 20 Xie Jieshi 205 Xu Shichang 144 Xu Shiguang 144

Zailijiao see Teaching of the Abiding Principle Zang Shiyi 174 Zhang Chunren 184 Zhang Haipeng 155, 156, 174 Zhang Jinghui 123, 156, 174 Zhang Shen (Blind Chang) 40–​41, 57 Zhang Xueliang 73–​74 Zhang Yingchun 182 Zhang Zuolin 15, 73, 91 Zheng, Sister 168 Zheng Xiaoxu 101, 121, 123, 180 Zhili, flooding 146 Zhou Zuoren 72

Yakusuni shrine 105, 128, 197 Yan Shiqing 171 Yanagita Kunio 66–​67, 71, 72, 79 Yang, C.K. 68 Yang Zemin 182–​183 Yantai, and the WRSS 147–​148 Yellow Yang 94 Yen, James 68

250