The Invention of Religion in Japan 9780226412351

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The Invention of Religion in Japan

The Invention of Religion in Japan

¯ NANDA JOSEPHSON JASON A

The University of Chicago Press

Chicago and London

¯ NANDA JOSEPHSON is assistant professor of religion at JASON A Williams College. The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637 The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London © 2012 by The University of Chicago All rights reserved. Published 2012. Printed in the United States of America 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12

1 2 3 4 5

ISBN-13: 978-0-226-41233-7 (cloth) ISBN-13: 978-0-226-41234-4 (paper) ISBN-13: 978-0-226-41235-1 (e-book) ISBN-10: 0-226-41233-4 (cloth) ISBN-10: 0-226-41234-2 (paper) ISBN-10: 0-226-41235-0 (e-book) The University of Chicago Press gratefully acknowledges the generous support of the Office of the Dean of Faculty at Williams College toward the publication of this book. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Josephson, Jason Ananda. The invention of religion in Japan / Jason Ananda Josephson. pages ; cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN-13: 978-0-226-41233-7 (cloth : alkaline paper) ISBN-10: 0-226-41233-4 (cloth : alkaline paper) ISBN-13: 978-0-226-41234-4 (paperback : alkaline paper) ISBN-10: 0-226-41234-2 (paperback : alkaline paper)

1. Religion

and state—Japan—History—19th century. 2. Japan—Religion— History—19th century. 3. Japan—History—Meiji period, 1868—1912. I. Title. BL2207.3.J67 2012 322′. 1095209034—dc23 2012003656 This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48–1992 (Permanence of Paper).

Contents Preface and Acknowledgments ix A Note on Texts and Translations xiii

Introduction

1

The Advent of Religion in Japan 2 Obscure Obstacles 5 Unlearning Shu¯kyo¯ 6 Unlearning “Religion” 8 Overview of the Work 18

1

The Marks of Heresy: Organizing Difference in Premodern Japan

22

Difference Denied: Hierarchical Inclusion 24 Strange Aberrations: Exclusive Similarity 29 Hunting Heretics 39

2

Heretical Anthropology

43

Contested Silences: Two Versions of the Acts of the Saints 46 Demonic Dharma 49 Japanese Heretics and Pagans 58

3

The Arrival of Religion Negotiating “Religion” 71 Taxonomy and Translation: Category in the Webs of Meaning 74 Unreasonable Demands 78

71

4

The Science of the Gods

94

Shinto as a “Nonreligion” 94 The Way of the Gods 98 Celestial Archeology: The Advent of European Science in Japan 102 The Science of the Gods: Philology and Cosmology 109 Ritual Therapeutics for the Body of the Nation 117 The Gods of Science 125 From Miraculous Revolution to Mechanistic Cosmos 130

5

Formations of the Shinto Secular

132

Secularism Revisited 135 Hygienic Modernity and the World of Reality 139 Secular Apotheosis 148

6

Taming Demons

164

The Demons of Modernity 164 Restraining the Wild 168 Monstrous Gods 173 Evil Cults 177 Disciplining Buddhism, Expelling Christianity 186

7

Inventing Japanese Religion

192

Religion in Japanese International Missions 196 Controlling the Heart: Debating the Role of Religion in the Modern State 205 Inventing “Japanese Religions” 220

8

Religion within the Limits Internal Convictions 226 External Controls 236 The Birth of Religious Studies in Japan 245

224

Conclusion The Invention of Superstition 252 The Invention of the Secular 254 The Invention of Religion 255 The Third Term 259 Postscript 262

Appendix: Religion Explained 263 Notes 265 Character Glossary 331 References 345 Index 381

251

Preface and Acknowledgments This monograph was born in Oxford in the depths of the Bodleian Japanese Library, where I came across a book by a Meiji-era Japanese Buddhist reformer, popularly nicknamed Doctor Monster (Yo¯kai hakase) for his public ghostbusting efforts. In this text, Doctor Monster repeatedly makes the argument that Buddhism is a religion. This troubled me; it seemed odd that an important Japanese thinker would have bothered going to such lengths to justify a truism. At first I thought I was making some basic error in translation. Then I began to wonder how representative this argument was and whether it might merely be the intellectual quirk of a noted eccentric. But anyone who felt compelled to argue, step by step, that Buddhism was a religion presumably thought that some of his readers needed convincing. Had Japanese people thought that Buddhism was something other than a religion? I started trying to answer that question. Further browsing in Meiji-era Japanese texts raised more problems than it solved. Some thinkers argued that there were no proper religions in Japan, others that there were hundreds of religions in Japan. Some argued that Shinto was not religion but statecraft, that Confucianism was not religion but ethics, or that Buddhism in toto was nothing more than a failed politics or a backward superstition. I knew that there had been no consensus in the nineteenth century about how to translate the English term “religion” into Japanese, and I wondered if this had not complicated ix

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the matter. The Japanese government ultimately intervened to help define religion and separate it out from superstition, and also, oddly, to distinguish it from certain forms of Shinto. It struck me that the category “religion” was in play in the period and that its relation to indigenous traditions was far from fi xed. I became convinced that figuring out how this term “religion” worked in the Meiji period and how it was distinguished from science and superstition was essential to understanding Japanese Buddhism, Shinto, and Confucianism. This was true not just in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. It seemed necessary to work out how “religion” had been formulated in Meiji Japan to avoid anachronistically projecting contemporary intellectual structures back into Japanese history. The problem metastasized when I discovered that the predominant Japanese translation for “religion,” shu¯kyo¯ (a functional neologism), had been exported to China and Korea, becoming the dominant term for “religion” in those places as well. In the process, Japanese interpretations of “religion” influenced the conceptual reorganization of national traditions across the region. Untangling the conceptual knot around Meiji shu¯kyo¯ seemed necessary for understanding any East Asian “religion.” Perhaps not surprisingly, this trail led me to the complex intersections of the various threads of modernity—not simply between “religion,” “science,” “superstition,” and the politics of the nation-state, but less obvious connections such as that between science and the birth of the novel.

I have benefited from conversations about the book with people all over the globe. Lacking space to thank everyone by name, I will try and gesture at the institutions where I have spent time. I would like to thank friends, colleagues, librarians, and teachers at Oxford (St. Antony’s College); Harvard, Stanford, and Princeton; École Française d’ExtrêmeOrient (Paris and Kyoto); Ruhr Universität; the National Diet Library in Tokyo; and Williams College. I also benefited from feedback by participants at talks I gave at the International Association of Buddhist Studies (London, 2005), the American Academy of Religion (Washington DC, 2006), Boston University (2007), Indiana University–Bloomington (2007), Asian Studies Association Japan (Tokyo, 2008), the Association for Asian Studies (Chicago, 2009), Smith College (2009), University of Wisconsin–Madison (2010), and Columbia University (2010). x

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Research in Japan and Europe was made possible by support from the Benson Fellowship, Stanford Center for East Asian Studies, Hellman Family, World Travel Fellowship, Käte Hamburger Kolleg, Dynamiken der Religionsgeschichte, and the generous support of Williams College. I would like to thank my mentors—Carl Bielefeldt, Bernard Faure, and Helen Hardacre—who have been my guiding lights for many years and without whose support the book would not exist. For the tedious work of written feedback on early drafts or individual chapters or providing key sources, thanks go to Micah Auerback, Christopher Bolton, John Breen, Candice Cusack, Rebecca Davis, Peter Duus, Healan Gaston, Will Hansen, Jackie Hidalgo, Andrew Jewett, Neil Kubler, Levi McLaughlin, Keith McPartland, Okada Masahiko, Okajima Hidetaka, Makino Yasuko, Jon Pahl, Anne Reinhardt, Sango Asuka, Lee Schmidt, Eiko Siniawer, Jackie Stone, Jang Sukman, Stephen Teiser, and Michael Zimmerman. My appreciation also goes to Alan Thomas and the staff at the University of Chicago Press for their encouragement and help seeing this book into print and to Emily Ho for preparing the index. The book would have been very different without the help of detailed comments from my anonymous reader, my formerly anonymous reader—Sarah Thal—and a small group of folks who read and commented on the penultimate version: Denise Buell, Eleanor Goodman, Hans Martin Krämer, and Christian Thorne. I will always be in their debt. Thanks are due to Dalena Frost for her compassion, support and constant inspiration. I would also like to thank the late Jacques Derrida, who suggested that I look to Japanese law codes to answer my research question. This book is dedicated to my parents. Fubo no on wa yama yori mo takaku.

xi

A Note on Texts and Translations All translations from Japanese, Chinese, French, German, Dutch, Norwegian, Spanish, Portuguese, and Italian are my own unless otherwise noted. For transliteration of Japanese I have followed the Hepburn system, for Russian I have used the ALA-LC Romanization system, for Chinese I have used Pinyin, and for Korean McCune-Reischauer (excepting terms that have come into common English usage, such as “Tokyo,” for example). Japanese names in the text are presented in Japanese order—surname followed by given name. The norm when writing about premodern Japanese figures is often to refer to them by their given name. However, since the project bridges modern and premodern periods, for the sake of consistency the family name will be used instead for all.

xiii

Introduction On July 8, 1853, American warships appeared off the coast of Japan. As they were well aware, this was a direct violation of Japanese law. Still, the Americans ignored warning shots fired by cannons mounted in the bay and repulsed Japanese boarding parties with threats and brandished weapons.1 Ready to cause an international incident if necessary, they pointed their new Paixhans canons at targets in Uraga Harbor and made signs that they wanted to parley with the local officials.2 As Toda Ujiyoshi, the Japanese magistrate of the city of Uraga, soon discovered, the Americans were refusing to leave unless a pair of letters were delivered to the Japanese emperor. “Religion” appears twice in the official communications brought by the Americans, both times to assure the Japanese that the United States had no interest in violating the country’s centuries-old prohibition of Christianity.3 But on this point the Americans were not being truthful.4 When Japanese translators encountered the term “religion,” they had no idea what it meant.5 They produced multiple versions of the American letters, rendering “religion” with a range of terms, each of which implied something radically different.6 No word then existed in the Japanese language equivalent to the English term or covering anything close to the same range of meanings.7 This book will explore that conceptual disjunction, and the result: the process by which Japanese officials, when confronted with the Western concept in a moment of political crisis, invented religion in Japan.8

1

INTRODUCTION

The Advent of Religion in Japan Religion is based on the essential difference between man and beast—the beasts have no religion. LU DW I G FEU ER BACH , DA S W E SEN D E S CH R IS T EN T H U MS , 18 41

Religion is intimate prayer and deliverance. It is so inherent in man that he could not rip it from his heart, without being condemned to separate himself from himself and to kill that which constitutes in him, his humanity. A U G U S T E S A B AT I E R , E S Q U I S S E D ’ U N E P H I LO S O P H I E D E L A R E L I G I O N D ’A P R È S L A P S YC H O LO G I E E T L’ H I S T O I R E , 1 8 9 7

Religion has generally been considered to be a universal aspect of human experience found in all cultures. Indeed, the most influential philosophers (Kant, Heidegger, Rorty), sociologists (Durkheim, Weber, Bourdieu, Habermas), and anthropologists (Geertz, Lévi-Strauss, Murdock) of the last two hundred years seem to have largely taken religion for granted as a cultural universal, individual atheists or nonbelievers notwithstanding.9 First and foremost, I want to challenge this presuppostion, which still permeates the modern academy, by demonstrating that in Japan “religion” had to be invented. For these “universalists,” as well as scholars of Japanese religion and Japanese history, the chapters that follow rethink the very concept of “Japanese religions” by demonstrating that the category is historically conditioned and was consciously formulated to meet political ends. My point is not that words have etymologies but that the emplacement of certain categories transforms their members in demonstrable ways. As I show, defining religion in Japan was a politically charged, boundarydrawing exercise that extensively reclassified the inherited materials of Buddhism, Confucianism, and Shinto. All three traditions were radically changed in a way that has only recently begun attracting scholarly attention. We cannot presume a stable content for “Japanese religions” in this time period, let alone continuity over time. Thus, the book works to call into question concept of “Japanese religions.” In so doing, it will undermine the contention that religion is a natural category or a cultural universal. While the universality of religion tends to be taken as a given in most academic departments, almost fifty years ago, Wilfred Cantwell Smith criticized essentialist approaches to religious studies, arguing that the term “religion” was of dubious usefulness.10 Although it took quite a while for these criticisms to gain traction, beginning particularly in the last twenty years, a diverse array of scholars from Talal 2

INTRODUCTION

Asad and Jacques Derrida to Daniel Dubuisson, Timothy Fitzgerald, Jonathan Z. Smith, and Tomoko Masuzawa have all repeatedly demonstrated that religion is not a universal entity but a culturally specific category that took shape among Christian-influenced Euro-American intellectuals and missionaries.11 Building on this foundation, a further group of scholars have traced the European construction of various religions, from the British Discovery of Buddhism to the Jesuits’ Manufacturing Confucianism.12 In so doing, these scholars have called into question the very field of religious studies by showing that “religion” masks the globalization of particular Euro-American concerns, which have been presented as universal aspects of human experience. Although these genealogies of religion have been valuable for the discipline, they have in general focused almost exclusively on the writing of Europeans and Americans. Taken together, they have tended to foster the conception that “religion” attained international hegemony unilaterally and without resistance. Additionally, they have tended to ignore the other part of the equation—the other terms that were overwritten or produced in response to the globalization of the EuroAmerican “religion.” In a sense, they have been preoccupied with European etymology without tracing the other languages with which it has intersected. A side effect of this scholarship has often been to deny agency to very colonial subjects it was trying to empower. This book contests the narrative that understands modernity to be simply the product of Euro-American culture exported to an imitative or passive “Asia.” It will recover the voices of non-Western cultures that were the object of that discourse. Compared to studies of, for instance, how the British invented Hinduism, this work is different in the sense that it is about how the Japanese invented religion in Japan. I will emphasize foreign pressures and international networks, but the main actors examined will be Japanese. Japanese intellectuals and policymakers were active participants in the formation of religion according to their own ideological agendas and programs of reform, agendas that could not help but shape European understandings of the subject. If religion is supposed to be hegemonic imposition, it seems an oversight to sidestep a larger body of postcolonial theory and ignore the manner in which religion took dominance. The new theorists of religion have generally seen the origins and the function of religion globally, in terms of the anthropological enterprise, or as a scholarly or theological category, often imposed colonially in some ill-defi ned sense.13 This is not wrong, but it misses that religion in its modern imposition is largely a diplomatic and legal category and not just an academic or ethnographic 3

INTRODUCTION

one.14 Japan got “religion” because it was imposed upon the nation in a treaty, not because European scholars cavalierly applied the term to a foreign context. While studying the intellectual history of religion is valuable, it is a mistake to ignore the way the category has been articulated as a legal and diplomatic term. Considered only as an academic descriptor favored by anthropologists and sociologists, the history of the category “religion” appears secular, but looked at internationally and diplomatically, “religion” and calls for “religious” freedom in nonWestern societies were a cover for Christian missionary activity. It was simultaneously secular and Christianizing in different registers. Furthermore, in legally defining a cultural system as religion, that cultural system is then placed in free competition with Christianity. Equally importantly, defining something as not a religion—as a “superstition”—means that it can be purged or that the culture that sponsors it can be colonized. Asad has argued that the modern formation of religion produces a subjectivity distinguished from politics—a profound and private inwardness—but the matter is even worse than he thought, because religion turns out to be a rather odd kind of subjectivity. Even the most radical guarantees of freedom of conscience only demarcate a narrow and bounded kind of belief: a private inwardness, but not all that broad in scope. One of the aims of this book is to extend this critical turn in religious studies by demonstrating how one non-Western nation made the discourse of “religion” its own. In Japan, the concept of religion had to be actively indigenized, and furthermore, this indigenization was undertaken largely by a centralizing government determined to reconfigure the internal constitution of the nation and to shore up its standing in the world. Looking at the formation of religion in Japan not only reveals its global diplomatic contours but also shows how the discourse of religion is woven into the fabric of modernity and how guarantees of religious toleration function to increase state power and to reconfigure entire cultural systems. The European concept of “religion” expanded in part as a Christian universalization, but in so doing, it assimilated diverse cultural systems, which had little to do with religion’s Christian formulation. The ecumenical assertion that all cultures have religions has caused the category to be expanded beyond bounds that could reasonably be defended.15 The importation of Japanese and other non-Western traditions and interpretations into religion have already begun to undermine the category and produce the conditions by which a genealogical critique could be formulated. Put differently, the genealogical enterprise 4

INTRODUCTION

of Asad and company became “thinkable,” (in Bourdieu’s sense of the term), because the category of religion had already begun to crumble. In investigating the formation of the category of religion, this book will also make a contribution to a set of debates about its entangled categories. Asad has argued that the genealogy of religion must be considered in light of the formation the secular.16 Serge Margel and others have emphasized the emergence of a bifurcation between religion and superstition.17 On top of this, Michel de Certeau and others have noted that science defines itself in opposition to superstition.18 To some extent, I think all of these scholars are right, but they have each only captured part of the system. Where they see binary operations, I see a trinary formation in which the “real” (or in its political form, the “secular”) is negated by “superstition,” which is in turn negated by “religion.” I will explore not only the genealogy of religion in Japan, but also the entangled genealogies of the secular and superstition. Drawing on a wide range of historical materials, I trace the sweeping changes—intellectual, legal, and cultural—brought about by the construction of the category of religion in nineteenth-century Japan. These developments reflect back onto the global discourse of religion, such that the political goals of Japanese state officials have shaped, in subtle but significant ways, our own understanding of that concept today. I demonstrate that while the discourse of religion emerged in the context of Western Christendom, it is no longer exclusively Western in its current formulations. Rather, the concept was reformulated in the interstices, the international—in the spaces between nations and cultures. Today “religion” is no straightforward reflection of Western dominance, though certainly responsive to its imperatives; it is instead a transnational product of contested asymmetries of power.

Obscure Obstacles Everybody who has visited Japan since Xavier first set his foot upon it agrees up to a certain point, and then all becomes vague and obscure. W I L L I A M B L AC K W O O D, “ P O L I T I C A L T R AG E D I E S I N J A PA N ,” 18 6 2

Sometimes in order to advance, to gain knowledge of a subject, we have to forget what we think we know. Thomas Kuhn writes, scientific progress requires us to unlearn “the thought patterns induced by experience and prior training.”19 In other words, we must recognize and overcome what Gaston Bachelard refers to as “obstacle épistémologique,” that is, those mental structures and assumed truths that unconsciously 5

INTRODUCTION

shape our understanding of a subject. 20 As Paolo Rossi argues, these “obstacles” obscure breaks and discontinuities in our historiography.21 Particularly damning in both Bachelard and Rossi’s assessments is the false notion of continuity derived from language itself.22 We tend to assume when we see the same term over different periods of history that the same conceptual structures are implied.23 But a word can have radically different meanings in different historical moments, and its reoccurrence in different periods can mask fractures, ruptures, and important shifts. As articulated by Nietzsche and subsequently by Foucault, we sometimes need to adopt a genealogical method, treating a concept not as an “essence” preserved in perpetuity, but instead tracking discontinuities and transformations. Let us begin in this chapter by unlearning the terms shu¯kyo¯ and “religion.” For readers who are still unconvinced—for anyone who thinks—that religion is a universal, found in every society or among all peoples, the following genealogies will expose some of the term’s discontinuities and aporias. For those already conversant with this genealogical turn, it will locate the discursive object—Japanese religions—in this narrative.

Unlearning Shu ¯ kyo ¯ A casual reader of the history of Japanese religion might believe that a version of this book’s argument has already been proposed and rejected by the discipline.24 Three chapters of The Ideology of Religious Studies (2000) by Timothy Fitzgerald were devoted to a discussion of the construction of religion in Japan. Isomae Jun’ichi, in Kindai Nihon no shu¯kyo¯ gensetsu to sono keifu (2003), also addresses the construction of religion in Japan, focusing particularly on the history of religious studies (shu¯kyo¯gaku) as a Japanese discipline.25 These books were not well received, but I think they were basically moves in the right direction, even though neither scholar had the whole argument in place.26 This book remedies their methodological deficiencies, provides new evidence from both a broader swath of Japanese history (1550–1945) and a broader set of sources (including Japanese, Chinese, and a host of European languages), and it extends the argument beyond religion to its entangled categories.27 It also addresses what critics have described as Isomae’s and Fitzgerald’s greatest weakness. Responding to both Fitzgerald and Isomae, Ian Reader has argued that the Japanese already had something analogous to a concept of re6

INTRODUCTION

ligion ready at hand in the early nineteenth century. The crux of the debate is about continuities in the Sino-Japanese term shu¯kyo¯ (Chinese [Ch.], zongjiao; Korean [Ko.], chonggyo), which was popularized in Japan in the 1870s as a translation for the Euro-American “religion” and was then exported throughout East Asia. Shu¯kyo¯ is a compound of two characters, shu¯ and kyo¯.28 The character shu¯ (Ch., zong) had long been used to mean “sect,” “lineage,” or “principle,” while the character kyo¯ (also pronounced oshie; Ch., jiao) refers to “teaching” or “teachings.” In Confucian discourse the paradigmatic case of oshie was from ruler to subjects.29 By the time the word reached Japan, oshie was used in a broad sense to cover not only pedagogy but also systematic knowledge in general. Shu¯kyo¯ was a qualification and transformation of part of the old meaning of oshie. Thus, shu¯kyo¯ could mean the “teachings of a sect” or “the principles of the teachings.” These characters had occurred together in the premodern period but only rarely and in reference to textualized Buddhist traditions; much of the current debate concerns the connection between modern and early usages of this term.30 According to Reader and his associate Michael Pye, there is a significant continuity of usage between this premodern Sino-Japanese terminology and the modern concept of religion.31 They argued that the Japanese term shu¯kyo¯ was a natural translation for the Euro-American concept of religion. This indigenous concept of shu¯kyo¯ was supposed to tie “together the notions of an organisation or institutional identity (shu¯, sect/school) and a set of teachings (kyo¯) specific to it,” and was supposedly equivalent to the meaning of “religion.”32 Reader’s main evidence for this terminological continuity and its meaning rests on Michael Pye’s assertion that not only did Japan have an indigenous concept of “religion,” it also had independently developed its own Religionswissenschaft in the early modern period.33 Michael Pye has argued that the academic study of religion in Japan was initiated by an Osaka-based intellectual Tominaga Nakamoto (1715–1746).34 Although I would also agree with Pye that there were indigenous precedents for studying Buddhism that later came to inform the Japanese conversation about religion, I think his conclusions are fundamentally incorrect. The lynchpin in Pye’s argument is a single sentence in Tominaga’s critical appraisal of Buddhism, Discourse after Emerging from Meditation (Shutsujo¯ ko¯go), in which the characters nishu¯kyo¯ make an appearance. Although provocative, Pye’s translation of this as “two religions” seems far-fetched upon inspection of the sources, which clearly indicate that Tominaga is discussing Manichean dualism. Hence, a more likely translation would be “the teachings of two principles,” ba7

INTRODUCTION

sically, instead of ni shu¯kyo¯ we have nishu¯ kyo¯.35 Shu¯kyo¯ does not appear as an independent noun. Behind Pye’s project is an assumption that anyone discussing the three teachings as independent objects must be discussing three religions.36 The evidence I will provide in this book goes against this claim. For more than thirty years after Perry’s arrival, Japanese intellectuals grappled with the concept of religion. As will be discussed in chapters 3 and 7, they produced different translation terms, each of which seemed to imply a different object: a type of education, something unknowable, a set of practices, a description of foreign customs, a form of politics, a kind of Shinto, a near synonym for Christianity, a basic human impulse. That other terms with very different meaning were equally in play suggests it was far from clear what analogs existed for the Western concept. Not only did Japanese intellectuals and translators produce different terms for religion, they also debated which indigenous traditions and practices fit into the category. If religion was the genus, there were no native species on which taxonomists could agree. This is clear evidence that it is glib to talk of Japanese religion projected back through the centuries. Finally and most crucially, even if shu¯kyo¯ referred to the combination of an organization and a set of teachings or doctrines in the premodern period (which I dispute), this was not the Western definition of religion in the nineteenth century and it is not the definition of religion today. The following section will clarify what I mean.

Unlearning “Religion” If you take dictionaries seriously, the meaning of the word “religion” has been undergoing a sea change over roughly the last thirty years. Many dictionaries written in this period in English, French, Italian, and German show a similar pattern: older editions of these works, such as the Le Petit Larousse that I had as a child, define “religion” as the worship of God or gods, while the more recent versions of these dictionaries have terms such as the supernatural or the sacred supplementing or standing in for the deity.37 This global cultural shift seems to originate in the very gradual recognition that not all the cultural systems conventionally grouped under the category “religion” worship God. While dictionaries only conservatively track language change, this recent transformation in the meaning of religion is nontrivial and suggests both a secularization and radical broadening of the definition. The 8

INTRODUCTION

presence or absence of God is a critical difference. This shift, which I call the transition from a theocentric to a hierocentric definition of religion, is utterly minor compared to the changes that the term “religion” has undergone in a somewhat longer span, say, the last few hundred years. The word “religion” is a fundamentally Eurocentric term that always functions, no matter how well disguised, to describe a perceived similarity to European Christianity. The hierocentric definition is merely a displaced theocentrism. This is conceptually dangerous, because European Christianity has been in a constant state of flux and its features at any given moment have been projected onto other cultural systems in a distorting manner. Further, I am not arguing that the phenomena generally described as “religious” did not exist before the modern period, but instead (in a Foucauldian vein) that they did not exist in the same aggregate form that has come to define current uses of the term. On even a cursory analysis, the similarity of the words for “religion” in contemporary European languages is striking (German [Ger.], Religion; Dutch [Du.], religie; French [Fr.], religion; Italian [It.], religione; Spanish [Sp.], religion; Portuguese [Pg.], religião; Romanian, religia; Polish, religia; Russian, религия, religiia). This parallel vocabulary demonstrates the terms’ shared philology. Still, I will argue that at present there are at least two fundamentally different ways of thinking about religion in the Euro-American world. One is a secularized and globalized concept rooted in the sense that religion represents a discrete aspect of human experience. The other is an older but still modern definition that is implicitly theological and rooted in the assumption that a monotheistic divinity has revealed religion to different cultures. Although I do not wish to present a false sense of uniformity, for present purposes what I call the hierocentric definition of religion is best summed up in the current edition of Larousse as “an established set of beliefs and tenets defining the relationship between man and the sacred.”38 This definition suggests that the special domain of religion is the sacred and that religion is rooted in propositions as an organized set of doctrines. While I think this defi nition is specious, not least because it rests on a false sacred-profane binary, many scholars would accept this definition and see the sacred (or the transcendent) as the core of religion and as an irreducible dimension of human experience.39 This concept was not born in the last thirty years, but represents the culmination of two hundred years of sedimentation. It represents a partial de-Christianization of the category of religion, 9

INTRODUCTION

resulting from the importation of non-Western cultural systems into the category. Instead of buttressing the category, this definition is dangerously porous and does not provide sufficient diagnostic criteria for determining if something is a religion. In the case of Japan, this definition falls short. There is no native sacred-profane binary, and many of the cultural systems generally understood as “Japanese religions” are not founded on established beliefs for “defining the relationship between man and the sacred.”40 Against this definition we can set what I call the theocentric concept of religion. For our purposes it is best exemplified in the famous Encyclopédie (1751–1772), which stated that “the foundation of all religion is that there is a God who has dealings with his creatures and who requires them to worship him.”41 This text, often understood as helping birth the secular study of religion, nevertheless defines religion in theological terms. This theocentric definition of religion has held sway in some form from roughly the seventeenth until the twentieth century. We do not have to go back to the eighteenth century to find versions of this model; the German scholar Ernst Troeltsch (1865–1923) described religion as “flowing and alive, ever drawing on God through direct contact with him, utterly interior, personal, individual and abrupt.”42 Built into the theocentric understandings of religion is an explicit monotheism, which understands religion to be identical to the worship of God, personified in different cultural forms. Ernst Feil notes that few scholars today in the study of religion would accept Troeltsch’s definition.43 This definition is flawed in part because it so clearly parallels a Protestant understanding of religion as a personal relationship to God. According to that view, a monotheistic God, even if obscured or misunderstood, is at the center of religion. While it sounds generously ecumenical to suggest that the Japanese worship God in their own way, this does not accurately describe Japanese “religions.”44 Disguised in the language of tolerance, this definition is condescending and distorting because it assimilates diverse entities (like the Confucian “heaven” and the historical Buddha) under the banner of a Christian God.45 This was the definition that Perry and company literally carried with them to Japan, and we can see already why the Japanese had trouble finding an indigenous analog.46 Both modern theocentric and hierocentric concepts encompass the same traditions (Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, etc.). This is the case because the theocentric concept was central in producing the commonly accepted membership in the category. The identification of something as a “religion” was determined by the Euro-American at10

INTRODUCTION

tempt to recognize God’s role in different cultures. Therefore, it was precisely the idea that various traditions were modes of worshiping God that caused their inclusion in the category religion in the first place. While the hierocentric definition seems to represent a rejection of divine revelation in favor of the anthropological concept of the sacred, it inherited a cluster of “religions” based on the very principle that it ultimately rejected. Even once it discarded the old principle, the new definition was stuck with the preestablished list of religions, which was then used to generate a variety of vague commonalities necessary to formulate a new definition.47 Therefore, the contemporary hierocentric concept only makes sense because of its reliance on an older concept to which it is no longer officially committed. Similarly, the theocentric concept also relies on older layers. This book will trace these layers in reverse chronological order. In Japan: An Account (1852), a compendium of Western knowledge on Japan used by members of the Perry expedition, Charles MacFarlane paraphrases the remarks of a Dutch sailor who described the Japanese religious situation thusly: “There are twelve several [sic] religions in Japan, and eleven of them are forbidden to eat meat.”48 MacFarlane goes on concluded that the Japanese religious landscape consists of Buddhism and as many as thirty-four other religions or sects.49 While other accounts of the period were more succinct, the taxonomy of Japanese religions was a problem not only for MacFarlane but for scholars over the whole course of the Euro-American engagement with Japan. At stake was more than the enumeration of Japanese cultural institutions, but the whole enterprise of scholarly study of religion in general. This is because while the nineteenth century was particularly crucial in establishing the modern concept of religion, it did so in the face of vast classificatory enterprise as the modern conceptions of science, politics, and religion were only just being formulated and distinguished from each other.50 Central in the period’s conception of religion was the work of German scholar Friedrich Max Müller (1823–1900) who was instrumental in formulating a new discipline for the academic study of religion (Ger., Religionswissenschaft).51 While contemporary scholars tend to regard this as a secular approach to the topic, the theocentric definition of religion was still very much in place. Müller had introduced the “science of religion” by stating that “we can hear in all religions . . . a longing after the Infinite, a love of God.”52 This was not lost on Müller’s colleagues. William Elliot Griffis, one of the major historians of Japan and Japanese religions, argued that “the science of Comparative Religion is the direct offspring of the religion of Jesus. It 11

INTRODUCTION

is a distinctively Christian science.”53 As the scholarly objects of comparative religions were being formulated, Griffis and others like him were looking for discrete Japanese religions, understood as the worship of God in bounded systems of belief and practice. Given that the Japanese were strident in asserting that they did not worship a Christian God, this posed a large taxonomical problem, because it was difficult to identify how many different “religions” (understood in those terms) existed in Japan.54 Both Müller and Griffis had inherited a classificatory schema from the previous generation. The early nineteenth century saw the emergence of much of this terminology, including the formation of the terms Boudhism (1801), Hindooism (1829), Taouism (1839), Zoroastrianism (1854), and Confucianism (1862).55 This construction of “religions” was not merely the production of European translation terms, but the reification of systems of thought in a way strikingly divorced from their original cultural milieu. The original discovery of religions in different cultures was rooted in the assumption that each people had its own divine “revelation,” or at least its own parallel to Christianity.56 In the same period, however, European and American explorers often suggested that specific African or Native American tribes lacked religion altogether. Instead these groups were reputed to have only superstitions and as such they were seen as less than human.57 According to these explorers, superstitious peoples were uncivilized and thus could be colonized. Therefore, a lot was at stake in the application of this superstition-religion dichotomy. Only a handful of Western scholars had been to Japan before 1853, and the early-nineteenth-century scholarly conception of Japan was established by four men with unusual experiences: Vasiliı˘ Mikhaı˘lovich Golovnin (1776–1831), a Russian explorer who had been caught by the Japanese while exploring the island of Kunashiri and held captive for two years;58 Philipp Franz von Siebold (1796–1866), a German naturalist who had served as the resident physician at the Dutch East India Company outpost in Japan;59 Germain Meylan (1785–1831), a Dutch merchant who had been Siebold’s former superior in Japan;60 and Julius Heinrich (Jules Henri) Klaproth (1783–1835), a German expatriate based in France who had traveled in China and studied with Japanese castaways.61 These four individuals, publishing in Russian, German, Dutch, and French, provided the main sources for a whole generation of European and American writings on Japan. Their interpretations of Japanese religion varied considerably. While all four could agree on the existence of Buddhism, their con12

INTRODUCTION

ceptions were quite different. According to Golovnin, for example, “the prevailing religion of Japan is derived from India, as the Japanese themselves attest, and is a branch of the religion of the Bramins [sic].”62 In effect, Golovnin was arguing that the Japanese were basically Hindus, a view that was widely held into the nineteenth century.63 By contrast, Meylan argued that Buddhism (Boedsdo) was the name the Japanese gave to “to all religions [Du., Godsiensten] when they are imported from foreign countries.”64 In other words, Buddhism was not a specific bounded religion but a way to mark the cult of imported gods. While Siebold distinguished Buddhism from Hinduism, he believed that Buddhism was a form of “idolatrous” monotheism based in the worship of a supreme god who appeared in different manifestations.65 All of these representations of a theological Buddhism are important because they locate Japanese religion solidly in the theocentric concept of religion as the worship of God or gods. Similarly, while all four referred to Shinto, all but Klaproth argued that Shinto was Japan’s primordial religion and accordingly Japan’s original monotheism. As Meylan put it, Shinto was based in the worship of a supreme deity (Du., Oppermatig Wezen) who was not depicted directly but was implicit in mirrors that were supposed to reflect God’s all-seeing eye.66 This did not stop Klaproth and Siebold from having a well-publicized debate about whether Shinto was unique to Japan or whether it was merely Chinese Daoism. Nevertheless, this conception of Shinto emerged more from European preoccupations with urmonotheism than anything else. All four recognized what we would call Buddhism, Shinto, and Confucianism as the three main Japanese religions.67 However, in identifying these religions, they all falsely identified monotheisms or idolatries that reflect Christian concerns built into the category “religion” not endemic to Japan. Bizarrely, Meylan and Golovnin argued for the existence of a fourth religion. According to Meylan, there was a lost form of Japanese indigenous Christianity that predicted that a savior born of a virgin would redeem the world.68 This fit the popular idea that there was indeed a Christianity indigenous to Japan.69 This near consensus on the number of Japanese religions was less the result of personal observations than an inherited tripartite schema that structured their perceptions. The idea that there was a diversity of Japanese religions emerged from the writings of German naturalist Engelbert Kaempfer (1651– 1716).70 After spending two years in Japan, Kaempfer passed away before the fruits of his efforts made print. Fortunately, some of his notes 13

INTRODUCTION

were published postmortem in 1727.71 Appearing in the midst of an Enlightenment fascination with Asia, Kaempfer’s work went through multiple translations and editions, ending up in the hands of scholars such as Kant, Goethe, and Voltaire.72 For these thinkers, Japan came to represent an unusual site of religious pluralism, in part because of Kaempfer’s account, which articulated a model of Japanese religions that ultimately would determine the shape of the field. Kaempfer argued that the Japanese were unique in Asia, unrelated to the Chinese and instead descended from the “first Inhabitants of Babylon.”73 As befitting a group whose ancestors he believed had constructed the original Tower of Babel and given birth to the profusion of languages, the Japanese had also produced a plurality of cults. Accordingly, Kaempfer divided Japanese religion into four types: the original Babylonian idolatry known as “Sinto the old Religion or Idol worship,” “Budsdo The worship of foreign Idols,” “Siuto The Doctrine of their Moralists and Philosophers,” and a lost “Deivus or Kiristando is as much as to say the way of God and Christ whereby must be understood the Christian Religion.”74 In this language, we can see a transitional concept of religion emerging from a concept of idolatry. As will be discussed, to call something “idolatry” in the preceding centuries was to accuse it of being nothing more than an imitation or false religion. In Kaempfer’s writings, which were criticized by his contemporaries for being too positive, he had the temerity to suggest that forms of Japanese idolatry had some good qualities.75 His calls to take Japanese religion seriously were unique, but he was not the first person—even in English—to suggest that Japan had different forms of idolatry. One of the first popular English presentations of the tripartite schema of Japanese religions can be found in An Historical and Geographical Description of Formosa, an Island subject to the Emperor of Japan (1704).76 This work, which was reputed to have been produced by a native of Japanese-occupied Taiwan (Formosa) then living in England, dedicates a chapter to a comparison of Taiwanese and Japanese religions.77 Supposedly, there were at that time three kinds of Japanese religions: the first was dedicated to the worship of idols to which Japanese people sacrificed animals and even babies; the second was focused on the worship of one god in the form of the sun and moon; and a third was a form of atheism whose followers believed in no god but made sacrifices to propitiate various spirits and demons.78 Setting aside for the moment the role of sacrifice in the above example and the fact that Japan would not actually colonize Taiwan until 1895, it looks quite a bit like the model that Kaempfer would inherit. 14

INTRODUCTION

Unfortunately, An Historical and Geographical Description of Formosa turns out to have been written by George Psalmanazar (1679?–1763), who was not from Taiwan but was rather a European imposter and fraud.79 This did not stop his work from being popular, however, and it went through multiple editions and seems to have been widely regarded as factual for a time.80 It represented the beginnings of a popular tripartite schema in English, which Psalmanazar likely produced by lifting from descriptions of China rather than Japan. In this sense, the text is not radically different from the Latin account provided by Athanasius Kircher in China Illustrata (1667).81 To depart from European scholarship for a moment, the ultimate origin for this schema is likely the Chinese three teachings (sanjiao; Japanese [Jpn.], sankyo¯). This division of the Chinese cultural landscape into Buddhism, Confucianism, and Daoism was originally formulated in the Tang Dynasty (618–907) and then exported to Japan, where it was much later transformed into a reference to Japanese Buddhism, Confucianism, and later Shinto. Psalmanazar cavalierly applied a Chinese category to Japan that some Japanese were beginning to use domestically. With a crucial difference, in Chinese the three teachings did not refer to three religions, or three forms of idolatry for that matter, but instead represented the claim that different modes of discourse could describe a unitary reality.82 This list was lifted from its original context and deployed after Europeans had already begun to suspect that they had discovered a perplexing diversity of “cult” in East Asia. The idea of a multiplicity of Chinese and Japanese religions also expressed other contemporary European concerns. Very briefly, the idea of a plurality of harmoniously coexisting Chinese religions appealed to a Europe divided by Christian schism and suggested to some that agreeable religious pluralism was possible. Moreover, the idea of an elite Chinese Confucian tradition served at various points as the model for a secularized Enlightenment philosophy that could stand above Europe’s internal conflict. It became possible only in the seventeenth century for Japanese “religions” to appear on the European conceptual horizon, because it was then that Europeans first began to discuss multiple religions.83 This concept of plurality emerged organically in the late Middle Ages, during which a number of European scholars began to argue that there were various subtypes of the greater religion, which they divided into the classifications Christianity, “Mohametanism [sic],” Judaism, and idolatry (or paganism).84 But in its original formulation this list should not be mistaken for a list of four religions. It described one “right” way 15

INTRODUCTION

of relating to God (Christianity) and different types of false worship. Islam was generally understood as a heresy, and paganism was described as worship of demons or ghosts. Put differently, it was commonly believed that there was one divinely inspired religion and several demonically inspired imitations of religion, which were not truly “religions.” These categories were also entangled with conceptions of race in the same period, as the categories white and Christian became closely intermeshed. During the period of European expansion that began in the fifteenth century, the language of religion was deployed for the first time as a systematic way of interpreting non-European cultures. Yet these appearances of “religion” can be misleading as the meaning of the term was completely different. The standard European usage of “religion” (religio) was in reference to the performance of ritual obligations, especially as it was used to describe a state of life bound by monastic vows.85 Similarly, in the same period, the noun “the religious” referred to monks and nuns. It was this bounded, monastic sense that shaped the first use of the term “religion” in regard to non-European groups.86 Italian Jesuit Nicolò Lancilotto, in some of the earliest European accounts of Japan, discussed Japanese cultural practices in terms of “friars” (frati), “priests” (sacerdoti), and “monasteries” (monasterio). There was no Japanese religion in the abstract, only Japanese “religious” (religiosi)—what we would call clerics.87 Records of the earliest Jesuit encounter did not describe what we would call Japanese religions, but instead referred to demonic Japanese heretics who had built a parallel monastic establishment. These early anthropological encounters will be discussed in detail in chapter 2. For most of a thousand years, roughly from between the fifth and the fifteenth centuries, there was relatively little discussion of religion by Europeans in anything other than the monastic sense. Before the Jesuits, when Europeans first started writing recording reports of a distant Japan, they did not even imagine Japanese “religious”; instead. they imagined Japanese idolatry. Japan made a first tantalizing appearance in European culture in a late-thirteenth-century work, Livres des merveilles du monde (Books of the marvels of the world), commonly known in the English-speaking world as The Travels of Marco Polo.88 The reader is treated to a secondhand account of a mysterious island called “Zipangu,” which had repulsed all attempts at invasion from the Chinese mainland.89 Possessed of gold and diabolic amulets in abundance, one of the most striking features of Zipangu is that its people are cannibals who worship horrific idols with monstrous animal heads and 16

INTRODUCTION

twisted anatomies.90 As idolatry was not understood in this period to be religion but precisely its opposite, this is not a reference to religion but a denial of it. In other words, the reader is meant to think that Japanese have no true image of the divine, only a monstrous paganism. Their culture is so radically other, so thoroughly dreadful in its difference, that to describe it in detail would be offensive. The narrator concludes, “The actions of these idols are so different, and so wicked and evil, that it would be impious and abhorrent to discuss them in our book.”91 The usage of the term religio in early Christianity and late antiquity is heavily contested, and debates about it are outside the scope of the present study.92 Nevertheless, before this upsurge in usage that marked the rise of Christianity, there are few functionally proximate terms to religio in ancient languages. There is no parallel to the word “religion” in proto-Indo-European.93 Even classical Greek had no single term that functioned as an analog to the modern religion.94 Our contemporary terminology can be traced to a single common root in the Latin term religio, which in turn has several possible etymologies.95 Regardless of its origins, in pre-Christian Roman usage, religio generally referred to a prohibition or an obligation.96 In either case it was often but not necessarily connected to the gods, and it could represent a kind of social duty, and was almost synonymous with the word for scruple (Latin, [Lt.], scrupulus).97 In sum, this transformation of a Latin “scruple” into an “essential aspect of human experience” has been a lengthy and far from linear process. Today, we inherit the legacy of this older sedimentation. Even most scholars understand religion to be a particular system of beliefs and practices embodied in a bounded community, which is capable of being represented in propositional form. Further, many scholars believe that religion represents an independent domain that can be distinguished from other domains, such as politics, science, economics, and philosophy.98 Understood this way, religion can be clearly demonstrated to be a modern concept, one that would be unrecognizable even to early-modern Europeans. Instead of describing a universal relationship to God or a life bounded by monastic vows, the word has come to function in an anthropological sense to describe a supposedly universal but diverse feature of human cultures. As an odd corollary imported from Christianity, “religions” are often regarded as mutually incompatible. It is not believed possible for a person to be a member of multiple religions at the same time. That none of these features accurately describe Japan is the problem that translators and diplomats faced in the nineteenth century. 17

INTRODUCTION

Overview of the Work The organization of the book is more logical then chronological, more layered than linear. Working back and forth across the rupture of the Edo and Meiji periods, the book is intended to be a philosophical archeology, and as such a “history of that which renders necessary a certain form of thought.”99 Accordingly, it traces not only the genealogy of “religion” to open up various occluded possibilities, but it also interrogates the formation of the entangled categories “secular” (or science) and “superstition.” The Marks of Heresy

The first two chapters serve as a kind of prequel. In chapter 1, I demonstrate how both Europeans and Japanese, in their encounters prior to the mid-nineteenth-century military confrontation, engaged and articulated cultural differences, including those we might characterize as “religious.” I begin with the first encounter between European Jesuits and Japanese leaders in 1551, a moment that would ultimately result in the outlawing of Christianity as a deviant form of Buddhism. By tracing a genealogy of “heresy” in Tokugawa-era policy and intellectual discourse, I show how ideological orthodoxies were defined by classifying and then excluding certain groups, including Christians, as demonic and heretical. Heretical Anthropology

I begin the second chapter by considering Japanese “ethnographies” of Europe and writings on Christianity in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. I go on to address European missionary accounts of Japanese Buddhism in the same period. In so doing, I demonstrate that all parties, before formulating a systematic conception of a universal “religion,” read cultural difference through the existing lenses of heresy. The Arrival of Religion

Beginning with the arrival of the Americans in 1853, in chapter 3 I situate the introduction of “religion” to Japan in the diplomatic con-

18

INTRODUCTION

juncture of the mid-nineteenth century. Using diaries and diplomatic materials from Japan, the United States, France and the Netherlands, I demonstrate how the modern concept of religion owed less to Enlightenment scholarly discourse than to the power struggles of international diplomacy. Against this backdrop, I analyze the challenges faced by the Japanese government’s official translators in interpreting the term “religion” in the 1858 treaties. I read the seeming inconsistencies in the translation as tactical efforts on the part of Japanese diplomats to quarantine Christianity and forestall missionary activity. The Science of the Gods

In the mid-nineteenth century, the Meiji government would ultimately declare that Shrine Shinto did not fall under the heading “religion.” This allowed them to make the use of Shinto educational materials and participation in Shinto ritual practices mandatory without abridging guarantees of religious freedom. More than a matter of simple political expediency, this move had its origins in an eighteenth-century discourse that rendered Shinto as a “science.” In chapter 4, by closely analyzing the major thinkers in the Shinto kokugaku movement and its successors, I recuperate an overlooked connection between the invented tradition of modern Shinto and the importation of European scientific works into Japan during a period when contact with the rest of the world was extremely limited. I demonstrate what kokugaku Shinto offered to supply Meiji leaders was not a faith, but a form of knowledge and a model for statecraft. Formations of the Shinto Secular

It almost goes without saying that if Japanese had no indigenous analog to “religion,” it also lacked an analog to the “secular.” Building on the preceding analysis of Tokugawa-era Shinto, in chapter 5, I trace the Meiji state’s attempt to produce a secular or nonreligious ideology that was nevertheless infused with Shinto symbolism.100 I call this “the Shinto secular,” by which I mean the hybrid Shinto-scientific ideology, formulated in terms of a nation-state, articulated in relation to the person of the emperor, distinguished from religion, and intended to produce a unified Japanese subjectivity. Looking at the appearance of this ideology in a range of sources from law codes to public health initiatives to the birth of the realist novel in Japan, I am able to reexamine

19

INTRODUCTION

both the subfield’s concept of “State Shinto” and engage in contemporary debates about the meaning of secularism. Taming Demons

In chapter 6 I look at the obverse of the government’s attempt to promote the new model of modernity encapsulated in the slogan “civilization and enlightenment.” In a movement that I call “darkness and barbarism,” local Japanese government officials identified a range of spiritual practices as obstacles to the government ideology and called for them to be purged. I lay bare a connection between modernizing processes and the manufacture of new orthodoxies and corresponding “heresies.” I show that in the wake of new legal codes, the neologism “superstition” (meishin) replaced the earlier “heresy” (jakyo¯). The rationale for the exclusion of certain practices had changed from pre-Meiji days, but the enemies had not. While heretics had once been deemed dangerous to a Buddhist-Confucian orthodoxy, “superstition” now served as the suppressed counterpart to science. The asymmetries of this disenchantment, and disenchantment in general, are explored throughout the chapter. Inventing Japanese Religion

While the arrival of “religion” in the 1850s represented an encounter with the unfamiliar, by the early 1870s a new generation of Japanese elites had traveled to Europe and America. They had encountered Christianity firsthand and, equally importantly, they had attained the linguistic skills and textual sources necessary to engage with global intellectual currents. In the seventh chapter, I track the debates about the nature of religion in Japan’s first academic journal, Meiroku Zasshi, published after the return of the Iwakura mission. In the journal, a number of future government officials argued that modernity involved some kind of religious freedom, but that this freedom needed to be bounded in order to allow for the purification of “backward customs” and “evil cults.” My close reading of a paper presented at the world’s first Orientalist conference by the official French translator to the Japanese mission reveals a previously unrecognized Japanese tactical agency in the formation of the term “Oriental.” This alters Edward Said’s narrative of the history of Orientalism and calls into question the received account of the disciplinary formation of the scholarly object “Japanese religion.” 20

INTRODUCTION

Religion within the Limits

In chapter 8, I trace the construction of “religion” as a legal category in Japan and its bifurcation from “superstition.” Beginning with the history of various drafts of the religious freedom clause in the first Japanese constitution of 1889, I go on to discuss legal cases and government-sponsored textbooks to describe the complex implications of this freedom. By defining religion as a particular type of interiority, this constitutional guarantee did not actually produce more freedom. Paradoxically, guaranteeing freedom of religion enabled the state both to appease international powers and to maximize a rigorous control over all external manifestations of “religion.” A final section discusses the development of religious studies in Japan in the years immediately following the imperial constitution. While recent interpreters have stressed the Western provenance of the field, Japan actually instituted one of the world’s first nondenominational religious studies programs at Tokyo Imperial University. The trajectory sketched in this study is not merely a narrative of oppression or hegemony. Indeed, the process of articulating religion presented the Japanese state with a valuable opportunity. While acceding to pressure from international Christendom to guarantee freedom of religion to the Japanese people, officials defined “religion” in such a manner as to promote two other key goals. By excluding Shinto from the category of religion, they enshrined it as a national ideology, a matter of pure fact rather than of contested faith. Meanwhile, officials consigned the popular practices of indigenous shamans and female mediums, with their spirit-foxes and other supernatural entities, to the category of “superstition,” deserving no protection under the regime of religious freedom. In short, Japanese officials translated pressure from Western Christians into a concept of religion that carved out a private space for belief in Christianity and certain forms of Buddhism, but also embedded Shinto in the very structure of the state and exiled various “superstitions” beyond the sphere of tolerance.

21

ONE

The Marks of Heresy: Organizing Difference in Premodern Japan All Southern Barbarians and Westerners, not only the English, practice the heresy [jakyo¯ ] that is prohibited in our country. Henceforth, whenever a foreign ship is sighted approaching any point on our coast, all persons on hand should fire on it and drive it off.

TOKUGAWA OFFICIAL DECREE, 182 5

On March 24, 1860, the Great Councilor Ii Naosuke was ambushed outside the gates of Edo Castle and brutally assassinated.1 Alongside his decapitated body, his killers left a note accusing him of various crimes, which included allowing “heretical temples” (jakyo¯dera) into Japan.2 While the larger political circumstances that led to this bloody confrontation have been extensively studied, a scholar might be drawn to the seemingly miniscule details of the wording of the assassins’ manifesto.3 Such a scholar might wonder about the nature of this “heresy”: was it, for example, an unorthodox form of Japanese religion, as the language might seem to imply? On learning that these “heretical temples” were Christian churches, previous scholars have generally interpreted this expression as nothing more than a xenophobic outburst and moved on. And yet, this term for heresy, jakyo¯, and related semantic variants (including jashu¯mon, jasetsu, and jaho¯ ) are not merely found in one isolated instance.4 They permeate Edo- and Meiji-period Japan in ritual manuals, doctrinal debates, geographies, and newspapers. This language also 22

THE MARKS OF HERESY

shaped policy debates, diplomatic exchanges, manifestos, and laws; it provided the unifying rationale behind acts of violence including the burning of books, torture, mass executions, and murders. The word “heresy” itself did not kill but clearly inspired the hermeneutic configuration that attempted to inscribe these massacres with meaning.5 We cannot make sense of the councilor’s assassination, for example, without examining this terminology in detail. To call it xenophobic is not enough. To say that these assassins hated Christianity is not enough. On the contrary, to call Christianity a heresy is precisely to deny its foreignness, to fail to acknowledge its true difference. The key to this seeming contradiction is to understand what it meant to think of Christianity as a heresy. The Great Councilor’s crime, referred to in this section of the assassins’ manifesto as permitting the incursion of “heretical temples,” was his signature of a treaty guaranteeing that “Americans in Japan shall be allowed the free exercise of their religion, and for this purpose shall have the right to erect suitable places of worship.”6 The men who murdered Ii Naosuke tried to justify their acts with this document, and it is tempting to say that they were opposing freedom of religion. But why then did the killers not refer to Christianity as a religion, or anywhere mention religion directly in their manifesto? The answer lies in the fact that in some important sense, the concept “religion” was not available to them. The assassins, like their contemporaries, understood Christianity according to the legacy of European missionary activity in the sixteenth century. As a result of these encounters, Japanese intellectuals classified Christianity in terms of the preexisting category of heresy. Put differently, they described Christianity not as a foreign religion but as a deviant version of Japanese practices. Christianity’s place in the horizon of categories was clear: the bloodstained manifesto grouped Christianity with forbidden Buddhist sects, and this classification was the norm in Tokugawa Japan, not the exception. Although the word “religion,” did appear in the Harris Treaty (1858), Japanese translators seem to have understood the term mostly as a polite euphemism for an evil EuroAmerican cult. In their interpretation, American religion and the Japanese jakyo¯ (heresy) were initially synonymous. As discussed in the introduction, the main features of the concept of “religion” were not formulated in Europe until the seventeenth century. Indeed, it was the early encounter between cultures lacking a concept of religion that laid the groundwork for the development of the concept in both cultures. In Japan a modern concept of religion 23

CHAPTER 1

developed in the nineteenth century, only somewhat behind America and Europe, and was absent in preceding periods. This chapter traces the sixteenth- and seventeenth-century encounters between Europe and Japan, focusing on the language of heresy. I sketch out two interconnected rubrics for negotiating cultural difference before religion. I identify one as hierarchical inclusion, a set of discursive practices that organize difference under a totalizing framework to bridge apparent difference, and thus effectively deny difference. The second rubric I call exclusive similarity, which I use to describe those acts of othering that work by excluding on the basis of reputed similarity, not difference. In this later mode, difference is also disqualified, but in this case by representing divergent positions as aberrant imitations. I argue that between these two modes, Japanese thinkers already had in place sophisticated strategies for the interpretation of difference before formulating a modern concept of religion. Put differently, I demonstrate that despite the presence of Christianity it was not necessary to formulate a new concept of religion, because preexisting language of Buddhist deviance was ready at hand.

Difference Denied: Hierarchical Inclusion And when they heard our cause, which seemed to the [Japanese] priests [Pg., bonzos]to be in accordance with the divine attributes of their “Dainichi,” they said to the Padre that although we have different terminology, [different] languages and habits, the essence of the law professed by them and the Padre was identical. LU Í S F R Ó I S , H I S TO R I A D E J A PA M , 1593

¯ uchi Yoshitaka (1507–1551), the daimyo of Suo¯, donated a In 1551, O Buddhist temple to a group of foreigners. Stating that he approved of the “monks who have come from the western regions [India] to spread the Dharma of the Buddha [Buppo¯],” Yoshitaka forbade his subjects from taking any action to harm the foreigners; he even suggested that he might reciprocate by sending his own Buddhist monks as ambassadors to India (Tenjiku).7 At first glance we might think, as Yoshitaka did, that this diplomatic moment had the potential to mark the beginning of an Indo-Japanese exchange united in pan-Buddhist fraternity. After all, the Rinzai Zen priest who served as Yoshitaka’s advisor had concluded from his interview with these Indian monks that they not only came from the holy land of the Buddha’s birth, but that they were also proponents of a well-recognized sect of Japanese tantric Buddhism, the Shingon 24

THE MARKS OF HERESY

school.8 This opinion was confirmed when monks of the Shingon sect met with the Indians and recognized their common cause.9 The Indians also seemed to share the Shingon sect’s primary object of devotion. The Indian monks themselves reinforced this interpretation, as according to their Japanese translator, they had come to Japan on a mission to promote reverence for the Cosmic Buddha (Dainichi Nyo¯rai).10 Having been granted permission to preach in the daimyo’s capital city, the leader of the foreigners summoned people to worship by calling out a newly learned Japanese phrase “Dainichi o ogami are!” (Pray to the Cosmic Buddha!) Initially, all seemed to go well. But only a short time later, the foreigners changed their message. They began shouting “Do not pray to the Cosmic Buddha!” And they started preaching that “Dainichi should not be honored as God, and that the Shingon sect, like all the others, was a fraudulent law and an invention of the devil.”11 From this time forward, the foreigners repeatedly asserted that they were not members of a Buddhist sect and that the subject of their rites was not the Cosmic Buddha, but something or someone called Deus whose name and essence were fundamentally unique and untranslatable.12 The foreigners were not in fact Indian Buddhists. Their leader was the Basque cofounder of the Jesuit order, Francis Xavier (1506–1552), and he was from India only in the sense that he had recently passed through the Portuguese Indian colony of Goa. He had come not from the land of the Buddha’s birth, but from the European kingdom of Navarre, and his message was that of Roman Catholicism, not tantric Buddhism. In asserting that Deus could not be translated, Xavier seemingly closed off possibilities for Buddhist-Christian synthesis. He further alienated many of his Buddhist allies with his fierce criticism of the Shingon sect. Nevertheless, the question remains: how could Catholicism have been mistaken for Buddhism in the first place? Xavier’s Japanese companion Anjiro¯ often gets the blame in ways that call to mind the Italian expression “traduttore, tradittore” (translator-traitor). For it was Anjiro ¯ , a native of Kagoshima and occasional pirate, who, after fleeing a murder charge and finding himself in Malacca, joined the Jesuit mission and served as their interpreter. In his translations, Anjiro¯ equated heaven with the Buddhist pure land (jo¯do), hell with the Buddhist underworld (jigoku), angels with the deities of the BrahmaHeaven (tennin), and, most problematically, God with the Cosmic Buddha (Dainichi).13 More than a hundred years of mission history has, in general, faulted 25

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Anjiro¯ for his ignorance and his “failures” as a translator.14 Granted, Anjiro¯’s illiteracy and his truncated understanding of both Buddhism and Christianity limited what he could do. Yet, Anjiro¯’s translations were not hermeneutically arbitrary or naïve. We do not know how much Anjiro¯ understood of his original Shingon Buddhist sect. Nevertheless, his untutored renderings are strikingly in keeping with Shingon interpretative strategies and one can see evidence of this in his reading of Christianity. After all, it was the founder of the Japanese Shingon sect, Ku ¯kai (774–835), who wrote the following: Mañjus´rı¯ asked the Buddha: “Bhagavat, by how many names have you turned the wheel of Dharma in our world?” The Buddha said: “I have called myself empty, being, suchness, dharmata¯, permanence, impermanence, god, demon, mantra, and great mantra. In such a way, by means of hundreds and thousands of kot. is of names, I have benefited living beings.” When the meaning of this is fully grasped, how can there be discord between [different] schools [of thought]?15

The position articulated here represents a mode of reconciling difference similar to that advocated by Anjiro¯. It suggests that translation can bridge divergence. Any conceptual or ideological position can be reconciled through a hermeneutic reduction to an incarnation of the Buddha; that is, God could be just another name for the Cosmic Buddha. I want to emphasize that this is not naïve synthesis, nor is it the production of some kind of harmonious compromise. Instead, this model suggests an asymmetrical technique for reconciling difference that I call hierarchical inclusion, by which I mean an operation for dealing with alterity that works by subordinating marks of difference into a totalizing ideology, while still preserving their external signs.16 It is thus a procedure, which moves beyond the Manichean binary of identity or difference.17 Hierarchical inclusion is not limited to the writings of Ku ¯kai or the translations of Anjiro¯; rather, it represents the central hermeneutic of Japanese tantric Buddhism and is a common mode in general for reconciling cultural differences.18 One may also think of the method of comparison referred to by Roman scholars such as Tacitus (ca. 56–ca. 117 CE) as interpretatio Romana, which described an attempt to identify the true Roman identities of “barbarian” deities.19 Scholars writing about Japan have historically referred to what I call hierarchical inclusion as “syncretism.”20 Syncretism is a misleading term for many reasons, not the least of which is that it is used pejoratively to describe an illicit mixture of religions resulting from the 26

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putative ignorance of non-European peoples.21 Implicit in “syncretism” is the idea of two pure religious essences that are diluted through synthesis. What this assumption misses is that there are no pure religious essences, nor is hierarchical inclusion the result of naïveté; rather it results from conscious strategies to reconcile and interpret difference. Alternately, one could use the term assimilation. While this is closer to the process I want to describe, etymologically “assimilation” means to render similar or same. Hence, assimilation describes a simultaneous incorporation and homogenization. While hierarchical inclusion is a type of assimilation, it incorporates while preserving external, and supposedly superficial, difference. It does not attempt to fully homogenize. Hierarchical inclusion results in a remainder that can be recouped in moments of creative recombination. Despite the fact that no form of assimilation is ever complete, as a type of assimilation, hierarchical inclusion needs to be distinguished from those modes that aim to produce homogeneity. An old Sino-Japanese slogan from at least the ninth century, is the most conspicuous example of hierarchical inclusion in Japanese history and appears in many different contexts. One might translate it as “original foundation, manifest traces” (honji suijaku).22 According to the combinatory paradigm embodied in this slogan, local deities are emanations or even something like the legible signs of universal buddhas and bodhisattvas. For example, both the Shinto god Tenjin and the Hindu deity Gan.es´a could be read as incarnations of the bodhisattva Avalokites´vara, thereby integrating these deities into Buddhism, while simultaneously preserving their external marks of difference.23 This assimilation proceeds by asserting a fundamental translatability. Local deities are nothing more than different names of (or forms of) buddhas and bodhisattvas. Thus, any god, demon, spirit, historical individual, or even text could be stripped of its original cultic context and incorporated into a Buddhist framework.24 This mode of assimilation was fundamentally hierarchical, as it privileged one interpretive frame over another: the Buddhist name was always the true name of a given deity. Therefore, the “discovery” of a deity’s Buddhist identity reassigned that deity within a Buddhist hierarchy. The preservation of the outward signs of cultural difference thus actually reinforced Buddhist claims to universality and further enriched Buddhist symbols. This process was creatively unstable. For example, the bodhisattva Avalokites´vara could be incarnated as the deity Mahes´vara, who was in turn identified with the god Tenjin, read as a manifestation of the deity 27

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Sho ¯ ten, ad infinitum.25 The goal of this type of discourse was not the production of a single reading or meaning, but instead a proliferation of signs in creative combinations. Even so, in most tantric Buddhist discourse, all of these signs ultimately reduced to the Cosmic Buddha, Dainichi, whose body was the universe itself. The reading of a foreign god such as Deus as another name for Dainichi, therefore, had plenty of precedents. Broadly understood, hierarchical inclusion was not limited to Buddhist scholasticism. Confucian thinkers such as Hayashi Razan (1583– 1657) argued that Shinto was merely a provisional manifestation of the Confucian Way of Kings (o¯do¯), thereby reducing the entirety of shrine rituals to a component of Confucian governance.26 The founder of Yuiitsu Shinto¯, Yoshida Kanetomo (1435–1511), inverted the honji suijaku paradigm to argue that buddhas were manifestations of Shinto deities. As these examples illustrate, hierarchical inclusion was not some sort of harmonious synthesis or unconscious appropriation, but was instead a sophisticated mode of exercising discourse power.27 Premodern Japanese intellectual debates turned less on the exclusion of competing ideologies and practices than on conflict over which system would serve as the primary hermeneutical lens for the other. By declining Anjiro¯’s translation, Xavier refused to accept the subordination of Catholicism to the Shingon Buddhism. He further asserted the limits of language by suggesting that certain Christian terms were not capable of being translated into Japanese equivalents.28 Xavier also instructed his successors in the Jesuit mission to actively refute a potential convert’s original sect and to encourage exclusive loyalty to the Catholic Church.29 These policies put Xavier in direct conflict with the Shingon sect and the reputation of the Jesuits was further damaged by reports of European colonial activity abroad. On July 24, 1587, the military ruler of Japan, Toyotomi Hideyoshi, began a stream of official condemnations of Christianity with the declaration: “Japan is the Land of the Gods. It is abhorrent to us that [people] would come from Christendom to promulgate a heresy [jaho¯]. . . . You padres are given twenty days from today to make your preparations and return to your homeland.”30 Although this proclamation was not fully enforced, this position is far from hierarchical inclusion. Instead of attempting to absorb the Christians, the Japanese state was actively working to expel them. Therefore, we must leave behind hierarchical inclusion for the moment. In its place we need to investigate a related mode, which I call exclusive similarity. While hierarchical inclusion was a common mode in Japan, differ28

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ent ideological systems did intermittently come to define themselves through the production of an Other, which they flagged as possessing an incommensurable alterity. In many cases this was not simply an act of rejection, but one that simultaneously denied the true difference of the other by representing it as an aberrant imitation. This type of rejection, therefore, excludes on the basis of similarity, not difference. This othering is fundamentally incomplete. In the case above, the Japanese state, in the process of excluding the Christians, has not in fact registered their alterity. It instead describes similarity in the same moment Christians are banned. What interests me is that the state possessed these dual mechanisms, one to accommodate practices it recognizes to be alien, and the other to exclude practices that it conceives of as same. Exclusive similarity results in the demarcation of the other as a heresy. While often overlooked in East Asian intellectual history, the production of “heresies” was a common method for creating boundaries in order to demarcate specific discursive fields, such as Confucianism, Daoism, and Buddhism. Moreover, constructing “heretics” and other types of rhetorical enemies served as a counterpoint in the consolidation of state ideologies. The following section sketches the history of “heresy” and exclusive similarity in Japan in broad strokes and shows that prior to the arrival of Christianity, there were already clearly articulated tropes about heresy.

Strange Aberrations: Exclusive Similarity They have such an unfortunate attitude that, when they attempt to practice Buddhism, they do not turn to suitable actions and books, but to strange aberrations. ¯ ICHIEN, SHASEKISHU ¯ 12 8 0 MUJU

One day in the 1470s, a group of monks from the Shingon sect gathered in Kyoto to burn books.31 This event was remarkable because censorship of any sort, much less by immolation, was a rare occurrence in that epoch.32 These fires were the culmination of over a century of polemical attacks. The writings consigned to destruction were united only in their association (truthfully or not) with a so-called heresy referred to as the Tachikawa-ryu ¯. It is likely that the initial motivations for attacking this sect had begun in the political arena as an attempt to malign the students of an influential monk and only later were various ¯ “heretical” practices attributed to it.33 Over time, the Tachikawa-ryu came to epitomize the period’s image of an evil and heretical cult.34 29

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In the criticisms directed against the Tachikawa-ryu ¯ by the influential Shingon cleric Yu ¯kai (1345–1416) in Ho¯kyo¯sho¯ (1375), the sect was described as “the original source of heresy” (jaho¯ no ransho¯).35 It is this terminology that gets activated centuries later to condemn Christianity. In 1614, an official eviction of Christian missionaries from Japan would use identical terminology in describing Christianity, stating “If this is not heresy [jaho¯ ], then what is?” Both Christianity and the Tachikawa-ryu ¯ were interpreted as exemplars of heresy. It is important, therefore, to understand the kinds of associations implicit in the label heresy (jaho¯), and to conjure the grotesque imagery the terminology was intended to evoke. Before beginning I’d like to note that most of the modern European terms for heresy (Fr., hérésie; Sp., herejía; Ger., Häresie) derive from what was merely a mark of difference, namely via the Latin hæresis, meaning “a school of thought.”36 Early Christian writers, however, transformed the meaning of “heresy” into a description of divergence from orthodoxy or perhaps more precisely to describe variance as a derivative imitation of, or departure from, an unchanging divine truth.37 In comparison, East Asian languages contain a number of ways to demarcate the dangerous difference of the “heretical.”38 Many of these words in both Japanese and Chinese contain the prefix 邪 (Jpn., ja; Ch., xié), a character indicating originally “crookedness” and then later wickedness, malevolence, and the demonic. It appears in a central binary in the word 正邪 (Jpn., seija; Ch., zhèngxié), which could be rendered “right and wrong,” “good and evil,” or, more loosely, “orthodoxy and heresy.” In producing this opposition, it is clear that these two positions are mutually defining. These binaries are necessarily asymmetrical, with the majority of weight being given to the positively valenced term. Linguistically, this function is clear, as the addition of ja to the front of another term marks it as dangerously divergent. For example, shu¯mon indicates a Buddhist sect, but jashu¯mon refers to a wicked or heretical sect.39 The addition of ja turns a god (kami, shin) into a malevolent deity (jashin), the Buddhist dharma (ho¯) into heretical practices (jaho¯), the way (do¯) into a perverse way (jado¯), life energy (ki) into poisonous energy (jaki), and learning (chi) into perverted knowledge (jachi). Ja can be applied beyond what is conventionally called the “religious” to indicate the sinister antithesis of medicine, learning, or ritual: poison, black magic, or evil rites. The dominant signifier of ja is the demonic. We see this in a small number of terms whose meanings are amplified rather than inverted by the character ja, notably in those words referring to various sorts of 30

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demons and evil spirits (ma, oni), whose meaning remains essentially unchanged when ja is added. The history of heresy and demons are thus fundamentally interconnected. Historically, East Asian states often worked to rhetorically guard against the demonic by distinguishing between legitimate and illegitimate—that is, dangerous and demonic—forms of ritual. Indeed, one of the oldest functions of Chinese rulers was the performance of public exorcisms. Chinese texts from the Han period (206 BCE –220 CE) locate demons both outside the empire and within the human body.40 Demons were described variously as a type of animal, semi-humans on the periphery of civilization, possessing spirits, wrathful ghosts, and the causes of calamity, madness, illness, and delusion.41 These designations were not necessarily distinct or even incompatible, as images of malevolence and otherness are easily entangled. Chinese concepts of the demonic underwent further elaboration with the introduction of Buddhism in middle of the first century CE.42 Demons appear throughout the Buddhist scriptural canon and, as these texts were read, a complex Indian taxonomy of the demonic became interwoven with existing Chinese medical and ritual practices.43 Various apocalyptic sutras also connect demons and heresy. The S´u¯ram . mgama Sutra (Shoulengyan jing T 19.945), cited as precedents in both anti-Christian and anti-Tachikawa polemics, was one of the most important texts in this regard.44 The text puts the following rationale for its taxonomy of demons into the mouth of the Buddha: Ananda, you should know that in the Later Day of the Dharma, these ten kinds of demons may leave home to practice asceticism within my Dharma. They may possess people or manifest themselves in different forms.45

The sutra plays on a conventional Buddhist narrative of the decline of the dharma to announce that, in later periods, demons may impersonate Buddhist monks and infiltrate the monastic community. These creatures will use their powers to attempt to destroy Buddhism from within. On the surface they may even pass for devoted members of the Sangha. Expressed differently, Buddhism’s true enemies are not necessarily alien or automatically even recognizably different. Their danger lies in their ability to mirror the dharma, hence in their apparent similarity, not difference. Other Buddhist scriptures written in China, such as Foshuo famiejin jing (The sutra on the annihilation of the dharma spoken by the Buddha, T 12.396) describe the appearance of demon-monks as the first 31

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part of an apocalyptic sequence that results in floods, droughts, famines, and full-scale devastation until the world can be renewed with the coming of the future Buddha. The S´u¯ram . gama Sutra is subtler, describing the insidious manner in which the demonic works to subvert the unwary. This person, unaware that he is possessed by a demon, claims he has reached unsurpassed Nirvana. . . . The good person is beguiled [Ch., mihuo; Jpn., meiwaku] and fooled into thinking the other is a bodhisattva.46 Lust and laxity corrupt his mind. He breaks the Buddha’s moral precepts and covertly indulges his greedy desires. The other person is fond of saying that buddhas are appearing in the world. He claims that in a certain place a certain person is actually a transformation body of a certain Buddha . . . . People who witness this are filled with admiration. Heretical views [Ch., xiejian; Jpn., jaken] flourish.47

This passage unites the sexual and the heretical suggesting that demons amplify lust and fear to corrupt a person’s mind. According to the text, one of the demons’ main attributes is their capacity for deception. The type of possession described, literally being worn like clothing by a demon (Ch., mozhu), can happen without the person being aware of having been possessed. The demons are not just capable of mimicking you; they are capable of being you. The text thus encourages a kind of internal surveillance of both the self and of the monastic community. Manifesting as mirror images of buddhas or bodhisattvas, demons preach an imitation dharma. Taking advantage of weaknesses, demons subvert one person and then use him or her to beguile others. Through the use of lies, followers are encouraged to spread heretical views. Demons seem to take a delight in this perversion of the Buddha dharma for its own sake. Put succinctly, demons cause doctrinal difference. The S´u¯ram . gama Sutra describes a range of demonic wonders in order to provide a diagnostic rubric to allow the reader to classify different types of demons. Each demon has its own signature powers, and when a demon has been identified, the text informs the reader how to cure that particular demonic affliction. The signs of demonic possession are not always displayed in the realm of wonders, but sometimes manifest in complicated behavioral pathologies. According to the sutra, some types of possessed individuals even destroy Buddhist scriptures and images saying, “These are [merely] gold, bronze, clay, or wood.”48 Insisting on the righteousness of their views they encourage their followers to do likewise. Iconoclasm is given its own demonic pathology. The formation of the heretical in these Buddhist scriptural sources 32

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seems to represent not a reaction to alterity, but internal anxieties over Buddhism’s own monstrous possibilities.49 They express fears, in part, that within Buddhism exist alternate and malevolent paths.50 The texts function through exclusive similarity by disqualifying the reality of doctrinal difference by suggesting that different intellectual positions represent intentionally false interpretations of scripture promoted by demons. It should come as no surprise that this Buddhist apocalyptic language was employed after another book burning in 1557. In that year, it was Jesuit padres in Hirado who burned the sutras they found in local temples. In addition to books, the Europeans lashed out at indigenous “idols” and added Buddhist statues to the flames.51 For the Jesuits, these public demonstrations were intended to expel Japanese demons and affirm the power of the Church. Yet, from a Japanese perspective this behavior could have had another meaning. The foreigners’ iconoclasm was sometimes read as demonic possession.52 Hence, Christian iconoclasm reinforced a Japanese interpretation of the Christians as demonically inspired. Japanese descriptions of heresy, nevertheless, portray fundamental ambivalences about the demonic. Demons had a place in the Japanese pantheon not only as causes of calamity and illness, but also as creatures capable of granting this-worldly benefits, which were outside the ethical purview of more respectable buddhas and gods. Demonic rituals operated as a type of techne intended to produce concrete effects of a sort outside more mainstream ethical norms. Examples of this pattern can be found in the numerous sources that make reference to “heretical” rituals focused on a type of cannibalistic demonic female entity known in Sanskrit as the d. a¯kinı¯ (Jpn., dagini). Originating in Indic source materials, d. a¯kinı¯ were initially represented as a class of female demons associated with jackals and the goddess Kali.53 Imported into Japan, the d. a¯kinı¯ underwent a number of important changes, including the jackal’s transformation into a fox.54 Literary references to d. a¯kinı¯ rituals appear in the classic version of the Tale of the Heike (Heike Monogatari), dating from the mid-thirteenth century.55 But a particularly telling example of the potential powers of d. a¯kinı¯ occurs in the historical chronicle Record of Great Peace (Taiheiki), dated to the late fourteenth century. An early portion of the text recounts the tale of a Buddhist monk who used heretical d. a¯kinı¯ rituals to attain fame and power at the expense of his rivals.56 A later section of the text describes an incident in which a monk known for his skill in heretical practices is inadvertently tricked by a local official into reveal33

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ing a letter the ritualist had received from the governor of the province. The letter spells out the following requests: To grant [the governor’s] clan control over the whole world [lit. the four seas] and to ensure that the clan’s descendants enjoy eternal prosperity. To inflict immediate illness and death on the Supreme Captain [Saisho¯ no Chu¯jo¯ ]. [Ashikaga] Yoshiakira To cause [Yoshiakira’s son] to fall from public favor so that [the governor] can force his surrender.57

As is clear in this letter, d. a¯kinı¯ were seen as capable of fulfilling even the most unbridled ambition, and thus dangerous. But they were also at least potentially subordinated within the Buddhism. The ritualists mentioned in both the Tale of the Heike and Record of Great Peace are Buddhist monks. And sometimes rumors of associations with d. a¯kinı¯ could be used to discredit a monk whose ascent through the ecclesiastical hierarchy was perceived as too rapid.58 So there are at least two types of individuals labeled as d.a¯kinı¯ heretics: those who actually offered d.a¯kinı¯ rituals, and those for whom the charge was essentially slander. Nevertheless, in both cases, the language of heresy does not describe another religion. Without suggesting that all Buddhist monks offered d.a¯kinı¯ rites nor locating these practices within a specific sect, it is clear that these rites were modal possibilities within the existing Buddhist ritual system. During the Kamakura period (1185−1333), as part of the process of sect differentiation, Buddhist leaders from Do ¯ gen (1200–1253) to Nichiren (1222–1282) to Shinran (1173–1263) began consolidating new orthodoxies and calling for the end of heretical doctrines (gaido¯) or heretical views (jaken). In the Transformed Buddha-Bodies and Lands section of the Kyo¯gyo¯shinsho¯, Shinran quotes a collection of Buddhist scriptures with the intention of demonstrating that divination and the worship of local deities is a mistake.59 Despite contemporary readings that see this as an attempt to purge superstitions, his main argument is not that these spirits do not exist, but rather emphasize the risk of being misled by “devils”: Those who believe the deluded teachings of evil devils, non-Buddhists, or sorcerers foretelling calamity or fortune may be stricken by fear; their minds will become unsound. Engaging in divination, they will foretell misfortune and will come to kill 34

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various sentient beings . . . . They will suffer from poison, prayers to evil gods, curses, and the spirits that emerge from corpses.60

Here, Shinran is arguing against divination and the worship of deities because such practices are dangerous and lead toward madness and death. This worship of false gods is bad because of demons’ malevolent powers and their ability to imitate the righteous—a point Shinran reinforces when he writes, “Sometimes [evil] beings may appear in the forms of gods or bodhisattvas, or present figures with the features and marks of Tathagatas.”61 Through this collection of scriptural quotations, Shinran condemns indigenous rites performed for the gods precisely because evil spirits exist and can appear as deities or Buddhist figures. Thus, a “heresy” is based on a false belief because it is incorrect about the origins of its power. For Shinran, indigenous gods are manifestations of dark forces, demons masquerading as divinities, and should be avoided or stamped out. Heresy is not the worship of nonexistent deities, but rather the worship of demons that look like buddhas or gods and turn one away from the true dharma. In their construction of the Jo ¯ do Shinshu ¯ Honganji school, Shinran’s successors came to articulate orthodoxy through an exclusion of positions that they labeled as heretical. For example, Kakunyo (1270–1351) and his son Zonkaku (1290–1373) each authored a heresiological work, Gaijasho¯ (Notes rectifying heresy, 1337) and Haja kensho¯ sho¯ (Notes smashing heresy to reveal the truth, 1324), respectively. These texts attack rival schools by enumerating lists of “heresies,” such as revering one’s teacher as an incarnation of Amida Buddha, and discouraging people from visiting the gravesite of Shinran.62 This labeling of “heresy” functioned within intra-Buddhist discourse to label unacceptable variations Buddhism. It was in roughly this same period of contestation that polemics against the Tachikawa school began to circulate. In the writings of Japanese intellectuals, the Tachikawa school was ultimately described with a full complement of terms for heresy, including jaho¯, jaryu¯, jaken, and jakyo¯.63 Given that these attacks were likely the result of calumny, the heresy they describe resembles less actual practices and beliefs associated with any particular school and more a summary of the period’s conception of the heretical. Therefore, an exploration of these attacks can get at root of the image of heresy itself. According to Yu ¯kai, the sect deserved condemnation because its doctrine and rituals were rooted in rituals focused on sexual inter35

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course.64 In addition to this inverse celibacy, the Tachikawa-ryu ¯’s critics painted a particularly erotic grotesque portrait of its rituals. Juho¯ Yo¯jin Shu¯ (A collection of precautions on receiving the dharma, 1268), by an otherwise unknown Shingon monk named Shinjo¯, describes what has come to be known as the “abominable Tachikawa skull ritual.”65 There is no evidence that this ritual was ever practiced, and the identification of the nameless sect practicing the skull ritual as the Tachikawa-ryu ¯ was not made by Shinjo¯ but by later authors. Nevertheless, Shinjo¯ provides a lurid description of a heretical rite focused on the consecration of a human skull as an object of worship (honzon). In preparation for this consecration, an adept needed to follow a series of instructions. First, the skull must be lacquered so as to resemble a fully fleshed human head. Then the ritual practitioner must have sex with a beautiful woman and “wipe the liquid product of this act onto the skull until it reaches 120 layers.”66 After each session the adept should chant a particular mantra and pass the skull through “spirit-returning incense.” After 120 sessions, the skull should then be decorated with gold and silver leaf. After it has been ornamented, it should be placed on an altar and rare animals should be sacrificed to it on a nightly basis while more incense is burned. After eight years of these offerings, the skull will begin to speak and grant the ritual practitioner supernatural powers. In his description, Shinjo¯ does nothing to deny the efficacy of the ritual. However, he suggests that its power comes from the comingling of dead spirits and d.a¯kinı¯, which are capable of manifesting in different illusionary forms, including significantly, that of buddhas. In the text, the skull ritual functions as an inversion of Japanese Buddhist ceremonies, similar to the way in which descriptions of a black mass reflect both an inversion and imitation of a Catholic rite. In other words, the ritual borrows its logic and many of its key elements directly from widespread Shingon practices. Portions of the ritual also exaggerate or directly reverse existing norms. In polemical writings, therefore, heresy is not fully other. It represents a reflection of the dominant ideological position that it serves to define through exclusion. In particular, one of the skull ritual’s central models is a common Shingon Buddhist ritual for the production of a magical relic known as a wish-fulfilling jewel (Sanskrit [Skt.], cinta¯-man.i; Jpn., nyoishu).67 A range of Buddhist texts describe this as a powerful magical artifact derived from the bodily relics of the Buddha or of a dragon king. Instructions for making a wish-fulfilling jewel occur in several Japanese works, including the apocryphal Last Testament (Goyuigo¯) of Ku ¯kai.68

36

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Both heretical and orthodox Shingon rituals involve the use of gilding, incense, mantra, offerings, and lotions as a type of consecration.69 Because of these parallels with tantric Buddhist ceremonies, descriptions of the skull ritual would have struck readers as plausible.70 Aspects of the skull ritual such as its instrumentality or focus on concrete materia are present in both rites. Sacred artifacts could be manufactured ritually by Shingon clerics as well. The skull ritual, however, appears to be an exaggeration of the morbidity of a holy relic in the substitution of a human skull for a buddha’s cremated remains. In a similar manner, an impure man and woman replace ascetic monks, sexual fluids replace aloe, and the skull is “powered” not by the Buddha but by dark and demonic forces. Yet structurally these rituals are almost identical. In terms of the Japanese conception of heresy, the salient feature of this image is its necro-eroticism. Descriptions of sex and bodily fluids serve as a graphic illustration of an imagined perversity. Anxieties about sex are one important component of many Japanese accounts of the heretical. As Bernard Faure has demonstrated, Buddhism has always had a kind of double discourse around sex practices, on the one hand advocating monastic purity while on the other praising antinomian figures that break sexual codes.71 Even in a celibate Buddhist environment, a preoccupation with limiting sexual practices led toward repressive obsessions. The Vinaya monastic codes illustrate precedents by providing tantalizing images of erotic acts, masturbation, lust, and even bestiality. Tantric Buddhism has an even more complex dialectic around sex, as it advocates a “pivoting” (Skt., paravrtti) of negative passions in order to transmute them into the seeds of enlightenment. Restated, the mind of passions becomes the enlightened mind. Sex, therefore, and sexual metaphors lie at the very heart of tantric Buddhist self-understanding, and some Japanese tantric lineages probably engaged in sex rituals.72 In these sources, heresy functions as an aberrant form of the real that must be expelled because its very presence threatens to reveal an aspect of the truth that must remain hidden. Heresy as a descriptor, therefore, can disqualify or banish the latent strange or “uncanny” aspect of Buddhism that is both present and in the process of being suppressed. Nevertheless, outsiders found Shingon erotic undercurrents particularly troubling. The Rinzai Zen monk Muju ¯ Ichien (1226–1312) argued that “the Buddhist Dharma when misunderstood becomes heresy [jaho¯ ].” He further specifies that the sect’s error originated in their insistence on sexual relations as the goal of Buddhism.73 This association

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between the libidinal and the heretical was located not just in writings on the Tachikawa sect. Put bluntly, although this was not always the case, heretics were often depicted as perverts.74 Indeed, as James Ketelaar has argued, the language of heresy and the charge of sexual deviation would later be mobilized by Confucian thinkers to criticize the whole of Buddhism as one gigantic heresy.75 Still, a number of heresies in Japanese history were not connected with sexuality. As mentioned in this section’s introduction, the leitmotif of heresy is its association with the demonic. Demons provide heresy its power and its inspiration. It is also demons that render heresy dangerous. To summarize, the language of heresy in Japan was fundamentally intertwined with the idea of the demonic, and it functioned to exclude on the basis of a difference it was in the process of denying. Of course, one man’s demons are another’s gods, and hence, the concept of heresy functions to demarcate a boundary that should not be crossed. It serves to define the limits of orthodoxy and produces a position outside the system, which in turn establishes the contours of the system itself. Such terminology is important in the construction of ideologies, which often require enemies for cohesion. The functions of “heresy” are multiple, in that it can be used to fi x borders, to denigrate difference, and to produce otherness. Heresy creates exclusions by describing a likeness that cannot not be incorporated, only rejected. Returning to the assassination of Ii Naosuke, we now know something of what it means evoke the label “heresy.” In cross-cultural interactions, heresy works to domesticate the other paradoxically by means of a familiar kind of alienation. In the Japanese context of the late Tokugawa period, to call Christianity a heresy is to call it demonic, to call it obscene, to imply that it is perverted, destabilizing, and fundamentally dangerous. It is therefore a call for expulsion, a call for Christianity to be literally wiped off the map; and, importantly, a call for violence not because Christianity is radically different, but because it is proximally different. It represents a similarity that cannot be assimilated. It therefore must be expelled before it contaminates the whole, before as perversion it perverts the land. The language of the assassins, therefore, attempted to repaint political violence as a heroism in which the killers stood on the side of the righteous in a battle against demonic forces. The following chapter focuses on perceived similarities between Buddhism and Christianity and the manner in which this appraisal of Christianity as a Buddhist heresy shaped Japanese “ethnographies” of Europe in this period of early contact.

38

THE MARKS OF HERESY

Hunting Heretics Those [Christian] padres and their followers oppose the laws of the government. They disparage the Way of the Gods and mock the True Dharma. They dispense with righteousness and defile virtue. Following the example of the condemned criminal [Jesus], they become excited and run to join him. They direct worship and rituals toward him. This [example of martyrdom] they take to be the consummation of their sect. If this is not heresy [jaho¯ ], then what is? They are truly the enemies of the gods and buddhas. If this is not immediately prohibited, the state will become contaminated in the future. We must enact legal restrictions. If control is not established, then we ourselves will suffer the punishment of heaven. In all the Japanese state, in every inch of earth, every foot of land, they must not have even one place to establish a foothold. They must be quickly gathered and purged! And if any dare resist these commands, they must be punished. ¯ N O F U M I , 1 6 1 4 ) 76 (B AT E R E N T SU I H O

Epilogue

In 1575, Japanese soldiers were hunting men in the hills of Echizen Province.77 In order to claim their reward, the hunters brought their superiors the noses and heads of their victims. In one hunt alone, hundreds of men were rounded up and executed.78 The victims’ offense was belonging to a “single-minded league” (ikko¯-ikki), also called the SingleMinded sect (Ikko¯-shu¯). A millenarian form of Japanese Pure Land Buddhism, the Single-Minded sect had blossomed into a movement that governed whole provinces under the dharma ruler (hossu) of the Hongaji temple.79 Later legal statutes would prohibit the Single-Minded sect as a banned heresy (jashu¯mon), yet initially it was their military and political power that attracted the ire of the would-be military dictator Oda Nobunaga (1534–1582). In reaction to the Single-Minded sect and other Buddhist political movements, Nobunaga and his successors premised their control of Japan on the suppression of “heresies.” While Japanese Buddhist sects were the first to attract systematic persecution, a precedent was set for what would later happen to Christians in Japan. Readers unfamiliar with Japanese history will want to understand how this tragedy unfolded. Following in Xavier’s wake, the Jesuit order launched a series of missions to Japan. In this period, the Japanese islands were split into competing domains whose hostilities often broke out into open warfare. This climate facilitated proselytization. A few local rulers even

39

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converted their subjects en masse, hoping to gain access to guns and the coveted trade routes. As various military leaders struggled to dominate Japan, they increasingly sought to co-opt or eliminate rival power bases, including Buddhist-military institutions. The late sixteenth century saw the emergence of a unified Japan, ultimately under the military leadership of Tokugawa Ieyasu (1543–1616), who sought to monopolize international trade for his family and their allies. While initially relatively neutral toward Christianity, starting in 1612 the Tokugawa government (1603–1868) began working to minimize Christian influence.80 In 1614, an official Tokugawa proclamation called for the expulsion of foreign missionaries. In labeling Christianity as heresy, the proclamation suggests that Christianity—as a defective form of Buddhism—cannot be absorbed into the existing Buddhist Sangha or even into the state. Accommodation is impossible, and the only option it presents is violence and expulsion. A further tipping point occurred in 1637, when peasants in the province of Shimabara rebelled while carrying European guns and waving banners with an image of angels worshiping the Eucharist and the slogan “Lovvado seia o Sãctissimo Sacramento” (Praised be the Blessed Sacrament).81 Responding in part to this uprising and to reports of Spanish action in the Philippines, Japanese leaders came to believe that Christianity was not only a heresy, but also a harmful institution beyond the control of and detrimental to the Japanese state. It also did not help that Portuguese merchants were purchasing Japanese slaves, forcibly converting them to Christianity and then selling them abroad.82 Starting in 1639, the Tokugawa shogunate completely prohibited Christianity and, in a macabre inversion of the Spanish Inquisition, Japanese Christian converts were forced to renounce their faith under torture and the threat of death.83 European Catholics were exiled from Japan, and the importation of European material goods was limited to a governmental monopoly on the island of Dejima. Here the Dutch East India Company was allowed to continue trade relations in a controlled state of quarantine. Even trade with the neighboring Asian continent was heavily restricted and monopolized. After an initial period of more frequent cultural exchange, by end of the eighteenth century, international commerce had dwindled, and each year only one or two ships came from the Netherlands and fewer than twenty Chinese vessels arrived in Japanese waters.84 Direct contact with Europeans was now impossible for the vast majority of Japanese. Nevertheless, to consolidate their control over Japan, 40

THE MARKS OF HERESY

Tokugawa leaders created a bureaucratic institution to find and root out “hidden Christians” (kakure kirishitan) and those who might be sheltering foreign missionaries, an initiative they continued far beyond the period of realistic threat.85 This internal operation of surveillance over the population was formalized into a system of “temple certification” known as the danka system (danka seido). According to a piecemeal set of ordinances, all Japanese families were required to demonstrate an affiliation with a legitimate Buddhist temple from which they received an official temple certification. This transformed the old system of Buddhist lay patronage into a new system of control that accumulated information about every Japanese subject. Although initially constructed to guard against Christian influence, the danka system quickly expanded to include other heresies (jashumon). Indeed, in a number of the ordinances establishing this system, Christians are explicitly grouped with Buddhist groups like the SingleMinded sect.86 Numerous texts connected the threat of Buddhist and Christian movements.87 While the Single-Minded sect was a continued preoccupation of the Satsuma region, other regulations extended this temple surveillance to the Fuju-fuse and Hiden schools of Nichiren Buddhism.88 Common to all of these groups was the charge that they perpetuated a “deviant” form of Buddhism, and perhaps more importantly, that they called for their followers to display loyalty to the sect over the state. The banned sects were a threat because they represented the potential for alternate coalition formation and therefore seemed to detract from the centralizing fidelity structures of the Japanese government. Indeed, Hideyoshi, the first major Japanese leader to formulate an anti-Christian policy, explicitly compared the external allegiances of the Christians and the Single-Minded sect the day before he called for the expulsion of European missionaries.89 In all these regulations, the Christian sect is consistently placed in the same legal category as prohibited Buddhist sects.90 In other words, it is clear that these legal materials are focused on a particular type of heresy of which Christianity was but one exemplar.91 Therefore, the main functional purpose of the temple certification system was not the expulsion of Christianity but the domestication of Buddhism.92 Thus, Christianity did not require the formulation of a new legal category for “religion,” in part because the preexisting language of Buddhist deviance was readily available. The structure of the temple certification system perpetuated an institutionalized anxiety about the dangers of heresy. Constant policing amplified fears of hidden heretics precisely because heretics seemed too 41

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clever to be discovered. Absence, therefore, served only to amplify tensions, which erupted in periodic outbursts of violence toward scapegoats variously identified as Christians or heretics. This propagandist campaign against heresy served to help legitimate the Tokugawa state by constructing a specter from which it could defend Japan.

42

TWO

Heretical Anthropology While at the western residence, I heard that on the eighth month of the pre¯ sumi island and had vious year [1707] a foreign barbarian had landed at O been detained. Except for the words Edo, Japan, and Nagasaki, his speech was unintelligible. On paper he scrawled a number of marks toward which he pointed and pronounced the words “Roma,” “Nanban,” “Rokuson,” “Kasuteira,” “Kirishitan.” When he spoke the word “Roma” he pointed his finger at himself. This incident was reported to the officials at Nagasaki . . . . The authorities made inquiries of [resident foreigners] . . . who reported that “Kirishitan” [Christian] was the name of a particular heretical cult [jakyo¯ ], but further than this they could provide no information . . . . Near the end of the year, at the beginning of the eleventh lunar month, the government informed me that the foreigner would shortly be brought to [Edo], and that my aid would be required in investigating the case.

¯ K I B U N , 17 13 AR AI HAKUSEKI, SEIYO

In 1709, two men were seated across from each other in a courtyard that was functioning as an interrogation chamber.1 One man, escorted by guards, was weak from days of confinement.2 He was a “heretic” and a foreigner, in the country illegally, and he most likely expected that, barring a miracle, he was going to die. The man sitting across from him had the power of a militarized state at his disposal with interpreters, bureaucrats, and soldiers waiting in the wings. As in many anthropological encounters, the asymmetries of power dictated the terms of the interaction, and reduced one man to the position of a subject of study and the other to a scholar or interrogator tasked with the production of meaning. So far, in many ways this was a set up typical of early anthropology, with its interrogations of captures “savages,” and its ecclesiastical parallel the Inquisition (Inquisitio Haereticae Pravitatis). 43

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But here we have a reversal. The prisoner was the Sicilian Jesuit Giovanni Battista Sidotti (1668–1714). His interrogator, Arai Hakuseki (1657–1725), was one of the most famous Japanese scholars of the era.3 A summary of these interviews was ultimately recorded by Hakuseki in a handwritten manuscript, Seiyo¯ Kibun (Tidings from the West) (see the appendix), which functioned as an ethnography of a European savage and deviant. While not unique historically, the power disparities in this encounter invert many of the contemporary assumptions about the relationship between Occident and Orient, ethnographer and research subject, or inquisitor and heretic.4 The “other” was not some primitive tribesman or recalcitrant Cathar, but an educated Catholic priest. The interview was essentially an ethnographic moment, and it was embedded in the larger anthropological encounter that spanned this period of Japanese and European interaction. From the European side, these interactions with cultures on and beyond the colonial periphery would ultimately give birth to anthropology as an academic discipline. Yet, unlike much of contemporary ethnography, we have not only the writings of the European travelers but also the words of equally welleducated Japanese “ethnographers” who wrote about the Europeans and their inquiries. Indeed, Hakuseki would go on to write ethnographies of other barbarians.5 Hence, the Japanese and European contact texts provide a window into a kind of ethnography of proto-anthropologists as well as allowing us to trace the false starts, missed connections, and miscommunications of these early encounters. The main concern of the chapter is this bidirectional construal of cultural difference, represented dramatically in microcosm in this interrogation. Japanese thinkers attempted to understand the motivations of the foreign barbarians who arrived on their shores. Similarly, European missionaries struggled to promote Christianity in Japan and were thus involved in the constant interpretation of potential obstacles to their aims. Nevertheless, both groups had to do so initially without the benefit of a concept of “religion” in the modern sense. Scholars have tended to imagine that cross-cultural interaction leads naturally to the recognition of the universality of “religion” as a fundamental dimension of human experience.6 The European discovery that other cultures have religions is often seen as a straightforward outcome of the age of global expansion. Even if one follows this overarching account, it is plain that a concept of “religion” did not emerge overnight, and one has to wonder how members of divergent cultures communicated on “religious” topics when the abstraction was not available 44

H E R E T I C A L A N T H R O P O LO G Y

to them. In fact, the Japanese wouldn’t take recourse to the category religion for another century and a half, and then as an overtly political rather than merely ethnographical category. In the eighteenth century, despite being confronted with the dramatic and repeated appearance of Catholic missionaries, Japanese ethnographers did not arrive at anything like the modern concept of religion. There are good reasons to think that “religion” is not the necessary outcome of cross-cultural encounters, since even as some Europeans were busily constructing that concept, Japanese thinkers were accommodating the same “data” into a rather different intellectual scheme. Further, in the records of these encounters produced by early European missionaries, they too used the heresiographical terminology of the inquisitor, not the religion of later anthropologists. Dissimilarities in political system, custom, diet, or ritual were not generally cataloged in a value-free manner, but were instead represented as the product of dangerous deviance. Therefore, lacking a concept of religion, the relationships between these various cultural assemblages in Europe and Japan were generally read according to a different axis of difference that represented both similarity and divergence as a result of demons or the devil. Accordingly, in early encounters both cultures used some version of “heresy” as an intermediary concept in the representation of the other. We may therefore describe this way of encountering as a kind of heretical anthropology. Far from the academic anthropology of our current moment, this older method interwove the logics of polemic and investigation into a single mode. Both parties were simultaneously inquisitors and ethnographers, attempting to interrogate the other with the sense that the other promoted something defective. Jonathan Z. Smith has argued that “religion” is fundamentally an anthropological category used in reference to other people’s beliefs.7 Smith is more than half right, but religion is also a heresiographical or missionary category (two terms that are necessarily interlinked). To illustrate this point by speaking in the broadest possible terms, I will skirt close to caricature. Europe recognized that it had multiple “religions” when Protestants and Catholics were unable to eliminate the opposing “heresy.”8 In roughly the same period, Europeans came to imagine a global multiplicity of “religions,” when efforts to convert Muslims and “pagans” met with resistance. Here, religion as a category emerges from an attempt at assimilation and the failure of that assimilation to occur. This failed assimilation first appears under the sign of “heresy” and only later, when the difference of the other is recognized, 45

CHAPTER 2

are various cultural assemblages reconfigured by being acknowledged as “religions.” As the last chapter demonstrated, the Japanese had a rich history of heresiography. This provided them with a set of tools and tropes through which to understand the Europeans. Similarly, Jesuits living in Japan inherited a range of materials on heresy as part of the legacy of the Catholic Church. The first section of this chapter looks at two versions of the same legend in both anti- and pro-Christian materials and discusses the manner through which conflicting hermeneutics allows both parties to represent the other as demonic. The second section addresses Japanese readings of Christianity as a Buddhist heresy to trace an encounter with Christianity before the formation of the category religion. Finally, the third section examines European writing on Japan from the same period to demonstrate similar impulses in reverse. In the following pages, we will try to stand outside the metaphorical interrogation chamber to interpret this interpretation and decode it for ourselves.

Contested Silences: Two Versions of the Acts of the Saints For generations the emperors of Yejitto had a tutelary deity [ujigami] that would on occasion speak. But suddenly [and inexplicably] the god stopped saying a word, even when the emperor made a special trip to the deity’s shrine. [Still the emperor persisted, begging for an explanation for the God’s silence.] . . . The god answered: “Of late, a priest who practices a demonic doctrine [maho¯ ] has come here from Zeruzaren. . . . He has designs on the kingdom. Unless you take care, Yejitto will be taken over, and your own life will be cut short. When I think of this, I am at a loss for words.” CHIJIWA SEIZ AEMON, C A . 16 0 6

The originally untitled work by Chijiwa Seizaemon (1569–1633) describes a demonic heresy in a series of interlocking vignettes. According to the text, the heretics’ true intentions are nothing less than world domination and each day they get closer to their aims. The cult’s powers originate from demonic sources and it has entered into an allegiance with a particularly powerful demon (akuma) named Ikanto Buru ¯sha.9 Moreover, this heresy is a twisted reflection of the Buddhist dharma. Their founder has fabricated false Buddhist scriptures, and through propagating these texts, his followers seek to seduce people away from the true Buddhist path and into depravity and perversion.10 Chijiwa’s tales bear more than a passing similarity to descriptions of the Tachikawa sect. They seem to describe another heresy that engages 46

H E R E T I C A L A N T H R O P O LO G Y

in “strange aberrations” and demonic rituals. On the surface, the text’s few innovations appear to be confined to a profusion of exotic sounding words and place names. Indeed, we might imagine that this work was written to discredit some particularly popular Buddhist sect or local Japanese cult. It was not. In 1582, Chijiwa Seizaemon, also known as Miguel Chijiwa, had been selected as one of four children to be taken by the Jesuits on a tour of Europe.11 On his return, for reasons that will probably never be clear, Chijiwa rejected Christianity and authored the above text (likely in 1606), known to scholars as Kirishitan kanagaki (Christianity in plain letters).12 Although the title was attributed post-facto, there can be no doubt that the heresy discussed is European Catholicism. This is troubling in that Chijiwa’s description originates not in blind ignorance, but in close contact with European civilization. It is worth emphasizing, in the face of anyone who still thinks that exclusion proceeds mostly from ignorance, that Chijiwa rejected Christianity not because it was something “unknown,” but precisely because he was steeped in it. Indeed, the more he knew about Christian materials, the more evidence he possessed to fortify his anti-Christian polemic. While he clearly has distorted the image of Christianity, in other way he has paradoxically remained true to his original source. We know this because we have another version of the same tale, written by members of the “heretical cult” themselves. In this case, Christian voices can be recovered, and they too speak of their power to produce silence. A version of the same tale can be found in one of the first books by the Jesuit Mission in Japan, Sanctos no gosagueo no uchi nuqigaqi (Excerpts from the acts of the saints, 1591), which retold the lives of the saints in a phonetic Japanese rendered in Roman letters with a heavy mixture of loan words. A chapter titled “San Bartholomeu Apostolo no Gosagueo” (The acts of the apostle Saint Bartholomew) describes the journeys of the apostle Bartholomew, which parallels Chijiwa’s text. Both accounts agree on many substantive details. A Christian apostle originating from Jerusalem (Zeruzaren, Hierusalem) traveled to a foreign kingdom, entered a temple there, and silenced the entity dwelling within its idol through his supernatural power.13 In all cases this silencing functions as evidence for a kind of noncommunicability. More importantly, both texts also agree on Christianity’s opposition toward native cults. According to the Sanctos, Bartholomew had come to effect the “destruction of all the buddhas [xobut]” in the land.14 According to both works, two activities—the destruction of local temples and the propagation of Christianity—are entwined. 47

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The main disagreement between these texts is symmetrical as well. While both recognize the powers of the other group—the gods do indeed speak and the apostles is indeed capable of silencing them—each side represents the other’s power as demonic in origin. Indeed, in Japanese both texts describe the opposing category with the same term maho¯, which could be translated as black magic, demonic doctrine, or devilish dharma. Chijiwa’s uses maho¯ to describe all of Christianity, while the authors of the Sanctos use maho¯ as a translation term for heresy and black magic.15 These texts thus meet in their mode of exclusion. Further, in both cases the language for understanding and representing the other culture originates in preexisting tropes for representing heretical difference. In his portrayal of Christianity, Chijiwa uses similar Buddhist tropes to those discussed in the previous chapter. Christianity is described as demonic, sexually perverse, and focused on black magic rituals.16 A conception of Christianity emerges organically from previous understandings of heresy, which served as an intermediary concept in Chijiwa’s rendition of his experiences, shaping the structure of his “ethnography.” The central tension in Chijiwa’s narrative is that while Christianity sounds like Buddhism, it also places itself in direct opposition to local buddhas and gods. Therefore it must be a dangerous heresy. Sanctos, by contrast, relies on an older canon of Christian writing on idolatry. Consistently, late antique and medieval Christian authors describe pagan idols as being inhabited by demons.17 These demons impersonate deities and provide the icons with voices, which they use lead people astray. Christians have the power to silence these demons through exorcism.18 This is clearly evident in the widely read Golden Legend (Legenda Aurea, 1260) by Jacobus de Voragine (1230–1298), which serves as the inspiration for Sanctos and likely Chijiwa’s work as well.19 The main features of the story of Saint Bartholomew in both accounts can be seen in the Golden Legend. The key passage in the Golden Legend informs the reader that Bartholomew is dedicated to the destruction of idols and that he had come on a mission “to rid India of all of its gods” (Lt., omnes Deos Indiae evacuet).20 In the Sanctos, however, the word Buddha (Jpn., Butsu, Hotoke) is used consistently as a translation term for idol.21 This identification, which reoccurred in a number of European sources, was based on a representation of the Buddha as nothing more than another pagan idol.22 Hence, the mission of Christianity described in the text distributed by the Jesuit order, is explicitly identified as the destruction of Buddhism. In fact, Christian writers faced with foreign cultures had at least four 48

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options. They could declare the foreign system a “religion,” equivalent to Christianity in a manner that will generally tend to downgrade both.23 They could, and did in a few instances, incorporate the other into the European fold, as a kind of secret Christianity, a Christianity that does not yet recognize itself as Christian.24 They could reject it as heresy, that is, as a deformed and dangerous Christianity. Or, as the Golden Legend demonstrates, they could reject it as idolatry, which is something else again. As idol worship it was not seen as a religion, but instead as a counterfeit Christianity worshipping counterfeit gods. Accordingly, both Chijiwa’s text and the Sanctos, function as simple inversions. Each describes the other as demonic. These polemical representations of the other reinforce a process of exclusion. Again what is at stake is voice: who gets to speak and whose interpretation gets to dominate the other.25 Heretical anthropology is exactly this type of hermeneutic conflict. Like the patterns of hierarchical inclusion and excluded similarity, it is a struggle over the position of power that gets to affi x the meaning to the opposing category.

Demonic Dharma The Christian version of the Buddhist dharma tells us that at the time heaven and earth were opened up the One Buddha called Deus and Great Lord, made his appearance. . . . Barbarians from foreign lands came here to spread this demonic dharma [maho¯] and, despising the buddhas and the gods, to destroy them and do away with them, determined thereby to make of Japan a domain of devils [makai]. K I R I S H I TA N M O N O G ATA R I , 16 3 9

The anonymous author of Kirishitan Monogatari (The tale of the Christians) understood Christianity to be a warped version of Buddhism, or perhaps a demonic counter-Buddhism, dedicated to the destruction of Japan and the promotion of evil. While radical in its conclusions, this was not a unique view. A number of Japanese intellectuals perceived at least superficial similarities between Buddhism and Christianity.26 Yet, similarity did not beget amity.27 Instead Christianity was read as dangerous, and its divergence from Buddhism was read as demonic. Although far from uniform, the composite picture of Christianity that emerges in a number of Japanese sources from the sixteenth to the nineteenth centuries is of a Buddhist heresy propagated by barbarians and focused around the worship of a demonic deity.28 This sect encourages loyalty to a barbarian king said to be the representative of this monstrous god on earth. It expands its empire by subverting the 49

CHAPTER 2

inhabitants of a region through a combination of bribery and deception or black magic. It takes advantage of and encourages civil wars. Peasants, the poor, and the uneducated are particularly susceptible to its false teachings. Eventually—as was believed to have happened in the Philippines and Java—the barbarians, aided by local traitors, annex portions of a country, corrupting the local rulers and enslaving the populace. The Christian followers then destroy the images and temples of the true gods and buddhas while purging local customs. This leads to the destabilization of the existing social order and the emplacement of a new order modeled on Christian civilization. The following pages will attempt to trace the development of this theory of Christianity as it was formulated in a range of Japanese materials from the period. One of the most important texts to explicitly engage in BuddhistChristian comparison was Taiji Jashu¯ Ron (An argument for the extinction of heresy), written in Sino-Japanese kanbun in 1648 by the Zen monk Sesso¯ So¯sai (1589–1649).29 While the elite literary format of the text limited its distribution, So ¯ sai was a famously popular lecturer on the subject of Christianity and his views were particularly influential on the Tokugawa leadership.30 So¯sai’s main thesis was that the resemblance of the barbarian teachings to Buddhism was no accident. The man Jesus, audacious and crude, demonstrated a talent for deception. He studied with the followers of Shakyamuni [Buddha] and learned the outward form [of Buddhism], but he could not comprehend its profound depths. Fraudulently, he copied Shakyamuni’s dharma. Yet falling far [from its intent] he taught a heretical path rooted in wicked views.31

This passage accuses Jesus of having studied, but fundamentally misunderstanding, key Buddhist concepts. Thus, Christianity is not only a copy of Buddhism, but worse, a bad imitation. So ¯ sai provides evidence for this claim in the following: [Jesus] changed the name of Brahma and called him God; he took the deities of the Brahma-Heaven and called them angels. He took the heavenly realm and called it paradise. [Rebirth] in the human realm he called purgatory, [rebirth] in hell he called inferno. He took the consecration ritual (kanjo¯) and called it baptism, repentance he called confession. The ten pure precepts he called the ten commandments. He took nuns and called them virgins. He took a monk’s staff (shakujo¯) and called it excommunication. He took the fruits of the earth and called them apple. He took [Buddhist] prayer beads and called them rosary. He took the bones of condemned

50

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criminals and called them relics, attempting to imitate what [we] do with the body of the Buddha.32

At first pass, So¯sai seems to have seen through Anjiro ¯ ’s translation of Jesuit materials to identify precisely those figures with which one could render an equivalence. Instead of denying the translatability of, for example, “God,” So¯sai reads the similarity between Deus and Brahma as evidence for fraudulent imitation. It is apparently warped similarity, not true difference, that evokes So¯sai’s ire. So ¯ sai suggests that both Buddhism and Christianity have a number of common concerns. Indeed, the axis of comparison might seem to be broad, as both traditions share an idiom that includes deities, rebirth (or the afterlife), monasticism, ethics, rituals, relics, and even fruit. To a reader unfamiliar with the Japanese Buddhist tradition, these might be convincing parallels. Yet it would be a mistake to assume that Tokugawa-period Buddhism was centered on Brahma and baptism, just as it would be a mistake to assume, as So¯sai does, that Christianity was centered on conquest.33 This passage is an example of excluded similarity. So¯sai insists repeatedly that Christianity is a Buddhist heresy. In other words, Christianity has been categorically placed under the subheading of Buddhism and described as a defective offshoot. In every case a ChristianBuddhist parallel is identified it is rejected as a faulty imitation perpetrated by Christians. As further evidence, So¯sai activates Buddhist scriptural precedence. He cites the S´u¯ram . gama Sutra and diagnoses Jesus as having been possessed by a demon.34 Christianity is thereby revealed, like other Buddhist heresies, to be a mock dharma manufactured for nefarious ends. Accordingly, anti-Tachikawa and anti-Christian polemics use the same scriptural sources to “identify” a defective Buddhism produced by demonic intervention. If, as Thomas Kuhn has argued, new theories are produced when existing theories cannot account for anomalous data, then So¯sai has no need for a new theory of something called “religion” to explain Christianity because he is perfectly capable of explaining it within the prior precedents of Buddhist demonology.35 In fact, more than sixty years later, Arai Hakuseki at the end of the interrogation mentioned earlier, summarizes his encounter with the captive Jesuit as follows: Although all that he says in his barbarous language is not fully comprehensible, it seems to me that in the main his teachings have their origins in the Buddha of India.

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Secretly they have plagiarized it [lit., stolen its flakes of skin]. . . . According to his own explanations, when compared with printed Dutch world maps, the place their Deus supposedly descended into the world, Judea, is not far from western India. . . . Furthermore, the Buddha’s teachings were already revered before [the birth of Christianity]. Therefore, the preaching of the Buddha of India must have come to the region before Jesus.36

In this passage, Hakuseki groups India and Judea into the same cultural sphere. He does so in order to demonstrate the relevance of the chronological priority of Buddhism. His argument, in what should now be a familiar mode, is that because of the similarities between Buddhism and Christianity, Christianity is therefore a fraudulent reproduction. The evidence for this plagiarism, articulated according to conceptions of excluded similarity, is described by Hakuseki: Today in the version of the dharma promoted by the followers of Jesus, we find icons, precepts, consecrations, the recitation of sutras, and rosaries [all lifted from Buddhism]. Further, the descriptions of heaven and hell, punishment, and reincarnation are nearly identical to that of the sayings of the Buddhists. But the degree to which [the Christians] have watered these down is such that they cannot be discussed in the same day [as that of the Buddhist teachings]. When those at the end of the Ming Dynasty spoke of the causes of its collapse, they ascribed it exclusively to the promotion of the teachings of the Lord of Heaven. Our country’s prohibition of those teachings was no stricter than necessary for our defense.37

Again, as in So ¯ sai’s discussion, Hakuseki lays out the similarities between Christianity and Buddhism. Indeed, he seems to have erred on the side of even greater resemblance in suggesting that Buddhists and Christians have identical conceptions of icons and reincarnation, among other things. Despite the recognition of correspondence, however, the differences between the two traditions are described to the detriment of Christianity, which is seen as fundamentally derivative, “watered down” Buddhism and, hence dangerous, heretical, and demonic.38 One of the most distinctive features of the seventeenth century anti-Christian polemics is the manner in which the language of demonic “heresy” was extended to descriptions of the Europeans themselves. Popular pamphlets literally demonized the southern barbarians (nanban, as the Europeans were called), describing them as grotesque monsters with repulsive and aberrant practices. The most important of these, Kirishitan Monogatari, gives the following portrayal of the initial Jesuit arrival in Japan. 52

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From this ship for the first time emerged an unnameable creature, somewhat similar in shape to a human being, but looking rather more like a tengu [long-nosed goblin] or the giant demon Mikoshi Nyu¯do¯. . . . His eyes were as large as spectacles, and their insides were yellow. His head was small. On his hands and feet he had long claws. . . . What he said could not be understood at all: his voice was like the screech of an owl.39

The reader should keep in mind that is not a direct account of fi rst contact; it is a later writer exaggerating the sense of shock that the Japanese must have felt upon watching the Europeans walk off their ships. In fact, the earliest sources give fairly positive, if inaccurate, descriptions of “Indian” monks.40 In this reconstruction, Europeans themselves have been accorded a place in a demonic taxonomy. Their alterity has been produced through association with familiar monsters. “Southern barbarians” are tamed by being placed within the hierarchy of wellknown categories of difference. Accordingly, this new language represents a shift from a known human type (Indians) to a known demonic category. The Europeans are not exactly incomprehensible; they are, however, monstrous. As is common to the language of xenophobia, the humanity of the Europeans is denied. Men have become creatures and, in other sources, the southern barbarians were described in rumors as cannibals who literally ate human flesh.41 It is hard to imagine a more alarming depiction of foreigners. Before we dismiss these descriptions as condescending propaganda for the masses, we should note that similar imagery circulated in elite contexts in the period. For example, Hayashi Razan, a Confucian scholar and advisor to the Tokugawa government, instructed a Ming official in a diplomatic correspondence that in order to prevent foreign priests from stowing away on Chinese trading vessels, they should look not for strange clothing, as the barbarians were appropriating local garb, but should instead scrutinize physiognomy and speech looking for those with “cat’s eyes, long noses, red hair, and [who] yabber like beasts.”42 In this passage, the stereotypical reading of “savages” in European sources is reversed to suggest that it is the Europeans who are incapable of true speech; instead they are like beasts bereft of language, and therefore reason. All the same, Hayashi Razan is clear in articulating the threat the Europeans pose to Japan. Kirishitan Monogatari further articulates the dangers: “The King of South Barbary plans to subjugate Japan. His means is the diffusion of his version of the Buddha Dharma. . . . This is a plot to take over the country without fighting a battle [or firing] an arrow.”43 Christianity 53

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is again described as a form of Buddhism, but more importantly, the barbarian creed is political in its scope and aspirations. Its leader is a barbarian king. In that sense, Christianity is unorthodox, precisely because it has a foreign political center. Further, this “version of the Buddha dharma” is perceived as a programmatic tool of conquest. According to this account, the king of South Barbary uses something like conversion to subvert the loyalty of foreign subjects. Postcolonial scholars tend to interpret conversion as a subversive activity that functions as an act of opposition to empire.44 This Japanese text is making the opposite claim: in essence, the Christian empire expands precisely through conversion, which is seen as transforming previously loyal citizens into collaborators with Christendom. This theme of invasion by subversion occurs not only in Kirishitan Monogatari, but also in numerous Japanese sources from the sixteenth through the nineteenth centuries.45 The scholar and naturalist Miura Baien (1723–1789) summarized in Samidare sho¯ (Extracts in the summer rain, 1784): I have heard that when the Westerners want to take a country, they consider the use of arms to be simplistic. When they want to take a country, they first use gold, silver, grain and silk . . . they use tricks to confuse the senses of the people and finally employing the doctrine of the Lord of Heaven and the three worlds [i.e., the afterlife] they move the hearts of the people. . . . Seeing that they have drawn the people to their own will, they complete the job simply by bringing in an army which under such conditions cannot fail to succeed in one stroke.46

Colonization proceeds according to a formula: first come merchants, then missionaries, and finally soldiers. While Miura based his speculations on the example of the Dutch colonization of Java, other Japanese thinkers turned to the role of the Spanish in the Philippines.47 In these accounts, Christianity advances by rendering a country pliable and open to potential colonization. Historians of empire and imperial ideology will note that as early as the eighteenth century, Japanese writers were producing full-blown diagnoses of a specifically cultural imperialism, which goes back to the insight that dominance can occur not only through military might, but more subtly through the diffusion of a new ideology. We do not need to turn to later third-worldist materials to understand these Japanese intellectuals. Closer parallels can be found in Chinese source materials. The Confucian model of governance assumes that a pedagogical alteration of customs and educational norms can 54

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have a radical and transformative effect. At various times, Confucianinfluenced governments in China and Japan have represented themselves as “civilizing” (Ch., jiaohua; Jpn., kyo¯ka) barbarians on their periphery, thus expanding the empire. One could basically become Chinese through a process of enculturation. Rejecting the Europeans meant refusing their civilizing project and its concomitant cultural imperialism. An even closer parallel to the model articulated above can be found in the famous sixth-century BCE treatise known as The Art of War (Sunzi Bingfa) by Sunzi. Sunzi suggests that the best generals subdue a country without fighting, in essence by subverting its morale.48 This allows them to take a kingdom intact and without bloodshed. Accordingly, the critique above regards Christianity as a method for sabotaging a country’s morale by producing a new set of divergent allegiances. Influential scholar and ideologue Aizawa Seishisai (1782–1863) made an explicit connection between The Art of War and the barbarian creed in his important New Thesis (Shinron, 1825): [The barbarians] are truly adept at “subduing the enemy without resorting to battle.” They lure our commoners over to their side through their barbarian sect, for they have learned well the lesson, “to take over the enemy’s homeland and people intact is the best strategy of all.”49

The barbarians propagate the Christian creed not from altruism but rather as a military strategy. Aizawa regarded the Christian teachings as a valuable—if dangerous—political instrument. He would ultimately suggest that various aspects of Christian political strategy should be emulated by the Japanese state including its ability to marshal followers. Other Japanese thinkers followed a similar line of reasoning but came to the conclusion that Christianity was especially dangerous precisely because of its ability to undermine existing loyalties.50 Yet exactly how Christianity attracted followers was a matter of some disagreement.51 Aizawa framed another essay, Sangan yoko¯ (Some Extraneous Reflections [from] the Third Eye, 1849), as a commentary on Hakuseki’s Tidings from the West.52 In his reading of the interrogation of the Jesuit, he focuses a portion of his analysis on the story of exodus. He praises the pharaoh and his rejection of God’s heresy(jakyo¯). Arguing that it is a kingly right to punish those who revolt against a ruler, Aizawa clearly sides with Egypt against Moses. In a decidedly un-Abrahamic reading of the scripts, he faults God for being heartless (fujin) and killing Egyptian subjects because of their loyalty to their ruler.53 This read55

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ing emphasizes the wrathful aspect of the God of the Hebrew Bible, in which Biblical plagues and military victories represent not divine righteousness but malevolence.54 Throughout the text, Aizawa portrays the Christian deity as a demonic god of rebellion, capable of working dark miracles upon the earth. Aizawa was not alone in this assessment; a number of Japanese thinkers suspected that the Christians had demonic powers.55 But some early Japanese explanations of Christianity break altogether from the field we call religion. In Samidare sho¯, Miura Baien argues, “The followers of the evil sect do things which are difficult for men to comprehend, and thereby deceive them. However, it is not by the use of creative powers that they do these things, but by clever tricks.”56 By “tricks,” Miura means clocks and telescopes. In other words, the Westerners’ powers are mechanical rather than demonic. Miura also speculates about mechanical wonders that strain the imagination, such as a device that when attached to the human body causes it to shoot out flames.57 Even Miura seems to hesitate between mechanistic and occult explanations, stating, “One hears even now, occasionally, of cases where the followers of the evil sect rouse the spirits of the deceased at night in abandoned places, or show people monstrous or gentle images in mirrors and thereby delude them.”58 What might be zombies could just as well be a trick of the eye. In its reference to spirit summoning, this passage points to another significant manifestation of Christianity in the period of isolation, one that has been largely overlooked in European-language scholarship. When Japanese spirit mediums were arrested in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, they were sometimes charged with having incorporated Christian language and iconography into their rituals. Scholars have tended to suspect that this was a slander inserted by an anti-Christian elite, but there is in fact evidence for this pseudoChristian demonism. In 1829, Toyoda Mitsugi, a local medium (miko) and priestess of the fox goddess Inari, was condemned to death for being a Christian sorceress.59 While an older generation of scholars has tended to read Mitsugi as being a secret Christian convert, newer scholarship sees financial irregularities in her management of offerings as the problem that attracted the official investigation.60 Irrespective, the depositions and affidavits from the case provide evidence that Mitsugi had enriched her summoning of fox spirits and other rituals through the inclusion of a mantra, “Zensu maru haraiso” (Jesus, Mary, Paradise), and paper images of the Christian Lord of Heaven, which were used in ritual magic. This 56

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was not the only case of its sort. Official polemics that actively demonized Christians reinforced interpretations of Jesus and the Christian God as particularly powerful demons. Yet, like the d.a¯kinı¯ rituals discussed in the previous chapter, it was generally believed that demonic power could have practical uses. This produced a self-reinforcing discourse such that the more Christian symbols were demonized, the more power they seemed to have, and the more power they seemed to have, the more they were demonized. Few people, even practitioners, disputed this demonic efficacy. There was only an internal Japanese hermeneutical struggle over the meaning of demonic Christianity, not its connection to demons as such. As a result, Christian imagery was periodically incorporated into indigenous demonological practices by various ritualists during the Tokugawa period.61 Criminal cases like this seemingly proved the connection between Christianity and the demonic. It appeared to be what the Tokugawa government feared, a dark set of rituals focused around foreign demons. Thus, the Tokugawa state continued to police Christianity as another type of dangerous demonic cult. The same ordinances used in Mitsugi’s case were applied in 1810 when a physician named Shibukawa Shu ¯sai was arrested and accused of summoning evil fox spirits.62 According to ritual usage, Jesus was functionally analogous to a demonic fox. In sum, Christianity looks a lot like other “demonic” heresies that plagued the Japanese imagination before the arrival of the Europeans. It was considered even more of a threat, however, because of two interwoven issues: first, its connection to imperialism; and second, its relationship to demonic techne. In the first case, Japanese thinkers repeatedly justified the exclusion of Christianity from Japan by pointing to its expansionist tendencies. Christianity was the tool of conquest and was capable of a fundamental conversion of existing value systems to produce new kinds of loyalties. Furthermore, for Tokugawa ideologues, competing allegiances could not be permitted. Both Christianity and the Buddhist Single-Minded sect needed to be suppressed in order to produce an ideological orthodoxy centered on the Tokugawa shogun. Protecting the populace against heresies in general and Christianity in particular provided a rationale for the extension of governmental power into the lives of Japanese subjects. Perceptions of Christian aggression made it an ideal symbolic enemy from whom the shogun could protect the Japanese people. Initially, European material culture and mechanical artifacts were seen as part of or even a product of Christianity, an attitude the Jesuits encouraged.63 Japanese scholars therefore tended to suggest that 57

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Christianity’s demonic powers might be powered by magic, deception, technology or a combination of all three. The Christianity described in these Japanese sources was not merely a “religion,” but also a technology, a political program, a method for indoctrination and conquest, and a set of teachings that resemble that of Buddhism reflected through a dark mirror. Later Confucian polemics would even evoke the parallels between Christianity and Buddhism as a further reason to denigrate Buddhism as itself corrupt, foreign, and demonic.64 Some key distinctions were not made in the Japanese analysis of Christianity. While it is hard to argue from negative evidence, Japanese sources do not describe a category of “religion” as something distinct from politics, law, culture, philosophy, or, in this early period, science. I do not believe this is an error on the part of the Japanese. Despite an anachronistic reading of “religions” as an autonomous part of culture, in this period Christianity was to some extent all of these things, not merely “a religion.” To be fair, Europeans in the sixteenth century did not make those distinctions either. Further, even after the category religion was formulated in Europe, religion’s separation from politics, for example, was only maintained as an artificial and arbitrarily applied ideal.65 In the Japanese case, the encounter with Europe did not produce a new category to encompass Christianity. In some sense, they did not need to because they had successfully repulsed Christianity both ideologically and militarily. Indeed, it would be a mistake to overemphasize Japanese reflections on Christianity in the period of isolation. By the early eighteenth century, even well-educated men like Arai Hakuseki just thought of it as another suppressed heresy and seemingly gave it little attention. In the nineteenth century, the power relations between Japan and Christendom would be quite different, and these asymmetries produced not only new language but new ways of organizing the world, both conceptually and politically.

Japanese Heretics and Pagans It seems that the Devil has taught them many things of our holy religion because there are similarities, both great and small, observed in many matters. B E R N A R D I N O D E AV I L A G I R Ó N , “ R E L AC I Ó N D E L R E I N O D E N I P P O N ,” 1619

While the preceding sections have focused on the Japanese representation of Christianity, I do not wish to leave the reader with a false 58

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dichotomy between a rational Europe and a backward Japan. At the risk of making these two disparate groups seem more similar than they were, I would like to telegraph the same series of moves from the European side. Just as Japanese thinkers speculated about Buddhist origins of Christianity, Jesuits would imagine early Christian histories in Asia. Further, while they made some accurate observations about Japanese culture, apparent similarities between Christianity and Japanese Buddhism were generally explained as heretical and demonic. A key difference between Japanese and European interpretations needs to be mentioned at the outset. While Japanese intellectuals generally did not make a distinction between Christianity and European political/cultural projects, they recognized something called “Christianity” or “the Christian sect.” The Europeans, however, did not have a word for Buddhism in this early encounter, nor did they have a consistent vocabulary for different Japanese religions. Instead, European travelers generally described a Japanese paganism with different cults or sects focused on different idols.66 Even when they encountered the Japanese term Buppo¯ (Law of the Buddha), Europeans such as Diego Collado (d. 1638) translated it as “Law of the Idols” (Lt., lex idolorum), subsuming Buddhism into a synonym for pagan idolatry.67 As will be discussed in depth, the language of idolatry is fundamentally a denial of “religion.” The Europeans, however, did recognize a Japanese church, consisting of “bonzes” and, unsurprisingly, they described this too as an imitation or twisted reflection of Christianity, and as a heresy. In 1553, shortly after the very first reports of Japan arrived in Europe, the French linguist, astronomer, and mystic Guillaume Postel (1510–1581) had already “uncovered,” in his estimation, the essence of the Japanese faith.68 In Des merveilles du monde et principaleme~t [sic] des admirables choses des Indes & du nouveau monde, Postel argued that despite having been obscured by history, the “Law of Jesus” still prevailed in Japan. Further, he concluded, the Japanese main object of veneration, “Xaca is adored there as Jesus Christ Crucified.”69 Postel believed that the Japanese were basically Christians, albeit ones who had forgotten much of the true Gospels. This was an interesting coincidence because it fit well with Postel’s larger theory, promoted in several sources since 1547, that a divinely inspired relationship to Christ was inherent in all humanity.70 These conclusions about Japan were not completely implausible to Postel’s peers. Before Francis Xavier arrived in Japan, the possibility existed in the mind of some Europeans that the Japanese had already had an encounter with Christianity.71Early reports from the Jesuits de59

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scribed Japan as a paradise with padres whose practices were nearly in conformity with the Catholic faith.72 In early writings about Japan, European scholars initially engaged in their own mode of hierarchical inclusion in attempting to reduce the signs of Japanese difference by reading the names of local gods as evidence for a nascent Christianity.73 This paralleled other writings of the period, because for centuries the European imaginaire had been replete with tales of lost Christian kingdoms.74 Thus, it seemed plausible that the true identity of Dainichi could indeed be the Christian God and, by implication, that the Japanese monastic institution could be potentially incorporated into the Catholic Church. However, even in the most idealized descriptions of Asia, European cultural supremacy was largely taken for granted. Even those who believed that the Japanese had already received the Gospel did not imagine this hypothetical Japanese Christianity as superior to European Christianity. Before the mission began, European thinkers imagined that a dormant or displaced Japanese Christianity could be included or returned to the Catholic fold.75 Europeans took seriously the possibility of this Japanese urChristianity largely because of one particular account, which was reproduced in a number of early sources. The first major European “ethnographic” work on Japanese religion was based on a series of interviews of the Japanese convert Anjiro ¯ , conducted in Goa by the Italian Jesuit Nicolò Lancilotto.76 One version of the text reads as follows: [Anjiro¯] says that in Japan there are three kinds of religious, those who have monasteries like those of friars, some of these have monasteries in the cities, and others in the forest. . . . They preach there is only one single God, the Creator of all things. They also preach that there is a paradise, a place of purification, and a hell; and they say that all souls when they depart from this world, go to the place of purification, both good and the bad; and from there the good are sent to the place where God is and the evil to the place where the Devil is. They also say that God sends the Devil into this world to punish the bad . . . All adore one single God whom they call in their language Denychy [Dainichi] and he says that they sometimes paint this Denychy with only one body and three heads. They then call him Cogy. But this man said that he did not know the meaning of those three heads, but he knew that all were one, Denychy and Cogy, as with our God and Trinity.77

This passage portrays Japanese monasticism as a form of monotheism. What is being discussed here is not religion, but the Japanese “religious”—monks and nuns who are organized in different sects like the Catholic monastic orders. The Japanese, therefore, have a church 60

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with surprisingly Christian preoccupations. This church is described as a center for worship focused on a Trinitarian creator God.78 According to a hierarchically inclusive mode, Denychy is merely the alternative name for the Christian monotheistic deity. Similarly, the Japanese have their own names for the Christian afterlife and they share with European Catholics a preoccupation with purgatory. The full ethnography describes other Japanese monastic practices including the worship of angels and Japanese devotion to a saintly form of the Virgin Mary they call Kwannon.79 Given that in these descriptions, the Japanese appear to be Catholics rather than Protestants, we can see why the Jesuits might have been eager to bring them fully into the Church. We can also easily see why, having received a variation of this report, Postel would have been optimistic about the discovery of the remnants of a Christian faith in Japan. These apparent similarities between Christianity and Japanese monasticism seem to have bothered Lancilotto in a way that they did not bother Postel. A later draft of the same text translated and edited by Francis Xavier draws a set of conclusions about this resemblance: In those [Japanese] temples they keep many images of male and female saints depicted in relief, with diadems and resplendent with crowns, like our saints. And they venerate [these saints] as we venerate ours. . . . And all these people are said to worship one God, Creator of all things, as noted above, and they pray to the saints to intercede with God for them, as we do. . . . These people eat of all things, and they do not practice circumcision. It seems that the Gospel had been preached in the country, and that from sins the light of faith has been dimmed, and that then some heretic like Mahomet [Mafimetto] had taken it away altogether.80

In Lancilotto’s account, the Japanese seem to have a version of Christianity that could only come from some knowledge of the Bible. They are not circumcised and do not keep kosher; therefore, they cannot be Jewish. They also venerate the saints. Nevertheless, the differences between Japan and Europe seem to suggest to Lancilotto that this true faith has been lost, perhaps by Islamicization. Here Lancilotto and Postel are nearly in accord. Yet while the Frenchman believed that history can obscure even Christianity, for the Italian Jesuit this shocking mixture of similarity and difference could only be explained by Islam or heresy. This was not a contradiction on the Jesuit’s part, because Lancilotto shared with many of his European peers the belief that Islam was a heresy.81 According to the common wisdom of the period, Muhammad had apprenticed himself to a heretical Christian monk 61

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and then colluded with the devil to intentionally pervert Christian doctrine for his own benefit.82 In an example of conceptual slippage that will also occur in regard to Japanese religion, many Europeans described Islam as both heresy and paganism.83 Lancilotto had not even been to Japan before he composed his manuscript, but soon after this text appeared, Francis Xavier and his followers set off on their mission to see Japan and bring it (back) into the Catholic fold. Although there were various setbacks, the Jesuits’ initial reception seemed to be fairly positive. Promoting a translation of God as Dainichi, Xavier was welcomed by local leaders and the Japanese Shingon institution. Observing rosaries, signs of the cross, incense, vestments, prayers, bells, and other ceremonies of the Japanese padres, Xavier speculated that perhaps the Apostle Thomas might have come to China and even inspired Christianity in Japan.84 As the reader will remember, the Japanese on the other side of this dialogue were imagining Christianity to be a type of Buddhism. So, in essence, these two competing attempts at hierarchical inclusion were in tension. Dainichi and Deus contended for the position of ultimate interpretation. In due course, Xavier set out to discover exactly which sort of Christianity, or perhaps Christian heresy, he was seeing. He asked the Japanese priests who were hosting him about their knowledge of the Mystery of the Trinity and their understanding of Christ’s incarnation and death on the cross.85 The Japanese were taken by surprise and laughed at what seemed to them to be dreams or fables.86 According to Georg Schurhammer, this was the turning point for Xavier. From this moment forward, Xavier declared that Dainichi did not mean “God” in the Japanese language and that the Shingon order was not Christianity but something sent by the devil.87 Again, trajectories moved roughly in parallel as Japanese Buddhists were coming to regard Christianity as a demonic heresy while Jesuits had become preoccupied with Japanese devils.88 For their part, the “theater of conversion” provided the Jesuits with a script to frame their missions, their battles, and even their martyrdom.89 Even before the Tokugawa government had begun purges, Catholic priests already interpreted their own experiences in Japan as a struggle against the devil that might result in their deaths. The Jesuits performed this conflict with the demonic in the form of public exorcisms.90 The letters the missionaries sent back often recounted tales of possession and direct encounters with demons.91 These discussions of the devil and evil should not be taken as an invention. The prevalence of the demonic in Japan and the apparent power of Catholic priests in overcoming these de62

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mons were used as evidence by Catholics for the supremacy of Catholicism over Protestantism.92 Examples from Japan even made their way into debates about magic and the power of demons in Europe. These demons at the edge of the world were used as evidence against disenchantment by seemingly “proving” the existence of the devil and his minions.93 It should be no surprise, therefore, that demons are widespread in the early “ethnography” of Japan. Not only did visitors record anecdotes about demonic encounters, but more importantly, many of the European writings we have from this period attribute Japanese difference to the workings of the devil. Luís Fróis, for example, starkly summarized the crux of Euro-Japanese difference as, “Above all we loathe and abhor the devil; the Japanese priests [Pg., Bonzos] venerate and adore him and make for him temples and make great sacrifices [in his honor].”94 Not only Fróis but also Gaspar Vilela, John Saris, Richard Cocks, Balthasar Gago, Luis de Guzmán, Jean Crasset, and Bernardino de Avila Girón all describe Japanese culture as a product of the devil.95 This reading was not limited to Catholic missionaries; it also occurs in the writings of Protestant merchants who also described encounters with demons in Japan.96 According to this type of heretical anthropology, the existence of demons worked as a theory to explain the power of foreign rituals and iconography. It also explained their failure to Christianize. Japanese monks did not worship Christ, because the devil had seduced them away from the divine truth. Further Japanese cultural differences, from homosexuality to vegetarianism, could be interpreted as perverse practices instituted by demonic powers.97 These theories did not vanish with the end of Jesuit involvement in Japan; indeed, demonic characterizations of East Asian religion persisted in some circles into the nineteenth century.98 European discussions of demons were not merely polemic, but represented a serious attempt to grapple with the ethnographic source materials, as can be seen from looking closely at examples of this genre. One of Xavier’s earliest companions, the Valencian Jesuit Cosme de Torres (d. 1570) interpreted the plurality of Japanese sects as different examples of demonic inspiration in one of the letters he sent back from Japan describing the progress of the Jesuit mission. According to the letter written in Spanish in 1551: There are many kinds of idolatry in this land. There are some who worship an idol that is called Xaca [Shaka]. . . . There are others who worship this one and all the demons. . . . Others worship the sun and the moon, declaring that the sun and moon 63

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are God . . . and that all things made by God are the same as God. And so they worship all things, including the devil [Sp., al demonio], because they say that the devil is also God because he is his creature.99

In this passage, Torres describes the Japanese as promiscuous idolaters who not only worship images but also direct idolatrous worship toward the sun and moon. Like many medieval accounts of idolatry, behind this form of worship can be seen the workings of the devil. Torres discusses a form of Japanese Pantheism that is formulated as a radical violation of the first commandment. Not only do Japanese people worship other gods, they worship everything, even going so far as to declare the devil to be God’s equal.100 Torres seems to suggest he has found in Japan a kind of rampant idolatry taken to its maximal extension. It is worth noting that for Torres, Japanese idolatry has many different types, but these are not referred to as different “religions” in his account.101 Further, as he went on to note, some sects had a monastic institution that looked like the Catholic Church, with alternate and diabolical versions of priests with their own systems of theological disputation. Again, apparent similarity required exclusion. Torres repeats some of these claims: Those who worship the sun and moon also worship an idol, which they call Denix [Dainichi], whom they paint with three heads, and they say that it is the force of the sun and the moon and the elements. These also worship the devil in his shape, and they bring him many precious offerings and they often see him appear. These are usually magicians and great enemies of the law of God.102

In this passage, Torres re-presents the incarnation of Dainichi, which Lancilotto interpreted as a representation of a Trinitarian God. For Torres, however, it symbolizes not divinity, but diabolism of a most extreme sort. In both passages, Torres is accusing the Japanese of being under the sway of the devil or at the very least being demonically inspired pagan idolaters, but perhaps this is splitting hairs, as in Torres’s eyes there was likely no other kind of pagan. To understand the implications of the construal of Japanese worship as pagan idolatry, one must turn toward the larger context of the representation of paganism in medieval Christian polemical writings. The interpretation of other groups’ gods as demons has a long history in Christian circles and variations of this argument were articulated in the writings of a number of early Christian authors in the GrecoRoman context, including prominently Justin Martyr (100–165).103 64

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More proximate precedents, however, can be found in the Etymologiae (636 CE) of Isidore of Seville (ca. 560–636). Arguably one of the most influential books in medieval Christian education for nearly a thousand years, it would likely have been read by all of the Jesuit missionaries sent to Japan.104 According to Isidore, after the Flood and before the Tower of Babel, all human beings had one language (Hebrew) and common sacred writings.105 Later in the Second Age, people began making images (Lt., simulacrum) of the departed and these idols came to be inhabited by demons, who demanded human worship and sacrifice.106 Thus, idolatry (Lt., idolatria) and paganism were promoted by demons and the devil to turn people away from true religion.107 In this account, paganism is not polytheism in that it is not the worship of multiple gods, but instead is misguided and false worship directed toward demons. Paganism is not simply misdirected religion; it is a simulacrum of religion, something that does not merit identification as a religion. To call something pagan is to claim that it is not a religion. In Isidore’s account, heresy emerges later than paganism, although it too is a diabolical plot. According to Isidore, after the coming of Christ, the devil inspired the arch-heretic Simon Magus to scatter heresy over the rest of the globe.108 The devil facilitated this infernal mission by providing demonically inspired wonders. The goal behind the production of heresy was to turn people away from the true interpretation of scripture. Yet, demonic intervention was not always necessary for people to stray from the true path. For Isidore, a heretic is anyone who, when presented with the word of God, chooses to interpret it on his own or even worse chooses to reject divine authority.109 This definition of heresy is fairly expansive. Isidore asserts that Jews who do not recognize their transitional role in preparing the way for Christ are themselves also heretics.110 Further, those who preserve pagan philosophy in the face of Christian orthodoxy or who otherwise allow pagan thought to contaminate their Christianity are also heretics.111 In Isidore’s account, there is significant conceptual slippage between heretics, pagans, and Jews.112 But, insofar as this is a classificatory schema, it describes different defective versions of the one divine Christian religion. To return to our discussion of Japan, once it was determined that the Japanese were idolaters and pagans, parallels to the Greco-Roman paganism were ready at hand. This represented a move from the proximate othering (or excluded similarity) of the language of “heresy” and on to a language of paganism, which not only represented a complete 65

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othering but also functioned as a fundamental denial of the existence of real Japanese religion. This use of paganism did not mean that older conceptions of Japanese heresy had vanished. Xavier’s successor in Japan, the Neapolitan Jesuit Alessandro Valignano (1539–1606) represented Japanese difference as both heresy and paganism on different occasions. Common to his interpretations, however, was the sense that the uniting element behind Japanese ritual was the presence of the devil. In 1581, Valignano wrote: [The Japanese] hold precisely the same doctrine which the devil, father of both, taught to Luther. . . . Hence might the wretched [Protestant] heretics of our times well take occasion to recognize their blindness, becoming confounded by their own doctrine, persuaded by the knowledge that this very same doctrine has been bestowed by the devil through his ministers upon Japanese heathendom.113

Less an explanation of Japan than an attempt to score points against Protestants, this passage exhibits the themes we have been tracking for the course of the chapter. Japanese “heathendom” is rejected here according to the mode of the excluded same. Its similarities to European religion are precisely the cause of its need for expulsion. Its very existence as a twisted reflection of European practices evokes a sense of revulsion so profound that merely linking Japan to Europe here functions as a call for the elimination of both European Protestantism and Japanese paganism. Further, the juxtaposition of Protestant Europe and demonic Japan enables Valignano to simultaneously cast the Japanese as a familiar kind of threat and make the Protestants seem downright alien. For the European Jesuits as well as their Japanese contemporaries, these warped reflections or heresies are shocking enough to require a purge. The terminology of paganism also reoccurs with equal violence in Valignano’s writings about Japan. Indeed, according to one letter, Valignano looked forward to the day when no “pagan” would be allowed to enter the Japanese city of Amakusa and all pagan idols and books within its grounds would be destroyed.114 This call for destruction is far from the assimilation of hierarchical inclusion. With each book burned by either side, we can see that Japanese and European exclusions were headed toward a confrontation.

Heretical anthropology would have different implications in Japan and Europe. In Japan, as a later chapter will demonstrate, the encounter 66

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with Europe resulted in the construction of a new type of “political science” inspired by the political register of Western Christianity. For the Europeans, experiences in Japan ultimately gave birth to the discipline of anthropology as the language of heresy partially gave way to the language of religion. In both cases, the legacy of this early missionary moment served to shape formulations of “religion.” As the limits of Christendom were established, European thinkers began to formulate a concept of religion. As Peter Harrison has argued, an important early landmark in this process of forming a concept of “religion” was the publication of De pace fidei (On the Peace of Faith), written after the fall of Constantinople in 1453 by the German cardinal Nicholas of Cusa, also known as Cusanus (1401–1464).115 This work was sufficiently important that Max Müller referred to Cusanus as “the first to study non-Christian religions in the independent spirit of a scholar and an historian.”116 In De pace fidei, Cusanus imagines a great concord of nations and peoples gathering to discuss with God the fundamental nature of faith.117 The text’s main argument is that the apparent diversity of ritual forms is the result of human epistemic limits. On the one hand, everyone approaches God according to his own presuppositions; on the other hand, true knowledge of the infinite God is impossible for humans to obtain in their fallen state.118 Regardless, a basic relationship— not only to God, but also to Christ—is built into all human beings.119 Cusanus refers to this basic inborn faith according to the classical usage as religio, which is often translated as “religion,” despite the term’s very different meaning for Cusanus and late medieval thinkers in general. For Cusanus, behind apparent diversity is the fact that there is “one religion [or inborn faith] in a variety of rites” (Lt., una religio in rituum varietate).120 In other words, different national rites have their roots in the same basic human impulse toward the divine. While scholars have lauded Cusanus’s claims that all religions have a measure of the truth, they have tended to ignore the other significant aspect of the text’s claim that Christianity has a privileged access to that truth.121 For Cusanus, behind the various deities worshiped by pagans the central principle of divinity can be found, which is revealed to be none other than the Christian God.122 Therefore, different modes of worship are all provisional attempts to reach toward a Trinitarian God, which has been more directly revealed to the Catholic Church. Cusanus attempts to convince his imaginary interlocutors that they can and must integrate their different modes of worship with the recognition of Jesus and a Christian version of God. This inborn faith 67

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(religio) must ultimately be recognized as a universal truth by all. Further, Cusanus argued, “the truth is but one . . . and the diversities ought now to give up their place to a single orthodox faith.”123 In this model, diversity will ultimately be overcome and integrated into orthodoxy, even though each people will preserve a repurposed version of their native rites. In Cusanus’s model, the formation of a concept of religion functions precisely as a type of hierarchical inclusion. Religious diversity is recognized and even lauded at the same time that a Catholic truth is presented as the true universal for which other religions are but provisional manifestations. Contemporary liberals might applaud Cusanus’s defense of tolerance, but such tolerance is unmistakably organized around a central and privileged term. Even in this account, toleration has its limits. While some pagan deities are provisional representations of God, Cusanus mentions another type of idols, namely those that speak. These speaking images are not representations of the divine, but are instead the work of the devil and his demons, which inhabit various statues in order to lead the masses astray.124 Therefore, for Cusanus, paradoxically, it is only those gods that are silent that are truly divine. Cusanus gives me the opportunity to underscore this chapter’s broad and—if you like—theoretical point: the category of religion can function as its own type of hierarchical inclusion. One kind of history thinks of the discourse of religion as supplanting the discussions of heresy. A discussion of religions can begin only once it is decided that the various systems are functionally equivalent, parallel with each other. Cusanus allows us to see that the concept of religion can inherit the structure of heresy discourse and allows us to suspect that its hierarchies, though eventually buried, will never really go away. It remains to explain to the reader, within our historical frame, how a conversation takes place when one speaker has a notion of religion ready at hand and the other one does not. To return to the interrogation chamber discussed at the beginning of this chapter, during one of the last interviews before Sidotti was confined to the building in which he would spend the rest of his days, he attempted to explain to his interrogators the concept of religion. Arai Hakuseki’s documentation of this dialogue seems to be one of the first exchanges about the European concept of “religion” recorded in Japanese. This section of Tidings from the West is especially valuable, because it contains not only Sidotti’s explanations but also Arai’s almost line-by-line comments and interpretations (translated in full in the appendix). Much of Sidotti’s words were incomprehensible to the 68

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Japanese transcribers who rendered key Portuguese and Italian terms phonetically. Reconstructing these multilingual passages, including Arai’s gloss, provides a fascinating window on this conversation.125. Several facets of this encounter are particularly striking. The section begins with Sidotti confidently building on his sense of the universality of religion to inform Arai that every region in the world has its own religion. The term “religion” (likely Pg., religião) is translated to the Japanese kyo¯ho¯, a word that at that time referred to the teaching of the Buddha dharma or to Buddhist doctrine.126 Thus, in Japanese, Sidotti seems to imply that every region of the world has its own type of Buddhism, its own dharma. Sidotti further subdivides this global dharma into three different sects—Christian, heathen, and “Mohammedan.”127 Sidotti explains that Europe is Christian and that Christianity is further subdivided into different heresies. The original teachings of Christianity, Sidotti argues are preserved by the Catholic sect. This truth appears as a contrast, and he provides several examples of heresy, including Lutheranism. Arai misinterprets heresy to be a reference to the slightly less pejorative heterodoxy (itan) and suggests to his reader that Lutheranism might be an offshoot of Christianity, which may parallel Zen’s role as an extracanonical form of Buddhism. Sidotti’s attempt to explain heathenism as idolatry is perplexing to Arai for several reasons. First, for “idol,” Sidotti provides the term “buddha,” and thereby seems to define heathenism as the sect that erects images of buddhas and worships them. Arai admits to finding this confusing, perhaps because he understands Sidotti’s “religion” as a reference to multiple Buddhisms that would all erect Buddhist images. Despite references to buddhas, Sidotti does not refer to Buddhism as such. Perhaps this reinforced Arai’s interpretation that all “religions” were types of Buddhism. After all, he would ultimately conclude that Christianity was a deviant Buddhism. Second, Arai attempts to press Sidotti on the teachings of this heathenism, but Sidotti does not seem to be capable of articulating a specific heathen doctrine. Arai confesses confusion at the whole category of heathenism, which is especially ironic given that in most European accounts Japanese religion was understood to be heathenism. After providing a list of three subdivisions of religion, or the global dharma, Sidotti also mentions as an addendum the Confucians in China, whom he describes as atheists. Sidotti thereby both includes and excludes Confucianism from the category religion. Arai, himself a Confucian scholar, at first thinks that Sidotti is discussing a subschool of Confucianism focused on a kind of natural history (shizen no gaku). 69

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He initially fails to recognize himself in Sidotti’s account. Later Arai realizes that Sidotti is referring to Confucianism in general, and at that moment Arai mentions that there are Confucians in Japan. Arai omits any discussion or gloss on the term “atheist,” which he clearly did not understand. Arai ultimately admits to being baffled by the whole discussion of religion, concluding that “the Westerner’s explanation of this system is incoherent and superficial, and therefore not worthy of further discussion.” Indeed, further discussion of the concept of religion seems to have been unnecessary in Japan for more than a hundred years, as European and American incursions off of the Japanese coast would soon transform the discussion of religion from a scholastic debate into an issue with huge political implications.

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The Arrival of Religion Negotiating “Religion” Thus far, I have been trying to show how Japanese and Europeans made sense of each other’s religions when one of those groups did not possess that concept at all and the other possessed it only tenuously. The point I’d like the reader to hold on to is that “religion” is not the inevitable outcome of an encounter between different peoples; the concept does not automatically generate itself as an anthropological abstraction. What I want to do now, and it is the book’s chief business, is document the belated adoption by some Japanese policymakers of that concept. One of the more striking features of this story is that religion takes hold in Japan as a nakedly political category, first considered useful by politicians and put to directly political uses. As a diplomatic category, religion emerged through a process of negotiation, conditioned by competing aims and aspirations. The legacy of these struggles can be seen, however subtly, in the historical context in which the term came into usage. On July 29, 1858, the sound of American cannons boomed through Tokyo Bay. These were putatively official salutes, not the blasts of war, but their implicit meaning was no less violent. On that July day, representatives of the Tokugawa government sat on the deck of the American battleship, USS Powhatan. Personal feelings aside, they had little choice but to sign a treaty with the United States. A change had come upon Japan. For more than two hundred

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years, the Tokugawa shogunate had restricted international imports and the ability of its subjects to travel abroad. The Americans were not the first barbarians to attempt to force Japan into commerce during this period; throughout the epoch the Japanese had repulsed a series of foreign vessels and captured a number of Western intruders.1 The situation had changed five years earlier in July 1853, when Commodore Matthew Perry (1794–1858) led a fleet of warships to Japan. When ordered to depart, Perry instead demonstrated his cannons and promised further violence if the Japanese refused to engage in negotiations. The following month, Admiral Evfímiı˘ Putiátin (1803–1883) appeared in Nagasaki with his own fleet of warships to put forward similar claims on behalf of the Russian czar Nicholas I. 2 Soon representatives from the governments of the Netherlands, Great Britain, and France joined in clamoring for full access to Japanese ports. Although the demands were made in different languages and on behalf of different rulers, all these foreign powers framed their calls for commerce in the same discursive mode, as part of a new form of diplomacy that was then coming to be known as “international law.” According to this genre, the precise phrasing of a treaty had huge and lasting implications. Put simply, the fate of a nation lay in the meaning of a single word. A new language was born in this diplomatic crucible of the midnineteenth century. In the years of intense treaty negotiation from 1853 to 1872, Japanese translators, working under intense pressure, coined new terminology for a range of novel ideas. There were few precedents for describing many of the concepts built into the structures of EuroAmerican modernity. Although standardization came much later, this conjuncture ultimately gave birth to new Japanese terms to describe foreign concepts. Japanese translators formulated neologisms to render “steamship,” “telegraph,” and other new devices, such as “republics” and “rights.”3 In each case, new terms were devised when necessary to describe the artifacts and concepts of modernity. Another modern concept was religion, which required the formulation of new Japanese terms.4 The translation of religion occurred in this period, because the Japanese prohibition of Christianity was no small part of the negotiations. While trade was perhaps the central concern of the great powers, many of their domestic constituencies looked to Japan for missionary purposes. In popular newspapers the Japanese treatment of Christian subjects was seen as evidence for its barbarity and provided some of the rationale for interfering in its sovereignty.5

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Hence, religion occurs in international treaties as a shadow of Christianity, in that the diplomats of Christendom disguised their advocacy of Christianity through an appeal to a discourse of rights and religious toleration. Yet, the international law texts that justified these rights did so in Christian theological language.6 And to be clear, religious freedom was something that Europeans and Americans had only ever previously requested on behalf of Christian confessions.7 Thus, one might say the language of religion in these treaties was itself a smokescreen or a gesture toward the universal when something very particular was at stake. While the Westerners were pursuing freedom for Christianity under the guise of freedom of religion, Japanese policymakers were initially unsure precisely what kind of liberties—freedom to do what—they were being asked to grant. At the very least, Western leaders wanted to guarantee that their own subjects residing in Japan would have the freedom to practice their religion. Accordingly, the primary crisis around the term “religion” originated from a context in which the Japanese government was forced to formulate the term’s legal meaning, and to fi x its implications and establish its boundaries. Previous studies of the genealogy of religion in the West have focused on the term’s emergence among European intellectuals and its subsequent imposition on other cultures. I will argue that the modern concept of religion owed less to Enlightenment scholarly discourse than to the power struggles of international diplomacy.8 As this chapter will demonstrate, religion is principally a diplomatic category whose contours emerged through a process of negotiation. Like all sites of contestation, the term “religion” was the product of a struggle. While the Japanese were literally outgunned in this period, they also demonstrated a considerable degree of tactical agency. This study of the diplomatic process will demonstrate that Japanese translators and diplomats bargained to produce particular terminology and defended their interpretations. This chapter traces early attempts to formulate a legal meaning of religion and analyzes the challenges faced by the Japanese government’s official translators in interpreting the term “religion” in the 1858 treaties. I read the seeming inconsistencies in the translation as tactical efforts on the part of Japanese diplomats to quarantine Christianity and forestall missionary activity. First, however, I will discuss the process of translation itself.

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Taxonomy and Translation: Category in the Webs of Meaning In the nineteenth century, there was a worldwide boom in scientific taxonomy and other forms of classification from lists of animal species to “races” of mankind to literature. In Japan, starting in the 1850s, Western categories of “scientific” taxonomy, in fields as diverse as zoology and painting, began to transform or supersede previous systems, leading to an upsurge in classification and reclassification.9 Along with new taxonomies of plants and animal species, indigenous beliefs soon fell prey to reclassification according to newly imported Western categories, such as “superstition” and “religion.”10 For the translation of Euro-American systems of knowledge, this radical categorical restructuring was as important as the creation of new terms. Categorization and translation went hand in hand as part of the diplomatic process, as what was classified and defined according to the terms of international treaties impacted local and national policy. The Japanese encounter with the West involved a massive process of translation as objects, ideas, and words were imported, exported, modified, and recontextualized. Like all processes of translation, this necessarily involved displacement and transformation.11 I would like to dispel the notion of translation as rooted in linguistic competence. Translating is not the process of innocently lining up equivalents—of simply identifying preexisting matches across languages. Translation yokes together terms that in their respective languages inevitably occupy subtly—or not so subtly—incompatible semantic fields. These proclaimed equivalences are then formalized in bilingual dictionaries and treaty texts.12 Recently, Douglas Howland has drawn attention to the process of translating political terminology in nineteenth-century Japan.13 Howland has observed that Japanese vocabulary was invented or reinterpreted to convey key terms such as “rights” and “liberty,” which had large-scale implications for the history of the Japanese state. Lydia Liu has investigated the role of translated modernity in China and in particular she has coined the term “translingual practice” to describe “the process by which new words, meanings, discourses, and modes of representation arise, circulate, and acquire legitimacy within the host language due to, or in spite of, the latter’s contact/collision with the guest language.”14 Terms crucial to this study—for example, shu¯kyo¯—were the result of similar translingual practices. 74

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Roughly, the act of translating a word takes one of three modes in the Japanese case: phonetic, remapping, or loan translation.15 First, a word can be rendered phonetically by transcribing the sounds from the language of origin into Japanese: “paradise” would become paradaisu, written in katakana (a Japanese phonetic syllabary used today dominantly for onomatopoeia and foreign loan words). Thus the foreign term has effectively been imported into Japanese, but with no immediate semantic content. A Japanese person encountering paradaisu for the first time would know how the word was pronounced by not what it meant. Alternately, a foreign idea can be remapped onto an existing expression. For example, the English word “world” was projected on the Sino-Japanese word sekai, a Buddhist term indicating “the worldly realm.” Thus, the persistence of the term sekai masks a translation process that changed the standard meaning of the original Japanese word. While it did not completely shed its previous connotations, as a consequence of this translation, since the 1860s, sekai has come to refer more generally to the physical world instead of to society.16 Remapping, therefore, means that old terms can take on new meanings. Finally, in a process called loan translation, a term can be translated by producing a calque, essentially combining existing Sino-Japanese morphemes to produce a new meaning.17 For example, the Dutch term for electricity, elektriciteit, was translated into Japanese by combining the characters for lightning (den) and energy (ki), to produce the modern compound denki.18 During the nineteenth century, the second and third methods predominated; many of the terms remapped terminology from the canon of Chinese classics, while other terms were constructed from Sino-Japanese morphemes. However, because the standardization of translated terminology did not begin until the late 1870s, a given term could have many different Japanese equivalents until one ultimately became the norm.19 As will be discussed in detail later, the terms that are the focus of this study—religion, science, and superstition—were to varying degrees new to nineteenth-century Japan. For example, the English “science” and the German Wissenschaft were variously translated as “learning” (gaku), “scholarship” (gakumon), “learning and skill” (gakujutsu), and “branch learning” (kagaku). All of these are still in use, but the fourth is more commonly used to designate natural science. In all cases, the words used in the Japanese translation were already situated in their own systems of meaning, in part occupying a space with a different reference in Confucian or Buddhist discourse. There was no “transparent” translation of terms between Western languages and nineteenth75

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century Japanese. In a literal sense, science and religion meant very different things in their new context. To clarify these shifts of meaning, I’d like to provide a new model of concept formation that synthesizes recent work in linguistics and reveals much about the formation of the relevant linguistic categories, especially “religion.” In particular, I make use of two key concepts from cognitive linguistics: the prototype effect and the conceptual web. The prototype effect sheds light on the observation, made by scholars from Derrida to Asad, that the concept “religion” takes many of its features from the specific structure of Christianity, by helping to resolve their divergent and often inconsistent formulations of that powerful insight. The prototype effect has its philosophical roots in the writings of Ludwig Wittgenstein. Famously, Wittgenstein argued that membership in a category is not determined by a shared essential quality, but by a looser “family resemblance.”20 He used the example of “game,” pointing out that there is no single characteristic shared by board games, card games, ball games, and Olympic games. All they have in common is a vague resemblance. Prototype theory extends this observation, adding details to Wittgenstein’s relatively imprecise notion of family resemblance. First proposed in 1973 by cognitive psychologist Eleanor Rosch and then popularized and amended by George Lakoff, the prototype theory states that categories are asymmetrical in nature.21 In other words, they tend to “center” on a prototypical member that comes to stand for the category as a whole. Lakoff points out that for most of us, a robin is a better example of the category “bird” than a penguin, even though by definition both are clearly birds. A crucial consequence of prototype theory is that we do not use checklists of essential features to determine whether something should be included in a category. Instead, Rosch argues that we add new members by relating them to the prototype. In sum, the prototype serves as a conceptual center to the category that determines our understanding of membership in a category, providing the basis on which we establish “family resemblances.” We decide that a sparrow is a bird by noting its relatively close resemblance to a robin, not by comparing it to an invisible list of qualities that constitute “birdness”—and certainly not by comparing it to an ostrich. Applying prototype theory to the concept of religion draws our attention away from the term’s etymological definition and toward the prototype from which it originated. And as the Japanese case clearly shows, this shift of focus reveals that in the 1850s, the asymmetrical center of religion was much closer to Christianity than to any indige76

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nous Japanese tradition. In fact, for most of its modern history, the category religion has taken its contours and meaning from Christianity, which has served as its prototypical member. Whatever the explicit or stipulated definition given to religion, Christianity has always seemed to be a better fit than any other cultural system. In the era of globalizing modernity, the category has broadened to include other traditions. Nevertheless, the category of religion has retained Christianity as its prototypical member. Further light is shed on the distortions caused in the construction of “religion” by reference to conceptual web theory. The idea of a conceptual web comes from Ferdinand de Saussure’s theory of the differential value of signs. Saussure argues that we define concepts exclusively by distinguishing them from other concepts.22 In his example, “mutton” is defined through its differentiation from neighboring concepts—from “sheep,” the concept associated with the living animal, and “pork,” which refers to cooked pig meat. Concepts thus compete for a finite amount of conceptual space; if the term “mutton” suddenly vanished, all of its referents would be distributed among its conceptual neighbors.23 Put another way, the meaning of mutton is entirely a function of its location within a larger system of concepts.24 Over time, cognitive psychologists have heavily amended Saussure’s theory. Their collective modifications can be summarized as follows. The relationship between concepts is distinctive and relational. Concepts are indeed nodes in a conceptual network and gain their function according to their links to other nodes, but deferent types of links exist. The meaning of “mutton” does not lie solely in its difference from “sheep,” but also in other relations of similarity—say, with “pork.”25 Further, concepts have additional, nondefinitional relationships called “extrinsic features.”26 An extrinsic feature of “hammer,” for example, is that it is “used to bang nails.” While there is nothing in the definition of “hammer” that invokes the concept “nail,” this extrinsic feature is closely related to most people’s concept of “hammer.” Cognitive scientists like Robert Goldstone call the entire system of relations, both intrinsic and extrinsic, between neighboring concepts a “conceptual web.”27 Applied to the case of “religion,” conceptual web theory draws attention to the neighboring concepts in relation to which it is situated.28 The following analysis brings both prototype theory and conceptual web theory to bear on key moments in the translation and formation of the concept of religion in Japan, focusing in particular on the influence of the Christian prototype on the process of choosing what to 77

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include in the category of religion, and the conceptual web surrounding religion, particularly the extrinsic features imported in Japan alongside religion; even more revealing, we will anticipate the process wherein contiguous phenomena were excluded from religion. To this cognitive model of meaning, I would like to add one of the important insights of poststructuralist notions of language—namely, the connection between discourse and power. Language is a medium through which power relations produce subjects. Key for us is the relation summarized by Asad: “because the languages of the Third World societies . . . are ‘weaker’ in relation to Western languages (and today especially to English), they are more likely to submit to forcible transformation in the translation process than the other way around.”29 While the Japanese did not merely “submit” to forcible transformation of their language, they did find themselves relatively weaker in the formulation of terminology in this period. This explains in part why so few new Japanese terms were produced in the European encounter of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, while so many were fabricated in the mid- to late nineteenth century. Thus, in the Meiji era, asymmetries of Western power forced the Japanese to negotiate a new set of terminology. Moreover, they were obliged to render equivalence in both treaties and in the dictionaries of the period.

Unreasonable Demands This fact might be deemed a good augury for the future, and might warrant the expectation that these interesting Orientals would be open, not simply to commercial enterprise, but to Christian influence. M AT T H E W P E R R Y, J A P A N O P E N E D , 1 8 5 9

The Bakufu can never ignore or overlook the evils of Christianity. . . . It is [the foreigners’] practice first to seek a foothold by means of trade and then to go on to propagate Christianity and make other unreasonable demands. T O K U G A W A N A R I A K I , “ O B S E R VAT I O N S O N C O A S T D E F E N S E ,” 1 8 5 3

The formal diplomatic ceremony that followed the cannon salutes resulted in the signature of the Japan-United States Treaty of Amity and Commerce (Nichibei shu¯ko¯ tsu¯sho¯ jo¯yaku), popularly called the Harris Treaty.30The agreement not only regulated commerce but also required the Japanese government make various guarantees. Perhaps the most controversial item was article 8, which in the American version included statement: “Americans in Japan shall be allowed the free exer78

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cise of their religion, and for this purpose shall have the right to erect suitable places of worship.” While this document might seem straightforward in English, its translation proved problematic for the Japanese government’s official head translator, Moriyama Takichiro¯ (1820–1871), and his assistants.31 Insofar as Japanese translators recognized that Christianity was the issue at stake, the treaty’s recourse to the terminology of religion was still highly vexing. At that time, Japan had neither an indigenous word for something as broad as religion nor a systematic method of distinguishing between religions as members of a general category.32 In searching for an appropriate translation of the English “religion,” Moriyama faced a difficult decision. There were few clear precedents for an endeavor of this sort and each potential translation implied a different grouping of ideas and institutions. The few translation materials available to Moriyama represented a range of contradictory possibilities. Did “religion” refer to cultural customs? Was it essentially a type of education? Or was it merely the name given to rites directed toward the foreigners’ gods? The preexisting Japanese lexicon left all of these possibilities open. Alternatively, to represent the pure alterity of the imported concept, Moriyama might have created a new term or chosen to render the English word phonetically. Each choice was weighted with serious policy implications, and—exacerbating the situation—the context was not academic but rather a contested space in which diplomats struggled to articulate the term according to conflicting political interests and intentions. Before turning to the translation process in detail, it is necessary to layout the diplomatic crucible, which restricted Japanese options. Following the successes of the Perry expedition, much of the European world saw trade with Japan as a huge opportunity both financially and for potential regional influence in East Asia. Accordingly, the United States and all the major European powers sent delegates to Japan in the 1850s. While the Americans were arguably the most influential on Japanese treaty negotiation, prominent were also the Dutch, French, English, and Russians, all of whom made their own demands on Japan. Although the history of this period has mostly been interpreted with reference to European economic and military agendas, religion also played a significant role in the diplomatic proceedings. While I give special emphasis to American and Dutch positions, I want to note that the other powers also had religious aims. The Russians, for example, pressed to allow the Orthodox Church into Japan.33 They believed 79

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that Christianizing the contested islands in the North of Japan would bring them under Russian influence and control.34 The French similarly pushed to allow Catholic missionaries into Japan.35 In this, they had not only the backing of the French government but also the blessing of the Vatican, which looked on France as its representative in this issue.36 In Second Empire France, the Catholic Church was a powerful ally of Napoleon III, who gave it increasing influence at home and abroad.37 The influential Catholic missionary organization, La Société des Missions Étrangères de Paris, put pressure on the French government to allow it to propagate in Japan.38 Despite the pressures of the Orthodox and Catholic Churches, however, it was the countries most strongly associated with religious toleration that would ultimately pressure Japan into acknowledging freedom of religion. Yet, as we shall see, these pressures were not rooted in abstract principles such as human rights, but instead to advance missionary agendas. The American negotiations were represented by the first U.S. consul general to Japan, Townsend Harris (1804–1878). Harris, an international merchant from New York, was an odd choice for the consulship given his lack of both qualifications and previous political position.39 Harris, however, as evidenced in his personal journal, imagined himself as having a grand mission, which, as a former Presbyterian Sunday school teacher turned Episcopalian, he understood in religious terms.40 On Sunday December 6, 1857, Harris conducted an Advent service in his Japanese residence with the assistance of his secretary and Dutch translator Henry Heusken (1832–1861). The following account comes from Harris’s journal: The first blow is now struck against the cruel persecution of Christianity by the Japanese; and, by the blessing of God, if I succeed in establishing negotiations at this time with the Japanese, I mean to boldly demand for Americans the free exercise of their religion in Japan with the right to build churches. . . . I shall be both proud and happy if I can be the humble means of once more opening Japan to the blessed rule of Christianity. My Bible and Prayer Book are priceless mementos of this event, and when (after many or few years) Japan shall be once more opened to Christianity, the events of this day at Yedo will ever be of interest.41

Harris articulates his mission not simply in the prosaic context of commerce, but as part of a decisive historical moment leading to the advent of Christianity in Japan. Thus, in his own self-representation at the very least, the progress of international capitalism was placed in the rhetorical frame of a global religious mission. Further, he posi80

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tions the free exercise of religion, and in particular the right to build churches, as a key step in a process of Christianization. “Their religion” in the above quote is clearly Christianity. Harris does not seem to have imagined, for example, that providing his own countrymen with freedom of religion might encourage American conversion to Buddhism. He instead develops a kind of Christian triumphalism that will ultimately allow Christianity to eclipse indigenous practices in Japan. Harris was not alone in holding this view. American Christian missionaries back home also petitioned their political leaders to press for the guarantee of religious freedom in Japan as a necessary step in the globalization of Christianity.42 Indeed the official publication of the American Board of Commissionaires for Foreign Missions, Missionary Herald, had begun accumulating donations for a Protestant mission to Japan as early as 1828.43 Christian missionaries, such as Samuel Wells Williams, were part of the official American diplomatic mission from the beginning.44 Despite being hired officially as a translator, Williams was publicly praised by the American State Department for his role in inserting freedom of religion into a major American treaty with China and it seems clear that he had held similar hopes in regard to Japan.45 Hence, while trade was the Harris mission’s primary purpose, it seems clear that its secondary function was to encourage the spread of Christianity. Harris and his fellow Americans, however, realized that this aspect of the mission would be difficult. Philipp Franz von Siebold, one of the most famous European authorities on Japan in that period, had advised Harris’s predecessor: The sole reason why the Japanese object to more intimate relations with foreigners is the fear that Christianity may be introduced into the country, and so the Siogun [sic] dynasty, which consolidated itself by the extermination of Christianity, may be put in jeopardy.46

Siebold’s assessment was in many ways correct. The Japanese were indeed hostile toward Christianity and some of the stability of the existing Tokugawa government was indeed premised on the exclusion of foreigners, and on the suppression of heresies including, but not limited to, Christianity. One group of Europeans, however, was already in Japan. Although conventional historiography often speaks of the Dutch as long-term residents, this term itself is misleading. Japan did not have a treaty with a country—but with a company. The United East India Company 81

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(Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie, or VOC) maintained a single trading outpost on the island of Dejima. This Netherlands-based organization was one of the first European multinational corporations and one of the first companies to issue stock.47 At various times it established trading outposts and forts all over the world. In 1799, the VOC went bankrupt and in a lengthy process it was nationalized by the Dutch government. Ultimately, many of these posts became de facto Dutch colonies. As an extension of European economic interests, the VOC was at the forefront of a kind of corporate colonialism that we tend to associate with the twentieth century, not the seventeenth. The Japanese had made their arrangements with this kind of mercantile empire. In 1609, the VOC reached an agreement that allowed it to function as Japan’s only European trading partner. Its workers were kept in a strict state of quarantine but permitted to continue a limited and heavily regulated trade with Tokugawa representatives. The VOC was allowed to preserve this relationship because they provided valuable goods and helped prevent other European ships from entering Japanese waters. In order to receive this exclusive trade, members of the company had distanced themselves from Christianity. Company men had to periodically prove this non-Christian status by publicly trampling on Christian images in a ritual known as fumie.48 Having passed through this ordeal, the merchants were trusted sufficiently for them to provide useful knowledge about activities abroad, even though this information was a closely guarded secret. Older narratives of the opening of Japan (in both English and Japanese) largely disregarded the importance of the Dutch to instead follow a narrative that emphasizes the impact of Perry and Harris, almost to the exclusion of other foreign actors.49 However, it was the Dutch who were the first to successfully demand freedom of religion as part of a trade treaty in 1857. It was this treaty, not the Harris Treaty of 1858, that established international precedents in this regard. Moreover, long before the 1857 treaty was ratified, the Dutch had positioned themselves as important intermediaries between the other Euro-American powers and the Japanese government. They also leveraged the greater Japanese familiarity with the Dutch language. Indeed, in the international treaties of the 1850s, the Dutch version was often considered preeminent, even among non-Dutch-speaking parties.50 Hence, the Dutch had a disproportionally large role to play in the treaty relations between Japan and the Euro-American world. As the Perry expedition was being planned, the American govern82

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ment requested maps of Japan through official channels from the Dutch. The Dutch government claimed that they did not have reliable maps of Japan, although they agreed to offer limited assistance to the Americans.51 But if the Americans had planned on arriving unannounced, they were in for a surprise. Secretly, the Dutch government directed Jan Hendrik Donker Curtius (1813–1879), the Dutch Opperhoofd (factory head), to warn the Japanese state about the American expedition.52 According to private instructions forwarded to Donker Curtius on January 6, 1853, he was to attempt to begin negotiations on a new treaty before the Americans arrived.53 Unfortunately for the Dutch, these efforts were mostly in vain. While some members of the leadership clamored for action, the Tokugawa government seems to have believed that the latest wave of foreigners could be turned away like so many previous barbarians. Indeed, the Japanese had successfully repulsed an American fleet only a few years earlier in 1846. More importantly, Japanese leaders were afraid that a direct military response could provide the Americans with an excuse for a direct invasion of Japan.54 After the Americans arrived in July 1853 and began putting pressure on the Japanese state, the Dutch saw an important opportunity to alter their role in Japan. In a summary of the situation presented to the Dutch Crown by the ministers of Colonial and Foreign Affairs, Japan was described as vital for the expansion of Dutch influence in Asia, and it was argued that control over Japan would even benefit the Dutch in relation to other European powers. The ministry concluded that the Netherlands should provide Japan with material goods and information, but more importantly, that Japan should be brought under Dutch moral influence (Du., Zedelijken invloed).55 In essence, they hoped to continue their monopoly on Japanese trade to the exclusion of other Europeans. Some Dutch leaders thought that this would enable the Netherlands to establish greater cultural dominance over the Japanese islands.56 This would have transformed Japan into a Dutch outpost or, at the very least, would have brought Japan under their cultural hegemony. Accordingly, shortly after the Americans arrived, Donker Curtius began pressuring the Japanese government to sign a new treaty with the Netherlands, suggesting that the two countries could come to an agreement that would serve as a future precedent for American and European powers.57 Simultaneously, Donker Curtius also attempted to influence the Americans. He privately confessed to them “that the Japanese officials had told him they were ready to allow foreigners all trading 83

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privileges if a way could be found to keep opium and Christianity out the country.”58 Both the Americans and the Dutch pursued a policy of trying to leverage Japanese fears of opium to attain greater concessions in other areas. Both sides attempted to build up the imagined threat of British, French, and Russian military interventions to encourage the Japanese to ally with them instead. The Japanese side of negotiations was conducted by the senior councilor and daimyo of Sakura, Hotta Masayoshi (1810–1864), who had replaced Abe Masahiro (1819–1857) in 1855. As Abe had resigned in disgrace over the unpopular treaty he had signed with Perry, it was in Hotta’s best interest to proceed with the negotiations very carefully. While Hotta had a personal fondness for Dutch studies and at least an abstract commitment to opening the country to some form of cultural exchange, he had limited autonomy and had to work in the context of the vast opposition to greater contact with the West.59 Further, competing factions within the upper echelon of the Tokugawa state shaped many of his policy decisions. One faction wanted to fully open the country to trade, while another faction wanted to maximize restrictions.60 Whatever their disagreements, both groups were particularly wary about the implications of introducing Christianity into the country. As Mizuno Tadanori (1810–1868), one of Hotta’s advisors and Japan’s chief negotiator with Holland, argued in his discussion of EuroAmerican demands: There is a particular danger that the people’s loyalty might be subverted by the introduction of Christianity. . . . If Christianity be introduced and difficulties arise which cannot be ignored, the Bakufu will seem in imminent danger of collapse, whereupon those who have always been turbulent and discontented may seize this opportunity to stir up disaffection. I can conceive of no greater danger to the state.61

As this passage indicates, while there was no common conception of “religion” in Japan in 1858, Christianity was still understood according to the preexisting category of heresy. In fact, internal policy debates over treaty negotiation repeatedly referred to Christianity with the full complement of terms for heresy (discussed in the last chapter).62 Significantly, Christianity continued to be understood by many Japanese thinkers as a deviant offshoot of Buddhism. Indeed, in 1864, even the pro-Western radical reformer Yokoi Sho¯nan (1809–1869) would maintain, “Christ was born to the west of India. . . . It is certain that [Christianity] is a form of Buddhism and that it gradually spread from 84

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[India] to the West.”63 Moreover, Yokoi argued, the introduction of this imitation Buddhism would be bad for the stability of Japan and result in rebellion and “doctrinal conflict” (shu¯shiso¯).64 This stance was comparatively moderate in contrast to the more popular portrayal of Christianity as a demonic and contagious heresy.65 With these attitudes in mind, it seems natural that the Japanese would try to keep out Christianity to the fullest extent possible. In part, they did this through various attempts to frustrate the negotiation process.66 Their fears were not only about Christianity but also about the general chaos they believed would be caused by giving foreigners free access to the country. For a time, their efforts to stall were fairly successful.67 Nevertheless, the Americans and the Dutch continued to press for a number of concessions, including freedom of religion. In a letter submitted to the Japanese government on August 23, 1856, Donker Curtius argued that “all foreign governments [will] require the free exercise of the Christian religion [Du., Christelijke Godsdienst] for their subjects residing in Japan.”68 He cautioned that other European nations would not stand for the exclusion of Christianity, and continuing to prohibit it would be very dangerous for Japan.69 It is worth noting that references to Godsdienst in this text were uniformly to Christianity and did not involve references to a universal right or to a broader universal religion. Further, despite Donker Curtius’s attempts to portray the Dutch as natural allies, his letter also plays on perceptions of a belligerent Christendom. If anything, this communication would likely have reinforced Japanese preconceptions about Christianity. Initially, the Japanese negotiators do not seem to have been convinced by this argument.70 At a crucial moment in the negotiations, news traveled to Japan of the outbreak of the Second Opium War between an Anglo-French alliance and China, which began heating up in early 1857. When the British seized Guangzhou late in the year, both American and Dutch representatives in Japan threatened the Tokugawa government that if their treaties were not immediately signed, Britain and France would force even greater concessions from the Japanese government. Harris in particular played on Japanese fears about the importation of opium and its potentially debilitating impact.71 The French pretext for joining the alliance against China was the beheading of a French missionary in Guangxi Province. Thus, it was clear that one of the demands of the European powers was going to be for greater freedom of religion in China, a point emphasized by Donker Curtius.72 As it happened, this would indeed come to pass in 85

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the Treaty of Tien-Tsin (Ch., Tianjin Tiaoyue), versions of which were forced on China by Britain and France and, opportunistically, by the United States. These treaties not only guaranteed religious freedoms for foreigners residing in China but also granted broad freedoms for Christian missionaries and prevented the Chinese government from interfering with Chinese converts to Christianity.73 These treaties fully opened China to Christian missionary activity. Against this background, Hotta chose to make a number of concessions. Yet, behind the apparent acquiescence by the Japanese representatives was an attempt to moderate the impact of the foreign demands, along with an intense discussion about the proper translation of foreign terms and diplomatic structures into a Japanese context.74 Fundamentally, however, the Japanese delegation had concluded that further stalling was impossible.75 While American and Dutch treaties were being negotiated in roughly the same period, it was the Dutch text that was ratified first. Moriyama’s translation bureau worked on both American and Dutch treaties, and their interpretation of Dutch terminology would later impact their representation of English terms such as “religion.” The Japanese-Dutch Supplementary Treaty (signed October 16, 1857) included articles on a range of issues but primarily focused on trade.76 Yet, article 33 ran as follows: De Nederlanders hebben vrijheid tot uitoefening van hunne eigene of de Christelijke godsdienst, binnen hunne gebouwen en binnen de voor hen bestemde begraafplaatsen.77 [The Dutch have freedom to practice their own or the Christian religion, within their buildings and at the gravesites appointed for them.]

This line of the treaty in the Dutch version is interesting for several reasons. First, it seems to represent an intensely circumscribed toleration. It guarantees a kind of religious freedom that can be expressed only in Dutch buildings and cemeteries, and thereby replicates a kind of quarantining practice. A household and funerary Christianity is limited to clearly designated sites, avoiding the exposure of Japanese subjects to contamination. Second, the treaty makes an odd distinction between “their own or the Christian religion.” To somebody who already takes it for granted that the Dutch are Christians, that “or” will seem to introduce a gloss: they have the freedom to practice their own religion, which is to say, Christianity. But to somebody still unclear about the 86

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confessional geography of Europe, the “or” could seem to indicate that the Dutch were not in fact Christians and they had the freedom to practice their own religion or some other religion, which is called Christianity. Perhaps this ambiguity is consistent with the VOC’s attempts to distance themselves from larger anti-Christian prejudices by portraying Holland as outside of Christendom. Notable at any rate is a certain hesitation in which Christianity might or might not exhaust the category of religion. This seems especially worth noting since the ranks of Dutch merchants living in the Netherlands prominently included Jews, and since the VOC was in the habit of sending ships into Japan carrying multiethnic and multiconfessional crews. However, this hesitation was not preserved in the Japanese version of the treaty text, in which article 33 can be translated: The Dutch are given permission to practice their own Christian sect [Jpn., Yasoshu¯] inside their dwellings and at specially designated burial sites.78

In Japanese, this text further clarifies that the buildings discussed are residences and indicates that the burial places will be actively designated, presumably by the Japanese government. The most interesting aspect of the Japanese is that it completely avoids translating “religion.” “Christelijke godsdienst” is rendered as not as the “Christian religion,” but as Yasoshu¯, literally, the sect of Jesus. The text acknowledges that the Dutch have their sect without postulating a larger category of religion. The Japanese, therefore, had not granted something we might call “religious freedom.” The Japanese rendering of religion as a Christian sect seems to follow directly from the Dutch word deployed here. Although today in the Netherlands it is more common to use the term religie to translate the English “religion,” in the nineteenth and preceding centuries the dominant term was godsdienst, which literally means “service to God.” The theocentric meaning of this term should be clear to the reader. It was also clear to the Japanese. According to a then-extant DutchJapanese dictionary (The Key to translation [Yakken], 1810), the term godsdienst was defined in Japanese as kami ni tsukauru hito (“those who serve a god”).79 Especially conspicuous in the Japanese definition is that last word, hito, tacked on the end, which refers to person or persons. The various European terms for religion, all of which indicate something multifaceted and abstract—including, but not limited to, systems of belief or bodies of dogma—are here rendered entirely concrete, personalized, or demographic. With this terminology in mind, it is not 87

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surprising that the terms Christelijke and godsdienst seemed redundant to Japanese translators. As we shall see, a similar position can also be found in the translation of the American treaty. This treaty with the Dutch did represent a breakthrough in the status of Christianity in Japan. Although the shift was small in scale, Christianity had at a brush stroke been officially transformed from something completely banned to something the Dutch were allowed to pursue under restricted conditions. Donker Curtius was quick to celebrate this progress and communicate it to his superiors.80 But the Japanese further emphasized the limits of this freedom in an additional official letter attached to the treaty text. The trampling of images is now abolished, but the introduction of the Christian religion [Christelijke godsdienst] and the importation of Christian [Christelijke] and other foreign religious [godsdienstige] books, prints and images may not take place in Japan.81

While this letter indicates that the Japanese would no longer force foreigners to trample on Christian images, it also reminded the Dutch that the importation of Christianity would still be prohibited in Japan. In exchange for these limited concessions on religious freedom, the Japanese were able to negotiate for the inclusion of the following in article 14 of the same treaty: The introduction of opium in Japan is forbidden.82

This was a comparatively easy concession for the Dutch to make as, unlike the British, they were not significantly invested in the opium trade. The treaty also reconfigured a number of important trade issues for the benefit of the Dutch.83 Still, the Dutch government was disappointed that Donker Curtius had lost them the monopoly on Japanese trade. They argued that the Netherlands had received too little in these treaties and had given up their special relationship with the Japanese nation. Although he had some defenders, Donker Curtius was criticized by the Minister of Colonial Affairs and the Dutch press. Even so, his popularity in Japan allowed him to remain in the role of ambassador for some time.84 In Japan, the precedents established by the Dutch treaty began to radically alter the negotiating situation. Although it provided legal protection for the Japanese against the threat of opium and continued to quarantine foreigners in a number of ways, Hotta began to be pressured 88

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to grant additional privileges to other foreign powers. In particular, the concessions around religion provided an opening for the Americans. In a journal entry dated January 25, 1858, Harris notes his discovery of the Dutch treaty and its impact on the negotiations: I am aware that the Dutch have published to the world that the Japanese had signed articles granting freedom of worship, and also agreeing to abolish trampling on the cross. It is true that the Dutch proposes the abolition, but the Japanese [previously] refused to sign it. In the Dutch treat of January, 1856 [sic], an article provides that “within the buildings at Deshima the Dutch may practice their own or the Christian religion. The extraordinary words “their own or the Christian religion” are copied from the treaty as sent to me by the Dutch Commissioner, Mr. John Henry Donker Curtius, from Nagasaki. . . . I have copies of every article ever made by the Japanese with the Russians, Dutch, and English, and the above is the only article that relates to religion. I told the [Japanese] Commissioners, as we were about to adjourn at five p.m., that it was useless to proceed with further consideration of the treaty, until they would consent to grant the Minister the rights he enjoyed under the laws of nations.85

In the same entry Harris records his surprise that this strategy worked and that the Japanese had begun concessions on the religious freedom clause contained in article 8 of the American treaty text. This article I had inserted with scarcely a hope that I should obtain it. It provides for the free exercise of their religion by the Americans, with the right to erect suitable places of worship. . . . To my surprise and delight this Article was accepted!86

Ultimately, when the Japanese-American treaty was signed it included this article. The full text of article 8 in the draft submitted by Harris runs as follows: Americans in Japan shall be allowed the free exercise of their religion, and for this purpose shall have the right to erect suitable places of worship. No injury shall be done to such buildings, nor any insult be offered to the religious worship of the Americans. American Citizens shall not injure any Japanese temple or mia [sic], or offer any insult or injury to Japanese religious ceremonies, or to the objects of their worship. The Americans and Japanese shall not do anything that may be calculated to excite religious animosity. The Government of Japan has already abolished the practice of trampling on religious emblems.87 89

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In the process of translating this passage, we cannot know which of Moriyama’s choices were tactical and which were honest attempts to grapple with new terms. To aid his endeavor, he did have a draft of the treaty text in Dutch, but this had its own difficulties.88 Ultimately, Moriyama answered this linguistic challenge by choosing four different Japanese words for the five instances of “religion” or “religious” in the original text. For ease of comprehension, here is the same passage with Japanese terms substituted for key English terminology. Americans in Japan shall be allowed the free exercise of their shu¯ ho¯ , and for this purpose shall have the right to erect suitable places of worship. No injury shall be done to such buildings, nor any insult be offered to the shu¯ ho¯ , of the Americans. American Citizens shall not injure any Japanese temple or mia [sic], or offer any insult or injury to Japanese shinbutsu no raihai, or shintai butsuzo¯ . The Americans and Japanese shall not do anything that may be calculated to excite shu¯ shi animosity. The Government of Japan has already abolished the practice of trampling on fumie in Nagasaki.

The first word used in this translation, shu¯ho¯ (lit., “sect law”), insofar as it had any precedents was already situated in a Buddhist context; it referred to the practices, regulations, and laws governing each specific Buddhist sect. Therefore, the Japanese text of the treaty grants Americans the freedom to engage in the practices and obey the codes of their sect. Likewise, the following line uses the same term to indicate that Americans will also be permitted to construct special places in which to carry out such practices. In the next line, the phrase “religious ceremonies” is rendered shinbutsu no raihai (“rituals for the gods and buddhas”). Ironically, this translation reverses the universalizing claims of religion, because while Americans have their “sect law,” only Japanese have the rituals for gods and buddhas. The term raihai does not describe a generic category of ritual action. Instead, it refers specifically to activities like bowing or making other reverential salutations or offerings.89 In the next line, “objects of their worship” becomes shintai butsuzo¯, meaning literally “embodied gods and images of the buddhas,” but with the general sense of icons, or buddhas and gods, in embodied representation. Here again, instead of using a generic term, Moriyama directly names the specific objects that would appear in Japanese shrines and temples. The penultimate term used in this translation process, shu¯shi (“sect doctrine”), was more widespread than the other terms and generally 90

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referred to the doctrines or tenets of a particular Buddhist sect.90 Thus, by using shu¯shi in this part of the treaty, Moriyama introduces a distinction that did not exist in the English original: the Japanese version guarantees shu¯ho¯, while discouraging shu¯shi. In other words, it guarantees American citizens the freedom to engage in religious practices but deters them from debating religious doctrine. So the treaty grants Americans the freedom to practice but practically prohibits proselytizing. The final term, “religious emblems” is rendered as fumie, which referred to the aforementioned practice of trampling on Christian images. Here, as his translation demonstrates throughout, Moriyama generally conceived of the English “religion” as nothing more than a euphemism for Christianity. The Japanese text adds “in Nagasaki,” absent from the English and Dutch language versions, to the end of this article. This is clearly an attempt by the Japanese government to modulate the prohibition on fumie by ending the practice only in Nagasaki (where the American settlement was to begin) rather than banning it throughout the country. In sum, Moriyama’s translation suggests that, while they grudgingly granted American Christians the right to practice, Japanese leaders were actively seeking to minimize cultural contamination. To wrap things up, the final article of the same treaty established that “each copy being written in the English, Japanese and Dutch languages, all the versions having the same meaning and intention.” Here the contending political interests are working exactly as Lydia Liu suggests, in that they resulted in a translingual treaty, which effectively establishes the equivalence of terms such as “religious ceremonies,” godsdienst plegtigheden [sic], and shinbutsu no raihai.91 But the English version of this article concludes that “the Dutch version shall be considered as being the original.” Here, the treaty betrays its own uncertainties as to the equivalences it has just established. It suggests that future conflicts of meaning might require reference to the Dutch as primary text. Tokugawa leaders, however, would make arguments based on Japanese language terms or based on their interpretation of the spirit of the text in order to thwart American aims.92 Despite the wishes of the Japanese government, other European countries were quick to demand the same protections provided to the Americans and the Dutch. Less than a month after the American treaty was signed on the USS Powhatan, the Japanese government simultaneously signed treaties with Britain and France granting similar freedoms.93 In the years that followed, further comparable treaties were signed with nine more European countries, fi xing tariffs and guaran91

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teeing religious freedoms.94 While the European languages of the treaties varied, the Japanese treaty texts followed the linguistic precedents established by Moriyama and his team. Repeatedly, the Japanese state worked to restrict foreign Christianity while guaranteeing limited rights. Foreign churches were allowed for the sake of international relations, but these concessions did not spell increased freedom for locals. If anything, they intensified fears of foreign pollution. In conclusion, insofar as all negotiating parties were actually discussing Christianity, the failure to recognize religion as a universal phenomenon was not rooted in a Japanese misunderstanding but rather in Japanese insight—an entirely defensible reading of what was at stake for the Euro-American powers. In this context, the term “religion” emerged through a negotiated process contoured by asymmetries of power. The Derridean mondialatinisation of religion flowed from the barrel of a gun. Japanese policymakers were not passive victims; they took tactical agency in moderating or modulating the possibilities implicit in the concept of religion. Their choices would be replicated in a different order as new asymmetries of power transposed the problem of religion from international relations to domestic policy. Ultimately, these pressures from Christian countries for Christian freedoms would be transformed into Japanese guarantees of freedom religion, now understood to include not just Christianity but also things like Buddhism, thus representing a significant shift on the world stage. In the following decades, a few new trends would come to the fore. One trend was the wave of Christian missionaries who came to Japan in the wake of these treaties. No sooner were Japanese ports opened than they arrived, built churches at the foreign settlements and, in violation of treaty terms, began attempting to win over Japanese converts. Few were more enthusiastic than the French Catholics, who, with the tacit support of the French government, began building chapels and actively proselytizing.95 In 1865, this situation was brought to a head when a group of Japanese villagers from Urakami confessed to the French priest Bernard Petitjean that they were the descendants of Christian converts driven underground during the Tokugawa period. Petitjean and his fellow missionaries persuaded these Japanese Christians to test the limits of the Tokugawa prohibition of Christianity in public displays of their faith.96 Before long, the existence of these Japanese Christians became public knowledge and local leaders put pressure on the Japanese government to take action. This put the Tokugawa leaders in a difficult situation. They could persecute the Christians and alienate Europeans, including the French, who only a few years earlier 92

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had gone to war over the murder of a Catholic missionary in China; or the Japanese state could do nothing and further invoke the ire of its subjects who were becoming frustrated with what they regarded as the government’s weakness in regard to foreign powers and an already excessive lenience with regard to Christianity. But the Japanese government soon had more important problems on its hands. In the 1860s, Japan was rocked by “disruption within, danger without” (naiyu¯ gaikan) in the form of international pressure, political factionalism, natural disasters, and an economic crisis. In the face of these challenges, there was a drastic political upheaval that toppled the Tokugawa shogunate and officially catapulted the Japanese emperor into power. The new Meiji regime set about demolishing the remnants of the previous order, radically centralizing power, and promoting a new social order based on a combination of modernization and Shinto nationalism. Two things leap out at once if one asks about the Meiji policies toward religion. One is that the regime ultimately granted freedom of religion in 1889. The other is that it attempted to install a form of Shinto as something like a state ideology of the new order. In order to understand this, we first need to know what the status of Shinto was in pre-Meiji Japan. What kind of modifications did Meiji politics need to perform upon it? Was Shinto understood as a religion in, say, 1600? How about 1880? In the following chapters, I will attempt to show that Meiji policymakers were playing a complicated double game—trying to ensure that Shinto did not get classified as a religion so that they could grant “freedom of religion” to their subjects while still insisting that everyone, whatever their religion, practice Shinto.

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The Science of the Gods Shinto as a “Nonreligion” I haven’t penetrated this thing called Shinto completely yet, but what I can say for sure is that it is not a so-called religion [shu¯kyo¯].

SHIMAJI MOKUR AI,

¯ DO ¯ SH O KU N O J I K YO ¯ SHO ¯ K YO ¯ KONDO ¯ K A S E I N I T S U K I ,” 187 2 “ K YO

It goes without saying that the Way of Shinto is none other than the Great Way of rule and ritual founded when the imperial ancestors of heaven determined the position of the emperor and determined, too, that it should be entrusted to the Sun Goddess, Amaterasu. . . . If Shinto were defined as a “religion,” it would be impossible to take any action against people who did not believe in it.

AT S U M I K A I E N A N D S UZ U K I E J U N , 1 8 81

As the Euro-American concept of religion was popularized in Japan in the 1870s, a number of Japanese intellectuals argued that Shinto simply did not qualify for the title.1 We might be able to ignore this argument—that Shinto was not a religion—if it were confined to the writings of a few eccentrics. It was not. This position was repeated by Japanese scholars and policymakers, Buddhist monks and Shinto priests.2 In due course, the Meiji state would codify a version of this stance into law, giving legal priority to a nonreligious Shinto, a status that was not reversed until the Allied powers forced a new constitution on Japan after World War II.3 The concept of a nonreligious Shinto was useful to the Meiji state because it allowed them to interweave Shinto into the fabric of government, and to mandate the performance of Shinto rituals without contravening new guarantees of religious freedom.

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This “nonreligious” Shinto and its role in the ideology of the Meiji regime is a problem for scholars, because it does not fit many contemporary models of religion, modernity, or the conflict between religion and science. Particularly problematic is the fact that the formation and ascent to power of something called “Shinto,” this putatively premodern religion—polytheist and nature worshiping—coincided not with a premodern politics (Japanese feudalism say) but precisely with the rise of the modern nation-state. The history of Shinto poses problems for some master narratives. Shinto gained power by being excluded from freedom of religion and the requirements of tolerance. Shinto rode in not on an antimodernist backlash, but at the behest of a modernizing state. Shinto “fundamentalism,” when it emerged in the late seventeenth century, sought not to reject but to fuse itself with science. We know in other contexts, most notably sixteenth- and seventeenthcentury Europe, not to believe that modern scientific states and religious orthodoxy are incompatible, just as we know to crack a dry smile at the old secularization thesis when talking about modern American fundamentalisms. It is a matter now of holding our scholarship to the same standards when discussing Japan. To explain what I mean, let me detour briefly through a classic theory of secularization (current theories are discussed in the following chapter). In José Casanova’s summary of the secularization thesis (1994), he argues that most theorists describe modernity as consisting of “increasing structural differentiation of social spaces resulting in the separation of religion from politics, economy, science, and so forth; the privatization of religion within its own sphere; and the declining social significance of religious belief, commitment, and institutions.”4 In virtually all definitions of modernity, it seems clear that Japan modernized and most scholars locate the birth of Japanese modernity in the Meiji era. But this was the same era during which Shinto became interwoven with politics and science, when it was placed in the public rather than private sphere and its beliefs, commitments, and institutions gained social significance. If we count Shinto as a religion, then modernity in Japan did not mean secularization in the conventional sense. The narrative is further complicated in that Buddhism—and later, Christianity—were in fact privatized in the same period and were themselves increasingly differentiated from politics and science. The peculiarity of the Japanese case is not that secularization thesis is wrong, but that it is inconsistently right. Some traditions seem to have been secularized to a significant degree by a process that housed them under

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the guarantees of “religious freedom.” Indeed, Shinto sects defined as religions were secularized, while a State Shinto seems to have avoided secularization by escaping the category of religion.5 How did Shinto manage this feat? Broadly speaking, scholars considering this issue have argued that the Japanese government, despite knowing that Shinto was really a religion, chose to frame Shinto as a nonreligion for pragmatic purposes.6 While this argument gets at the crux of the matter—that Shinto was put to political purposes—it understates how improbable a candidate Shinto was for such a project. When you realize that in 1700, Shinto had no recognizable political profile and no systematic doctrines, and if anything was considered to postdate Buddhism, you get a sense of the marvels these ideologues performed. To become the official foundation of the Japanese state, successive generations of thinkers had to first devise something called “Shinto” and convince scholars inside and outside of Japan that it was the original tradition of the Japanese islands, a claim that lasted largely unchallenged until the 1980s. Second, they had to persuade Japanese statesmen that this newly indigenous tradition was the most authentic form of Japanese politics, and the most powerful too, that Shinto could literally give the state powers. What scholars have generally missed is that what proponents of Shinto offered to supply the Japanese state was not a faith, but knowledge or something very much like science. Shinto was often presented as a science or mode of knowing in several different registers at once: cosmological, philological, and political. Shinto cosmology would ultimately lose ground over course of the nineteenth century; but Shinto as political science remained in force until the Second World War. Shinto as philology, a kind of nationalist cultural history, to some extent persists even today. Reconstructing Shinto self-understanding should allow us to unravel many of the tangles built into not only Shinto but into also the very concepts of religion and science themselves. It also demonstrates that two histories generally seen as separate—the histories of the Japanese importation of European science and of the formation of modern Shinto—are in fact deeply intertwined. The form Shinto took in the modern era was the result of a series of policies initiated by the Meiji regime to “purify” Shinto. This process of identifying or constructing “pure” Shinto was based on the work of a few much older Japanese scholar-ideologues who were themselves part of movements dubbed Kokugaku or Mitogaku, about which historians have already had plenty to say.7 My contribution to this discussion is

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to take seriously a thread in these movements that is often regarded as peripheral. Almost all the major thinkers involved in the creation of modern Shinto were not merely preoccupied by but were deeply engaged with Western science. It is fascinating to me that in addition to poring over ancient texts, they wrote astronomy manuals, formulated theories of gravity, argued about archeology and medicine, and pioneered the philological study of the Japanese language. I would also like to take seriously a philological quirk: all of these key Shinto movements have names ending in -gaku, which means learning or science.8 The Shinto reworking of Western science is, of course, only part of the story, but it is a part that has been roundly ignored, and for multiple reasons. Nationalist historiography has taken at face value Shinto’s claims to indigeneity and so was bound to overlook early Shinto readings of, say, Christopher Clavius, while conventional historians of science were always going to find Shinto astronomy something of an embarrassment. But if we retell the history of modern Shinto and at least temporarily make central its scientific preoccupations, we can shed light on two of the more perplexing issues in Japanese intellectual history: the Shinto-scientific rhetoric of the early Meiji state and the numerous claims that Shinto is not a religion. The chapter will begin by laying out a brief discussion of the history of Japanese conceptions of Shinto. Next, it will discuss the importation of European astronomical works and the rise in the status of Western sciences. Then by closely analyzing the major thinkers in the new Shinto science movements, this chapter recuperates an overlooked connection between the invented tradition of modern Shinto and the importation of European scientific works into Japan. It is not just that Shinto scholars were adapting Galileo and Newton to their own purposes. By the time they were done, key thinkers would portray Shinto as at the heart of European science or would claim that European scientists were talking about Shinto gods without knowing it. Later episodes in the same history are just as interesting, as additional forms of European learning were imported into Japan in the early nineteenth century, Japanese intellectuals framed Shinto not only as a physical science but also as a political science, capable of healing the “body” of the Japanese nation. It was Kokugaku Shinto’s early adoption of this rhetoric— decades old by 1868—that made it plausible for the Meiji regime to exclude it from the category religion.

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The Way of The Gods If you asked a nonspecialist about Shinto, if they had heard of it at all, they would probably tell you that it was the oldest religion in Japan and they would likely describe it as a primitive nature-worshiping polytheism.9 Nothing could be further from the truth. While these claims used to be widespread in Japanese studies, following a groundbreaking article published in 1981 by Japanese scholar Kuroda Toshio, the discipline’s understanding of Shinto was radically revised.10 Kuroda argued that the persistence of the term “Shinto” masked radical changes. In its early usage, Shinto described not something indigenous to Japan but something imported from China. Additionally, for most of its medieval history, Shinto was understood to be an extension of Buddhism rather than independent “religion.” Finally, Kuroda argued that what we call Shinto today was largely invented in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. He demonstrated that rather than being ancient and indigenous, Shinto was both modern and in some sense foreign in origin. A generation of scholars has built on Kuroda’s work and nuanced some of his conclusions.11 To summarize very broadly, in the Kamakura period, an idea of “the unity of three teachings” was imported into Japan. While in China this stood for Confucianism, Daoism, and Buddhism, the lack of an independent Daoist institution meant that built into the logic of the three teachings was room for a third possibility, a space that quickly became identified with Shinto.12 Yet the nature of Shinto was far from clear. Before the fifteenth century the components that would make up modern Shinto—the name “Shinto,” shrine rituals, gods, the textual canon, and the imperial cult—were largely disaggregated and embedded in different discourses. It was only in the nineteenth century that the relationships between these components was stabilized and cordoned off from Buddhism. The following takes a quick pass over these terms and shows how they were gradually compiled into modern Shinto. The name

The term “Shinto” is one Japanese pronunciation of a Chinese compound (Ch., shendao) composed of two characters meaning “gods” and “way.” It could be literally translated as the “way of the gods.” From nearly the beginning of its appearance in Japan, this way of the gods

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appears in texts imported from China, including in Buddhist, Confucian, and Daoist materials. To collapse quite a bit of nuance, in most of these early discourses, the Way of the Gods was a description of the realm or activities of deities.13 According to a medieval Japanese iteration of this theme, Shinto was not something people did but something the gods did.14 Humans practiced the “way of humanity”; Gods practiced the way of deities. Shinto was not a religion but rather a description of the conduct of the gods. Shrine rituals

During the Kamakura period (1185–1333), it became common to use Shinto (then likely pronounced Jindo¯) as a reference to rituals performed for local deities. Its meaning had shifted from a reference to something the gods did to something people did for the gods.15 While many of the rituals to deities were performed in shrines (miya or yashiro), which were geographically distinguished from Buddhist temples, Shinto was not a religion separate from Buddhism. Buddhist priests performed most of these rites to local gods. The temples and shrines were located in combined shrine-temple complexes and the rituals themselves often involved chanting Buddhist scriptures. Rituals were also performed for gods in village and clan festivals (matsuri). Initially, particular villagers were designated to lead these rituals on a short-term basis. Starting in roughly the tenth century, there developed a class of festival specialists who gradually began to professionalize into “shrine lineages,” whose hereditary duty was to perform local festivals and rituals.16 Before the fifteenth century, however, even these rituals specialists used basically Buddhist rites. Shinto was thus then largely synonymous with Buddhist rituals directed toward gods.17 In the late sixteenth century, when Confucianism began to differentiate itself from Buddhism, it too laid claim to the way of the gods, which was often described as complementing Confucian ritual. For precedents, these Confucians pointed toward the use of the term “Shinto” in the Classic of Changes, (Ch., Yi Jing; Jpn., Ekikyo¯) popularly attributed to the Zhou Dynasty (1045–256 BCE).18 There, shendao seems to describe the activities of celestial deities.19 Japanese Confucians used the Classic of Changes as evidence for the claim that Shinto was not distinctively Japanese, but that the gods functioned in the same way in both Japan and China.20 Shinto could be a bridge term in more than one respect. While some, but not most, Confucian schools came to re-

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ject Buddhism, Shinto as “shrine ritual” was the intersection between Buddhism and Confucianism. Gods

It is worth noting some fairly straightforward but frequently overlooked details about these “gods.”21 First, deities occur in all three main Chinese traditions, namely Buddhism, Confucianism, and Daoism. Some deities were associated only with one tradition, just as some deities were associated with only one temple or region.22 But for most medieval Chinese people, these gods functionally made up a single pantheon. This was also the case in Japan, doubly so before the sixteenth century when there were no independent institutions for Confucianism or Daoism. The deities were something that all these discourses had in common.23 These gods did not represent separate religions so much as a commonly agreed upon ontology. A related point is that all three traditions emphasized the value of directing rituals toward gods. Again, practicing Buddhism generally also meant performing rituals for local gods.24 This is not unique to Japan or China but can be seen throughout the Buddhist world. Confucians and Daoists have also historically emphasized rituals for local deities. In that sense, a kind of Shinto, or deity rituals, was common to all three traditions. In Japan, many of the deities that would become Shinto gods were imported from China, Korea, and, indirectly, from India. There were deities believed to be indigenous to Japan, but at a fairly early period most of them were assimilated to foreign gods and systematically included in Buddhist discourse. In most Japanese deities, one finds overlapping discursive fields both imported and local that work to identify some particular site as simultaneously universal and local. For example, the famous “Shinto” god Sanno ¯ , identified with the spirit of Mount Hiei, was introduced from China, where he was seen as the guardian of a Chinese Buddhist temple complex.25 Sanno¯ only became an exclusively Shinto deity by being actively indigenized in the nineteenth century and separated off from Buddhism. Many Japanese deities were imported along with Buddhism while paradoxically being marked as local and thereby non-Buddhist. These imported gods represented a notfully recuperated remainder of older hierarchical inclusions. In slightly anachronistic terms, Shinto also described a “Hindu” remainder built into Buddhism and imported into Japan.26

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Imperial cult

The heavily contested history of the Japanese imperial cult is outside the scope of this chapter. However, I want to emphasize that it is far from clear that “emperor” is an appropriate translation of the medieval Japanese figure often identified as the mikado or tenno¯.27 From roughly the twelfth century to the Meiji Restoration in 1868, the mikado was not the temporal ruler of Japan.28 The position was largely understood as ceremonial while the shogun, whose title is incidentally much closer to the etymology of the English “emperor,” was the functional sovereign.29 Before the Meiji Restoration, it was not uncommon in European sources to translate mikado as “pope” and shogun as “emperor.”30 While this translation is bad for many reasons, it is worth noting that the mikado’s main duties were rituals, and that these rituals were heavily inflected with esoteric Buddhism and yin-yang–oriented Daoism. These rituals would become important to Shinto later, but it is an anachronism to treat them exclusively as such in the premodern period.31 Put another way, to grant “emperor” as a translation for the pre-Meiji mikado and to associate it exclusively with Shinto is already to cede the ground to the royalist narrative. Further, the mikado was believed to be descended from Amaterasu, a figure whose title is usually translated today at the “sun goddess,” but in the medieval period, Amaterasu-o¯mikami (also read Tensho¯ Daijin) was largely understood to be male and an incarnation of the Cosmic Buddha (Dainichi Nyo¯rai).32 Hence prior to the nineteenth century, the mikado was situated in a dominantly Buddhist discourse. It was largely after the Meiji Restoration that the mikado became popularly understood as both the ruler of Japan and as having a special relation to Shinto. These disparate elements—the name, court and shrine rituals, gods, and the imperial cult—were drawn together in some form in the fifteenth century, but even then this constellation of elements could be interpreted as either Confucian or Buddhist, or more generally both. Only later would these elements become exclusively Shinto. Had an eighteenth-century “purification” of Shinto not occurred, we might now regard Shinto as a form of Buddhism, Hinduism, Daoism, Confucianism, or something else entirely. The scholar-ideologues who set out to purify Shinto were men of letters who thought they had uncovered lost and powerful truths simply because they could decipher old texts that the Japanese had forgotten how to read. That might remind some

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readers of European reformers and humanists and in this one case the reference to the West is not far-fetched. Shinto scholars soon got into the habit of validating lost “Japanese” truths through reference to European astronomy whose claims, for example, about the centrality of the sun were taken as testaments to the centrality of the sun goddess.

Celestial Archeology: The Advent of European Science in Japan The question, then, is how did European science get a foothold in Japan? In the 1820s, local Japanese authorities banned the newly introduced vaccination for smallpox as harmful “magic.” Less than fifty years later, in 1870, the Meiji government made vaccination mandatory, and anyone refusing to have his or her child vaccinated was fined.33 In this brief span of time, the official status of Western sciences had changed from hostile suspicion to enforced acceptance. This section will sketch one part of the history of the advent of European science in Japan. I’m not going to describe science in terms of experiments and discoveries—that would be a very different kind of history, indeed— but instead I want to trace what Japanese thinkers had to say about science and other conspicuous forms of European knowledge.34 Put differently, this section will show how the rise of this scientific authority in Japan destabilized some indigenous traditions, while contributing to the rise of a new Japanese “science” that would ultimately become Shinto. To us, inheriting as we do a world of technological marvels, the Japanese embracing of science seems like a foregone conclusion. Yet in nineteenth-century Japan the value of the scientific worldview was much less clear. Many indigenous analogs to Western scientific disciplines performed almost as well as if not better than the competition.35 For example, traditional architecture and building methods were better adapted to the materials and conditions present in Japan; hence, the adoption of Western “scientific” building techniques actually caused deaths.36 In the same vein, most schools of Japanese kanpo¯ medicine viewed tuberculosis as a contagious bacterium (or animalcule) long before it was recognized as contagious in Western medicine, and indigenous mathematics already had a technique close to integral calculus and an advanced system for studying matrix determinants.37 My point is not that these Japanese disciplines were superior to their Western equivalents; rather, it is that the practical differences between 102

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them were small enough that they underdetermine the radical investment the Japanese state would make in Western science. If Western technology only worked better in a few areas, why did the Japanese state come to invest so heavily in the scientific paradigm? More strikingly, why did the Japanese government seemingly sabotage attempts to find equivalents between indigenous disciplines and their Western parallels instead of working toward a compromise? While a few private individuals pursued integration, by the end of the 1870s, the Japanese government had completely rejected and banned Japanese mathematics, medicine, astronomy, and even the old division of hours. This radical reversal in the status of science in Japan had its origins not in a sudden scientific revolution but in a gradually evolving process that led from the piecemeal adoption of Western material culture to a profound change in popular worldview. During the Tokugawa period, the importation of foreign books was strictly controlled, and anything deemed to have an association with Christianity (including, for example, Euclid’s writings on geometry) was banned or censored.38 The Tokugawa government closely monitored not only the importation and translation of Western works, but it also censored all Chinese books imported into the country.39 This radically limited the introduction of Western forms of knowledge. Remarkably, in attempting to import Western learning without Christianity, Japanese intellectuals received a secularized (or at the very least de-Christianized) version of European civilization before anything of the kind existed in the European world. This point is worth dwelling on for a moment. To my knowledge it is otherwise unprecedented. Not only were books about Christianity banned completely, but references to Christianity were also purged in otherwise secular materials.40 Banned terminology included any explicitly Christian terms and even the basic terms of any monotheism, such as God (Tenshu), or the naming of famous Christians, such as Mateo Ricci.41 This meant that even the few references to Christian subjects that inspectors might have overlooked lacked context. Even works on Islam seem to have been excluded from the country based on the assumption that they in fact described Christianity.42 European science therefore functioned in Japan as an autonomous discourse (ultimately referred to as Rangaku). By contrast, in Europe in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, science (then natural philosophy) was still embedded in an explicitly Christian context.43 If a distinction between religion and science seems anachronistic this period, this is because, in some sense, Japanese censors had produced a division that largely did not yet exist elsewhere. It would be 103

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only a slight exaggeration to say that Japan is where European knowledge first came to be secularized. While some banned books were secretly smuggled into Japan and circulated clandestinely, the Tokugawa state officially discouraged private scholars from studying most forms of Western learning.44 In part this was because Western learning continued to be associated with the infernal techne of European demons.45 Regardless of their origins, these suspicions were easily turned into periodic government-sponsored purges of prominent researchers specializing in Dutch.46 The change in the status of Western learning began with the calendar. It was clear by the beginning of the eighteenth century that Western astronomical manuals were slightly better at predicting eclipses and the movement of planets than the traditional methods.47 Even a small improvement in accuracy was important to Tokugawa leaders because, like other societies under the influence of Chinese models of statecraft, it was thought that synchronizing the official calendar with the changes of the seasons and occurrences of celestial events such as eclipses would bring the heavens and the human world into harmonious relation. The failure of the calendrical system to predict the solar eclipse of 1675 threw this into disarray, leading to the first amendment of the calendar under some influence from Western astronomy.48 Intellectual leaders of the period, who continued to feel profound hostility toward Christianity and deep suspicion of Western learning, intentionally minimized this new source of inspiration, but the greater accuracy of Western astronomy presented a continued problem. This is not to say that Japanese officials were hostile to all foreign systems of learning. One dominant form of knowledge sponsored by the Tokugawa government was an imported Chinese Neo-Confucianism based on the writings of Zhu Xi (1130–1200). It became known as Shushigaku when it took on a distinct institutional identity in earlyseventeenth-century Japan. Articulated in commentaries and other writings by ex-Buddhist monk Hayashi Razan (1583–1657) and his students, Neo-Confucianism became increasingly influential in the shogunal bureaucracy over the span of the next two hundred years.49 One of Neo-Confucianism’s central philosophical doctrines was that the nucleus of all things in the universe is a relationship between an organizing principle (ri, Ch., li) and its expression in form (ki; Ch., qi).50 Much like Aristotle’s concept of virtue, Zhu Xi considers principle from a moral and a metaphysical standpoint. For example, one could say that it is the principle (ri) of a cup that gives it its “cup-ness,” such as its ability to hold water. Similarly, the true principle (ri) of a human 104

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is humaneness (nin), the ethical expression of a person’s humanness. Moreover, because all things have their origin in the same ultimate system of principles, investigating material things can also lead to a greater understanding of morality and statecraft. Equally important was the process through which one investigated the outward form of an object to achieve an understanding of its principle and place in the cosmic scheme, which was then related to the self in order to harmonize one’s heart and mind with the universe.51 This idea, summarized in Japanese with the phrase kakubutsu kyu¯ri (investigate things and penetrate their principle), made the study of the world an act of personal cultivation. The ability of Western astronomy to better predict celestial events was a problem for Neo-Confucianism because, according to the relationship between principle and form, anyone possessing greater insight into the physical world should also possess greater insight into the moral order. Scholar and astronomer Nishikawa Joken (1648–1742) was one of the first Shushigaku thinkers to confront this problem, and he established a pattern of response that would have a number of important consequences.52 According to Nishikawa’s introduction to Tenmon Giron (A Discussion of astronomy, 1712): What is called heaven has two meanings, the meiri heaven [meiri no ten] and the heaven of form [keiki no ten].53 The meiri heaven does not imitate. It is said to be close to one’s person, yet to know it fully [kiwameshiru] is difficult. Even a small mistake leads one down an evil path [jaro]. The heaven of form is the blue above people’s heads, looking up one sees easily the motions of the planets and the multitude of stars. This [heaven] can be measured and verified.54

As Nishikawa elaborates, the meiri heaven is the same as the ultimate principle (ri) of Neo-Confucian ethical and political discourse. The heaven of form, by contrast, is the sky as investigated by Western astronomy. By distinguishing between these two, Nishikawa protects Confucian ethics and metaphysics from the impact of Western observations. But in doing so he yields to a very different idea of “the investigation of things” which, instead of focusing on self-cultivation, is now a matter of measurement and verification.55 Consequently, the initial solution to the dilemma caused by astronomical accuracy involved a redefinition of the relationship between principle and form in exactly the opposite direction embraced by Western science. One of the key insights in European scientific tradition, arguably inherited from Aristotle, was that universal laws could 105

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be deduced from experiential evidence. In Nishikawa’s reconfiguration of Neo-Confucianism, however, investigating the physical world was no longer supposed to provide insight into fundamental principles. Nishikawa’s claims made it possible for Japanese scholars to import Western learning without endangering moral and political truths. By dividing superficial from profound orders and ceding the exploration of the sensory world to the West, he effectively reinforced an inward turn in Neo-Confucianism. Nishikawa’s argument had both intellectual and political ramifications. He gave a series of lectures on the subject of astronomy to the reigning shogun, Tokugawa Yoshimune (1684–1751). Although Yoshimune’s reasoning process was not recorded, scholars agree that these lectures probably contributed to the shogun’s decision in 1720 to relax the rules on the importation of Western books.56 Yoshimune, who was interested in calendrical revision, went on to establish the first government-sponsored department for the translation of Western texts and located it within the bureau of astronomy.57 With the new source of funding, this department began large-scale efforts to import foreign scientific instruments and astronomical manuals. As contemporary art historian Timon Screech has argued, the importation of Western material culture in the form of telescopes and microscopes began to transform Japanese perceptions of the world in the late eighteenth century.58 These new technologies, made possible by the introduction of Dutch glass, literally changed the way people saw things by bringing distant celestial bodies and miniscule objects into view. Combined with clockwork mechanisms and medical diagrams that were also being imported, these glass tools worked to inspire a new “scientific gaze,” which Screech describes as “close and objectifying observation” that “dissected and selected” the world.59 Screech’s sources demonstrate that Japanese intellectuals integrated the scientific gaze into existing systems of knowledge, which meant that European perspectives did not in fact become the authoritative way of looking at the world. Instead, it largely became a reservoir of carnival entertainments most of which had fallen out of vogue by the 1830s. Yet, as noted, by reconciling their traditions with this type of vision, Neo-Confucians had largely given up on a key form of engagement with the natural sciences. The prevalence of Western astronomy was not only a problem for Neo-Confucian scholars; it was also an issue for Buddhist thinkers precisely because a particular Buddhist geography was so well known. Although not completely consistent, Buddhist sutras made frequent refer106

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ence to a number of cosmographical landmarks, including a gigantic world mountain—Mount Sumeru (Shumisen)—thought to be orbited by the sun and stars as well as a system of four supercontinents.60 As the Western cosmology gained increasing currency, it presented a challenge to this Buddhist geography. The Buddhist response was fundamentally different from the Neo-Confucian approach. Instead of ceding the ground to the European model, some Buddhist thinkers attempted to construct a parallel systematic astronomy rooted in a combination of scriptural and empirical data. One of the most important thinkers in the Buddhist astronomy movement was Tendai monk Fumon Entsu ¯ (1755–1834).61 In Bukkoku Rekisho¯hen (Astronomical works for a Buddhist country, 1810), Fumon begins by contrasting the European heliocentric model with the traditional Mount Sumeru–based flat-earth cosmology. While acknowledging that the Western model seems initially more persuasive, Fumon argues that this is because there has been little systematic analysis of the cosmology found in Buddhist scriptures. The next section of Bukkoku Rekisho¯hen is an attempt to formulate a comprehensive and systematic Buddhist theory of the earth and solar system, grounded in a creative reading of a range of scriptural sources.62 The resulting model is striking in its degree of detail and also in its difference from the Copernican system. Not only is the earth flat and centered around a gigantic mountain, but the continents do not have the shapes and positions described in the Western navigational maps of Fumon’s day. Fumon is forced to grant that the European model seems to better explain celestial observations. In order to account for this discrepancy, he distinguishes between two types of vision: the imperfect human gaze (nikugan; lit., flesh eye) and the supernatural clarity of the buddhas’ vision (tengen; lit., heavenly eye).63 Human vision is limited and can only see the surface of objects in their provisional form. The buddhas’ supernatural vision (tengen) is capable of penetrating to the truth beyond surface qualities (e.g., light and dark) and it can perceive things as they really are. According to this distinction, it does not matter if one gazes at the stars with the naked eye or through a high-powered telescope; without supernatural powers, one’s perceptions will be necessarily distorted. Western astronomy might be better able to predict superficial external patterns like the motions of the planet, but it would be unable to penetrate behind the surface to the true function of the cosmos. In essence by redefi ning a classic distinction between provisional and ultimate truth, Fumon and his followers were able to defend the Buddhist cosmology from Western astronomy while still borrowing 107

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a pseudoscientific rhetoric of mathematical exactitude: a weirdly precise map of a mountain no one can see. Another possible rhetorical reconciliation was found in the writings of gunnery expert and Neo-Confucian Sakuma Sho¯zan (1811–64). Sakuma advocated a synthesis of Dutch and Japanese systems, a kind of confucianisme hollandais. He summarized this position with the slogan “Eastern ethics, Western technical learning” (to¯yo¯ do¯toku, seiyo¯ gakugei). He associates Eastern ethics with the ultimate world of principle and Western technical learning with the particular world of form.64 The parallel between this and Nishikawa’s distinction between two “heavens” is clear. While Nishikawa was only interested preserving NeoConfucian metaphysic from Western astronomy, Sakuma introduced a greater range of disciplines—in particular, the mathematics and basic physics used in the gunnery of the period. Sakuma wrote, “It is a most amazing fact that, with the invention of the steamship, the magnet, and the telegraph, [Westerners] now appear to control the laws of nature.”65 Sakuma cedes Neo-Confucian authority over not only the movement of the stars but also the everyday mechanics of the world. Further, while Nishikawa advocated Western studies only for answering specific problems, Sakuma argues that both systems are indispensable, and that to be an ideal person one must study both Eastern ethics and Western science.66 Writ large, Sakuma still advocates the supremacy of the Neo-Confucian system. While Sakuma’s views were sufficiently controversial at the time to lead to his imprisonment, from the 1860s onward they were popularized with a slogan coined by another gunnery expert and educator, Yoshikawa Tadayasu (1824–1884): “Japanese spirit, Western technique” (wakon yo¯sai).67 With this expression, Yoshikawa was essentially repackaging Sakuma’s model in terms of a slogan popularly attributed to Sugawara no Michizane (845–903), which read “Japanese spirit, Chinese technique” (wakon kansai).68 Originally, “Japanese spirit, Chinese technique” was used to refer to the Japanese interpretation of Chinese cultural forms from matters of state to aesthetics. Michizane’s phrase was not a bifurcation of the world into two spheres of authority; it was instead a description about how the Chinese techniques were modified in a new Japanese context. The new expression “Japanese spirit, Western technique” functioned quite differently. It effectively resituated the locus of civilization from China to the West.69 More importantly, it insisted on the compatibility of Western technology and East Asian metaphysics via what should now be a familiar distinction between a superficial world of form and an ultimate world of virtue or spirit. 108

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In Japanese intellectual history, these Buddhist and Neo-Confucian responses have the status of curiosities or failed experiments. Instead of giving birth to a widespread Buddhist astronomy movement, Fumon’s model of the cosmos was criticized both inside and outside the Buddhist institution. More typically, Buddhist monks ignored Western astronomy and in so doing opened up Buddhism to a later critique as antiscientific and superstitious. Neo-Confucians, on the other hand, seemingly ceded too much. By arguing that Neo-Confucianism was located in the ethical not the material, they separated Neo-Confucianism from any specific Chinese cosmology. In some ways this was an advantage, because it protected Neo-Confucianism from a certain set of attacks. But at the same time, Neo-Confucian political and ethical principles were no longer grounded in a particular ontology, which made them less useful for future ideological projects. Hence, as a political or ethical philosophy Neo-Confucianism would come under attack for its “impracticality.”70 While influential Buddhist and Neo-Confucian thinkers attempted to separate their systems from the corrosive impact of European astronomy, there was something ideologically unserviceable about both of their solutions. The Shinto engagement with science was something else entirely. In the end, it was Shinto that had the easiest time reconciling with astronomy, in part because it was fundamentally in flux in this period and this enabled the modern formulation of Shinto to develop in tandem with science.

The Science of the Gods: Philology and Cosmology The major and minor [universal] laws are as follows: the laws of the god Ubusuna’s creation of the universe, the principles of astronomy, and rules of the calendrical system. Having already discovered the creation of the world, I have corrected the [Shinto] classics and supplemented them with my understanding of [these] universal laws. ¯ N O B U H I R O , T E N C H U¯ K I , 1 8 2 5 S AT O

Just as Western astronomy was starting to make waves in Japanese intellectual circles, a group of poets, local historians, and hereditary shrine priests became interested in rediscovering the spirit of early Japan and founded the movement that would later be known as Kokugaku (translated from here on as “National Science”; see note).71 Together they combined an interest in local shrines and deities with the study of ancient Japanese texts.72 National Science scholars pioneered new methodologies for philology and historical research, which allowed them to construct Japan’s pre-Buddhist mythic past.73 What began as textual 109

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analysis also moved on to include a constructed cosmology formulated in the face of European astronomy. By stripping away natural philosophy’s Christian trappings, Japanese translators had produced an ideological vacuum that would later be filled by Shinto deities. To facilitate their research, National Science benefited from a set of techniques originating on the continent, known in Chinese as kaozheng and in Japanese as ko¯sho¯ or ko¯sho¯gaku (“evidential learning”).74 This Chinese method used philological analysis and proof based on empirical criteria to, among other things, recover and republish ancient texts.75 Japanese scholars followed suit. They also incorporated specific philological tools pioneered by a Shingon Buddhist monk named Keichu ¯ (1640–1701). In the late seventeenth century, Keichu ¯ had been commissioned by the daimyo Tokugawa Mitsukuni (1628–1701) to produce an annotated version of an ancient poetry collection, the Man’yo¯shu¯. In producing a commentary on this difficult text, Keichu ¯ pioneered a new methodology for reading ancient Japanese writings that made possible the recovery of a previously nearly incomprehensible set of texts.76 By reading these (and other ancient) Japanese texts historically and applying new and more rigorous empiricist standards to them, National Science launched a critique of existing Buddhist-Shinto traditions in the belief that they were recovering a lost past. If there was a specifically National Science scientific method, it was philology.77 The most influential of the early National Science scholars was Motoori Norinaga (1730–1801).78 Originally, Motoori focused his attention on the philological analysis of Japanese poetry and literature. In 1764, however, Motoori shifted his attentions to the Kojiki (Record of ancient matters, 712 CE). The Kojiki had largely fallen out of use, in part because, like the Man’yo¯shu¯, it was written in an archaic and virtually incomprehensible language. When studied, it was revealed to be a history of Japanese kingship extending backward to a distant age when the gods created the world. The Kojiki was catapulted to a new level of importance when the new historical techniques demonstrated that it was the oldest native Japanese work still extant. In his forty-four-volume magnum opus, Kojikiden (Commentaries on the Kojiki), Motoori exhaustively commentated on each section of the text, revealing (or inventing) a previously lost Japanese past in the process.79 In so doing Motoori also promoted his form of National Science, and schools devoted to his writings and methodology spread throughout Japan.80 Although rooted in philology, National Science began to take on a cosmological emphasis in the late eighteenth century. This shift oc110

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curred in part because of the increased interest in Western astronomy in the same period, but also emerged from the very logic of National Science’s emphasis upon empirical verification. In part they had discovered texts whose precise meaning could not be verified through philological analysis alone. Instead of giving up, Motoori’s students began directing their attentions to other sources of information, including translated Western astronomical treatises. Key to this process was one of Motoori’s students, Hattori Nakatsune (1757–1824), who completed a Kojiki–inspired cosmological treatise in 1791, Sandaiko¯, (Reflections on the three great realms).81 In this work Hattori argued that several difficult to interpret passages in the Kojiki were in fact describing the movement of celestial bodies.82 Placing the ancient text and the latest imported astronomy side by side, Hattori tried to demonstrate that the Japanese classic had in fact anticipated Western astronomy. Hattori explains this congruence as follows: Recently, the peoples of countries in the far west have mastered navigation and sailed around [the world]. They have surveyed the earth and [learned that] it is round. They have been able to determine that the earth floats in the sky, and [to master] the movements of the sun and moon. . . . [Ancient Japanese explanations], when viewed with [the European ones] do not depart from [the latter] even a little. Thus, one can realize the truth of the ancient transmissions.83

Hattori is suggesting that Western astronomical observations provide evidence for his reconstructed Shinto cosmology. He also goes one step further: “[Japan possesses] the true and right theory of the origins of heaven and earth . . . [a theory] which has been transmitted unchanged from the Age of the Gods.”84 In other words, Hattori argues that ancient Japanese texts anticipate Western astronomy, a claim that would be repeated by different National Science scholars over the course of the next seventy years. Hirata Atsutane (1776−1843), arguably the most famous figure in the National Science line, took up the cause of Sandaiko¯ and defended its type of cosmological speculation and its appropriation of Western science.85 As the youngest son of a low-ranking samurai family that had fallen on hard times, Hirata supported himself as a practicing physician and used both Western and kanpo¯ medicine to effect cures.86 He also read widely in a range of materials including Motoori’s writings, the Chinese classics and translated Western astronomical works.87 Two important works in which these influences were drawn together were Tama no mihashira (True pillar of the soul, 1812) and, to a lesser degree, 111

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Sandaiko¯ benben (Response to the criticisms of the reflections on the three great realms, 1814).88 Tama no mihashira is framed as an exploration of the problem of the fate of the soul upon death, which Hirata approaches through means of a complex cosmology, weaving together both Japanese mythological texts (such as the Kojiki) and Western astronomical theories. In his preface, Hirata praised Hattori’s Sandaiko¯, but he also argued that it contained a fundamental flaw. The problem was not Hattori’s use of astronomy, as the reader might have assumed. Hirata instead pointed out Hattori’s failure to acknowledge that “the ancient traditions included mixed and diverse explanations.”89 In Hirata’s estimate, the goal of National Science was not the clarification of the Kojiki’s textual lacunae. In its place, a wider range of sources could be read selectively in order to rationalize cosmological speculation. In other words, studying cosmology trumped textual fidelity.90 Hirata argued in Sandaiko¯ benben that while Chinese people were provincial and “obstinate” in their ignorance of world matters, National Science was an all-inclusive project that needed to engage universal forms of learning.91 The sciences were another “text” to be hierarchically included in the formation of Shinto discourse. The writings of Western scholarship—from medicine to Christian sources—became at least metaphorically part of the Shinto canon.92 In his own writings, Hirata liberally reproduces Western astronomical models, but he also argued that this scientific research has limits, as Hirata wrote elsewhere: With their scientific instruments the Dutch attempt to determine the properties of things. . . . However, when the Dutch run across matters that they cannot understand, no matter how much they study them, they say that these are things beyond the knowing of human beings and belong to the Creator [Zo ¯butsushu, glossed “Gotto”] and that only with divine powers can such matters be comprehended.93

Hirata adds, “our honored country is the land of the gods” and these gods were present at “the very beginnings of heaven and earth.”94 Japanese sources, therefore, preserve “the divine transmission from the age of the gods” (kamiyo no kami no odensetsu). By implication, through the study of their national heritage, Japanese can understand that which is outside the limits of Western knowledge. Moreover, as he argues, there are certain places in the Japan where special individuals can gaze into the spirit world to attain empirical observations of the gods not possible anywhere else.95 One of the more conspicuous features of Hirata’s 112

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argument is its unpredictable combination of universalist and nationalist claims. Having denationalized National Science in order to absorb European astronomy and medicine as sciences of the whole world, he turns around and renationalizes it in the name of the gods. Ultimately, Hirata makes the effort to get his universalizing and his nationalizing claims in line. In a move that was followed by other National Science scholars, Hirata attributes the birth of Western sciences to the manifestations of the will of Japanese deities.96 As he argues about medicine, “The art of medicine, though introduced to Japan from abroad, appears originally to have been taught to foreign countries by our own great gods.”97 He went on to assert that Western medicine came about when Japanese gods visited India and bestowed some of their learning upon local inhabitants. Medicine migrated from India into Europe because there were more diseases in the polluted countries further west. 98 In this contaminated environment, Hirata argues, divinely inspired medicine had flourished and changed until its origins were no longer recognized. Other branches of knowledge also had their beginnings in the mysterious workings of Japanese deities. In Senkyo¯ Ibun (Strange tidings from the land of immortals, 1822), Hirata provided a detailed ethnography of the spirit world, obtained from interviews with a young man who claimed to have been raised by goblins (tengu) and given secret access to ancient divine secrets.99 According to his informant, the inhabitants of the other world had developed a number of technologies that outperformed or at the very least matched their Western equivalents. For example: At some point during that meeting [the informant] was asked if they had guns over there [in the other world], and he said that they had the same kinds we have here [in this world], both large ones and small ones. . . . Then [the informant] added that they also had [developed] air-powered rifles. . . . When I glanced over at [my colleague] Kunitomo I could see how excited he was. We both shared an interest in inquiring further about the guns of the immortals.100

This was not the only technology the gods had inspired. The divine realm, in Hirata’s writings, was not imagined as a pastoralist paradise (as is the cliché in many popular contemporary depictions of heaven); instead Hirata conceived of the other world as a technological wonderland full of mechanical marvels. After returning from his spiritual journeys, Hirata’s informant produced plans for drilling stations, mechanical kettles for heating water, and music boxes.101 If the inhabit113

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ants of the other world were capable of transmitting diverse materials— from astronomical charts to medical texts to air rifles—one might wonder what was outside the purview of Hirata’s National Science. This may have been precisely the point. Shinto and the mysterious workings of the gods represented for Hirata a vast wealth of almost unlimited knowledge. While Buddhist astronomy was forced to reconcile contemporary observations with the systematic metaphysics of canonical Buddhist thinkers such as Vasubandhu, Shinto was not burdened with a coherent cosmology. Hirata was able to invent an “invisible world” that paralleled the Western discoveries. But having decided to make National Science compatible with European science in an expanded way no longer confined to astronomy, scholars in Hirata’s lineage felt obliged to remain current with imported Western knowledge.102 Hirata had effectively drawn National Science and Western science together. I want to underscore the central innovation of Hirata’s project, which makes him a controversial figure even today. Hirata was happy to absorb European learning into National Science. But he did so at the expense of systems—Neo-Confucianism and Buddhism—that had existed on the ground in Japan for much longer. To overstate the case just a bit, after Hirata, European science was Japanese and Buddhism was not. In order to shore up the independence of his tradition, Hirata had to reject both Buddhist and Neo-Confucian interpretations of the Japanese way of the gods. He devoted two parallel essays to the repudiation of these ideological competitors: Seiseki Gairon (An indignant discussion of the western sages’ writings, 1810) provided an alternative history and critique of Confucianism (and impishly relabeled the Confucians “Western”), while Shutsujo¯ Sho¯go (A satiric conversation upon awaking from meditation, 1811) did something similar for Buddhism.103 In Seiseki Gairon, despite his early history in Neo-Confucian Suika Shinto, Hirata threw every argument he could at the Neo-Confucians.104 Having selectively adopted the universalist rhetoric of European science, he could now argue that Neo-Confucianism was too nationalist, a Sinocentric provincialism that was fundamentally flawed. Hirata was just as happy prosecuting the Japanese nationalist case against the imperial Chinese. Hirata’s ethical system drew from Neo-Confucianism, but he insisted that it was no borrowing, contending that an indigenous Japanese recognition of the Five Virtues preexisted their appearance on the Chinese mainland. Chinese sages, Hirata argued, spent so much time discussing the nuances of virtue precisely because the 114

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Chinese people lacked virtue and were overwhelmed with evil customs (waruki fu¯zoku).105 The absence of early ethical texts was thus evidence for innate Japanese goodness. Basing An Indignant Discussion in part on an extended critique of China, Hirata argued that Japanese thinkers should avoid decadent Chinese scholasticism, and instead study a universal system of virtue he attributed to ancient Japan. Buddhism was worse. In Shutsujo¯ Sho¯go, Hirata argued the fundamental incompatibility between Shinto and Buddhism.106 Put strongly, he claimed that certain Buddhist sects were actually “the gods’ enemies” (shinteki) and worked to subvert the activities of Japan’s natural spirits by either ignoring the deities or assimilating them into a Buddhist hermeneutic.107 This later activity was the main focus of Hirata’s attack and he argued that anyone who believed that the buddhas were the original form of the Japanese gods would “eat horse shit thinking it was nutritious rice cakes.”108 In this literary assault, as throughout his project, Hirata attempted to invert an older stratum of Buddhist hierarchical inclusion. He claimed to be recovering the true names of the gods, whereby he could purify Japan and undo the damage of dangerous Buddhist errors.109 While this claim persuaded many his contemporaries, we should be cautious about Hirata’s calls to purification. In effect, this rhetoric has masked Hirata’s own inclusion of European science and disguised his borrowings from both Neo-Confucianism and Buddhism. The implications of Hirata’s hyperbolic claims were not lost on his contemporaries. While some scorned his work, the cosmology Hirata constructed was immensely influential. In their attempt to “purify” Shinto from Chinese and Buddhist influences, the Yoshida and Shirakawa Shinto houses enlisted Hirata to contribute his cosmological expertise. Where Hirata found Buddhist terminology or systemic gaps, he patched them with his own inventions. The consequence of this project meant that Shinto-Buddhist and Shinto-Confucian systems were replaced by a Shinto-scientific hybrid that claimed to occupy the fundamental position of purity. This meant that professional shrine ritualists were increasingly able to remove themselves from subordination to Neo-Confucian and Buddhist hierarchies. Hirata’s contributions became a mass movement through the distribution and popularization of Tama no mihashira.110 Hirata was not alone in working the intersections between Shinto and Western learning. The interweaving of Shinto and science was the rule, not the exception, in this period. A list of those individuals who promoted this theme reads like a who’s who of early-modern 115

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Japanese scientists and Shinto ideologues—including famous naturalist Kaibara Ekiken (1630–1714), pioneering vaccinator Kasahara Hakuo ¯ (1809–1890), and Motoori Norinaga’s eldest son, Motoori Haruniwa (1763–1828), who did groundbreaking work in linguistics.111 Two brief descriptions of lesser-known Shinto scientists should make the point clear. One overlooked figure was National Science scholar and astronomer Tsurumine Shigenobu (1788–1858), whose career was filled with different permutations on the combination between Western sciences and Shinto.112 He advanced National Science philology by being the first to apply the methodology of Dutch grammatical theory to the Japanese language in the 1833 Gogaku Shinsho (New writings on linguistics), a pioneering and important text in the history of the study of the Japanese language. Tsurumine was also fascinated by physics, and in 1832 he moved to Edo to open a private academy he called the Academy for the Investigation of Physical Principles (Kyu ¯rijuku). In this institution and in his writings, Tsurumine not only embraced what was then current in the study of European astronomy, but he also blended it with his own understanding of Shinto.113 Continuing the pattern outlined by Hirata and others, Tsurumine attempted to engage in astronomical research and articulate his findings in the context of Japanese deities. For Tsurumine, physical laws such as magnetism (inryoku) were the result of the miraculous powers of Japanese deities, whose activities established the physical laws of the universe and continued to set them in motion.114 One of the most important proponents of the compatibility between Shinto and Western science was an agronomist and scholar named Sato ¯ Nobuhiro (1769−1850). In 1825, he published Tenchu¯ki (An account of the heavenly pillar). Beginning with a comparative assessment of creation narratives from China, India, and Japan, as well as those found in the Bible, Sato ¯ ’s main concern is to ascertain which account is the most compatible with modern European astronomy. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he ultimately decides in favor of Shinto, an argument that effectively pitted European science against the Bible. The Kojiki also proves prophetic with its description of the creation of the world by deities stirring primordial chaos with the circular motion of a divine spear. For Sato ¯ , this tale resonates with scientific accounts of the creation of the solar system, because according to models available to him, the matter that eventually coalesced into the sun and the planets resulted from circular motion. The Western astronomical model, however, was unable to provide a causal story behind one of the findings of the Co116

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pernican system—namely, that the sun and all the planets spin in the same direction. Sato ¯ theorized that the direction of the movement of the God Izanagi’s heavenly spear accounted for the direction of stellar motion. According to this argument, Shinto not only anticipates Western astronomy but can also contribute to it.115 Sato ¯ ’s understanding of indigenous Japanese deities changed along with his conception of Western science. He argued: The major and minor [universal] laws are as follows: the laws of the god Ubusuna’s creation of the universe, the principles of astronomy, and rules of the calendrical system. Having already discovered the creation of the world, I have corrected the [Shinto] classics and supplemented them with my understanding of [these] universal laws.116

In this passage, Sato¯ seems to be suggesting two key points. First, that the laws of creation were put into place by the Japanese deity Ubusuna; in other words, natural laws have their origins in the working of indigenous deities. Second, that understanding these laws can facilitate the comprehension of the Shinto classics. This juxtaposition of Western and Shinto natural laws represents a significant shift.

Ritual Therapeutics for the Body of the Nation Through natural science, [the Westerners] revere Heaven, honor the deities, conduct government, seek out the truth, become conversant with affairs and proficient in techniques, correct [defective] goods, and make effective use of tools. Thus, their emperors disseminate virtuous teachings, their princes maintain the state, their people are secure in their livelihood and crafts attain perfection. Their sphere of moral suasion must be truly vast! ¯ TA K U , K A N R E I H I G E N , 17 7 7 M A EN O RYO

On March 4, 1771, two Japanese physicians, Maeno Ryo ¯ taku (1723– 1803) and Sugita Gempaku (1733–1817), and their associates gathered together at the Kotsugahara execution grounds to perform a medical dissection.117 On the table was the body of a fifty-year-old woman nicknamed “Green Tea Hag” (Aochababa), who had been executed for some unspecified but heinous crime.118 As each of the old woman’s organs was removed and plopped in front of them, the men compared the fleshy tissue with illustrations in a manuscript they held in their hands. Their secret dissection guide was a Dutch anatomical work, Ontleedkundige Tafelen, and Maeno and Sugita were struck by the fact that it provided a guide to the human body with an accuracy that no Japanese medi117

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cal texts could match.119 As they left, Sugita stopped to glance at the sun-bleached bones that littered the execution grounds and remarked that they too looked nothing like the descriptions in ancient Chinese medicine, but exactly like the images found in the European text.120 It was clear that Westerners really understood the inner workings of the flesh. If the last section showed how imported European astronomy and physics aided the formation of a Shinto cosmology, this section will show how European politics inspired a Shinto political science. The narrative, however, starts with medicine. While both Sugita and Maeno would go on to translate Dutch medical and scientific texts, Maeno would take his valorization of Western knowledge even further.121 In his assessment, not only had Western scholars mastered the map of the flesh, but they had also discovered the proper ligature for the state.122 Put differently, these foreigners knew how things fit together both anatomically and administratively. In some ways, Maeno’s line of thinking was curious. He had gone to the trouble to test Dutch anatomical guides against actual human bodies, but that test could not be repeated in the domain of politics. Maeno never left Japan; he had no firsthand experience of European governance. Still, the encounter with those corpses and the sense of illumination he felt holding Dutch texts in his hands made him receptive to European political claims as well. In addition to adopting Western medicine, Maeno seems to have cautiously advocated for the acceptance of Western-style governance as well.123 In Kanrei higen (Secret words on narrow views, 1777), Maeno undertook a survey of the world as described in Dutch geographical sources.124 Studying these maps, he seems to have been particularly struck by the realization that Westerners had spread over most of the planet.125 Their countries and colonies covered the globe from Europe to Jakarta to the New World.126 This fact would have been alarming to other Japanese scholars who feared the expansion of Western cultural imperialism, but Maeno interpreted this more positively, in part because he so idealized Western science. Their empires were what Maeno had by way of evidence: it vouched for European political claims the way a dead body had vouched for the scientific. According to Maeno, European natural science (honzengaku) had facilitated the discovery of the ideal way to conduct government, honor the gods, produce material goods, and encourage cooperation and public morality.127 Their science was political as well as technological and extended through all levels of Western society. Moreover, Europeans

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had achieved world dominance not through force of arms but because their political institutions were founded on education and they were dedicated to promoting this scientific-state abroad.128 Maeno called for a greater understanding of this Western political science at home in Japan and seems to have hoped that the Japanese could take advantage of some of its capabilities.129 While Maeno expressed a carefully crafted ambivalence about Christianity, other Japanese intellectuals who appreciated Western statecraft were actively hostile to Christianity. Between this antagonism and government bans on Christianity, there was significant impetus for these thinkers to discover a way to appropriate a form of Western political power without embracing Christianity. In essence, they worked to imagine a secularized form of European governance. Just as subtracting Christianity from astronomy produced a materialist physics—a process that went much further in Japan than it ever did in eighteenth-century Europe, since Newton had good reasons to keep the Christian God operative in his system and the Japanese did not—subtracting Christianity from Western politics produced a deChristianized political science before anything like it existed in Western Christendom. In attempting to understand why Christianity and an expanding Western culture might be attractive without granting any assumptions about intrinsic Christian superiority, Japanese intellectuals tried to discover the principles that governed European imperialism and state policy. Strikingly, they concluded that once Christianity was removed from the equation, the real thing the Europeans had discovered was the power of nationalism. Believing they had discovered the secrets of European power, some intellectuals tried to appropriate it for Japan. While the vacuum produced by secularizing science was filled by National Science Shinto, the vacuum resulting from the secularization of Western politics was filled by a movement ultimately labeled Mitogaku, “Mito [Domain] Science.”130 The origins of these two movements are almost identical. Tokugawa Mitsukuni, did not only commission Keichu to comment on the Man’yoshu, an act which as you’ll remember gave birth to the philological tradition that would become National Science, his sponsorship also engendered a type of political science. In 1657, Mitsukuni commissioned the research and writing of a massive history, Dai Nihonshi (The great history of Japan). Combining the efforts of over a hundred scholars at a time and costing about a third of Mito domain’s budget, this work was a large-scale effort. The first edition was produced in

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1720; the series would take a generation to complete. The Great History of Japan was more than a mere record of historical events; it attempted to deduce the ethical and political principles operating behind Japanese imperial history. Hence, the basic structure of the text was heavily influenced by Chinese Confucian readings of history. The most important figure in the Mito line was the scholar Aizawa Seishisai (1782–1863). Born to a samurai family in the Mito domain, Aizawa showed intellectual promise from an early age, particularly in the Confucian tradition. His capabilities were rewarded with commissions to work on a later chapter of Dai Nihonshi, and, later, to tutor the daimyo of Mito. In 1815, however, Mito was torn apart by a dispute over succession to the leadership of the domain. Moreover, the repeated appearance of Western vessels off the shores of Japan, combined with rumors of Russian conquests in the Northern Island, began to profoundly concern Aizawa. He feared that disunity at home and threats from abroad endangered not only Mito, but the whole of Japan.131 In 1825, the shogunate’s promulgation of a policy for the expulsion of foreign vessels inspired Aizawa to complete the work for which he is now most famous, New Theses (Shinron).132 In this bold set of essays on the contemporary state of affairs in Japan, Aizawa argued for a series of policy changes that would restructure Japanese politics and ritual, and prepare Japan to meet the challenges presented by the West. One of the central metaphors behind New Theses is medical: Japan is ill and in need of healing. In order to heal it, he prescribes a set of ritual therapeutics for the body of the nation. As Victor Koschmann observed in his classic study of Mito ideology, Aizawa diagnoses the main causes of the illness of the Japanese nation as twofold: changes in the current situation (jisei no hen) and the problem of heresy (jasetsu no gai).133 In the first case, Aizawa is referring to a cyclical process of decay and rejuvenation. Over time, new dynasties are formed and consolidated, and subsequent generations will always depart from the dynasty’s initial conditions and founding principles. In the second case, Aizawa targets internal forms of disunion, which provide alternate visions of the world order and tend to destabilize existing authorities.134 While located inside Japan, many of these heresies for Aizawa resulted from foreign contamination. Together, these two factors led to the weakening of Japan’s natural strength. In many ways, Aizawa inherited these concerns from a range of Confucian materials, but his solution was novel.135 In articulating his vision, Aizawa fundamentally reimagined Japan. 120

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In his assessment, Japan needed to restore a form of national consciousness that had been obscured by these internal divisions and the forces of decay. Put differently, Japan needed to rediscover its true common essence. To describe this new ideal state, Aizawa popularized the term kokutai, meaning “the body politic,” “national structure,” or literally, the “nation body.” According to Aizawa, in previous eras the nation body had formed a coherent whole in which the people were united in a common vision and sense of belonging to the family of the divine ancestor Amaterasu.136 This lost unity needed to be reattained. Aizawa’s intervention is in part a renarration of the nation, what Benedict Anderson would call an “imagined community.” Anderson is often cited, but his term is unusually germane here, because what Aizawa was calling for was in the first instance a cultural shift.137 Aizawa argued that the solution to constructing this community could be found in a unity of government and ritual (saisei itchi). If the function of the government and its ceremonial or public activities can be brought into harmony, then one can reinvigorate public morale. Again, canonical Confucian precedents can be found for this model.138 Confucian thinkers argued that ritual has the power to transform a person’s character, to alter one’s motives, desires, and basic attitudes.139 These rituals are not principally the practices we conventionally associate with religion, but they include ceremonies of state, proper forms of address, and other rites through which one actively embodies one’s role in society, including something as simple as bowing. Confucians contended that by acting out a role, we begin to take on the attributes of the role, by showing reverence we begin to feel reverence, and so on. It is through imitation that one comes to authentically inhabit one’s role. Understood as a government policy, this meant that through the proper promotion of ritual, one could inculcate the people with a correct attitude toward the government, secure their loyalty, and render the state harmonious. Aizawa took the basic Confucian model of ritual and added to it his understanding of European nationalism. For Aizawa, ritual was not intended to acclimate a person to a compartmentalized role, but instead allowed the formation of a new sense of collective identity. He argued that through the performance of public ceremonies, one could forge the sense of national unity that was otherwise lacking in Japan. While historically the Confucian tradition looked toward the Record of Rites to determine the details of what rituals should be celebrated and when, in the Tokugawa period Japanese intellectuals had begun to question the relevance of Chinese rituals for the Japanese case.140 121

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Aizawa also looked to indigenous practices. But, in a move that should not be surprising at this point, he described a system of ritual that was both a return to the rites of the Japanese imperial ancestors and an embrace of a type of political science articulated in Christian Europe. Let us look at New Theses closely to see how Aizawa made this work. Aizawa begins by noting that Westerners have something that Japan fundamentally lacks: a sense of community and a common ritual center. While in the past, barbarians needed to secure their subjects’ loyalties with bribery or threats of force, Christianity had given them a new purpose and focused them instead on missionary efforts to expand Christian influence.141 He remarked, “For hundreds of years the barbarians have desired and resolved to subvert enemy nations through their heresy and thus conquer the whole world.”142 Although the casual reader could easily mistake Aizawa’s tone, this was not exactly a complaint. Aizawa envied this sense of mission, in particular, its effectiveness. According to Aizawa, Westerners had developed their ritual practices according to their own political atmosphere, which was very different from that of Japan. They had discovered a dark art to subvert people’s loyalty to local rulers and rechannel it to some overarching order. This dark art was none other than Christianity.143 His argument rested to some degree on the previous understanding of Christianity as an occult art. As discussed previously, Christianity was supposed to be able to transform local cultural customs and, by means of dangerous propaganda, subvert personal loyalties.144 Aizawa agreed with this assessment. Westerners had discovered a special military propaganda technique capable of conquering territory through Christian conversion rather than outright conflict. Like many of his peers, Aizawa argued that Christianity was associated with evil spirits and the powers of darkness.145 However, instead of merely rejecting Christianity, Aizawa suggested that it could usefully be imitated: [Barbarians] adhere to the Way of Darkness and ill-omen. If we truly are to roll back this tide of devastation, we must supplant barbarian destruction with the power of Life. We must transform their darkness into our light. . . . In short, we must transform them by appropriating the very Way that they now seek to use to transform us.146

Aizawa is suggesting that Japan needs to adopt Western political practices, and in so doing, invert them. There are passages in Aizawa that

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sound like decolonization before the fact; in the face of European expansion he recommends indigenous revival of a kind utterly common in early nationalisms. And yet other passages advocate not revival but a kind of transculturation, a selective transplanting of European practices onto Japanese ground. The complexity of Aizawa’s argument is that he is promoting practices that in their substance are specific to Japan, but is trying to organize them into a form or structure that he himself recognizes is borrowed. Aizawa has often been read as wanting to establish a Japanese state religion, but that subtly misstates the case. He was promoting a form of ritual that could bring together subjects in a new political union and, although impressed by Christianity’s ability to do this, he showed almost no interest in the form of religion as such. It was the category of the nation he found compelling, even if “the nation” here took the unusual guise of a de-Christianized Christianity. Subtracting Christianity from European expansionism for Aizawa meant a new emphasis on the power of state ritual and public rites. Japan needed to return to the ritual forms articulated by the first emperor, Jimmu, and to focus their rites on the imperial ancestors: Rituals are a means of political rule, and political rule is identical to ethical inculcation. Throughout history, edification and administration have been inseparable.

In other words, the Japanese state needed to unify education, government and public rites. This would secure the people’s allegiances and bring them back in accord with the function of the universe.147 The return to primordial rituals would invigorate public morale and forge Japan into a nation body with a unified mission. This newly found patriotism would make Japan immune to Western infection. By learning from abroad, Japan could be inoculated against Christian contagion.148 It would also purify Japan’s spirit. Like the doctors and geomancers of his period, Aizawa associated the health of the body with the free flow of a type of life energy or spirit called ki (Ch., qi). It was believed that if a person’s ki was out of harmony, he would fall into illness. Various medical practices that included rituals and herbal remedies could be used to restore the flow of a person’s ki. Aizawa also argued that the ki of any nation body that had become stagnant could be harmonized through proper ritual therapeutics. This was more than mere metaphor in his assessment, because the right rituals, as “magical” techne, would benefit the spirits of the

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Japanese dead, engage the power of the gods, and protect Japan from harm.149 This form of training would also allow Japanese soldiers to properly coordinate and fight in unison. This kind of ki seems to function similarly to morale, the “moral forces” (Ger., die moralischen Kräfte), understood by Clausewitz as central to the new training process that transformed disparate soldiers into a coordinated offensive force with a single will.150 For Aizawa, just as drilling transforms scattered soldiers into a single unit, the proper ritual patterns could inspire Japanese people with the collective morale necessary to repulse foreign invasions. For this harmony to occur, the nation had to stamp out other alternate ritual practices. Protocol and ceremony needed to be standardized. To function as one community Japan had to achieve ritual unity. Following a generation of polemical attacks on Christianity and banned Buddhist sects, Aizawa expanded his conception of the heretical, arguing that Japan needed to be purged of wicked doctrines such as shamanic practice, Buddhism, the ideas of perverse schools of Confucianism, petty scholasticism, Christianity, and other teachings inimical to Imperial transformation and injurious to public morals.151

Aizawa understood each of these as a pale imitation of the original ritual matrix founded in antiquity by Amaterasu. In essence, these heresies were but were mock rituals that did nothing to produce national unity.152 At the very least, all other potentially rituals systems got in the way of national unity. In this area, Hirata and Aizawa were in agreement. There is much in Aizawa’s project that the Meiji Restoration would make good on. Its key figures took over his concept of the nation body and of the unity of ritual and governance, and used these to construct a new Japanese patriotic spirit. Meiji politicians set out to promulgate a state ideology that not only was not religious in the conventional European sense of the term, but that they would eventually, once faced with the concept of religion, announce not to be religious. In other words, they would explicitly and knowingly clear this ideology of religious associations to place it on the side of the secular. But then Aizawa tried hard to convince his readers that a new nation could be built within the existing political framework. Before the Meiji Restoration could take shape, someone would have to call for revolution.

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The Gods of Science Western science should be regarded as the bequest of the God Sukunahikona. ¯ K U N I TA K A M A S A , G A K U ’ U N R O N , 1 8 5 3 O

¯ kuni Takamasa (1792−1871), a teacher at the Tsuwano doIn 1855, O mainal academy, submitted a document to Tokugawa Nariaki, a key official in charge of formulating Japan’s response to the West.153 In this doc¯ kuni argued that ument, Gyoju¯ Mondo¯ (Dialogue on coastal defense), O the increasing appearance of foreign vessels off the Japanese coast offered a unique opportunity for a renewal of the entire world through the expansion of Japanese imperial power.154 To facilitate this process, he offered his own insights into an ancient Shinto tradition, which he argued was “the true theory [shinsetsu] of the creation of heaven and earth,” and “[already] included astronomy, science, and the way of humanity.”155 It ¯ kuni’s claims were taken seriously. might sound absurd, but O ¯ In Gyoju¯ Mondo¯, Okuni laid out his own intellectual project, which he called Hongaku (which could be translated as “original science,” “the Science of Origins,” or even “Fundamental Science”). He argued that Original Science was not simply an abstract literary or philosophical movement but instead was a practical “science” that could help defend the Japanese islands.156 From 1868, Original Science became heavily enmeshed with the official ideology of the early Meiji government.157 In ¯ kuni’s fusion of Shinto and science reverberated through this period, O the halls of power and its echoes could be heard in classrooms throughout the nation. ¯ kuni Takamasa’s “Original Science” emerged in many ways organiO cally from the Shinto intellectual ferment. He had personally studied with Hirata Atsutane and corresponded with many of the other Na¯ kuni was tional Science scholars mentioned previously. Moreover, O just a decade younger than Aizawa Seishisai and part of the same so¯ kuni came to synthesize both apcial milieu in the Mito domain.158 O proaches in his writings. The most succinct summary of this research program can be found in the Hongaku Kyoyo¯ (Promotion of the Original Science, 1855), which he attached to Gyoju¯ Mondo¯ to explain his project to potential patrons. ¯ kuni distinguishes between two types of NaIn Hongaku Kyoyo¯, O tional Science: a traditional form, basically philological, that engages in evidential research (ko¯sho¯) but only with regard to books; and a su¯ kuni calls great evidential perior form, effectively cosmology, which O

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¯ kuni divides Naresearch (daiko¯sho¯).159 By means of this distinction O tional Science into two separate and unequal endeavors, namely, a textbased humanism and a broader science. Both are considered evidentiary research, because they marshal empirical evidence in search of hidden signs of the gods themselves. While he regards philology as im¯ kuni suggests that this is only the beginning of what is posportant, O sible for National Science. Unsurprisingly, he includes his movement in the latter category, arguing that it engages in an evidentiary analysis of the world and its foundation (moto).160 More than assessing the historicity of texts, this mode of learning was a fundamental way of discover¯ kuni argued that Original ing the empirical truths of causation itself. O Science could provide insight into not only Western astronomy and Shinto philology but also science in general. ¯ kuni contends this is possible because “the truth of Shinto is no O small thing. It is bound up in the sun, moon, stars and earth . . . everything in Western and Chinese science [kyu¯risetsu] emerges from it.”161 In this way of thinking, Shinto provides an understanding of the source and origins of the universe; Western and Chinese modes of knowing, to the extent that they can be said to know anything at all, ¯ kuni is engaging in a type of hierarchicould not start anywhere else. O cal inclusion that works to incorporate not only indigenous deities and, more importantly, captures Western science within the framework of Original Science. The historical repetition is intriguing. Where Japanese thinkers once declared Christianity to be a deviant offshoot of ¯ kuni declares European physics to be the unwitting outBuddhism, O growth of ancient Japanese wisdom, though plainly with the aim of absorbing it rather than expelling it. ¯ kuni argues that the universe itself preserves the marks of Shinto O deities, and a privileged understanding of these gods provides a privileged understanding of the universe. Cosmology is necessarily a Shinto project, even when undertaken by the non-Japanese. One of his more startling claims is that the center of the world was itself Japanese, and ¯ kuni is not just pitching this as a metaphor: O When the creator deity Amenominakanushi no kami created heaven and earth, he made the sun the center of the heavens; [in like fashion] he made our great nation of Japan the center of the world and gave to us an Imperial Line coeval with heaven and earth, whose Emperors he made the center of all people.162

¯ kuni’s argument is that Japanese deities have creThe essence of O ated the world and given a prominent place to Japan and its emperor.163 126

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The sun’s position in the solar system is a sign of the position of the sun goddess Amaterasu and the imperial line descended from her. What European astronomy understood as the traumatic decentering of ¯ kuni is actually a mark of the centrality of Japan and the earth, for O the emperor. Copernicus was playing into the mikado’s hands. Original Science is therefore a mystical heliocentrism. What is more, the center of this centrism is located in the personage of the emperor; the world revolves around the Japanese monarch. While other kings claim to have received a divine right or a heavenly mandate, it is only the Japanese emperor who has inherited, by blood, the divine lineage of the sun goddess and gods.164 The Japanese ruler is the only true sover¯ kuni’s ideology eign as marked by structure of the solar system itself. O was ideal for its own kind of political-Copernican revolution in the decentering of the shogunate. While the then-dominant ideology placed ¯ kuni’s model suggested that the Tokugawa clan in the primary role, O the solar system itself anticipated another structure with the emperor as its primary axis. ¯ kuni states on several occasions, Western science Furthermore, as O originates in Japan and was a gift to mankind by the Japanese gods.165 Because Shinto deities both created the universe and the way to study it, Shinto offers unique insights into the nature of the world that are beyond the ken of Western researchers because they cannot arrive at true first principles.166 They talk about the movement of the cosmos, the pattern of the stars, and the structures of the heavens. They even talk about a god, which the Westerners call the Lord of Heaven, but their knowledge of this deity and his realm is vague, pretheoretical, and unsystematic.167 While Europeans have preserved many of the superficial techniques of science and have even managed to make technological discoveries, they have lost sight of the fundamental truths that allow the world to be apprehended. In his call to return to the Original Sci¯ kuni is also capable of embracing a techno-modern ence, therefore, O future. ¯ kuni argues, Japanese gods actually provide the power that As O makes European technology function.168 They are the miraculous behind the mechanical. These deities, whether presiding over creation, the sun, agriculture, or the body, are gods of science who cause the ¯ kuni, laws of the universe to operate in accordance with their will. O like many of his peers, seems to have misunderstood Western scientific laws to be something akin to legal strictures, rather than as descriptions of regular patterns. This allows him to argue that it is the gods of Japan who legislate and enforce cosmic laws. That technology contin127

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ues to work is evidence of their continual goodwill. One need look no further than science for the manifestations of divine power. ¯ kuni convinced Tokugawa Nariaki and other Japanese Crucially, O leaders that his version of National Science not only could help coastal defense but also was salutary for the Japanese national spirit. The continued orientation to ancient Japanese sources would furnish the standardized ritual system called for by Aizawa Seishisai while still providing a model for technological innovation. While Aizawa did not call ¯ kuni’s ideology produced a new cenfor the overthrow of the shogun, O ter focused on the emperor as both temporal and spiritual sovereign. It ¯ kuni was thus almost a Copernican decentering of Aizawa’s model. O argued that the promotion of Original Science could reinvigorate Japan and, by establishing a clear political center, bring it back into harmony with the cosmos itself. While there were other competing ide¯ kuni’s system had the explicit advantage that it claimed to ologies, O explain both the astronomical data and the books of the gods—on top of which, it could hierarchically include other systems within itself. Arguments for the value of Shinto sciences resonated with members of the early Meiji leadership. ¯ kuni and his disciples were granted sizable responsibilities in the O early Meiji government and successfully constructed the official Shinto ¯ kuni’s primary disciple, Fukuba Bisei (1831–1907), built of the period. O the ritual that inaugurated the new state, led the Meiji government’s first bureau of Shinto affairs, organized the doctrines of the Great Promulgation Campaign, and was even appointed as the Meiji emperor’s personal tutor on Shinto matters. Hence, even the emperor’s under¯ kuni’s standing of Shinto and his role in it were most likely rooted in O brand of Shinto-scientific hybridity. Further, as we shall see, the early Meiji state adopted a series of policies based on the assumption that Shinto and science were compatible. Government-sponsored textbooks contained both discussions of the Age of the Gods and diagrams of the heliocentric cosmos. The return to the past and the embrace of the future could be found in one moment. Original Science could seemingly complete the circle, bringing the promise of modernity along with nostalgia for the past, science, emperor, and the gods into one system. ¯ kuni and his predecessors force us to revise the stanIn conclusion, O dard account of how religion emerged via Europe’s anthropological encounter with the non-West. That account says that Europeans needed the concept of religion when travelling abroad in ways they never had at home, because they were encountering beliefs and practices that in

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no way resembled Christianity. Non-European systems were consequently reorganized when the Europeans, together with local interlocutors, brought them under the rubric of religion—Buddhism, Hinduism, Daoism. What the early Japanese case shows us is that in the same period European scholars were inventing religion and beginning to articulate religions, Japanese scholars formulated something they called Shinto and explicitly compared it to European models and in terms of a European category. The surprise is that the category in question is not religion, but rather, science.169 Indeed, in the dynamics of encounter between Europe and Asia it was Shinto’s claim to European science that helped it to dethrone Buddhism. Another way to think about National Science is that it developed via a discourse that enabled it to substitute the latent Deist God of Christian secular materials with Shinto deities. This would come in handy in the nineteenth century, because international legal texts were replete with Deism. From legitimating constitutions to arguments about human rights, Christendom was rooted in a barely secularized theological discourse. Japanese leaders would thus be presented with a choice: they could either Christianize or they could come up with a replacement for this form of secularism. As the next chapter will show they did the latter and it was National Science that had laid the groundwork for the production of a Japanese secular state. Hence, it enabled Meiji leaders to produce a Shinto secular to match the European Deist form. Another key feature of National Science would make it valuable to future ideologues. From its first conception as a “Japanese” science it had articulated a powerful discourse about Japanese-ness. It had also developed a set of methods (philology, archeology, local history, its estimation astronomy, etc.) through which this Japanese essence could be discovered, produced, and refined. In National Science’s technohistoricism it had also produced a supposedly Japanese past that could indigenize foreign elements from air rifles to modern medicine. A Japan could therefore be produced that was both rhetorically authentic and radically reshaped. This would come to the fore when the Meiji state attempted to construct a vision of the nation that could withstand European hegemony. In this, Aizawa’s insight that one could produce a de-Christianized nationalism through public rituals would come to bear fruit. The other thing to hold on to is that Shinto was originally presented as science and statecraft not in the 1870s, but in previous decades. This means that the claim that “Shinto is not a religion” cannot be seen as

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merely an expedient reaction to European demands for religious tolerance. Instead, Japanese thinkers were able to position a form of Shinto as outside of religion because the groundwork had already been laid. Of course, the story does not end there. As Japanese intellectuals began to study Western sciences abroad in Europe and America, many ¯ kuni’s model of them became aware of the inconsistencies between O and the presentation of science in the Euro-American world. Instead of Shinto incorporating science, science would begin to incorporate Shinto.

From Miraculous Revolution to Mechanistic Cosmos Epilogue

The year leading up to the revolution of 1868 was full of bizarre and miraculous events. Amulets rained from the sky in Kyoto and Osaka.170 Prophets swept through the land preaching the arrival of the Future Buddha (Miroku), accumulating in their wake carnivals and wild, displaced peasants engaged in begging and sexual promiscuity. Famines, droughts, and fires plagued the nation, leading to radical increases in the price of essential foodstuffs. In Kyoto, the cost of rice multiplied fourfold in the span of two years. Starvation led to further unrest and roaming bands of looters.171 A boulder was said to have fallen from the heavens, smashing the home of a foreign admiral who dared to build his house on Japanese soil. It was rumored that, in their anger at the polluting presence of foreigners, the gods had begun spreading disease and calamity, which led to mass pilgrimages to sacred shrines.172 While revolutionary and shogunal troops clashed in Kyoto and Edo, townsmen predicting the end times filled the streets with frenzied dance, chanting, “Why not?” (ee ja nai ka?).173 Common to many of these movements was a sense of radical disjunction; reality, increasingly dreamlike and decayed, was in need of regeneration.174 They labeled this coming change “world renewal” (yonaoshi), a phrase used in rural protest to describe the radically transformed world that would accompany the presence of a new Buddha.175 Riding the surge of messianic energy, a group of samurai deposed the shogun and, under the guise of imperial restoration (o¯sei fukko), attempted true yonaoshi. As one reading of the name Meiji—“bright healing”—would indicate, the leaders of this new state claimed that they would remake and heal the world. While older historiography has 130

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tended to view the Restoration exclusively in a political light, scholars such as Yasumaru Yoshio have argued that the strong Shinto component was more than propaganda.176 The early ideology of the Meiji government suggested that it would be a return to the divine age, when the workings of the state harmonized with rituals devoted to the imperial ancestors and the great gods of Japan.177 Simultaneously, the Meiji state advocated policies—from funding new educational establishments and scientific research to encouraging industrialized manufacturing and modernizing agriculture—that were radically pro-science and protechnology. While there are plenty of historical examples of either progressoriented revolutions or reactionary restorations, one of the most striking features of the Meiji Restoration is that, like the Puritan revolution, ¯ kuni it seems to have been a synthesis of both impulses.178 Given that O Takamasa’s Shinto-scientific ideology directly contributed to the foundation of the Meiji state, it should not be surprising that rhetorically, the Restoration embraced simultaneously a technological futurity and a return to the divine age. What is more of a question is how this Shinto-scientific ideology managed to survive and even thrive in a full-scale encounter with Western modernity. While this chapter established the ideology that laid the groundwork for the restoration, the following chapter addresses the Meiji state’s attempted consolidation of this ideology and its inevitable viscidities. While this chapter shows that what we thought was Shinto was actually science (gaku), the next chapter demonstrates that when the Meiji government turned decisively to modern science, Shinto remained in view.

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Formations of the Shinto Secular So far as State Shinto¯ is concerned, it may be taken as a kind of national ceremony and teaching of Japanese morality, and to that extent it might be called secular, and non-religious.

¯ GENCHI, A STUDY OF SHINTO ¯ , 192 6 K AT O

In the previous two chapters, I traced the importation of the category “religion” into Japan and showed that it was a nonnative category that emerged in a diplomatic context, such that its contours were established by asymmetries of power and centered on Christianity as its prototype. If this tells us about the category’s early inclusions, its exclusions are equally fascinating. In the previous chapter, I sketched the history of a form of Shinto that initially attracted my attention because it was connected to the ideology of the Meiji state, compared explicitly to Western science, and overtly excluded from the category “religion.” Above all, this Shinto was the condition for the eventual invention of religion in Japan, because it was the form of the political from which religion could be distinguished. Put simply, the existence of “religion” was premised on its differentiation from both education and politics, both of which were understood in Shinto terms. This chapter traces the specific ideological formations whose dialectical negation made possible the construction of religion in Japan. I call these the “Shinto secular,” by which I mean the hybrid Shinto-scientific ideology that undergirded the Meiji state and was ultimately distinguished from the category religion. To refer to the “sec132

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ular” here is an intentional provocation. I want to use it to unthink two of the field’s central epistemological obstacles: secularism and State Shinto.1 As the Japanese had no indigenous analog to religion, they lacked an analog to “secular.”2 This by itself would not be a problem for theorists who use secularism to characterize movements and thinkers that did not characterize themselves as such. These scholars tend to see the formation of the secular in the gradual separation of temporal and ecclesiastical authority and its fulfillment in a modern political sphere as explicitly distinguished from religion and premised on guarantees of religious freedom. But in Meiji Japan, it was a form of Shinto statecraft that Japanese policymakers separated from ecclesiastical authority, distinguished from religion, placed in the political sphere, and which they claimed was central to religious freedom. When talking about this Shinto, Japanese policymakers often described it as “national ceremonies” (kokka no so¯shi), “national teachings” (kokkyo¯), “political teachings” (chikyo¯), or patriotic “duty,” whose realities they contrasted to a religion they characterized in terms of belief (shinkyo¯).3 In effect, Japanese leaders promoted this form of Shinto by arguing that religion should be kept out of the public sphere.4 Had they access to our current metalanguage they might have described this distinction as between personal religion and the Shinto secular state. Here I will follow the implications of this Shinto secular.5 For many readers, the Shinto secular is going to sound like a contradiction in terms. I would like to address this from two angles. First, I would like to dispel the idea that this form of Shinto was a theocracy or state religion. To call it a state religion is inaccurate, because it does not fit the definition. It did not attempt to establish confessional unity or a powerful majority church.6 Likewise, it did not produce converts or Shintoists—merely Japanese subjects. Most significantly, by being separated from religion, it was argued that participation in the Shinto state was fully compatible with religious freedom.7 Second, I would like to define this form of Shinto in terms of what Charles Taylor has called a “common core”–type secularism. Taylor describes an important type of secularism that is rooted in the promotion of a form of Deism and the claim that “the political injunctions that flowed from this common core trumped the demands of a particular confessional allegiance.”8 At its minimum, when I write of the Shinto secular, I mean this sort of movement. Prior to 1868, “Shinto” was not a fully autonomous institution or discourse. Many Japanese groups—Buddhists, Confucians, shrine priests, and National Scientists—claimed to contain, and even 133

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to speak for, the way of the gods. In calling on Shinto, Meiji leaders were emphasizing a kind of common core that transcended Japanese sectarian conflicts.9 To be sure, this Shinto was initially framed in such a way as to exclude Christianity, but Christianity was then understood as dangerously foreign and politically destabilizing in a sense as too religious.10 Still, this Shinto common core was ultimately abbreviated such that even Japanese Christian leaders could make it compatible with their theology.11 Over the course of the epoch, Meiji ideologues also worked to separate this form of Shinto from the control of nongovernmental groups and disentangle it from other discourses.12 Put differently, they claimed to “purify” Shinto, but they were essentially rendering it anew as a semi-autonomous system within governmental control. This worked to separate state ideology from the jurisdiction of the Buddhist institution, but also took the Shinto secular from the control of shrine priests. This also fundamentally shifted the meaning of Shinto discourse, making it point to the nation-state. Inasmuch as this phenomenon has been studied, it has been called “State Shinto.” As one might imagine, State Shinto has been a problem for scholars, and debates about how to understand it have lasted for over one hundred years.13 I hope that considering State Shinto in terms of current secularization theory will provide some fresh insights. In his foundational work on the subject, Kokka shinto¯ (1970), Murakami Shigeyoshi established the following passage, issued by the Japanese government in 1944, as the locus classicus of State Shinto: The Great Empire of Japan originated from the Great Goddess Amaterasu, the founder of the Imperial Family. Her decedents, an unbroken line of emperors, have ruled the country to realize the divine words of the founder, which extend from ancient times to eternity. Here lies the kokutai [nation body[ of Japan. . . . This is the Way of the Gods. . . . The places where the Way of the Gods is embodied in the most solemn and venerable manner are the shrines.14

The hallmarks of State Shinto can be seen here: (1) the production of an idealized Japanese national essence embodied in the kokutai of the nation; (2) the centrality of the emperor and his descent from Amaterasu as the marks of Japanese distinctiveness; (3) the importance of collective ritual action, performed by emperor and subjects, in producing national cohesion, especially at shrines; and finally, (4) that together this can be called the way of the gods, or, Shinto. But if this describes the conventional limits of State Shinto, it does not capture all that I want 134

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to address with the Shinto secular. Recently, there has been a move in the Japanese scholarship to criticize this model as being too broad and focus instead on a narrow definition of State Shinto as limited to the period when Shrine Shinto was directly under government control.15 But I would like to go the other direction and expand beyond the conventional confines of State Shinto to perform a partial anthropology of the Japanese secular. To clarify, I will introduce contemporary models of secularism.

Secularism Revisited While an older generation took secularization to be a necessary product of modernity, a newer group of theorists—Talal Asad, Charles Taylor, and Gil Anidjar—have come to see secularism as a special discourse of Christianity (particularly Protestantism).16 They argue that Western Christianity and the Enlightenment produced a set of binary oppositions between the religious and the secular, Church and state, which it then attempted to impose globally, producing “religions” at the colonial periphery where it encountered resistance. Looked at one way, Christianity produced its own exit from the political order and then tried to take the rest of the world with it. Looked at another way, the project of modernity embodied in the nation-state resulted in the construction of “religion” as a marked category from which the “secular” appeared to be the neutral or unmarked background.17 This process was founded on a contradiction, because even while the churches were losing power, certain Christian theological concepts and symbols were still being embedded in the state but in a new configuration.18 Hence, the categories “secular” and “religious” are fundamentally entangled: secularization is religious in several registers and the construction of religions can be seen as secularizing. This poses a problem because if secularization is supposed to be Protestant in essence, what happens when it is Shinto? Before addressing this issue directly, I’d like to build on this model of secularization. First, I would like to emphasize that the secular is not primarily a subtraction of religion. Put in Hegelian terms, the secular results from an ongoing sublation (Aufhebung) of religion, which it simultaneously encapsulates, transforms, and opposes. Some secular concepts represent the transposition of religious concepts into a new key or configuration at the very moment they are presented as oppositional. In the European case, Christian theological concepts were repurposed to point directly 135

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to the state instead of God, for example, the transposition summarized in the phrase vox populi, vox dei.19 Second, as noted above, a “remainder” is embedded in the heart of particular secular ideologies. What might this mean in concrete terms? Scholars of rhetoric have focused on the contents of ideologies; namely what Michael McGee has called the “ideograph,” which he describes as a verbal abstraction representing collective commitment to a particular goal, for example, freedom or class struggle.20 I will go one step further and articulate a “higher-order ideograph,” by which I mean one of the assembled components that serves as the landmark of a specific ideology, that is, a phrase, monument, or symbol. In the contemporary United States, for example, God, freedom, the American flag, and the Statue of Liberty could be thought of as higher-order ideographs, representing in linguistic or material form the nearly unchallengeable markers of American ideology. In Japan, as will be discussed, the emperor, a concept of kokutai, Yasukuni shrine, and a narrative of divine descent from the sun goddess all functioned as higher-order ideographs embedded in the Meiji ideology. Third, the modern secular legitimates itself through the capture of science and deploys another false opposition—science versus religion. Secularism here is represented as an ideal scientific or technocratic state as opposed to theocratic governance.21 According to one way of looking at things, secularization is merely a shape ideology takes in the age of science. As such, secularism is connected to what Michel Foucault has described as the formation of a “regime of truth,” through which truth is linked in a circulation of power which functions both to produce and sustain it.22 For Foucault, truth is the active expression of a society’s system of “knowledge-power” and therefore science-centric discourse is nevertheless deeply entangled with political and economic concerns. In part what this demonstrates is that ideology is not merely a false consciousness but that science (or perhaps scientism) actually furthers the consolidation of specific ideologies and secularism in particular.23 The combination of science and ideology determines the architecture of what appears to be possible—both physically and politically.24 It gives form to secular appeals to practicality and determines the contours of the “worldliness” to which secularism is directed. In Meiji Japan, it was Shinto National Science that produced new knowledge (or political truths) to sustain the state’s secular ideology. Fourth, and most importantly, the secular presents itself as the real and the other as the allegory. Put another way, secularization produces doppelgangers—one marked as real and the other as phantasm, for 136

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example, political sovereignty (framed as real) and divine sovereignty (framed as allegorical or irrelevant). Additionally, I note that European scientific discourse in the nineteenth century brought with it a particular aesthetic impulse toward something called “reality” or “realism.” This aesthetic, more than anything found in science itself, serves to effect cultural transformations beyond any scientifically verifiable claims.25 On its own, this produces some of the effects described as part of secularization. Incorporating science and Western material culture into the Meiji ideology meant that it was founded on a particular kind of instability that worked to radically undermine previous epistemic systems, either eliminating them completely or transforming them into allegory or references to a “spiritual world.” For example, the very moment that the supremacy of the Shinto gods was being asserted, they were also in some sense being rendered allegorical. Finally, secularism as a nation-state ideology is connected to what Foucault called “governmentality” in that it demarcates different spaces that it can classify and control such as education, health, and justice.26 Crucially, it does not work to eliminate religion, but to contain it within its own sphere. In this manner, secularism even protects religions from extinction by providing them a clearly allotted function in the nationstate. Even so, there is one area it attempts to fully exclude—that which is marked as “superstition.” Indeed, secular ideologies frequently call for the outright elimination of superstition. In contrast to Asad and company, I think that the main target of the technocratic state is not the elimination of religion, but superstition.27 This point will be explored more fully in the next chapter. Suffice it to say that the consequence of the supremacy of the “real” included the banishment of other modes to another realm—one of delusion, fantasy, or superstition. The Shinto Secular To return to Japan, we now know something more of what it means to speak of a Shinto secular. There was a bifurcation of Shinto. It produced diverse Shinto sects in the course of being disempowered by a process that housed them under the guarantees of religious freedom, while simultaneously the Shinto secular was lodged on the side of the state, united with the rhetoric of modernization and ultimately legally defined in opposition to religion.28 This is not as bizarre as it might sound. The bifurcation of Shinto looks like the bifurcation of American Christianity into churches protected by religious freedom, while simultaneously, an American secular was constructed via Christian 137

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symbols and ideas ensconced on the side of the state. Similarly, Shinto seems to have produced not only Shinto “religions,” but also the Shinto “secular.”29 To understand how this worked, the chapter will trace the genealogy of the Shinto secular. This tells us how Shinto can be simultaneously empowered and disempowered. It also describes a key aspect of the invention of religion in Japan, because Shinto functioned as the secular in two ways. First, Shinto produced a political reality from which religion could be distinguished. It was a precondition for the formation of religion as a legal category in the 1889 Japanese Constitution. Second, after the production of the category “religion,” the Shinto secular became a politics that could be distinguished from “religion.” Once a Japanese subject granted this Shinto secular ground, religion (Buddhism and Sect Shinto, but also Christianity) was a matter of free choice and therefore optional. This echoed what Charles Taylor described as the core of secularism in the West as the situation in which religion “is understood to be one option among others.”30 Speaking in broad terms, the Shinto secular was about producing a unified Japanese subjectivity, formulated in terms of a nation-state, articulated in relation to the person of the emperor, and mediated via a particular constellation of higher order ideographs. As such, it paralleled other countries’ projects for the production of national identities.31 In this sense, it was about manufacturing a very particular form of Japanese-ness and was far from the only model in play before 1868. There were other possible Japans: Japan as a confederation of countries (what we now call domains) under the leadership of the shogun;32 a Buddhist Japan centered on a Maha¯brahman Cakravartin king;33 a Japan as the only authentic inheritor of Chinese civilization;34 a Japan rooted in its diversity and commitment to Western-style progress;35 or even a Japan as a newly converted Christian nation, the Christendom of Asia.36 This list is not exhaustive, but crucially the Shinto secular was about forclosing these other possible loci of Japanese identity. Shinto National Science had several advantages. It had already developed a powerful rhetoric about a kind of Japanese-ness and, more importantly, it had articulated a set of tools through which this national essence could be discovered, produced, and refined. While National Science ritual provided the means for its consolidation, National Science philology and historical scholarship served to excavate an oddly prescient Japanese past. This ancient, pre-Buddhist Japan was supposedly organized around the term “Shinto,” the personage of a divinely descended emperor, and a set of rites and laws. Japanese uniqueness 138

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was asserted by claiming to be the only country with an unbroken imperial lineage. What is more, Japanese elites did not actually need to be convinced of the reality of the divine descent of the emperor, because the National Science (and basically Confucian) model of ritual and politics meant that all that really mattered was that the Japanese populace needed to act as if the emperor were the heart of the nation to produce social cohesion.37 The truth or widespread belief in the divinity of the emperor was beside the point. Moreover, according to some National Science scholars, this lost Japan was also a repository for a techno-futurity, having anticipated modern science and technology. At the very least, Shinto claimed that modernization could be embraced without losing connection to the past. Finally, National Science deployed Shinto symbolism to ensnare Japanese in the projects of the nation, as bureaucrats, soldiers, taxpayers, and, most importantly, imperial subjects. This fundamentally transformed the meaning of Shinto. In this sense, State Shinto was part of an ongoing sublation of Shinto, reconfigured in terms of the modern nation-state. This chapter will address the development of the Shinto secular as the ideology of the Meiji state. As Carol Gluck has demonstrated, the Meiji state did not produce a single ideology; different branches of the government produced a series of shifting “ideological fields” with semioverlapping foci.38 While it would be a mistake to suggest a uniform and uncontested paradigm, in these overlapping fields evidence can be found for the hybrid Shinto-scientific discourse we are seeking. First we need to work out how Shinto-inflected discourse allowed Meiji leaders to implement the disciplinary and hygienic policies that characterized their ideological project. This should put us in a position to identify how Meiji ideology conscripted Shinto shrines, priests, scholars, and gods into the secular.

Hygienic Modernity and the World of Reality It became clear to me that any statement is meaningless if not based on science. ¯ H I ROYU KI, J I N K EN SH I NSET SU, 18 82 K AT O

Anywhere that you can find a railway train must be classed as the world of reality [genjitsu sekai]. N AT S U M E S O ¯ SEK I , KUS A M A KU R A , 19 0 6

On April 6, 1868, the senior members of the new Meiji government gathered in the imperial palace in Kyoto. Taking their places in Shi139

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shinden Hall, they awaited the presence of the emperor and the performance of a ceremony to ritually inaugurate the new state. This was the day that for many began the Meiji era.39 To set things in motion, the area was ritually purified and the gods of heaven and earth were summoned. Then, the sixteen-year-old emperor entered the room and took his throne behind a screen. While he offered a sakaki branch to the deities, his representative read out a five-part oath to the assembled gods.40 It is hard to imagine a rite more explicitly redolent of a commitment to the way of the gods. Yet, the oath concluded with the line, “Knowledge shall be sought throughout the world, in order to invigorate the foundations of the Empire.”41 This line was intended to suggest that the Meiji state would be enriched by a global quest for knowledge in service to the emperor and the gods. It was therefore entirely con¯ kuni and his sistent with the Shinto-scientific ideology advocated by O followers, who, after all, had orchestrated the rite.42 Initially, it seemed that locating Japan within these global knowledge systems, would, if anything, buttress National Science. This section of the chapter will trace what happened instead. You would be forgiven for thinking that in Japan the realist novel and biopolitics had nothing to do with Shinto (indeed, both are supposed elsewhere to be a sign of secular modernity).43 But if you did so, you’d be wrong. Following the development of these disparate themes will show that in formulating many of the hallmarks of secular modernity, Shinto remained in view. Fukuzawa Yukichi: Science and the Project of Modernity Over the first ten years of the Meiji era, a newly reconfigured natural science gained increasing influence in government policy. The shift had a good deal to do with changing perceptions of science itself and its relationship to Japanese traditions. While previous generations of Japanese scholars had attained their knowledge of European science largely through imported texts, by 1858 Japanese travelers began to experience Europe and America for themselves. One of the most influential of these early travelers was Fukuzawa Yukichi (1835–1901), who served as an official translator on the first Tokugawa missions to the United States (1860) and Europe (1862). Following his return, Fukuzawa parlayed his experiences abroad into a career as an educator and popularizer of all things Western. As Talal Asad has famously argued, “Modernity is a project.”44 In this sense, Japanese leaders had to be seduced into the project of modernity before it could take on its presup140

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positions and goals. More than anything, Fukuzawa sold modernity as a goal. In his influential bestseller Seiyo¯ Jijo¯ (Conditions in the West), Fukuzawa extolled the value of Western civilization for a Japanese popular audience.45 Published in several editions beginning in 1866, it was widely read and important in the formation of public opinion. As is apparent from its frontispiece, which showed a telegraph, locomotive, and steamboat, Fukuzawa characterized the West by means of its technological marvels. Thus, the modernization process was perceived by many to be the entrance into this new world of steam and electricity.46 Unlike the previous strata of intellectuals, however, Fukuzawa argued for a basic incompatibility between indigenous metaphysics and Western technology. This had implications not only for the course of technological development but also for the formation of a fundamentally new way of looking at the world—one that was increasingly perceived according to the assumptions of nineteenth-century science and wrapped in arguments for secularization. Fukuzawa amplified these claims in later works. In An Outline of a Theory of Civilization (Bunmeiron no Gairyaku, 1875), Fukuzawa argues that all concrete knowledge has its origins in Western science.47 He contends that the success of technologies like the steam train provide evidence for the reality of Western metaphysics and not any indigenous tradition. Technology originates in Western science, nothing else. As he clarified in a later essay, “The importance of the physical sciences” (Butsurigaku no Yo¯yo¯, 1882): Physical science is a branch of learning that clarifies the characteristics of physical matter, studies their workings by means of the laws of nature. . . . Nothing in human life can be an exception to this law. If there should be anything that appears to be otherwise, it will simply mean a lack of research concerning the subject. The one enemy of physical science that hinders its development is the infatuation with such superstitions as cosmic dual force and the five-element theory of old Chinese philosophy.48

Only physical science could identify the laws of nature. These laws had no exceptions. Anything rooted in alternate explanations is incorrect. As Fukuzawa argued throughout his work, this meant that for Japan to become truly modern it would have to purge itself of “backward” traditions, which were obstacles to the new science. As he had argued in An Outline of a Theory of Civilization, the central feature that allowed Europe to become modern was throwing off the Catholic monastic institution.49 Europe had rejected its own backward tradition and in so 141

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doing liberated science and progress. In effect, modernization equaled secularization. Like his peers, Fukuzawa used Buddhist terminology to translate key terms in this trajectory. Indeed the very language of the secular emerged from Buddhist discourse. In the Tokugawa period, sezoku was a Buddhist term that generally referred to an outer or mundane truth (in contrast to ultimate truth), but starting in the late 1860s, the term took on new meaning as a translation of the English “secular.”50 In deploying variants of this term positively to describe Europe’s freedom from ecclesiastical authority, Fukuzawa’s argument could be read as antiBuddhist—that to become modern Japan had to throw off the shackles of the Buddhist monastic institution.51 Secularization, therefore, might seem to mean “de-Buddhistization.” For all his distaste for traditional Buddhism, Fukuzawa was particularly hostile to National Science, dismissing its cosmology as primitive mythology and focusing his polemic against its political science.52 He argues, “Japanese people do not have some natural bond with the Japanese emperor and, despite the urgings of National Science scholars, close ties cannot be created overnight.”53 Its political forms, therefore, only construct superficial loyalty. Still, Fukuzawa agrees with Aizawa insofar as he sees the production of a nation body (kokutai) as essential to the Japanese state, particularly if it is to protect itself from foreign imperialism. Yet, he thinks that this nation body is to be forged through an internal civilizing project that does not recapitulate a mythic past but instead makes Japan more Western and therefore more modern. This commitment to Western modernity, initiated under Fukuzawa’s influence, became a national cultural campaign known as bunmei kaika (civilization and enlightenment). This call to “civilize” functioned in some ways as a kind of internal colonization intended to radically reconfigure Japanese cultural norms in accordance with a Western version of modernity. This should have been a full-scale victory for Fukuzawa, but, as I show below, when the Meiji state engaged itself in promoting civilization, it did so did through Shinto imagery. Nevertheless, under the influence of Fukuzawa and his peers, “pure” natural science gained increasing influence in government policy and education.54 As part of its new educational commitments, the government also began inviting Western scientists and engineers to Japan in significant numbers while sending Japanese students to study Western science abroad. With new funding for science and the education of a new class of professionals, there was a boom in scientific organizations from the late 1870s through the 1880s.55 Although in some areas ba142

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sic research began right away, most of these societies felt there was a more pressing task that had to be completed first: Western scientific terminology had to be translated into Japanese, and existing translations had to be standardized.56 By the late 1880s these projects were beginning to show results, and a number of important and influential dictionaries were published. These dictionaries did not accommodate Western science to previous spheres of knowledge; instead they generated a new vocabulary. This terminology reinforced the isolation of the new professions and served to further separate the old knowledge from the new. This had the effect of making translation between even two closely related disciplines impossible and, in the end, doomed the traditional form to extinction. While National Science persevered, it was increasingly sidelined into areas marked as Japanese instead of universal or allegorical instead of real. If Japan still belonged to the gods, the rest of world could best be viewed from the vantage of a modern laboratory. The Realist Novel Along with this importation of scientific materials was a new aesthetic, which ultimately came to be referred to as literary realism (shajitsu).57 At the forefront of this movement were landmark manifestos advocating the realist novel.58 These texts both worked to produce literature as a discursive category separate from other cultural formations and claimed that a particular constellation of this literature—the realist ¯ yo¯ novel—represented the culmination of modernity.59 Tsubouchi Sho (1859–1935) produced the most influential of these, The Essence of the Novel (Sho¯setsu Shinzui), in serialized installments over the course of 1885 and 1886.60 Tsubouchi’s discussion of the novel contains more than a passing similarity to scientific writing of the period. Indeed, Tsubouchi argued, “All things in the universe are governed by natural laws. The seasons rotate in fi xed order throughout the year, as darkness follows light in the course of a day.”61 According to this assumption, natural laws not only governed the world of physics and astronomy but, as Tsubouchi added, “If even nature is subject to regulation, how much more so are the works of man!”62 In promoting his manifesto of the novel, Tsubouchi was in effect claiming that he had discovered the scientific laws of literature and that the realist novel was the ultimate expression of technological modernity. Central to Tsubouchi’s argument is the Spencerian claim that writing proceeds according to an evolutionary progression from a fantasti143

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cal mythology to a modern realism.63 The modern novel required the elimination of the allegorical and therefore the flattening of meaning. For example, in a novel, references to a tree should only assert the reality of that tree rather than looking at that tree for evidence of a hidden meaning. This move implicitly embodies an attempt to fracture the allegorisis of esoteric Buddhist interpretations of literature that claimed to be able to recover the esoteric fables behind the worldliest of texts. It represented the rise of an ideal focused on the mimetic representation of an empirical reality.64 Empiricism had trumped allegory. The modern novel parallels the rise of empirical sciences that also premised their formation on the objective representation of reality. According to Tsubouchi, if the Japanese wanted to fully embrace modernity, they also needed to establish a form of realist literature purged of supernatural elements. They needed to retire ridiculous fantasies and moral tales. But, oddly, he frames evolutionary advancement in terms of return. For precedents in the rejection of ancient literature, Tsubouchi cites Motoori Norinaga’s commentary on The Tale of Genji, and thereby places the realist novel in the lineage of Shinto-scientific discourse.65 Just as Tsubouchi supposed The Tale of Genji to be Japan’s first authentic novel, Motoori seems to have represented Japan’s first authentic critic. This lets Tsubouchi partially wrest the novel from European hands to render both realist literature and literary criticism indigenous via a connection to an “authentic” Japanese past. Moreover, Motoori’s emphasis on pathos (mono no aware) over Buddhist allegory legitimated Tsubouchi’s claim for the psychological as the center of the novel. Finally, as will be discussed later in the chapter, Tsubouchi and other successors of National Science worked to formulate a Shinto-inflected literary cannon that functioned as a site for the formation of Japanese identity. In sum, the realist novel has been rendered Japanese by rejecting centuries of Buddhist and Confucian precedents and placing it instead in line with the rhetoric of an oddly modern Shinto. In this, Tsubouchi was successful. Following in his wake there was a fundamental transformation in Japanese reading habits that radically changed the production and reception of literature.66 The Formation of a Biopolitics In European history, as Foucault noted, the power of the modern state evolved from choosing who lives and dies to infi ltrating the very fabric of life in an attempt to regulate or discipline basic biological processes in service to national agendas.67 In Japan, the Tokugawa government 144

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cannot properly be conceived of in conventional terms of modern biopolitics, and indeed, it largely resisted the importation of Western medicine and public health paradigms.68 In the 1820s, local authorities had even banned vaccinations as dangerous.69 As late as 1849, the Tokugawa government issued an edict that reinforced a prohibition against Western medicine.70 But for the Meiji state the importation of Western medicine provided an opportunity to extend its ideological reach. The pressure to change the policy toward medicine came from many sides. Since Hirata Atsutane there had been a long legacy of National Science doctors who practiced Western medicine. Foreign advisors also trumpeted the power of European medical knowledge.71 Ultimately, this led to an almost complete reversal in the relative positions of Western and traditional kanpo¯ medicine, and in 1870 the Council of State issued a public statement actively promoting Western medicine and reversing all previous bans.72 This policy shift had far-reaching implications. In 1873, Nagayo Sensai (1838–1902), a Japanese doctor who had studied in Germany, gained permission to establish a Bureau of Medical Affairs (Imukyoku) within the Ministry of Education.73 Nagayo advocated a new model for the relationship between the state and medicine. In the past, health had been the responsibility of the individual. The Tokugawa government had no policy for disease epidemics or public sanitation; however, as William Johnston has demonstrated, Nagayo was heavily influenced by the German system in which health and economic life were placed in the service of the state.74 When formulating what would become national policy, Nagayo chose to render the German word Gesundheitspflege (health care) by reactivating an archaic Daoist term, (Ch., weisheng; Jpn., eisei), which combined the character ei (policing or patrolling) with the character sei (life). The new term for health care meant, literally, “policing life.”75 Students of Foucault have never had it so easy. Similarly, even before Nagayo was granted control over the Bureau of Medical Affairs, he described his mission for the organization as follows: “It would form a single but comprehensive administrative department dedicated to removing dangers to life and ensuring the welfare of the state. It would encompass all facets of life, whether great or small, that could possibly endanger human existence, including prevalent diseases and epidemics.”76 Nagayo achieved his biopolitical goal, and this bureau began to “police life.” The Japanese state began to interfere in the life processes of its citizens in order to render them of service to national agendas.77 In 1876, under Nagoya’s authorship, a regulation was passed that officially required all medical practitioners to study Western medicine. 145

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This marked the beginning of the radical elimination of indigenous medical practices, which were believed to be bad for the health of the nation.78 As will be discussed in the next chapter, this worked as an attack on Japanese superstitions, which were seen as poisoning not only the bodies but also the minds of the emperor’s subjects. Nagayo’s project functioned as a kind of internal colonization of the bodies of Japanese subjects, whose very biology was invaded and regulated by the state in new ways.79 When combined with the new conscription and the educational policies of the same period, Nagayo’s bureau was at the forefront of an attempt to produce a new form of Japanese subject directed toward the emperor and the nation-state. The new sites where this subjectivity played out—the hospitals, schools, military bases, and government buildings—placed the government at the heart of this new system.80 It should not be surprising, therefore, that Shinto played at least a symbolic role. Japanese subjects were persuaded to the hygienic policies of the Meiji state through images of Shinto. Government officials, private publishers, and local doctors distributed popular pamphlets encouraging particular health practices. In an evocation of Tokugawa-period talismans, these woodblock prints were resplendent with deities, but they had been repurposed to advocate contemporary medical concerns. For example, one print from 1862—Hashika sho¯shutsu shi no zu (An image of getting rid of measles)—depicted a divine procession organized around the god of measles, but incongruously listed various foods in order to promote a healthy diet instead of divine worship.81 This is far from exceptional, as many prints encouraged vaccinations, medicines, or particular diets with images of Japanese deities.82 Although superficial, it is hard to imagine a more graphic depiction of Shinto-scientific hybridity. Another intersection between National Science Shinto and hygienic modernity was the Society for the Advancement of Medicine, which Takaki Kanehiro (1849–1920), head of the Tokyo Naval College, founded in 1881. It was one of the most prestigious medical societies in Japan, with connections to the Sanitation Bureau and Nagayo¯ Sensai, and it issued the journal, Monthly Record of the Society for the Advancement of Medicine (Sei’ikai geppo¯).83 Most of the articles are detailed descriptions of medical treatments essentially equivalent to those in American and European journals from the period. One wouldn’t expect to see National Science here. Yet in 1887, Mano Jo¯, a Japanese physician, contributed the article “History of Hygiene in Japan,” stating:

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It is believed that in the so-called age of the Gods, 3,000 years ago Izanagi and Izanami no Mikoto reigned over the country. During that time, Mugurai no Mikoto was made a sanitary officer.84

Despite couching the article in tentative terms, Mano nevertheless identifies the original progenitor of Nagayo¯’s sanitation bureau in the Age of the Gods. Japanese readers would have been familiar with Izanagi and Izanami as the key ancestral gods. Mugurai would also have been familiar as the god of troubles (Wazurai) from the Nihonshoki. The article goes on to describe the hygiene policies of different regimes during the Age of the Gods, including deities from Amaterasu to Sukuna hikona, now described as aiming “to improve hygienic conditions.”85 With explicitly National Science language, Mano effectively locates hygienic modernity in Japan’s Shinto past.86 In essence, Mano has produced a Shinto genealogy for sanitation, understood now to encompass the body as well as the spirit. Although I don’t want to overstate the importance of a single article, it is clear that to make sanitation Japanese meant connecting it to the imperial lineage and the Shinto gods. From hospitals to novels—when the Japanese state turned to the project of modernity, Shinto remained in view. The gods appeared in even the most conspicuous formations of the secular. Given the selfpresentation of National Science Shinto as a science in the Tokugawa period, it is not surprising that this possibility existed in the fi rst place. What is surprising is that this ideology managed to survive a direct encounter with modern science—such that both could be embedded in the national ideology. National Science, rather than being a flash in the pan, can be seen in the background of Meiji-era ideology, appearing in classrooms, academic institutions, legal briefs, and even medical journals. But to be sure, it did not persist in all registers. Through their association with something called science, technology, or realism, a new group of elites was invested with a distinct authority over descriptions of the world.87 In addition to those scientific experts whose credibility came from their laboratory work, there were elite translators of culture (such as Fukuzawa Yukichi) whose authority came from their knowledge of Western languages and texts. They often failed to distinguish between the sources of knowledge that were the product of scientific experimentation (e.g., chemistry) and those that were merely the result of the Western paradigm (e.g., literature).88 As a result, there was the impression that Hegel’s theory of the spirit, for example, was “a scientific fact.” The paradigm promoted as scientific—as

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real—by these elites came to have a radical impact on national policy and public opinion.89 ¯ kuni and his The hybrid Shinto-scientific ideology promoted by O followers was intrinsically unstable, if for no other reason than because the greater scientific community ultimately refused to reproduce the Shinto narrative. Shinto gods were not accepted as explanatory models when connected up to the world system of academic discourse. Scholars in Leiden, London, or even the Physical Science Department at Tokyo Imperial University found them irrelevant to their research. The rise of scientific authority meant that instead of regarding National Science as the operative hermeneutical position, Western science became the dominant authority. But it did not in fact eliminate the Shinto deities from the national stage. The balance between science and the gods might have shifted, but Shinto remained. Increasingly the domain of the physical world was given over to scientific explanations, while the gods were to some limited degree relegated to a distant past or exiled to a spiritual plane. Still, their miracles never completely ended in either the popular imagination or the public prayers of Japanese leaders. If anything, deities became even more important to the national ideology. The gods continued to speak, if with the voices of politicians instead of prophets. Thus, the rise of scientific authority did not mean the death of the gods, but their apotheosis.

Secular Apotheosis The Emperor is the descendant of the Sun Deity and has been Master of Japan since the beginning of the world. All the rankings of the various deities of the provinces, such as “first rank,” have been granted by the Emperor. Therefore, he is indeed loftier than the deities, and every foot of ground and every person belongs to the Emperor. OFFICIAL PUBLIC NOTICE BOARD, TOHOKU, 18 69

The previous section has recounted a narrative of Westernization and the rise of a scientific state whose broad trajectory, if not its connection to Shinto, would probably be familiar to historians of science in Japan. As narratives go, it works pretty well. But it leaves out something significant. Fukuzawa’s science may have defined itself against Shinto, but we have already seen that Shinto did not define itself against science. If we reconsider the early and mid-Meiji era with that point squarely in mind, everything looks different. Historians like to tell a story about Shinto’s decline, but even as institutionalized Shinto lost ground, the core principles of the Shinto secular were incorporated into the work148

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ings of the Meiji state. In tracing this, we need to pay careful attention to how and what ends the Meiji state tried to implement a Shinto state, how they reconfigured it once their early attempts failed, what in Shinto they were willing to sacrifice and what they merely reformulated. In April 1868, within two weeks of the surrender of the last shogun, the new Council of State (Dajo¯kan) issued a series of edicts establishing “gods and emperor” as the foundation of the new nation.90 The new leaders declared that henceforth the Japanese government would operate according to the unity of state and ritual (saisei itchi). These proclamations fashioned a new role for the emperor at the center of the system as the heart of the Japanese nation body.91 Despite Fukuzawa’s challenges, a presentation of the emperor as mystical solar sovereign functioned as an important higher order ideograph in Japanese ideology, persisting into the twentieth century. Rituals intended to unify public morale were channeled through the imperial cult, now understood in National Science terms and purged of overt Buddhist symbols. ¯ kuni Takamasa’s project had been achieved. The key aim of O In 1868, three joint superintendents of schools (gakko¯ gakari) were appointed to produce regulations that would govern the new national educational system. They worked to reform the Japanese educational system by eliminating Buddhist and Confucian influences and making space in the curriculum for Western sciences.92 This might sound like the start of modern education, but it was also a victory for Shinto, because all three superintendents were proponents of National Science.93 The first educational institution one of them proposed had a number of Shinto features. The head of the school would also perform rites to the heavenly ancestors, and the manifesto for the school described it as based on the Science of the Teachings of the Origins (Honkyo¯gaku), which is clearly an evocation of O ¯ kuni’s Hongaku. This continued in the first official “University Regulations” (Daigakko¯ kisoku), which described the way of the gods as a foundational mode and the basis of all forms of learning.94 When Meiji Japan’s first institution of higher education, called simply the University (Daigakko¯), was established in 1869, National Science was still treated as the foundation of education.95 Initially at least, it seemed Meiji educational policy would be based in Shinto. In the first days of Meiji, the Council of State also created a Department of Rites (Jingikan) as the land’s premier governing body answering only to the emperor. National Science had effectively taken over the government. This new department was officially responsible for interpreting the will of the gods, as well as conducting rituals for impe149

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rial ancestors, the gods of heaven and earth, and the tutelary deities of the imperial house. Furthermore, it was tasked with producing the ceremonial forms that would unite the Japanese people; thereby this body aimed to use Shinto political science to guide the nation into a new form.96 In essence, this was less the assertion of control by a Shinto “church” than a radical victory for the Shinto-science advocated by O ¯ kuni and his students. One of the functions of this department was to assert dominance over areas previously administered by the centuries-old Shirakawa and Yoshida Shinto families. In the Department of Rites, the government gained control over the definitions of both shrine and Shinto priest and heavily modified the meaning of both in accordance with its larger ideological project. In 1871, the department forbade hereditary succession for Shinto priests and reclassified all Japanese shrines to place the national imperial cult at the apex of the system.97 If this were not clear enough, the state simultaneously co-opted the shrines, defining them legally as sites for “the performance of national rituals” (kokka no so¯shi).98 In classic Shinto-scientific hybrid rhetoric, these newly crafted rites were supposed to both hearken back to ancient pre-Buddhist precedents and embody the modern virtues of rationality (go¯ri-shugi), progress (shimpo-shugi), and enlightenment (keimo¯).99 In a certain sense, Shinto functioned as merely the outward sign of Japanese secularization. In effect, regardless of their previous focus, shrines were called on to be public sites for the distribution of the new national ideology; in exchange, shrine priests became public employees. The foundation of the Department of Rites was almost immediately followed by the inauguration of the so-called edicts for the separation of buddhas and gods (shinbutsu bunri rei).100 These edicts worked to produce an almost unprecedented Shinto as a state establishment formulated to meet the needs of a modern nation. By separating the buddhas from the gods, these decrees meant that many shrines were deprived of both their previous symbolic function and inherited ritual system. A vacuum was produced that could only be solved by the shrines’ subordination to the state’s ideological agenda.101 Issued at the start of the Meiji era, the first of the bunri edicts banned priests with the (often but not exclusively) Buddhist titles of betto¯ or shaso¯ from the newly nationalized shrines.102 They were allowed to continue attendance at the shrine only if they would accept laicization. The edict also standardized designations for shrine attendants and required them to register with the Department of Rites, thereby conscripting the shrines into national government. It also eliminated any possible combined allegiance 150

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to the Buddhist institutional system, as the sundering of the two traditions destroyed the Buddhist-Shinto complex that had been the norm for nearly all of Japan’s recorded history.103 It thus claimed to laicize and, in that sense, secularize shrines throughout the land.104 Over the two months following the first separation edict, other edicts attempted to divide Shinto from Buddhism and establish state control over the various eclectic shrines throughout Japan. By working to bring local rituals into harmony with the national ideology, these laws were an attempt to produce the national ritual transformation articulated by Aizawa. These edicts worked by mandating the “purification” of the shrines: eliminating Buddhist symbols (statues, bells, scrolls, etc.), but more importantly by changing the names of deities. For example, the bodhisattva Hachiman (Hachiman Bosatsu) was stripped of its Buddhist associations and transformed into the great god Hachiman (Hachiman ¯ kami).105 One aspect of this new Meiji ideology was the drastic manner O in which the state attempted to efface and then overwrite the meanings of local rituals. Instead of purging many local cults, it forcibly renamed them, incorporating local ceremonies into a new system of meaning. In essence, this was hierarchical inclusion by force. The Meiji state was only moderately successful, and older names for the gods and buddhas periodically resurfaced as prior meanings resisted being effaced. Similarly, the term gongen (avatar) was banned from official usage.106 In the past, this term had mostly referred to a local manifestation of a buddha or bodhisattva, often as a particular indigenous god. The edict banning gongen justified itself by stating that Buddhist names obscured the true identity of the gods.107 This policy was a concrete manifestation of the National Science call to invert the hierarchical inclusion of Buddhist discourse. Yet it invented as many identities as it discovered. This great renaming was more than arbitrary wordplay; it was in effect the assertion of new “facts” about reality. These claims can be broken down into the following components: (1) there are true gods; (2) the popular understanding of these gods is wrong (especially if it uses Buddhist terminology); and (3) Shinto National Science scholars are privy to knowledge of the real nature of these deities.108 There is no reason to think that any of this was mere propaganda cunningly perpetrated on a gullible populace. From the consolidation of national shrines to public celebrations to funds spent on specific rituals, the Meiji state was deeply invested in the existence of the supernatural entities initially outlined by the Department of Rites. Moreover, it was equally committed to the idea that public rituals to these deities could unify the Japanese people. Given that the state devoted a portion of its budget to the 151

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Department of Rites and its agendas, it was to some extent paying the gods to protect the nation instead of paying soldiers and gunsmiths. Most significant in these regards was the state’s attempt to inculcate the populace with a form of the Shinto secular in a massive propaganda enterprise called the Great Promulgation Campaign (taikyo¯ senpu undo¯), set in motion in 1870.109 This campaign consisted of three main components: the Great Teaching Hall (Daikyo¯in), a group of dedicated doctrinal instructors (kyo¯do¯shoku), and a main piece of propaganda: the Teaching Based on the Three Slogans (Sanjo¯ no kyo¯soku). The Great Teaching Hall served as a center for rituals and the training of doctrinal instructors. As befitting a teaching rhetorically rooted in the common core of Japanese culture, these instructors were drawn indiscriminately from a wide swath of the populace, including entertainers and Buddhist and Shinto priests. By 1876, it had peaked at over 10,000 dedicated members.110 Distributed throughout 289 official teaching institutes, these instructors organized sermons and preached in temples, public buildings, and the homes of prominent citizens. The slogans that formed the basis of the campaign were (1) to honor the gods and love the country (keishin aikoku); (2) to clarify the principles of heaven and the way of man (tenri jindo¯); and (3) to revere the emperor (ko¯jo¯ho¯tai).111 Although often accused by scholars today of attempting to fabricate a state religion, the campaign drew its members from all Buddhist and Shinto sects, and the ministry responsible issued a statement explicitly guaranteeing freedom of belief (shinkyo¯ no jiyu), stating that this freedom did not conflict with the mandatory common ground doctrine of the three slogans.112 Moreover, these slogans were pitched at what it understood to be a common ground to all Japanese traditions—Shinto, Buddhist, and Confucian. These vague phrases, however, were open to multiple interpretations, and lengthy manuals were issued to help explain them to the doctrinal instructors.113 In one important clarification: these phrases were expanded into seventeen themes, including calls to act in a civilized manner, pay taxes, obey civil and national laws, and answer to military conscription.114 We can see that at its core, the Meiji state was trying to formulate a particular kind of imperial subject framed in terms of the Shinto secular. Strikingly, the Great Promulgation Campaign was also one of the government’s main organs for the promotion of civilization and enlightenment (bunmei kaika), which was listed as one of the themes of the campaign and promoted in a number of the manuals explaining the three slogans.115 The gods were part of the world the state wanted to promote; instead of vanishing in the face of Westernization, they rep152

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resented one of modernity’s incarnations. Japanese people were being won over to the civilization called for by Fukuzawa not through appeals to British social mores but by being taught about Shinto.116 The essence of the campaign was that reverence for the emperor and belief in the gods were mandatory for all Japanese citizens.117 The Japanese people were to be “educated” into a new set of already accomplished facts: that to be Japanese meant submission at once to country, gods, and emperor. Exactly which gods were being promoted was the topic of intense factional debates.118 At minimum, the Great Teaching Hall enshrined within its walls the sun goddess Amaterasu and the three gods of creation: Takamimusubi no kami, Amenominakanushi no kami, and Kamimusubi no kami.119 Prior to this campaign, Amaterasu had some popular recognition, but the three gods of creation had no contemporary cult, appearing only in the Kojiki from which they had been recently “rediscovered” by National Science philologists. The Great Promulgation Campaign thus worked to subsume the previous popular pantheon under a new collection of official gods revealed to be the “real” entities behind a diverse range of local deities. This pantheon promotion did not go smoothly. Throughout its history, the Great Promulgation Campaign met with different forms of resistance. Internally, the doctrinal instructors often lacked dedication to the organization’s goals, and contemporaries remarked that some instructors were primarily interested in pushing their own agendas.120 Externally, the campaign met with opposition in the countryside as well. Farmers mistaking the instructors for Christians chased them out of town or otherwise greeted them with confusion and hostility.121 Other government bureaucrats satirized disputes within the campaign, and the popular press mocked the entire enterprise for its inefficiency.122 The disputes about what fit into the Shinto pantheon suggested that instead of facts, Shinto leaders might be promulgating speculation; and instead of reinforcing a common ground, they might be producing divisions. The final straw came when the influential Buddhist Jo¯do Shinshu ¯ withdrew its substantial resources from the promulgation campaign in 1875. Within two years the Great Teaching Hall was closed and its responsibilities redistributed. The campaign continued to function in heavily reduced form until it was finally dispersed in 1884. As a backdrop to the failure of the Great Promulgation Campaign, the Department of Rites experienced its own reversal of fortunes. From the start, other factions within the government had different priorities; as these factions attained increasing power to set the agenda for the state, the Department of Rites lost influence and resources in a series 153

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of dramatic changes. On August 8, 1871, the Department of Rites was demoted to the Ministry of Rites (Jingisho¯). On March 14, 1872, the Ministry of Rites was abolished and reconstituted within the Ministry of Doctrine (Kyo¯busho¯). In 1877, the Ministry of Doctrine was in turn eliminated and its previous ritual functions were largely subsumed under the Bureau of Shrines and Temples (Shaji kyoku) in the Ministry of the Interior. This series of demotions meant not only a dwindling budget but also a loss of institutional power.123 As is apparent by these changes within the bureaucracy, the cult of the gods, which began as the most important body in the government, became increasingly peripheral.124 Despite its loss of institutional authority, official sources repeatedly asserted the centrality of its ideology and the state remained committed to the promotion of its main higher order ideographs, including Shinto rituals and even the sun goddess. In parallel with the decline of the Department of Rites, National Science also lost its hold on the educational system. Starting in 1872, the Council of State issued a proclamation creating the first compulsory universal education system, which was to be based largely on Western models to the exclusion of traditional school subjects.125 The previous network of schools (Buddhist, Confucian and National Science) was almost completely eliminated, and a new centralized system was proposed.126 When Tokyo Imperial University was formed in 1877, this system was extended to higher education as well. Organized deliberately to exclude both National Science and Confucian faculty, the university focused instead on science and Western philosophy. By providing the entrée for natural science, National Science had in effect inadvertently produced its own exit from public education. Given everything I have just said, historians have been quick to see the years from 1880 to 1905 as a period of crisis for Shinto: “the slump of middle Meiji.”127 The Shinto institution had experienced an almost comically rapid rise and fall. Scholars like this narrative for a number of reasons. It is simple because it connects Shinto to institutions and actors rather than to discourses, whose strength is more difficult to measure. More importantly, it separates the “Shintoicization” process from the modernization process, placing the true transition—the boom of bunmei—in the 1880s, where it can be seen as emerging from a different source. Finally, it is seductive because it allows us to imagine a nationalistic Shinto as something appearing much later when frustration with the West was at a high. While this story has much to recommend it, I don’t think it is quite right. Certain institutions were indeed eliminated and the people who staffed those institutions lost 154

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their jobs. There were personal defeats. But if we look at the discourse rather than at these actors, whether institutional or individual, a different pattern emerges. In almost exactly the same period that Shinto was “failing,” it was succeeding in several important ways. It embedded an abbreviated Shinto pantheon in the official textbooks read by all Japanese schoolchildren; established a national memorial for the war dead; inserted Shinto in the very constitution of Japan; instituted Shinto as the form of Japanese public ceremonies and official holidays; and reformulated a reading of the emperor in completely Shinto terms. All of this was framed outside religion. It even succeeded in making the argument that to be Japanese meant to be Shinto—to such a degree that it became second nature to many Japanese in the period. From this perspective, the dominant narrative is exactly wrong: what most scholars see as failure is rather the universalization of Shinto and the embedding of the Shinto higher-order ideographs into the very fabric of the state.128 Let us examine the situation in more detail. After the collapse of the Great Promulgation Campaign, the locus of national ideology shifted from the semi-autonomous Shinto establishment to the Ministry of Education. The gods became the responsibility of teachers, not priests. For five years, National Science was frozen out of education. But it wasn’t gone long. Crucially, by 1882, the formation of a Department of Classics at Tokyo Imperial University provided an opening for National Science to return to the national educational stage. In that year, National Science scholar-turned-professor Konakamura Kiyonori (1822–1895) gave a speech at the ceremony establishing the new department, stating, “The department that we are establishing is now made up of pure and expert National Science scholars.”129 Being granted a department at the most prestigious university in Japan symbolically represented the start of the rehabilitation of National Science as a Western-style academic discipline. Over the span of the 1880s and ‘90s, National Science had a virtual renaissance, a feat that was linked to the increasing ability of National Science scholars to produce evidentiary scholarship that adopted the criteria of scholarship in the international academic community—that is, scholarship that collects primary sources, produces critical accounts of them, and then bases its conclusions on the resultant documents. In this sense, the National Science philology almost seamlessly transformed itself into a modern academic discipline where it continues to exert an influence.130 The renaissance of National Science culminated in the birth of the 155

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University of the Institute for National Science (Kokugakuin Daigaku), which is still with us today as the preeminent institute for the scholarly study of Shinto.131 Likewise, it led to the formation and publication of a canon of Japanese classics, including modern editions of Shinto texts, as well as the Japanese histories, law codes, literature, and poetry collections that National Science had always found important.132 National Science scholars and their decedents were also crucial to the claim that Shinto was Japan’s oldest institution. They read their invented tradition into the Kojiki and Nihonshoki, arguing that Japan had the oldest monarchy in the world and that Shinto was the ritual form of this monarchy. While European and American scholars came to reject the claim that Shinto was nonreligious, they generally bought into its reputed antiquity. Shinto was read as Japan’s oldest religion. The separation of Shinto and Buddhism also became naturalized. It became a given that these represented different traditions. This led to the entrenchment of the idea of Shinto constructed by National Science scholars not just in Japan but abroad as well. With the extension of the influence of National Science philology into the fields of Japanese literature and language in the 1880s, Kokugaku was in one sense effectively transformed into Kokubungaku (national literary science), while in another it had become Kokugogaku (Japanese philology; lit., national linguistic science).133 Both of these were deployed to excavate/invent the essence of Japan.134 Today, the canon of Japanese classical literature is the legacy of National Science. Its terminology is also preserved in Japanese philology and education. Indeed, anyone who has taken a Japanese course and fumbled over the distinction between transitive (tado¯shi) and intransitive (jido¯shi) verbs has been an unwitting heir of the work of National Science scholars.135 National Science also made its way into the hands of Meiji schoolchildren. In a trend that began in the 1870s and persisted until 1945, officially sanctioned textbooks taught the emperor’s divine descent from Amaterasu and proclaimed Japan’s special status as a holy nation beloved by the gods.136 A typical middle school history textbook such as Chu¯to¯ Kokushi Kyo¯kasho (1897) began its account of Japanese history with the following: At the beginning of the Age of the Gods there were the three deities [of creation] respectfully called Amenominakanushi no kami, Takamimusubi no kami, and Kamimusubi no kami. After this, many years passed. Then came to be the two honored [ancestral gods] Izanagi and Izanami.137 156

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Following this mythological narrative, the textbook proceeds with a conventional chronology of emperors and eras leading up to the modern period. Children all over Japan were taught that the seeds of their nation’s history began in a divine age initiated by the gods of creation. In these textbooks, there were no markers indicating that Japanese gods were in any sense less real than historical personages such as Benjamin Franklin. Thus, what is generally interpreted as the “failure” of the Great Promulgation Campaign and the Department of Rites actually resulted in the success of many of the goals promoted by these institutions. New deities, once worshiped by a few, were now deeply interwoven into the popular narrative of the Japanese nation. Harnessing it to the educational apparatus meant that this new pantheon had become so enmeshed in the canon of national truths that the attributes of the ancestral deities could be taught alongside other “facts” such as the boiling point of water.138 A reinvigorated National Science extended into other fields as well. It began to make inroads into history departments and its narratives soon came to dominate Japanese historiography,139 a position it did not relinquish until 1945. National Science interpretations were also crucial to the burgeoning Japanese legal tradition.140 By way of illustration, Tokyo Imperial University law professor Hozumi Yatsuka (1860–1912) promoted National Science themes as the foundation of Japanese law. In particular, he stressed the importance of a Shinto-inflected kokutai, which he transformed into the legitimacy for a modern conception of sovereignty.141 In Hozumi’s hands kokutai functioned as a secularized Shinto concept in almost startling parallel to European political sovereignty as a secularized Christian theological concept. Carl Schmitt would have been proud.142 Just as Shinto deities were being transformed into symbols of the nation-state, disparate figures from the past were drawn into the spiritual lineage of the nation as the Meiji state established a new system for memorials. Even before the new leadership began cementing their power in 1868, soldiers who had died fighting for the revolutionary cause had their spirits housed in Sho¯konsha: “shrines for invoking the dead.”143 The origins of this cult of the valiant dead were coextensive with the Meiji regime itself, and from the beginning different shrines were erected to those heroes and martyrs who were seen as the progenitors of the new state. These sites of memory buttressed the national narrative and paralleled the officially “nonreligious” memorializing getting underway in America and European countries in roughly the same period.144 157

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This system was codified by the Home Ministry (Naimusho¯) in a proclamation issued in 1875 calling for the personal histories of those who were killed during the conflicts leading up to the Restoration.145 The Tokyo Sho¯konsha was constructed as a public resting place for the souls (reikon, eirei) of worthy martyrs.146 The 1875 proclamation also officially established other memorial sites (Sho¯konjo¯ and Gokokujinja) located in each province and connected to the Tokyo shrine by common festivals. This proclamation was clarified in an edict issued by the Council of State three months later that regulated the charges for the upkeep of Sho¯konsha gravesites and reaffirmed their public character.147 This system not only established a collective memorial but, according to Japanese popular belief, also pacified the potentially hostile spirits (goryo¯) of those who had suffered a violent death.148 In this, the Meiji state was effectively redirecting toward the nation-state what had been rituals to appease wrathful spirits. The Tokyo Sho¯konsha gained increasing national recognition, and on June 4, 1879, it was officially renamed the Yasukuni Shrine (lit., “Nation Pacifying Shrine”). In the proclamation issued by the Council of State and cosigned by the Home Ministry, the army, the navy, and the Tokyo regional government, it was stated that from that point forward those soldiers who died in battle would be enshrined in this national monument.149 Officially, the name Yasukuni was said to have been selected by the emperor personally, and an address written in his name proclaimed that he would henceforth honor these heroes as deified in the shrine.150 This inverted the normal direction of reverence from Japanese subjects to the emperor and meant that in the case of dead heroes, it would be the emperor himself who publicly prayed to the martyrs’ spirits. The shrine’s potential value as propaganda is clear, as it reinforced the significance of death for the national cause, provided an illustrious list of heroes for the state, and emphasized the importance of the emperor. It is not surprising that the government continued to actively promote the Yasukuni Shrine through textbooks, a national festival each year, and public ceremonies conducted by the emperor.151 Most importantly, officials kept public record of soldiers who were deemed worthy of enshrinement.152 These claims were reinforced along a number of official channels, as the power of the Yasukuni Shrine (like the official pantheon) appeared in state endorsed textbooks alongside other “facts.”153 In matters of national identity—from festivals to imperial rites—the Yasukuni Shrine and the spirits of the war dead functioned as foundational symbols of the Japanese state. Thus, from an 158

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early age, all Japanese children were taught to accept the official system for managing the souls of the departed. Still, in most respects Yasukuni was little different from other monuments to the war dead built from Melbourne to Maryland in roughly the same period.154 Insofar as this represents modernity, modernity seems to be haunted. To anyone who still thinks my division of Shinto secular and Shinto “religion” is artificial, I now want to show this distinction in Meiji policy. Starting in the late 1870s, the state began the legal bifurcation of Shinto into secular and sects; a series of ordinances to that effect came rapidly. In 1876, the Ministry of Doctrine gave permission for two Shinto lay-associations (Kurozumi ko¯sha and Shu ¯sei ko¯sha) to be reformulated on the lines of Buddhist denominations.155 In so doing it effectively produced a distinction between a standardized national Shinto and a set of diverse parishioner-funded institutions. In 1879, the Home Ministry changed its rules for funding national shrines, separating them into two forms: one public and one private. While some remained publicly funded institutions, many others became privately supported sites for popular worship.156 In 1882, this situation was further formalized in a Home Ministry ordinance that prohibited state supported shrines from performing sermons or funerals.157 By this time, these activities were regarded as religious and therefore incompatible with the public stature of state shrines, which were supposed to merely promote the national ideology. In effect, the state was distinguishing between a mandatory Shinto secular, concerned with government ritual, and optional Shinto sects, concerned with matters of belief.158 In 1883, the Home Ministry issued a decree insisting that local government officials attend annual Shinto harvest rituals (kinensai and niinamesai) at the national shrines as part of their official duties.159 This reinforced the perception that certain Shinto rituals and sites were public in character. To get ahead of ourselves a little bit, in 1900, when the Japanese government finally established a Bureau for Religions (Shu ¯kyo ¯ kyoku) for Buddhist and Shinto sects, State Shinto shrines were placed in a completely different part of the government under the Bureau for Shrine Affairs (Jinja kyoku).160 Put simply, State Shinto shrines were not classed as “religious.” In these policies we can see a clear institutional separation between a Shinto secular seen as essential to the Japanese nation, and Shinto sects, which were dispensable.161 Nevertheless, this bifurcation facilitated the consolidation of the state ideology. In sum, through public festivals, rituals, and textbooks, all Japanese citizens were required to acknowledge war memorials, the gods, and their earthly representative, the emperor. These things were actively 159

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promoted as concrete realities, not optional beliefs, and the government reprimanded those who publicly criticized them.162 Accordingly, these key Shinto artifacts functioned as higher order ideographs embedded in the Meiji ideology. This might seem to describe an enchanted regime, but, again, this same government was equally committed to the establishment of Western science and technological modernity. For every spirit-summoning shrine, the state built a telegraph office; for every linkage in national ritual, the government linked the country by rail line. Japanese ideologues, at least, saw no problem with this fusion of technology and Shinto ritual. What is more, one can find evidence for Shinto National Science long after it is supposed to have vanished. For example, for Tokyo Imperial University professor and Shinto priest Iida Takesato (1828–1900), there was a fundamental unity between the apparent wonders of science and the miraculous efficacy of the gods. He described his perspective in an essay on the recently introduced electric lamp (Denkito¯): The people of the West, being industrious in everything, developed a way to replace the oil-lamp by assembling light and manufacturing this into a marvelous apparatus that may also be called a “small sun” . . . . Nevertheless, as might be suspected, [the Western countries’] inhabitants also have not the faintest idea that in this thing they call fire, there exists the blood which in the Age of the Gods, the deity Kagutsuchi deigned to shed upon all things. . . . There are many who recognize that the source of everything was already revealed in our Age of the Gods. Yet, do they know that the electric light is [also] based on the august workings of the God of Fire?163

Iida’s argument is that Western technology functions according to the will of the kami. In a position consistent with the teachings of Hirata Atsutane, physical properties such as the flammability of wood are the result of actions taken by the kami in the Age of the Gods.164 Although science and the gods appear to be two radically different things, for Iida, exploring one (or at least studying the Kojiki) can give insight into the other. As a result, one needed to look no further than science for manifestations of divine power. Another method of integrating scientific and Shinto paradigms was to divide time between an era when the miraculous was possible and the present when it no longer occurred. An example of this can be found in an anonymous pamphlet written by a Shinto shrine priest in 1892. The author argues that before the Meiji era, the deity for the shrine had miraculously manifested a bright light to guide sailors to safety, but now the deity inspired people to study science and build 160

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lighthouses. The age of wonder was not located in a mythic past, but instead found less than twenty-five years before the present. For this author, the Meiji Restoration had succeeded in transforming external miracles into divine inspiration.165 The nation was holy, and the revolution was the most powerful marvel of all, as it served as the wonder literally to end all wonders.

By promoting the Shinto secular, the Meiji state attempted to radically reconfigure what it meant to be Japanese. By constructing a Shinto common ground, it aimed at the creation of a national identity articulated as the projection of a unique kokutai centered on an unbroken line of emperors whose distant progenitor was the sun goddess. The Shinto secular was neither monolithic nor an agent in its own right; it was instead the product of an overlapping consensus, pursued by different actors for very different reasons. Buddhist activists even pushed nonreligious definitions for Shinto because it let them restrict the meaning of Shinto to only a common ground secular. Yet the very form of the political—from the calendar of national holidays to national history textbooks to the content of its public speeches—continued to be inflected with the vocabulary of Shinto political science and the form of Shinto political ritual. Over time, new imperial subjects would give their lives for this Japanese nation and their passing would be memorialized in terms of Shinto-inflected rites. The nation’s program fulfilled many features of the de-Christianized nationalism articulated by ¯ kuni’s vocabulary, and rendered in terms Aizawa, mediated through O of the modern nation-state. State Shinto in the narrow sense, the government’s transformation of Shrine Shinto into an ideological apparatus, turns out to be merely a symptom of this larger process. To reframe the issue, in the early Meiji epoch, connecting Japan with the world system in a new way led to a differentiation process, which is conventionally associated with global modernity.166 This fragmentation can be seen in the form of basic linguistic divisions as key terminology was reconfigured. One of the central terms in our narrative, oshie/kyo¯ was splintered into different conceptual terrains including “education” (kyo¯iku), and “religion” (shu¯kyo¯), but there was also a portion that mapped onto Western conceptions of the secular.167 In Confucian discourse the paradigmatic case of oshie (teaching) was from ruler to subjects, and Japanese thinkers often talked about a national teaching, which would extend from rulers to subjects and serve as the basis for public morality and the outward form of political ritual. In 161

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this sense, it had distinct parallels to the constitutional systems and political ceremonies of Europe or America.168 In Meiji Japan, Shintoinflected ritual came to occupy this position and it did so through a self-conscious imitation of global political patterns while at the same time differentiating itself from religion. Having described the formation of the Shinto secular, it is now our business to turn very briefly to master narratives of secularization provided by the theorists introduced at the outset of the chapter. In these two approaches we see secularism caught in a pincer movement: on the one hand, an older model of secularism as a universal byproduct of modernity, leading to the obliteration or privatization of all religion, to disenchantment and its attendant ills; and on the other hand, secularism as a secretly Protestant program, still deeply entangled with religion and the new concept of same.169 But Shinto does not square with either case. Embracing the program of modernity meant the enchantment of the public space with the rise of Shinto politics, not as a vestige of feudalism but as the outward form of enlightened progress. It also did not mean a Protestantization of Shinto. To a degree that not even the secular Protestant nations can match, State Shinto functioned as secular while retaining a visible connection to ritual practices. Because the more consequent versions of Protestantism are anti-ceremonial to begin with, there were few residual ceremonies left, in the U.S. case, paradigmatically, for the state to repurpose. The Shinto secular, in contrast, took over and assigned new meanings to older—or in some cases devised—rituals that would henceforth be known as “national ceremonies.” Nevertheless, Shinto occupies roughly the place that Asad and Anidjar assign to Reformed Christianity, thereby demonstrating that cultural systems other than Protestantism can occupy that slot. Put differently, the seeming ubiquity of the modern secular seems to be the functional product of the empty center of the nation state, something most invisible in its Protestant and deritualized form, but present elsewhere. Again, if the history of Shinto demolishes the old model described by Casanova and others in the last chapter, it has a different impact on the new models. To theorists of postcolonialism like Asad and Anidjar, the Shinto secular suggests that the growth of European empire indeed produces “religions” at its periphery, but it also produces “seculars” as well.170 While Asad and company would not be surprised at this resistance, they might be surprised at the form it took in Japan. For Japan, resistance to European hegemony could be formulated in terms that reduced Christianity to one option among others. Japan became the 162

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place, therefore, where European Christianity could be secularized. Inasmuch as secularization is Christianity’s exit, then Japan preceded Europe in importing and producing de-Christianized science and politics before anything of the like existed in the West (see chapter 4). Thus, Taylor’s so-called secular age seems to have happened first outside of Europe, at the periphery rather than the center, or in exactly those parts of the globe Taylor explicitly fails consider.171 What is more, if the secular is supposed to be Protestant in character, then Japanese thinkers would seem to have out-Protestanted the nations of Europe. Perhaps then the secular seems to be less a direct product of Protestantism than a reduction of Christianity produced through asymmetrical encounter. Ultimately, international law—from the discourse of human rights to international treaties to Euro-American constitutions—was heavily saturated with Christian theological terms that were in the process of secularization.172 For Japan to participate in this discourse without ¯ kuni Christianizing, it had to strip away this terminology. Indeed, O Takamasa, the godfather of the Meiji Shinto secular ideology, had explicitly advocated his Original Science for this purpose, imagining the day when under its influence “true international law would emerge from Japan to frustrate Occidental [Christianized] international law.”173 Thus, the Japanese narrative can be seen to invert the Orientalist trope of a mystic East and a rational West, as it suggests that it was Japan that had to secularize European politics and science to make it palatable internally. Finally, the most important intervention this book makes on the narrative of secularization is to establish that “religion” is not the true negation of the secular. Instead, as will be shown in the next chapter, the opposite of the secular is superstition. Religion is merely the negation of the negation. All this time, theorists of the secular have thought that they were investigating a binary, while a trinary slipped by unawares.

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SIX

Taming Demons The Demons of Modernity That cold-blooded demon called Science has taken the place of all the other demons.

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS, THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN, 18 42

Human lifestyles conform to a division into two [great] classes—Barbarian and Civilized. . . . By civilized is meant those [peoples] who live comfortably in fixed abodes, know proper etiquette [reigi], believe in doctrines [shu¯shi], labor at crafts, maintain order, and thus receive the blessings of Heaven.

FUKU-

¯ CHU ¯ BANKOKU ICHIR AN, 18 69 Z AWA YUKICHI, SHO

A case from the police files: in 1876 in the town of Shiba Hamamatsucho¯, a man named Tanaka Hisajiro¯ was arrested and charged with dazzling (genwaku) the public with false theories (mo¯setsu).1 Before his ultimate acquittal on a technicality, the police questioned people from several different villages and those found to have asked Tanaka for healing rituals were fined.2 This was not an isolated incident. As the state sponsored its own truths about divine rituals and legitimate prophecy, it discouraged sundry groups from claiming equal access to the supernatural, actively working to obliterate any obstacle to its newly formulated ideology. The underbelly of the campaign to promote the Shinto secular led to people being imprisoned, fined, or even killed for promoting forbidden beliefs or engaging in a range of banned cultic practices. Thus, the true enemy of the modern secular state was not religion, but superstition. Modernity identified its own axis of exclusion—intolerable “imitations” of science—and produced its own heretics and “false” ritualists. 164

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It also produced it own demons. The following incident was reported in Tokyo Nichinichi Shibun newspaper on August 8, 1873: In Tokyo’s Motoyanagi Haracho¯ lives a man named Umemura Toyotaro¯. On August 4, 1873, at about two o’clock a.m., he was awakened from a sound sleep by what seemed to be an earthquake shaking the area around him. Hearing his child cry out, he assumed [the earthquake] had inspired a nightmare. Then all of a sudden he saw something strange by the side of his bed. Standing there was a three-eyed monstrous monk [yo¯so¯ ], which stretched almost tall enough to touch the ceiling. But with extreme courage Toyotaro¯ indignantly jumped up and gripped and pulled on the hem of the apparition’s robes. Exerting himself to the limit, he toppled [the monster] and it was revealed to be a very old tanuki [raccoon dog].3

As bizarre as this incident may seem it was by no means unique. While Meiji modernization is often emphasized, Japan was also alive with the supernatural. Nor was this merely allegory. Monsters were not confined to the pages of novels or the nostalgic investigations of folklorists; instead, ghosts, demons, and other monstrosities were a popular topic of newspaper reports, carnival exhibits, exorcisms, and parlor-room demonstrations.4 Because many people believed in the supernatural, the Meiji state dedicated itself, at least in part, to the extermination of monsters. In 1874, doctor and later government bureaucrat Masayama Morimasa (1827–1901) completed two popular pamphlets titled Kyu¯shu¯ Isshin (Reforming old customs). Written simply and illustrated in popular style, these pamphlets explicitly targeted “primitive evil customs” (shinko no heifu¯) that stood in the way of “civilization and enlightenment” (bunmei kaika).5 Each page contained a cartoon with an explanation as to why a particular belief or practice was a “dangerous obstacle to civilization.” As one page, titled “demons” (oni) suggests, demons were seen as just such obstructions. Taming dangerous demons was not new; but while the Tokugawa government had banished demons through ritual exorcisms, the Meiji government banished belief in demons (and other superstitions) through the distribution of pamphlets.6 The demonic came to be marked not as an active or effective evil but as an obstacle to civilization. Despite the official turn against superstitions, many people did not suppose that laws or textbooks were sufficient to abolish monsters. While popular attitudes did change over the course of the late nineteenth century, this was not a simple process. The forcible top-down 165

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restructuring of the national paradigm met with large-scale resistance. Reforms were greeted with riots and protests.7 Doctrinal instructors were chased out of towns.8 Schools were set on fire and textbooks were thrown away.9 Put simply, a new worldview could not be legislated overnight. The last chapter described the formation of the Shinto secular, in other words, the hybrid Shinto-scientific ideology that undergirded the Meiji state. Like other modernization projects, this ideology produced its own “reality,” which it attempted to promote through the education of its subjects; and like other modernization projects this reality implied a negation or a dark alternative, which needed to be expunged as an obstacle. This chapter will consider a corollary to the promotion of modernity, namely the identification of its inverse as dark, backward, perverse, or barbaric. The main thrust of this chapter is to show that the chief opposite of the “real” articulated by the secular state is “superstition.” But this modern legislation shows surprising continuities with older ordinances designed to tame heretics and expel demons. While it would work to contain religions, the state would mercilessly strive to extinguish superstitions and arrest people like Tanaka Hisajiro¯, who dared promote them. Before a category of permitted religion was articulated, however, Christianity was grouped with other “evil cults” as an obstacle to Japanese modernity. As discussed in the next chapter, a binary operation distinguishing religion and superstition would ultimately separate Christianity from other evil cults. But here I want to emphasize that this process of identifying and eliminating superstitions was just as selective and underdetermined as the formation of religion. After the Meiji government took power, one of its highest priorities was to modify international relationships and amend unpopular trade agreements. This process was impeded by the treaties’ basis in international law. According to nineteenth-century precedent, countries were officially arranged in a hierarchy as civilized, barbaric, or primitive.10 To its chagrin, Japan was legally characterized as a barbaric country, in good part because it was not a Christian nation.11 Among many things, this meant that foreign nationals from civilized treaty countries existed in a state of juridical extraterritoriality that exempted them from Japanese laws while residing in Japan. To achieve full stature in the international arena, Japanese leaders knew that they had to civilize. Although one aspect of this process was the reformation of legal codes, the larger task of becoming civilized required a more subtle 166

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change of status in the eyes of foreign powers. In short, it was a public relations issue. The Japanese government needed to convince diplomats and international journalists that it had become civilized. To do this, it had to discover the odd bits of external evidence that Western powers identified as markers of civilization—for example, haircuts and table manners.12 This is not to suggest that civilization would be embraced superficially. Many Japanese leaders believed that the spread of civilization was crucial for the modernization of the nation. The notion of civilizing was not new to Japan; since the seventeenth century Tokugawa leaders had attempted to spread civilization (rendered then with Confucian term kyo¯ka; Ch., jiaohua) to those on the periphery of the state.13 Still, insofar as they possessed an ideal for this civilization, it was Sino-Confucian culture modulated through Japanese intellectuals who saw themselves at the center of their own civilizing sphere. According to this understanding, the biggest difference between barbarous Ainu and civilized Japanese people was not race but customs (fu¯zoku).14 By “customs,” these Confucian thinkers meant externalities such as dress and language. It was believed that by reforming customs, an important transformation would take place, thereby “taming” these barbarians and integrating them into Tokugawa civilization. Given this background, it seemed entirely consistent that Japanese civilization needed to conform to a particular standard to participate fully in international affairs. However, the locus of civilization shifted from a Sino-Confucian past to the modern West, from barbarians outside the nation to barbarians within.15 To eliminate bad Japanese customs, the nation had to become more Western through a complex process of public mimesis.16 Few thinkers were as important in the interpretation of the civilizing process as Fukuzawa Yukichi. He categorized world’s cultures according to their degree of civilization. As Fukuzawa would relate, Europeans saw Japan as only “semi-civilized.”17 While Japan and China had many of the key features of civilization, as Fukuzawa added, both had failed to fully undergo the radical transformations of the European Enlightenment. Although his new terminology took a while to stabilize, Fukuzawa popularized a four-character slogan to describe this ideal transformation: 文明開化 (bunmei kaika, civilization and enlightenment). Meiji leaders became convinced that civilizing would both benefit its international relations and strengthen the nation. Hence, the early Meiji government implemented a series of domestic bunmei kaika policies intended to civilize its subjects. In a change from Tokugawa ideology, civilization meant not only customs but also education. Eradicat167

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ing the barbarian within meant not only within the country itself, but also within the Japanese individual. This movement effectively bifurcated civilization (bunmei) and barbarism (yaban), or, alternately, enlightenment (kaika) and darkness (meimo¯).18 But what belonged on either side of this line was subject to intense debate. On the surface it was a question of what parts of Western (and in some cases, Chinese) culture needed to be emulated, and what parts of Japanese culture needed to be eliminated. Yet, a given custom could be attributed to enlightenment or darkness, to the West or to Asia, in order to make a rhetorical point.19 Thus, the “civilization and enlightenment” project was not simply the process of imitating the West. Instead, the distinction between enlightenment and darkness set the terms of a contest in which different things competed for the position of “enlightenment.”20 Moreover, with the rise of scientific authority there was a clear shift from equating civilization with the West to equating it with science. When implemented by the state, this civilizing project also included Shinto, especially insofar as it was understood to be the essence of Japanese culture. Shinto stood for an unassimilated indigeneity, at the very moment its ceremonies were being reconstructed into in a frame imported from European rites of state and national festivals. It came to stand for the proud Japanese core of a society in the process of radical transformation. As the state placed its own form of Shinto firmly on the side of civilization, alternate ritual centers, perceived as threatening to this ritual form were also identified as backward and barbaric. These policies seem tailor-made for a Foucauldian conception of modernity, because the Meiji state was actively engaging in a disciplining process intended to produce Shinto secular subjects, who were being conditioned to be amenable to the interweaving of state power in the fabric of their lives. In Weberian terms, this represented a state campaign actively committed to an embrace of modernity understood as a kind of disenchantment. But this process was selective, because it enshrined particular higher-order ideographs while directing its attention to demystifying evil. This chapter will trace this disciplining process and selective disenchantment.

Restraining the Wild A person’s head is the temporary abode of the spirit, thus the Creator [Zo¯butsusha] has caused protective hair to grow upon it. However, since the middle ages, a leftover custom from the sengoku [civil war] has lead to the prevalence of people with traditional haircuts. This practice

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is a troublesome hardship. Besides when exposed to heat and cold without a hat [having a traditional haircut] causes unexpected illness . . . . Not to mention, we have come into an age of global travel, when from across the ocean each country comes to see us, in our empire, we cannot avoid being criticized as uncivilized savages [yaban]. How regrettable this is! . . . Those understanding the meaning of this should quickly eliminate the evil custom [ro¯shu¯] of shaving the head in the traditional haircut. A O M O R I P R E F E C T U R A L G O V E R N M E N T O F F I C I A L P R O C L A M AT I O N , 1 8 6 8

The movement to eliminate “evil customs” occurred in conjunction with the birth pains of the Meiji state, as the new government cleared away the debris of the previous regime to make way for its own ideological construction project. When revolutionaries grabbed control of the imperial palace on January 3, 1868, they announced their mission to “cleanse the evil customs of the past” (kyu¯hei goissen) and “restore imperial rule” (o¯sei fukko).21 Initially, this meant the destruction of the Tokugawa government, and armies marched to put this literal cleansing into action. This purification process was reaffirmed two months later in the five-article imperial oath that symbolically established the new government. While article 5, discussed in the previous chapter, affirmed a commitment to the search for knowledge, article 4 provided its contrasting equivalent, “evil customs [ro¯shu¯] of the past shall be eliminated and the impartial way of heaven and earth shall prevail.” The promise to do away with evil customs was intentionally multivalent. 22 It had as its object domestic politics (a threat to remnants of the Tokugawa administration and the court nobility) as well as the international community for whom Japanese legal reform was especially important.23 Regardless of its initial intent, the five-article oath outlived its early political expediency to serve as a blueprint for future political rhetoric.24 Hence, the elimination of evil customs continued on in the form of a trope used by government ministries and local leaders to justify their attacks upon representatives of the old order. In popular parlance of the period, the supporters of the former Tokugawa government were denigrated as “robbers” (zoku).25 To identify something as a backward custom automatically produced an association with the robbers and their corrupt government.26 The distinction between kaika and kyu¯hei thus marked a distinction between pre- and postrevolutionary Japan.27 Insofar as the Meiji revolution was understood as a restoration, it idealized a past in which the emperor held power, a period believed lost through the rise of military power in the medieval period. Accordingly, modernizers and traditionalists per169

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ceived the feudal Bakufu period as a dark age either obscuring a golden past or obstructing a modern future. But it was difficult to agree as to which cultural forms were superfluous and which were vital. As the civilization and enlightenment campaign started to take hold, the meaning of “backward customs” began to change. Initially they had been understood as impediments to the consolidation of Meiji power. But after the Meiji state had achieved sovereignty, it no longer perceived the Tokugawa, per se, as a threat. The term “backward customs” lost its close association with the Tokugawa state and opened up to include a broader swath of Japanese culture, now understood not as directly seditious but as embarrassingly retrograde. The shifting meaning marks a change in the state’s ambitions from consolidating its power to fashioning a new kind of Japanese subject. From 1870 to 1872, different regional governments throughout the country banned the following as “breaches of etiquette” (ishiki) or “evil backward customs” (ro¯shu¯ or kyu¯hei): New Year’s pine decoration; the practice of visiting a shrine, naked, in the winter, to make offerings to the god of obstacles (Sai no Kami);28 traditional haircuts; the Echigo lion dance; ritual dances for the planting of rice; dancing nembutsu, dancing and lighting fires for the Bon festival; the Star festival; the Nebuta festival; 29 the festival for sending off the plague gods; the Jizo¯ festival; other offerings to spirits at rivers; festivals associated with occasions of fantastic dress [such as transvestitism]; festivals to Konseijin;30 the form of divination particular to Kiyomizu temple; dog fighting; cock fighting; pornographic images; public urination; public nudity; demonic exorcism (akuma harai); male homosexuality; pilgrims in general; and spirit mediums (miko).31 Although brought under the same terms, none of these refers to the Tokugawa system. Instead this eclectic list has its origins in the new forms of conduct perceived as necessary for the civilizing process and also to prevent international visitors from observing barbaric behaviors. Their motivation for these ordinances is often explicit. For example, bans on both public nudity and traditional haircuts refer to their potential interpretation by visiting foreigners.32 Here the “barbaric” nature of these practices is explicitly contrasted with Western modes. This is consistent with other policy of the same period—for example, the 1872 ordinance by the Council of State that mandated the wearing of Western dress by government officials and members of the court when operating in an official capacity. Throughout the Meiji period national textbooks advocated a stan-

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dardized system of etiquette (reigi).33 While some of these texts described Westernized etiquette, manners were not generally imported but based on Japanese precedents selectively retrieved from aristocratic culture. They were not, however, common to the majority of Japanese people. A new system of formal bowing and seating was adopted from samurai and courtly etiquette and distributed among the population.34 The result was a completely new standard of public decorum, which meant the elimination of older local modes. Simultaneous with the creation of standardized bowing, Meiji leaders established a system of national holidays. Following the formation of the Shinto secular, coordinated ceremonies for the benefit of national deities and imperial ancestors were held at local shrines on the same day that the emperor made his ritual offerings. To regulate its subjects, the nation was supposed to celebrate as one. This meant that the old cycle of conflicting village festivals had to be eliminated, not because they were evil but because they were out of step with the new national Shinto promoted by the state. It did not matter if these village rituals were Shinto or Buddhist. What mattered was that they produced a sense of local community that could potentially conflict with national community. Thus, the consequence of the ascendance of the Shinto secular was the extensive reconfiguration village life. After the official shift to the solar calendar in 1873, regional seasonal events were even more objectionable, because they remained on the traditional lunar cycle. Consequently, a number of local festivals were banned while others were shifted to the solar calendar or absorbed into the national cult. Deciding which local customs to abolish and which to promote was a complex task. The list of prohibited festivals provides evidence for an attempt to civilize the populace by barring disorderly gatherings.35 Previous associations between the wild (arai) and the barbaric (yaban) reinforced a conception of the civilized as regimented or disciplined, leaving no room for uncontrolled and spontaneous behavior. Put another way, the carnivalesque quality of unbound life was seen as an obstacle to a regimented modernity.36 Accordingly, the process of civilization was seen as one of domestication (narasu) wherein barbarians were tamed and became imperial subjects. The new etiquette regulations provided one aspect of this discipline by formalizing day-to-day conduct and personal interaction. This civilized behavior was apparently threatened by activities that could incite unrest or rowdiness. Given the numerous riots of the late Tokugawa and early Meiji periods, it is no

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surprise that there were fears of popular uprisings. Further, increasing differences between the urban educated elite and the rural populace produced a dehumanization of the peasantry that led to further suspicion of rural rituals and celebrations. Instead of agrarian nostalgia, some urban leaders disparaged rural culture suggesting that “the customs of farmers should not be considered customs.”37 Even in urban centers there was a sense that inappropriate social mores needed to be restrained through a tight system of controls that banned backward practices. Major Japanese cities from Tokyo to Osaka posted signs that discouraged people from various kinds of licentious behavior such as looking at pornography or mixed bathing. The implication seems to have been that looking at erotic images might drive these people wild and encourage immoral conduct. A good number of the so-called backward customs had this sort of sexual Puritanism at heart.38 In addition to the erotic, divine imagery was also believed capable of inspiring frenzy and was carefully restricted. For example, on July 5, 1873, the Ministry of Doctrine attempted to “correct” Shinto and Buddhist festivals that publicly displayed specific types of religious images.39 In particular, those rites involving the use of costumes and the offering of cups of sake to the gods or buddhas. The Ministry accused these festivals of being “muddied” with ancient evil practices (heifu¯) that resulted in wild and disgraceful behavior. In part, the Meiji state seems to have been targeting the long-standing tradition of Japanese phallic worship. The god of obstacles and other Japanese deities were often popularly represented in the form of lingams. Hirata Atsutane had a particular stone phallus that he described as a miraculous object worthy of veneration, and the Zen Myo¯anji temple had historically displayed its own stone Priapus to its parishioners.40 Following the Restoration, the government endeavored to suppress this form of worship and the genitals of Japanese gods were either hidden away or covered.41 The state was disciplining the bodies not only of its subjects but also of its deities. Throughout the Meiji period a number of these antibarbarism regulations were codified in local laws and a series of national minormisdemeanor ordinances (ishiki kaii jo¯rei). Although violation of one of these misdemeanors was punishable by only a small fine, they served to reinforce the new national calendar and national system of etiquette by banning regional or licentious activities. Still, a minor fi ne was not the worst possible consequence of “backward customs.”

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Monstrous Gods Such a monstrously false world [kaimo¯ sekai] and such stubbornly stupid customs [as divination and healing rituals] are extreme and should arouse indignation and pity. . . . In the Royal Regulations Chapter [of the Confucian Record of Rites] it is also written “It is nothing to forgive the killing of those who delude the masses through false demonic deities, [auspicious] dates, and divination practices.” ¯ BO ¯ K I G E N , 17 9 1 NAK AI CHIKUZ AN, SO

Unlike the ordinances just described, there was a class of “backward customs” more dangerous than topless women and stone phalluses. The more serious prohibitions had as their common denominator an association with demons and evil. In these regulations, there is clear evidence for the legacy of the Tokugawa era prohibition of heresy. But its reason for being has fundamentally shifted. Demons went from being dangerous to being backward superstitions. The following will trace out the patterns of Meiji demystified demonology. First it is necessary to introduce an alternate history of the suppression of popular cults. In chapter 1, I discussed the expulsion of Christianity in Buddhist heresiographical terms as a counterfeit Buddhisms and demonic techne. While this was sufficient to cover most Tokugawa-period representations of Christianity, Meiji-era antisuperstition legislation drew not only from Buddhist materials but also from Confucian sources. Thus, despite the rhetoric of Westernization, the civilizing project seems to have been rather Confucian in its early contours. In order to make sense of this, we need to trace a different set of precedents for disciplining imperial subjects. This material worked to restrict the power of charismatic authority and rein in what it took to be licentious behaviors. Instead of excluding an imitation of itself, it articulated a disciplinary matrix to tame the populous and reintegrate recalcitrant members.42 It did so by eliminating alternate centers of political authority or potential disorder. The idea of licentious worship (Jpn., inshi; Ch., yinsi, yinci; Ko., ˘u msa) of evil deities has a long history in East Asia. One of the first examples is from the Confucian classic The Record of Rites (Liji), likely written in the second century BCE: “Offerings to one whom you should not make offerings are called licentious worship. Licentious worship brings no blessings.”43 While The Record of Rites calls it a mistake to make offerings to the wrong deities, it does not criticize belief in the gods or in their ability to provide blessings. Despite anachronistic readings of Confu-

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cianism, this is not a disenchanting text. The real object of concern is competing modes of worship, which are interpreted as dangerous because of their reference to different systems of ritual authority and ethical norms. In its in choice of language, particularly the use of the character yin, the text conjures up images of lewdness, masturbation, debauchery, and sexual impropriety, suggesting a link between the demonic and erotic, which serves as a libidinal undercurrent to much of East Asian heresiography. The Record of Rites also recommends violence, as the above passage was often read in conjunction with a later passage from the Wangzhi section of the text. The original Chinese would be better translated as: “Those who promote falsehoods about demons, gods, [auspicious] dates, and divination so as to bewilder the masses, these were put to death.”44 As is clear from this quote, by the second century BCE, the delusion of the masses had already been linked up with divination and false demons and gods, themes that will be returned to repeatedly. In its earliest form, this trope represented an “elite” suspicion of popular movements, which also functioned to authorize the purge of charismatic leaders. Some Chinese texts connected the above passage to the following line in the Confucian Analects 2:16: “Engaging from a slanted position will lead to harm” (gong hu yiduan, si hai ye yi). While the original referent of this line has been lost, the term “slanted” (yiduan; Jpn., itan; Ko., idan) came to be applied to teachings perceived as lacking a proper lineage or approach. “Eccentric” might conjure up the right associations in English, although perhaps a more accurate translation of the term’s later usage would be “unwarranted novelty” or even “heterodoxy.” Although charges of yiduan were less serious than that of yinsi, in certain areas, such as in medicine, unwarranted innovation was seen as especially dangerous.45 There was some slippage between terms, however, and yinsi and yiduan were used in Daoist, Confucian, and sometimes Buddhist circles to criticize a range of popular movements.46 To succinctly summarize the difference between Confucian and Buddhist accounts of deviance: Confucian discourse works to discipline charismatic leaders and popular practices that disregard the authority of the state or produce alternate political centers. These troublemakers are a problem, because they are seen as rowdy, wasteful, in violation of social norms, or because they accrue political capital independent of state power. In Buddhist discourse, heresy is tied to demonic imitation Buddhism and the concept of demonic techne that provide a dangerous temptation for Buddhist monks. Both discourses connect heresy, demons, and sexual perversion together. 174

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Given the convergent ideological streams of both Confucian and Buddhist canonical materials imported into Japan, it should come as no surprise from very early the Japanese state addressed the issues of heresy and licentious worship.47 Later commentators would see early Japanese precedents in an incident described in the Nihonshoki (720 CE), volume 24, which records an episode ascribed to the third year of the reign of Empress Ko ¯ gyoku (644 CE).48 According to the text, a charismatic local leader urged his fellow villagers to worship a particular insect as the god of the everlasting world (Tokoyo kami) in order to attain riches and a long life. Some villagers left their homes, abandoned their possessions, and engaged in licentious festivals for the creature. The insect god gained in popularity until a local hero murdered the cult’s leader. The text implicitly praises this violent act as virtuous. While the historical political rivalries that led to this confrontation continue to be debated in the secondary literature, the text itself articulates a suspicion of the potentially destabilizing impact of charismatic leaders who embrace the worship of false or monstrous gods.49 Attempts to eliminate licentious worship and “demonic cults” are explicit in early official proclamations as well. The Engishiki (927 CE) explicitly bans licentious worship (inshi).50 The Ruiju Sandai kyaku (1002– 1089) records an imperial edict promulgated in 781: Recently, my ignorant subjects have been patronizing spirit diviners [fugeki] with whom they have been engaging in reckless licentious worship [inshi]. They procure sacrificial offerings [lit. straw dogs] and [commission] various kinds of talismanic writing [fusho] for all kinds of strange uses. These activities spill out into the streets. Trusting in these practices they attempt to attain good fortune, [to banish] the inverse, and to work black magic curses [enmi] [on their enemies]. Behaving like this is not only in defiance of our noble decrees, in truth, it is also unremittingly reckless and dangerous. Henceforth, this is strictly forbidden.51

While the incident recorded in the Nihonshoki places the blame on a specific individual, this edict singles out “spirit diviners” (fugeki) as a group worthy of condemnation.52 Although we cannot completely reconstruct the practices of these earlier ritual specialists, scholars argue that spirit diviners were mixed gender couples who engaged in both oracular possession and other rituals intended to produce specific, thisworldly effects, including healing and curses.53 This terminology was revived in the writings of Confucian-influenced Tokugawa intellectuals ranging from Izawa Banryo¯ (1668–1731) and Tominaga Nakamoto (1715–1746) to Nakai Chikuzan (1730–1804) 175

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and Aizawa Seishisai.54 Common also to all of these writers is a suspicion that the public is susceptible to charismatic prophets who deceive— magically or otherwise—the peasants into committing wickedness. Early on, the Meiji state issued ordinances at different levels that banned heresy (jashu¯mon) in 1869 and lascivious cults (inshi) in 1871, despite the fact that these regulations did not specify what was indicated by either term.55 It may be assumed, then, that both of these ordinances were a continuation of Tokugawa policy. Additionally, throughout the Meiji era, the same types of popular practices attacked by Tokugawa-era intellectuals—for example, folk festivals and mediums— were now banned as backward customs. In roughly the same period, different levels of the government began working to target evil cults. On a national level, in 1870, the Council of State issued an edict prohibiting the Tensha Shinto of the Tsuchimikado family; this was likely intended to eliminate the family’s divination (onmyo¯do¯) practices.56 At the same time, local governments took their own initiative. For example, in 1870 the government of Wakayama issued the following proclamation: “Fortunetelling parlors [lit., Miko shops] delude ignorant peasants by calling on the opinions of spirits dead and living. . . . The afore-mentioned [fortunetellers] adhere to exceedingly evil customs, and are thus henceforth absolutely prohibited.”57 Like much of the previous Tokugawa-era rhetoric, this Wakayama ordinance cautions against deceptive charismatic leaders. Despite the use of “evil customs,” this ban had nothing to do with vestiges of the Tokugawa institution or barbaric festivities. Instead these fortunetellers— always female and usually blind—were powerful sources of authority in small rural communities.58 They performed rituals of healing and clairvoyance, and issued oracles from the gods. Unlike the officially commemorated gods, these spirits spoke and their voices were outside of governmental control. This type of mediumistic practice had long been suspected to be deceptive and, at time, fraudulent particularly by the Tokugawa intellectuals mentioned above. The term used in the Wakayama proclamation for “delusional” (mayowashi so¯ro¯) is important, because many of the things that would later be banned were also labeled as a delusion (mayoi), or that which deludes (mayowasu). All of these terms share the common root mayo (迷), which can mean illusion or to mislead, bewitch, or bewilder. It occurs in such words as labyrinth (meiro), fallacy (meimo¯), and terms for lost children or birds (maigo, meicho¯). In its usage mayowasu often evoked a feminine seduction that causes men to be

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lead astray.59 As discussed shortly, it would occur later in the modern term for superstition (meishin). In this sense, spirit mediums are being described as simultaneously deluded, deceptive and beguiling. The word superstition, like the word heresy, raises some interesting questions. When Japanese translators were looking for ways to render the English word superstition, they first used the term jakyo¯ (which I have been translating “heresy”).60 The early Japanese sources discussing Christianity used this word jakyo¯, which, we might now want to say, does not distinguish between heresy and superstition. As the category religion became further articulated in Japan over time, the previous translation for superstition became unsuitable. At that point, translators combined the character for deluded with the character for belief to construct the term meishin, 迷信. Despite the change in translation, the term meishin was used to refer to many of the same practices that previously had been covered by inshi or jakyo¯, with the glaring exception of Christianity. Meishin also applied to other beliefs that were seen to be deceiving the peasantry, and there is a good correlation between something labeled with mayoi and its later attribution as a meishin. Unsurprisingly, the fortunetelling parlors mentioned above as deluding would later be deemed superstitious. This Wakayama ordinance was by no means an isolated event. The national government moved against many people who claimed to be able to channel ghosts or gods. Various regulations targeted interpretations of the Shinto deities that ran contrary to the official version. The antibarbarism campaign ultimately had a large impact on the various local cults, deities, and ritual professions that did not fit into the new national paradigm and were thus marked backward, heretical, or superstitious.

Evil Cults Village headmen and elders are obsolete. The census officers are the accomplices of corrupt officials and under the patronage of foreigners. They sell Japanese people to the hairy savages as concubines and slaves. The time [that one will be sold] is dependent on one’s census number. From this, corrupt officials take their share of money. To accomplish the above the old rulers’ domains are a hindrance. It is for this reason, that the return [of the domains] to Tokyo has been commanded.

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One should be extremely afraid. Among the ugly barbarians are brutal nations. Human bodies are suspended in raging fires, so that their fat can be taken as combustible [fuel]. They drink this. With speed assemble warriors! Execute the corrupt officials! Drive away the ugly barbarians! And bring back the old rulers of the domain! If this is done properly, Japan will be a divine nation [shinkoku] under the protection of the deities of the old provinces. Have no doubts, this war will be victorious! (Divine Oracle, December 187161)

Combined with distrust of the government and widespread xenophobia, this prophecy inspired villagers to take up arms in a series of violent protests called the Fat Taking Insurrection (Aburatori ikki). Although quickly suppressed, parallel revolts sprung up in other regions of the country, accompanied by rumors of the demonic practices of the Western barbarians. The most significant of these was the so-called Blood Tax Riots (Ketsuzei ikki) of 1873. These uprisings were rooted in opposition to both military conscription and rumors that Westerners were taking human blood to manufacture medicine and technological artifacts.62 They represented active resistance to the Meiji government’s disciplinary regime and its civilization and enlightenment campaign. All told, more than sixty thousand people were arrested for their involvement in the riots, and fifteen were ultimately sentenced to death. If nothing else, these disturbances demonstrated to a variety of government officials the power that charismatic leaders possessed to influence the populace. Hence, disenchantment seemed urgent not only to change international perceptions, but also to assure stability at home. In the tapestry of shifting laws, one can find evidence in the early Meiji period for the process of disenchantment rendered in concrete form. As this section will demonstrate, Meiji legal materials mark the manifestations of a radical rupture, as the ascendancy of the mechanical cosmos displaced older models and rendered magical technologies obsolete. The same legal materials also show signs of a strange persistence, an equally radical continuity, as the fears about evil cults endured across this new chasm, haunting modernity. Let us consider the evidence: On January 15, 1873, the Ministry of Doctrine issued its own proclamation banning a range of mediums and condemning the authority of revelation by means of possession. ARTICLE 2

The people are being dazzled [genwaku] by traditional catalpa diviners [azusamiko[, female mediums [ichiko], and those who practice possession rituals [hyo¯kito¯], fox178

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summoning [kitsune sage], coin divination and spirit-speaking [kuchiyose].63 Henceforth, without exception, these practices are banned.64

Instead of condemning only those spiritual leaders who incited riots, the Ministry of Doctrine limited all unauthorized acts of possession or revelation, focusing particularly on their expression in folk beliefs. Kawamura Kunimitsu has argued that this ordinance was the beginning of the national antisuperstition campaign that regarded local religion as backward and against science.65 However, the fact that this prohibition was based in the Ministry of Doctrine rather than the Ministry of Education (unlike later antisuperstition ordinances) suggests that it was important to the National Science bureaucracy.66 Moreover, Kawamura assumes that the government did not believe in magic at this period, but to do so he ignores the criminal code issued by the Dajo¯kan in 1870 and that remained in effect in 1873. According to section 3, homicide regulation number 7: M U R D E R BY B L A C K M A G I C [E N M I S AT S U J I N ]

Any person found guilty of using magical writings or curses in an attempt to cause the death of any individual therewith shall suffer the punishment ordinarily applicable to an offender in cases of premeditated murder. If the purpose of such black magic is merely to produce disease and infirmity, the offender shall suffer a punishment less by two degrees than that applicable in a case of injury resulting from an attempted premeditated murder.67

If it was still considered possible to murder people by black magic (although different departments’ policies are not necessarily consistent), it seems at least plausible that the Shinto-oriented ministry that banned fox-summoning really believed in the existence of the phenomenon.68 Therefore, these various practices are likely not being banned in article 2 not because they are imaginary, but because they are dangerous. Foxes were believed to have the ability deceive a possessed person into thinking that they are inspired by a deity when in fact it is the fox that is speaking through them. In the language of article 2, it is clear that the practitioners mentioned are believed to have special capabilities with which to deceive the populace. They are not just “dazzling” (genwaku) the public but also “bewitching” (genwaku) the public. Use of the first genwaku to refer to these practices is also suggestive because it occurs throughout Tokugawa Confucian attacks on licentious cults and other heresies. To provide one example, the same expression was used in a critique 179

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of popular religion written by Neo-Confucian scholar Nakai Chikuzan in 1791. In a passage from this work, Nakai contrasts appropriate shrine worship with its fraudulent imitation: Even those [shrines] with legitimate lineages, when the shrine priests fabricate various calamitous falsehoods; this becomes a great harm to the people. True worship [sho¯shi] becomes licentious worship [inshi] . . . entrusted with the authority of demonic gods [kijin], oracles [fugeki no yakara] deceive ignorant peasants to skillfully take their money . . . auguring disaster, praying for healing, indicating auspicious directions for a physician, or by [advising people to] stop using their medicine cause their deaths, Ebisu and Daikoku worship as a pretext for wickedness and lust, making Tenmangu¯ shrine a place for lewd behavior, substituting [prayers to] Kannon for a midwife, false explanations of foxes and badgers and exaggerated talk of winged goblins, imputing various kinds of miracles to the gods and buddhas of crossroads, pretending visions from gods and buddhas, various types of divination of compatibility between men and women, physiognomy, swords, or geomancy are diversions into heresy [jasetsu], and nothing but techniques for dazzling [genwaku] ignorant peasants.”69

Although there is no evidence to demonstrate that the originators of article 2 read Nakai, many of the later aspects of the antisuperstition campaign during the Meiji era included the particular practices and beliefs condemned in this passage. Nakai’s main concern is when a legitimate shrine to the gods is perverted for selfish motives, as oracles hoping to gain money or influence attempt to frighten people or perform false miracles to lead them astray.70 Seen in this context, article 2 is an internal attempt to prevent shrines from falling under the control of local leaders who would use its authority for personal rather than national purposes. Just as this article does not represent a fundamental commitment to scientific-based disenchantment, neither does it mean that the Ministry of Doctrine accepted the veracity of all of the various possessed oracles. On balance, it should be read as an attempt to eliminate potentially dangerous or deceptive rituals and restrict prophecy to its legitimate practitioners. Unlike the local proclamations mentioned earlier that were only sporadically enforced, the Ministry of Doctrine had the support of the police. Six months after article 2 was issued, an internal directive to the Tokyo municipal police reinforced the seriousness of this violation and recommended that those found to be engaging in deeds of this sort should be carefully investigated and brought to the Tokyo courthouse.71 Although this was considered to be only a minor infraction, 180

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arrests were made throughout Japan.72 The Meiji government seemed committed to the elimination of the demonic and the destruction of spirit foxes and their human mediums. Despite article 2, these phenomena did not vanish. Newspapers continued to report the practices of mediums, and prohibitions against them continued to be reiterated on several levels of the government, such as the following from Aomori Prefecture, issued on June 5, 1874: Since the Meiji restoration, shamanic mediums and other persons of this kind who spread rumors and tell lies, which lead people astray or who deceive others have been banned. Therefore, such persons should no longer be practicing. In Aomori, however, because of manners and customs from olden times, people such as itako, ohira,73 and gomiso are still active. These people go round from village to village, telling completely unfounded and dubious stories, voicing improper opinions and deceiving foolish folk. This is an intolerable state of affairs. It is hereby decreed that when such persons are discovered, they will immediately be arrested and punished.74

It seems likely that in the face of popular commitment to spirit mediums, prefectural officials felt greater clarification was necessary to implement the national model on a local scale. Hence, by process of analogy the law was extended to cover different types of ritual practitioners such as the itako, ohira, and gomiso. The family resemblance among these noninstitutional shamans was sufficient for the regional government to include them in the ban, although there existed noticeable differences between their practices and those covered by the original ordinance. On June 7, 1874, just two days after the Aomori ordinance was passed, the Ministry of Doctrine issued another proclamation, article 22: “Healing by means of prayer rituals [kin’en kito¯] and the like are obstructing the government and are prohibited henceforth.”75 This proclamation marks the beginning of a new trend in the regulations. From June 7 onward, healing rituals were addressed repeatedly in different laws and textbooks. The terms of other ordinances issued by the Ministry of Doctrine in the same period suggest that the agency’s initial impulse was probably not to eliminate obstacles to Western medicine, but instead to regulate practices at shrines and temples and to suppress noninstitutional charismatic leaders. While the 1874 regulation emerged as part of a Shinto program to restrict unaffiliated ritual practitioners, its later enforcement was shaped by the government’s commitment to Nagayo Sensai’s new medical 181

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policy of “policing health.” At this point it should not be surprising to the reader that Shinto modernity and hygienic modernity shared concerns. One consequence of new biopolitics was that government policy makers believed that they had the right, if not the duty, to produce regulations for the purpose of protecting the health of the citizenry. These policymakers assumed that traditional healing practices were obstructions to modern medicine and therefore popular health, and so worked to eliminate them. The process of training Western-style doctors was slow, however; only wealthy urbanites had access to Western medicine. In its early phase, one result of the policy to discourage Buddhist, popular, and kanpo¯ medicine was to give fewer people access to any form of medical treatment. Simultaneously, increased urbanization and poverty caused epidemic illnesses to spread. The need for medical care far outstripped its availability. As a result, while article 22 discouraged established Buddhist and Shinto sects from engaging in healing rituals, it drove sick and injured people toward precisely those spirit mediums and wandering ascetics that the Ministry of Doctrine feared most. The situation reached an even greater level of crisis in the wake of the massive cholera epidemics of 1879, 1882, 1885, 1886, 1890, and 1895, in which more than sixty thousand people died.76 Many of the vast numbers of people who contracted the disease were unable to appeal to either kanpo¯ or Western medicine. This increased need for healing rituals, coupled with the reticence of established sects to provide them, contributed to the boom in new religious movements and charismatic cults that occurred in the early 1880s.77 This development led in turn to additional regulations. According to misdemeanor offenses article 427, number 12, of the new criminal code promulgated in 1880: “[It is a misdemeanor] to contrive to profit by misguiding people through the unauthorized promotion of divination or through the use of prayer or magical talismans.”78 At first, the ban on unauthorized prayer and talismans might seem to be another attempt to promote the centralized control of religion by the Ministry of Doctrine and the National Bureau of Shrines. However, this ministry had already been dissolved by 1880 and government leaders were taking a more laissez-faire stance with respect to the regulation of national shrines. Instead, this particular misdemeanor offense has its roots in a larger series of changes beginning in the criminal code of 1880. This version of the criminal code was the first to eliminate murder by black magic as a criminal charge. Seen in this context, misdemeanor regulation number 12 represents a significant shift in the perception 182

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of magical rituals. While previous regulations had attempted to regulate fraudulent charlatanism, the code of 1880 broadens its reach to prayer and talismans—both important revenue sources for a number of groups, including Buddhist priests (especially members of the Shingon school) and popular Shinto sects. Here, obstructing medicine is not the primary focus; instead, it is obstructing a type of fraud that uses these rituals to imply worldly benefit. Accordingly, contemporary Japanese intellectuals, such as the anonymous editor of Rikugo¯ zasshi, saw this regulation as an attempt to control “licentious heresies” (inshi-jakyo¯).79 The 1880 criminal code also extended the policy of “policinghealth” (eisei) to the mind, establishing fines for “those who failed to keep custody of the mad and let them wander in the street.”80 This was a direct result of the changing attitudes toward mental illness that had begun to develop in the mid-1870s, which represented curses and possession as psychological illnesses.81 As contemporary scholar Okada Yasuo has noted, because there were no institutions devoted solely to mental health, these laws generally forced the family to care for the mad themselves or at least keep them in their own custody.82 Homes, and later hospitals, became sites for the incarceration of the mentally ill, as Japanese society effectively quarantined the afflicted due to the “contagion” of insanity.83 In a Foucauldian sense, Japan had entered the age of madness and reason.84 Put in Charles Taylor’s terms, the Japanese state was producing a “buffered self” by force.85 It was also in this period that possession by spirit-foxes began to be diagnosed as no longer a supernatural affliction but a nervous disorder.86 By way of backstory, for much of Japanese history it was believed that foxes had supernatural powers—they could change shape and they could take on spirit form to possess people.87 Foxes tended to be perceived as malevolent, or at least mischievous, and enacted their possession through a propensity to inflict illness.88 On some occasions, however, foxes came as emissaries of the popular deity Fushimi Inari, and then their influence was believed to be beneficial. By the early fifteenth century, the idea of foxes had merged with d.a¯kinı¯ (see chapter 1) and spirit foxes began to be associated with a new type of person (described as “fox-wielding” (kitsune-tsukai) or “fox-owning” (kitsune-mochi) who were believed to be capable of using the power of foxes for personal gain.89 In some regions of Japan, specific families were feared or discriminated against because their reputed connection to fox-wielding— a theme that persisted in Meiji-era newspapers.90 Following on the Japanese government ban on fox-summoning in 183

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1873, three years later in 1876, Japanese newspapers reported an epidemic of fox possession.91 At this time, many people still believed in the reality of the phenomena—not simply the afflicted villagers but also the newsmen reporting the epidemic. According to the Yu¯bin Ho¯chi Shinbun newspaper, for example, foxes plagued hundreds of villages.92 The author of the article did not doubt the veracity of fox possession claims; and the traditional cure for fox possession, ritual prayer (kito¯), was duly noted. The article even went so far as to recommend in difficult cases, mailing a petition to Fushimi Inari by means of the new Japanese postal service. The problem of fox possession seemed at times to be sufficiently bad (perhaps exacerbated by the official ban on exorcisms) that people appealed to the government for help. The following petition was submitted to the adjutant of Ho ¯ jo¯ Prefecture: The aforementioned Kagami Shinjiro¯, being in any case poor has been suffering from various illnesses since the middle of the seventh month of last year. He has tried various cures and even prayed at the great shrines to the gods on high, but has not received relief. Recently foxes on the prowl in this village have further burdened this ailing man. He is so desperate that his life is in danger, and he is most sorely troubled in spirit. Therefore, at this time, it is most humbly begged that the government will graciously exercise its authority to the end that foxes no longer roam about this community.93

The adjutant’s response was strangely ambiguous: “Those who are in charge of affairs will see that people do not complain of damage by foxes and badgers.” It is not clear whether the adjutant believes in the possessing power of foxes or simply the agricultural damage of wild animals. It is also not clear if he wants to put an end to the phenomena or simply an end to complaints. Yet on a broader basis, government policy continued to discourage fox possession rituals of all sorts. Only a year later, newspapers had begun to taken a different position on the powers of foxes. In 1877, the Yu¯bin Ho¯chi Shinbun, one year after recommending petitions to Inari as a cure for fox possession, published an article entitled “A Superstition for Exterminating Fox Possession.”94 This source, one of the first to use the modern term meishin (superstition), discusses an incident that had recently occurred in Saitama Prefecture, in which a woman had fallen ill. Diagnosed by her neighbors of being possessed by a fox, they beat her in attempt to drive the spirit out and eventually abandoned her in a field. The author of the article

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described these methods for the treatment of fox possession as superstitious, but does not discuss belief in fox spirits as such. It was the German doctor Erwin von Baelz (1849–1913) who began the process of the new classification of fox possession as a mental illness.95 Baelz was invited to Japan in 1875 as part the formation of the new school of medicine at Tokyo Imperial University. In his A Theory of Fox Possession Illness (Kitsunetsukibyo¯ Setsu, 1885), Baelz diagnosed fox possession as a nervous illness with similarities to Western werewolf delusions (lycanthropy), and he labeled Japanese fox possession with the parallel medical term alopecanthropy.96 The first official notice of fox possession as a mental illness occurred in the same year and appeared in a study of various health concerns sponsored by Shimane Prefecture. This work classed fox possession as a form of madness. It also included possession by the dog-god (Inugami) and belief in magical curses in the same category of brain disorders (no¯byo¯).97 As it was illegal to let people with mental illnesses wander the streets, this resulted in the de facto criminalization of fox possession. After the first full-scale asylum was constructed in 1899, of the 2,558 people housed within it during the first five years of the institution, 789 had been diagnosed with the broader class of mental disorders that included fox possession.98 At the same time that the government was committing people to asylums for fox possession, it continued to promote the Inari shrine as a staging site for the national ideology. In 1871, the Fushimi Inari shrine had been granted the status of Great Imperial Shrine (kanpei taisha). Over the course of the Meiji period, this forced two alternate explanations for fox possession: a person could be possessed by a fox, in which case he or she was considered ill and should be sent to an asylum; or the person could be possessed by the deity Inari, in which case his or her revelations were taken as divine. It should not surprise the reader that statements, which seemingly accorded with reason and the state ideology were regarded as prophetic, while unreasonable or antiauthoritarian proclamations were considered signs of madness.99 In conclusion, the rise of scientific authority in the late 1870s and the introduction of new disciplines, such as psychology, caused radical shifts in the official reality. Increasingly, magical effects on the world were dismissed as impossible and possession was equated with mental illness. We can see evidence starting in the 1880s for a new paradigm, which disenchanted at least at the level of law codes.100 All told, Meiji legal materials show that in Japan the “disenchantment of the world”

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was far from pure rationalization in the Weberian sense, but instead conditioned by vestigial demonologies, power asymmetries and the anxieties of a centralizing state. Moreover, hygienic medical and National Science bureaucrats worked in concert to render the bodies of Japanese subjects of service to the nation. They also targeted similar challenges to the new order. Finally, just as the Tokugawa state was bedeviled by images of heretics, modern leaders betrayed continued anxieties about evil cults, dark rituals, and spirit-foxes.

Disciplining Buddhism, Expelling Christianity [Jesus] pledged himself to the destruction of other gods. Hence he said “I am not come to bring peace in the world, but to cause strife [ran]” . . . . Those who say that [we] should be open to the adoption of Christianity are men who wish the country to be disrupted and our people to be killed. Y A S U I S O K K E N , B E N M O , 1 8 7 3 101

Many of my generation were convinced that the vast majority of [Buddhist] priests and temples, having failed to keep pace with the times, were useless and that in these times priests should, in fact, be forced to labor for the sake of the nation. . . . We ourselves were certain that the time had come to destroy the temples. ¯ U E M O N , “ S AT S U M A N I T E J I I N O H A I S H I ,” 1 8 9 3 ICHIKI SHO

In 1868, one of the first national proclamations targeting evil customs was the initial edict for the separation of Buddhism and Shinto.102 Here, echoing the language of the revolution, the practice of attending shrines by betto¯ or shaso¯ priests was referred to as an evil or backward custom (kyu¯hei) that needed to be cleansed. In this case, the label was not an allusion to the feudal order or risqué celebration; instead, “backward custom” described an obstacle for the consolidation of shrines under the new Bureau of Rites that issued the order. No cynical motive needs to be attributed here. From the perspective of the Bureau of Rites, the presence of mixed-allegiance priests was backward because it prevented the correct mode of worship of the gods. Throughout the separation edicts, the old ways were banned because they focused upon false deities, false modes, or worship, or obscured the true names of the gods. As a result, the separation edicts were focused on eliminating “incorrect” Shinto practices as much as Buddhist. The idea that there should be freedom of worship had not yet emerged. Following the separation edict, National Science– and Confucianinfluenced government officials at various levels of the bureaucracy

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began publicly identifying Buddhism in toto as corrupt, backward, and something that deserved complete extirpation.103 This perspective spread to local groups who organized violent anti-Buddhist riots. This movement, referred to as haibutsu kishaku (lit., “abolish the Buddha, smash Sakyamuni”), resulted in the violent destruction of Buddhist statues, temples, and ritual artifacts until it began to lose momentum in 1871. It was most prominent in regions like Satsuma where, according to their preexisting biases, local leaders attempted to purge Buddhism from their domains. In Satsuma, this led to the systemic eradication of all expressions of Buddhism—including the laicization or banishment of all Buddhist priests—until this policy was officially reversed in 1876.104 Japanese Christians fared no better. The Meiji state had inherited from its Tokugawa predecessors a potential diplomatic crisis. When the three treaty ports of Nagasaki, Yokohama, and Hakodate were opened in 1859, Christian missionaries immediately began relocating to Japan in large numbers.105 The missionaries built churches and, despite the treaties, began proselytizing to Japanese subjects and encouraging them to flaunt the Tokugawa ban on Christianity. In 1862, a group of Japanese subjects were arrested leaving a French Catholic church in Yokohama. The missionaries petitioned the French government to intervene. The French foreign minister succeeded in putting pressure on Japanese leaders, arguing that it would be bad for Japan’s relations with Europe if the prisoners were not released.106 The Tokugawa government did so, but saved face by arguing that the Japanese had only been sightseeing and were not actually attending services. Still, the French Catholics increased their missionary efforts around the treaty ports. In due course, following the assurances of French missionaries that they would be protected, a group of Japanese subjects in Urakami began publicly exhibiting their Christianity. This produced a political crisis for the Tokugawa leadership, which was already seen as yielding excessively to foreign demands. After more than six months of deliberation, the commissioner of Nagasaki finally decided to act, and on July 15, 1867, the police arrested sixty-eight Japanese Christians.107 This marked the beginning of a series of persecutions of Christianity, which provoked public outcry abroad.108 Léon Roches, the consul general of France, scheduled a personal audience with the shogun to discuss the matter. Although only nine years earlier, the French government had invaded China on the pretext of addressing the murder of a Catholic missionary, it seems that

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the French preferred to avoid sparking a similar confl ict in Japan.109 Nevertheless, Roches insisted that this persecution of Christians could not be allowed to continue.110 The Tokugawa state compromised by agreeing to release the Japanese Christians, but requiring them to stay in the village of Urakami; in exchange, the French were supposed to stop preaching to Japanese villagers. Neither side completely honored its agreement and the problem passed to the Meiji government. If European and American leaders thought that the Meiji state was going to be more tolerant of Christianity, they were quickly proved wrong. On the same day that the first separation edict was passed, the government also renewed the prohibition against Christianity. In the fourth month of 1868, at major intersections throughout Japan, the government posted notice boards that read: “The heretical sect [jashu¯mon] of Christianity is strictly forbidden. Suspicious persons should be reported to the proper office. Rewards will be granted.”111 Shortly thereafter an order was distributed to various regional leaders clarifying the attitudes of the new regime toward Christianity. Issued in the fifth month, the text of the proclamation ran as follows: During the recent revival of imperial rule, Christianity has begun to spread again and is likely to do great harm to the state. We cannot allow this to continue. Bring the leaders together and explain to them the error of their ways. If they repent, destroy all Christian books and images and have them swear allegiance before the Shinto gods. If they refuse to repent, we have no recourse other than to exile the rest to forced labor in other [domains].112

This proclamation was followed by a massive persecution of Christianity that, over the span of the next four years, led to forcible relocation of over three thousand Japanese Christian converts and, according to some estimates, caused the death of over five hundred.113 Documents justifying this violence use vocabulary that should now be familiar: in a proclamation from 1870, Christian proselytizers are connected to “delusion” (mayoi).114 Here it is clear that the “Christian cult” is dangerous because it not only worships false gods that are in opposition to the Japanese ritual state, but like other cults, the populace is susceptible to its deceptive influence.115 Although Western powers cared little about the Japanese government’s treatment of Buddhists or blind mediums, the extreme actions taken against Japanese Christians attracted international condemnation. Days after the anti-Christian restrictions were renewed; foreign ambassadors pressured the Japanese government to

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change their policy. As part of this process, these ambassadors not only attempted to advocate Christianity, they also tried to convince the Japanese that something more universal—freedom of religion—was at stake.116 This is when the term “religion” reenters our narrative—not as an anthropological description, but again as a reference to a diplomatic problem. The Japanese term shu¯kyo¯ first attained modern usage as a translation of the English religion in a letter protesting Japanese government interference in Christianity dated April 3, 1868. In English, this letter from the American diplomatic minister to the Japanese Foreign Office contains the following sentence: “While disclaiming any intention of interfering with the internal affairs of Japan, I deem it my duty to call Your Excellency’s attention to the fact that the Christian religion is the religion of the country I have the honor to represent.”117 Translated into Japanese, “the Christian religion” became “the sect of Jesus” (Yasoshu¯); however, the second occurrence of “religion” was rendered shu¯kyo¯ (the modern Japanese term for religion). Here it is clear that Christianity is a member of a larger category called “religion,” although the other members of this category are not listed.118 Over the span of the following thirty years, there was a debate in Japan about the meaning of religion and exactly what fit into the category. Following international pressures to grant freedom of religion (a theme also employed by domestic groups), this debate was more than academic and fundamentally connected to policy at home and abroad. Although the letter quoted above did not advocate religious freedom as a basic right, from the beginning of international relations between the Meiji government and the West, foreign powers made it clear that they would not tolerate the persecution of native Christians. To appease these powers the Japanese government eventually amended the public notice boards decrying Christianity. But because the Japanese leaders did not actually want to stop the persecution, the changes were minimal. The new notice board ran: “The former prohibition of the Christian sect [Kirishitan shu¯mon] must be strictly observed. Heretical sects [jashu¯mon] are forbidden.”119 It is hard to see how any proud Christian would have been appeased by this. The change seemed at least to eliminate the derogatory characterization of Christianity as a heresy, but it did so without lifting the prohibition on Christianity or heresy, which still seemed to function as near synonyms. As a public relations gesture, this exceedingly minor concession had little impact on international sentiment. The change

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in language was also confusing domestically. The end result was that things went on as before; Christians were persecuted and people generally understand them to be dangerous heretics. Over the next four years, the Japanese government continued its policy to abolish heresy. Still, international pressure for change continued to mount. In 1872, the official representative of the United States insisted that any new treaty with Japan would have to include an article guaranteeing freedom of religion.120 In May of that same year, Vice-Ambassador Ito ¯ Hirobumi sent a petition to the Council of State arguing that foreign countries would always consider the Japanese to be barbaric and refuse to normalize trade unless the notice boards banning Christianity were removed. This petition ultimately contributed to the decision to remove the notice boards on February 19, 1873.121 On March 14, the government allowed the displaced Japanese Christians to return home. These measures represented a relaxation of the restrictions on Christianity, yet, in a move typical of inconsistent Meiji policy, a conflicting message was contained within the Council of State’s edict: “The matter on the notice boards is well known up to the present time. From hereafter permission is granted for their removal.”122 The move to eliminate the signs was clearly part of an international strategy to appease countries abroad while continuing at least some measure of the prohibition at home; again this caused confusion within the Japanese government.123 It was difficult to enforce a law that on some level had suddenly ceased to exist. This fact was officially bemoaned in a governmental memo by the Justice Department in December 1875.124 It left the actual practice of Christianity in a strange state of legal ambiguity; until the promulgation of the Japanese Constitution of 1889, indigenous Christians were only occasionally arrested or had their meetings disrupted by the police.125

In conclusion, Shinto secular subjects were produced via disciplining processes that inscribed bodies and rituals with new meanings and worked to eliminate the vestiges of alternate political or oracular power. Japanese intellectuals came to identify these obstacles to the project of modernity, which they described as backward customs, mental illness, or superstitions. In so doing, they emplaced their version of a widespread binary that divided the world into real and delusion or science and superstition. But as I’ve demonstrated in this chapter, the category of superstition has a tendency to inherit old enemies. 190

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In a distinctly modernist mode, the Meiji state worked to eliminate demons and black magic. Unlike previous regimes it did this not through apotropaic rituals or exorcisms, but through law codes. I want to emphasize that Japan was far from unique in this regard. For example, in Sweden in 1779, the death penalty for those who made pacts with the devil was eliminated, but such a pact continued to be illegal on the grounds that it was a dangerous superstition.126 Indeed, throughout Europe in roughly the same period, witches and demons went from being paradigmatically demonic to paradigmatic superstitions.127 Japan was not alone in legislating demons out of existence. One might imagine that the civilizing and Westernizing program would have changed Japanese attitudes toward Christianity, and indeed there were some Japanese leaders who argued as much. But for many of the Meiji elite, the civilizing process did not mean increasing tolerance; if anything, it meant renewed fears of the destabilizing impact of foreign influence. Japan needed to Westernize, but if it went too far the loyalty of its subjects might be called into question. The Shinto secular had a stated agnosticism to Japanese traditions that shared its perceived common core, but Christianity still seemed to contradict the core principles of the Shinto sovereignty. Moreover, insofar as modernity meant the expulsion of old demons, this logic initially meant that Christianity too needed to be eliminated as the prototypical demonic heresy and as a perceived threat to national unity. In the 1870s, along with increasing international pressure, important Japanese intellectuals and Buddhist groups began advocating freedom of belief (shinkyo¯ no jiyu¯).128 The question of what should be covered by this freedom remained. Did it include Christianity, evil cults, indigenous medicine? Did it refer to a freedom to practice? And, if so, which practices? As the Western terms “religion” and “superstition” were translated into Japanese, distinctions about what should be permitted and what should be banned began to coalesce in new forms. The following chapter will discuss the parallel movements in superstition and religion as they were increasingly distinguished from each other in the academic debates of the period.

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Inventing Japanese Religion On September 2, 1873, Léon de Rosny (1837–1914), the famously eccentric French armchair ethnographer and linguist, spoke in Paris before an audience composed of scholars assembled from all over the globe.1 Preceded by his fellow French philologist Émile Burnouf (1821–1907), the subject of both presentations was Japanese religions, and this may have been the first European academic panel ever devoted to the subject.2 Rosny continues to be regarded as the founder of Japanese studies in France, and Burnouf is often considered to be one of the founders of comparative religion in general.3 Their importance for the history of the discipline is clear. Rosny began his talk by describing the classification of Japanese religions as they were then understood. In his capacity as the president of the assembly, he lent authority to the subject, and his remarks were mentioned in journals and newspapers in Europe and the United States.4 It was at this moment that the concept of Japanese religions as a subject of scholarly study was produced, codified, and given shape in the Euro-American academy.5 At first pass, the emergence of the disciplinary formation of Japanese religions seems to fit the model outlined by Edward Said in Orientalism.6 As the first major international meeting of European and American Orientalists, the Congrès International des Orientalistes should have made an ideal subject for Said’s theoretical apparatus.7 Europeans and Americans gathered in Paris to proffer themselves as Orientalists, masters of an Asia that was at that very moment being dominated by Euro-American concerns. 192

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Sessions on disparate regions from Egypt to Java seemingly constructed an “Orient,” which could be dissected and reassembled by Western specialists, or which could be deployed internally to render European minorities as exotic.8 The concerns of empire appear throughout the conference, echoing patterns of colonial rule and colonial power. Gendered and feminizing language, too, seeped into the conversation, as Asian women’s bodies appeared like tantalizing phantoms as topics of public discussion.9 All of these themes call Said to mind, and it was indeed this imperial metropolitan context that established the study of Japanese religions in the Euro-American academy. And yet there are key details of the congress and its presentation of Japanese religions that do not fit Said’s narrative of the history of Orientalism. In the first case, the principal focus of the inaugural conference on international Orientalism was not the Middle East, not North Africa, not colonized India, not newly dominated China. It was instead Japan. To the extent that Orientalism is the discourse of colonialism, understood as domination, Japan has always had an odd place in that discourse, because despite the treaties forced on Japan by different European and American powers, Japan was never formally and fully colonized and never experienced the material practices or effects of a lasting colonialism, such as partition, transportation, displacement, or slavery.10 Like Tibet, Japan was fascinating for Orientalists not because it was under the sway of European political power but precisely because it seemed to have escaped their authority. Twenty years after the conference, the relationship between an imperial Orientalism and Japan became even more complex, because it was the Japanese who carried out colonial projects in Taiwan, Korea, China, and Manchuria. Moreover, while Japan was in fact the object of colonizing discourse, as will be shown, it also came itself to colonize and make colonial discourses its own. Japan, marked in the congress as the apex of the “Orient,” seems to be in many ways an exception to Said’s presentation of Orientalism. Thus, insofar as European representations of Japan represent exemplary Orientalist discourse, this seems to tell us that Orientalism and colonialism are not as coterminous as they are often presented. It is a second key aspect of this conference that shows the limits of Said’s Orientalism when accounting for the disciplinary formation of Japanese religions. One of Said’s central claims was always that Orientalism was a conversation among Europeans about non-Europeans, who, because they were excluded from the exchange, could be represented however the Europeans saw fit. Descriptions of Asia, even if sincerely undertaken, had more to do with European anxieties and hopes 193

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than they did with the facts on the ground. The simple point is that the Japanese were not excluded from the dialogue. We can locate the Congrès International des Orientalistes in the history of European scholarship, to be sure, but we can also locate the congress in the history of Japanese foreign diplomacy. Indeed, it was in part the arrival in early 1873 in Paris of a Japanese government mission, the Iwakura embassy, that inspired the conference in the first place. What is more, there was an official Japanese diplomatic presence at the conference. The Japanese envoy to France, Samejima Naonobu (1845–1880), presided over a panel on the first day of the conference and marked out the political significance of the event for Japan as follows: Your presence today marks the first public recognition in Europe of Japan’s entrance into a community of purpose and future [aspirations] with the nations of the Occident. At the present we have established political and commercial connections, today, for the first time, we are creating intellectual bonds.11

Although framed in the vague language of diplomacy, Samejima was effectively arguing that the Japanese presence at the conference established his nation as an equal participant in the inquiry, as one of the Occidental nations. While the terminology represents the colonizing discourse that labels Occident as equivalent to modernity, Samejima used the conference to position Japan not merely as the object of scholarly investigations, but as the investigator. The conference was attended by a number of Japanese delegates who themselves spoke as experts on a range of subjects not confined to Japan.12 Japanese scholars themselves became the true Orientalists, the true masters of Asia, at least in their rhetorical self-presentation. Dispensing their expertise on other cultures and extolling the virtues of their own nation, Japanese participants highlighted Japanese innovations in art, literature, and other fields. This crucial international conference benefited Japan and its reputation abroad, and the congress functioned in part as a successful outreach of a Japanese diplomatic mission. Strikingly, the agenda for the Japanese portion of the conference matched the concerns of the Japanese government. Papers focused on language reform, the impact of the Meiji Restoration, and the course of Japanese modernity, subjects that matched similar debates happening in Japan and within the Japanese government.13 Moreover, the role of religion in Japan and modernity, so important to Japanese policymakers and intellectuals, was also debated in the conference. 194

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The inaugural panel on Japanese religions reflected these concerns as well. Rosny’s talk could not help but reproduce Japanese policy. His knowledge of Japan came largely from another diplomatic context. He had been one of the official French translators during an earlier Japanese mission to France in March 1862. There he met Fukuzawa Yukichi, and his conversation with Fukuzawa and other delegate members, in this key moment of ferment, led Rosny to draw his first tentative conclusions about what counted as a Japanese religion.14 These attitudes were reinforced in late 1872 and early 1873 by a Japanese delegation of Buddhist priests led by Shimaji Mokurai, who also discussed Japanese religion and government policy with Rosny.15 It is no accident that Shimaji would go on to be one of the key influences on Japanese religious policy.16 Furthermore, Shimaji Mokurai completed his famous essay on Japanese religions during the period of time he was meeting with Rosny and before Rosny’s talk, which ultimately echoed some of the same themes.17 Although Rosny did not acknowledge his informants by name, the very topic of his paper was rooted in Shimaji’s project.18 In this chapter, I demonstrate the tactical agency of Japanese scholars and policymakers in the formation of Japanese religions as a scholarly object. Here I’d like to make a distinction between “strategy” and “tactics” and link “strategy” to the agency of those who have the upper hand in a system of exchange.19 Strategies are used to make power active through the production of certain environments that limit or constrain choices to produce certain behaviors in the dominated. In response to these strategies, those in a weaker position can use “tactics” through which they navigate and subvert the environments produced by those in a dominant position. A form of “manipulating the system,” tactics can modulate or modify the meaning of the strategic environment to produce different outcomes. In discursive terms, this can mean the subversion of colonizing discourses to produce new or hybrid meanings. For example, Samejima’s appropriation of the occidental for Japan, while not eliminating the hegemonic discourse that produces the false Orient-Occident binary, is a tactical emplacement of Japan in a position that subverts the initial distinction. To complicate things slightly, tactics on one scale can be strategies in terms of another relation. As we shall see in terms of religion in Japan, the definition of what legally counted as a “religion” was tactically selected to appease Western powers at the same time that it was strategically imposed on Japanese subjects. This chapter investigates the main arenas in which this debate oc195

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curred in the 1870s. First, it addresses the official diplomatic missions abroad by the Tokugawa and Meiji governments in terms of their articulation of religion, focusing in particular on two popular and representative responses to these encounters abroad. Second, it discusses the writings of the Meiroku Society and their publication of a policy toward religion in the first Japanese academic journal. Finally, the conclusion returns to Léon de Rosny and the paper he presented at the congress to demonstrate the direct influence of Japanese thinkers on his ideas and begin to show that the invention of Japanese religions in Japan had an influence on the global conversation.

Religion in Japanese International Missions In the middle of the nineteenth century, Japanese understandings of Christianity and religion in general varied little from Tokugawa-period precedents.20 For the most part, this perspective persisted as a result of the lack of firsthand experience of American and European cultures. For that reason, both in elite and popular circles there had been few efforts to reappraise Christianity or to formulate a category religion. Following the ratification of the 1858 Harris Treaty, barriers to travel began to fall, and Japan became increasingly enmeshed in the world system and the structures of global commerce, culture, and thought. Concretely, Japanese scholars and bureaucrats started going in larger numbers to America and Europe, where they met Christians firsthand. In this context Japanese thinkers not only devised a new understanding of Christianity but also reformulated their interpretation of Japanese traditions at home. This section will very briefly address the results of these early encounters. On March 17, 1860, the Japanese steam corvette Kanrin Maru arrived in San Francisco harbor to moderate fanfare.21 Piloted and run by Japanese sailors, this was the first international voyage undertaken by the Tokugawa government since the beginning of the period of isolation.22 Onboard the vessel were one American advisor and a crew of Japanese sailors. Also on the deck was the young Fukuzawa Yukichi.23 This historic crossing marked the inauguration of Japanese diplomacy abroad. In subsequent years, the Tokugawa government sent two further missions to facilitate the diplomatic exchange with other countries.24 Shortly after coming to power, the Meiji government opened its own diplomacy. The Iwakura embassy of 1871–1873 (Iwakura Shiset-

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sudan) was probably the most important of Japan’s official missions abroad. While Tokugawa expeditions to the West had been made up of minor bureaucrats and translators, the Iwakura mission was comprised of important members of the new government, including the minister for foreign affairs, Iwakura Tomomi (1825–1883). A multi-year world tour only three years after the Meiji Restoration, this mission thus represented an unprecedented undertaking and seems to indicate that Meiji politicians were feeling confident they had achieved stability back home. Its goals were to initiate the revision of international treaties and to gather information on the wider world to aid in the modernization of Japan.25 Throughout the mission’s travels in Europe and America, however, the Meiji government’s treatment of Christianity inspired popular protests and public criticisms by European and American politicians. Japanese leaders were impressed with the importance of religion for Japan’s reputation abroad and for amending the despised unequal treaties. Building on the work of these missions, over the span of the next seventeen years, hundreds of Japanese made their way to Europe or America as students, diplomats, or sailors.26 In their experiences abroad, Japanese visitors could not help but encounter Western religion. Many of the Europeans and Americans they met actively proselytized their particular form of Christianity.27 These evangelizing hosts seem to have frequently argued that Christianity was the wellspring of Western technology and cultural achievements.28 Some Japanese travelers, such as Nakamura Masanao, came to see themselves as Christians and also proponents of Christian civilization.29 The timing of Japanese visits abroad also came in the wake of the publication of Darwin’s On the Origin of Species (1859) and the fanning of popular controversies about the relationship between religion and science. Accordingly, other Japanese travelers, such as future botanist Yatabe Ryo¯kichi, returned to Japan as equally strong advocates for the rejection of Christianity based on contemporary scientific discoveries.30 For both Japanese Christian converts and their opponents, the relationship between Christianity and Japanese cultural practices was still being worked out. For example, in an issue that has perplexed much of the scholarship, a number of these first Japanese Christians came to see Christianity as compatible with Confucianism, and some even attempted to merge the two traditions.31 While most Japanese travelers seem to have placed Christianity in the Western category “religion,” there was still no consensus about which Japanese practices were re-

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ligions, nor was there a clear understanding of what the term religion might fully entail. The following subsections will look at the positions on religion as articulated by two key members of these official missions, namely Fukuzawa Yukichi and Kume Kunitake. It will demonstrate that even Japanese thinkers with firsthand experience of Europe and America formulated different understandings of the meaning of “religion.”

Fukuzawa Yukichi: The Empty Center Religion works within the hearts of men. It is something absolutely free and independent, not controlled in any way by others or dependent upon their powers. F U K UZ AWA Y U K I C H I , B U N M E I R O N N O G A I R YA K U , 1875

One of the most important Japanese travelers in this early period was Fukuzawa Yukichi, whose writings significantly shaped Japanese perceptions of the West. In his work can be seen various attempts to grapple with the concept of religion. After returning from two missions abroad, Fukuzawa summarized his thoughts in Conditions in the West (1866, discussed in chapter 5). Although this work was particularly significant for portrayal of the West as a technological utopia, Fukuzawa also attempted to describe the meaning of the Western concept of religion. Given the background of freedom of religion in treaty negotiations, it is not incidental that Fukuzawa’s discussion of religion occurs at a point when he is defining the English terms “freedom” and “liberty” in the context of political rights.32 According to Fukuzawa, central to the formation of modern Western law is the idea that in addition to enacting prohibitions, governments also guarantee basic freedoms or rights (for which he coins the term jiyu¯).33 To illustrate rights, his first example is freedom of belief in a set of teachings (shinkyo¯).34 Fukuzawa explains that this is intended to guarantee that the government will not obstruct the reverence for specific sectarian doctrines (shu¯shi) when carried out in one’s own home. To clarify, Fukuzawa provides a discussion of his perception of the contemporary sectarian conflict in England, arguing that while England has historically been exclusively dedicated to “observing Protestant doctrines,” there is a population within in the country known as the “Irish” (Airandojin), who revere the “Teachings of the Lord of Heaven” (Tenshukyo¯), by which he means Catholicism. While this group historically battled with the Protestants, as Fukuzawa informs his readers, recently this group has been legally emancipated and allowed to assume 198

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positions in government. Fukuzawa is most likely referring to British Catholic Emancipation and the Catholic Relief act of 1829. According to Fukuzawa, the result of this policy is that while the British government continues to be dedicated to the Protestant sect and the creation of Protestant churches, it has now legally established that one’s sect (shu¯mon) is a household matter.35 In Conditions in the West, Fukuzawa avoids a larger discussion of Christianity and its potential relationship to Japanese culture. However, he mentions the conflict between Protestants and Catholics on several occasions and informs the reader that they are rival forms of Christianity (Yasokyo¯).36 He does not articulate programmatic distinctions between sacred and profane or religion and politics, nor does he discuss in any detail the contents of these sectarian affiliations. Religion, as it appears in Conditions in the West, is predominantly a legal term produced in Christian countries to regulate internal conflicts. Insofar as the work describes a conception of religion, it appears to be a potentially disruptive set of Christian practices whose freedom needs to be guaranteed to prevent discord and facilitate the smooth functioning of a modern state. It was in later writings that Fukuzawa made a greater contribution to Japanese terminology and conceptions of religion. In the 1870s, Fukuzawa published Encouragement of Learning (Gakumon no Susume, serialized from 1872 to 1876) and An Outline of a Theory of Civilization (1875, discussed in chapter 5). By the time they were published, the political situation in Japan was radically different. Fukuzawa’s position in society had changed, too. He was no longer merely a popular translator or interpreter; by 1876, he was becoming widely recognized as one of Japan’s leading intellectuals. His writings had become national textbooks and he had founded a private academy for Western studies that would later blossom into Keio¯ University. Fukuzawa’s name was synonymous with civilization and enlightenment, and accordingly he decided to address the nature of education and civilization directly in monograph form. These writings are also important because they contributed to popularizing the term shu¯kyo¯, which would become the standard translation for the Western “religion.”37 Shu¯kyo¯ is a compound of two characters: shu¯ (meaning lineage” or “principle,” and later, “sect”) and kyo¯ (“teaching” or “teachings”).38 Thus, literally, shu¯kyo¯ means the “teachings of a lineage” or “teaching of the principles.” While these two characters had occurred together in a Buddhist context in the premodern period, it is unlikely that that this usage was known by Fukuzawa or other Meiji- era popularizers of the term.39 Some scholars have emphasized 199

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a continuity between premodern and modern usages of shu¯kyo¯, which are supposed to both refer to an institutional identity (school) plus teachings.40 I doubt that the term had this premodern meaning at all, but even if shu¯kyo¯ referred to the combination of an organization and a set of teachings or doctrines (which I dispute), this was not the Western definition of religion in the nineteenth century and it is not the definition of religion today. Nor was this meaning shu ¯kyo ¯ took on after its etymology was entangled with the European “religion.” The term shu¯kyo¯ as a translation for religion was likely formulated independently as a new calque, not based on previous usages. It functioned to qualify the preexisting concept of oshie to describe something less expansive in scope than the older sense of learning. Although Fukuzawa was not the first to use shu¯kyo¯ for religion, the word was hardly standard.41 Unlike previous terms used by Fukuzawa (e.g., shu¯shi), shu¯kyo¯ had the advantage that it was not already in common parlance and could more easily take on new meanings as a translation term. An Outline of a Theory of Civilization was particularly important in establishing an equivalence between religion and shu¯kyo¯. In that book, inspired by François Guizot’s Histoire de la civilisation en Europe (1828), Fukuzawa continued to promote a universal conception of civilization as a yardstick for measuring human progress and as the supreme “goal of all human endeavors.”42 Unlike his previous hierarchy of countries, however, Fukuzawa argued that Euro-American culture had not yet attained the full pinnacle of civilization; it was merely the most advanced culture at the time.43 Civilization had become for Fukuzawa a relative measure. The single chapter dedicated to the origins of Western civilization was largely a summary of Guizot. It argued that modern Western civilization had its birth in the fall of Rome.44 The Catholic Church played an ambiguous role in this narrative, nurturing ethical sentiments while also representing a stifling influence. The Protestant Reformation for Fukuzawa (echoing Guizot’s own Protestant sentiments) was the triumph of freedom over the restrictive authority of Rome. Compared to Guizot, however, Fukuzawa was more skeptical about the place of religion in modern civilization.45 Moreover, in this chapter, as in Fukuzawa’s previous writings, the only religions mentioned are rival forms of Christianity. Again, we have evidence for religion as a category derived from Protestantism. The trajectory of the West is placed in perspective in a later chapter, which focuses on Japanese civilization. Here Fukuzawa is largely trying to do two things: provide a rationale for Japan’s failure to develop scientifically along Western lines, and present a rationale for Japan’s 200

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superiority over China. In this context, Fukuzawa attempts to examine the role of religion in the development of civilization in Japan. He begins by arguing that the Japanese have failed to apprehend religion and religious freedom. Fukuzawa describes the proper sphere of religion as exclusively interior (“shu ¯kyo ¯ wa jinshin no naibu ni hataraku mono”).46 It is an internal conscience that, he argues, cannot be forced or controlled in any way. This seems evocative of a range of European Christian discourses, particularly as found in some strains of Protestantism, that imagines faith as freely chosen, understood as an internal first cause that cannot be affected by outside conditions other than God himself.47 The selection of faith represents a free choice that is liberated from external control. This radical interiority is the locus of the ethical drama that governs salvation. Fukuzawa also argues that religion can be the seat of ethical conduct.48 Yet, for Fukuzawa, morality is not absolute; rather, different forms of morality are appropriate to different phases of civilization. A good religion, in Fukuzawa’s eyes, changes with the times and serves as a vector for the moral currents of a particular epoch.49 In an earlier chapter, Fukuzawa discusses Shinto, Buddhism, and Confucianism as the origins of Japanese ethics, compared to the Christian origins of European ethical practices.50 This does not mean that these four are all equally religions. Confucianism is described from the outset as a philosophy, not a religion.51 It is contrasted— disparagingly— with contemporary currents in Western philosophy. In the face of Fukuzawa’s larger program, which is itself a sublation of Neo- Confucianism, excluding Confucianism from the category of religion allows him to relegate it to an outdated mode of thought that should be eliminated, or at the very least ignored. Denying Confucianism the status of religion allows Fukuzawa to appropriate terms from its discourse at the very moment he sought to abolish it. Fukuzawa excludes Confucianism from consideration in his later discussion of Japanese religions.52 In Japan, according to Fukuzawa, it is popularly believed that the dominant doctrine (shu¯shi) is made of a combination of Shinto and Buddhism (shinbutsu ryo¯do¯).53 However, Shinto never became a fully formed religious doctrine and should not be recognized as such.54 It is only Buddhism that has a full-blown doctrine and hence could be considered a completely articulated religion.55 But while Buddhism originated as a religion, Fukuzawa argues, it has historically been deeply embedded in the fabric of the Japanese state. Under the Tokugawa government, Buddhism lacked true “religious authority” (shu¯kyo¯ no iryoku) and was “nothing else but an extension of political authority” (seifu no 201

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iryoku). 56 Buddhism became a form of politics or perhaps merely government propaganda and was thus no longer a religion. The importation of an idealized distinction between religion and politics, instead of providing more freedom for Buddhism, seemed to suggest that Buddhism should be purged as too political. Here the liberal value of the separation of church and state when exported to a non-Western country seemed to facilitate the exile of religion from the public sphere. It allowed Fukuzawa to conclude that there were no religions (shu¯kyo¯) in Japan.57 In sum, if religion is the center of the human heart, then Japan seemed not to have a center. It had no religion and only outmoded philosophies. While Fukuzawa argued for freedom of religion, it was not clear what other than Christianity or a radically depoliticized Buddhism should be protected. Religion was good because it encourages morality, but indigenous forms were obsolete.58 A reader might expect Fukuzawa to embrace Christianity or another Western ethical tradition, but this was not the direction he chose either personally or in his publications. Despite popularizing the term shu¯kyo¯, Fukuzawa described himself as “not believing in religion” (shu¯kyo¯ fushin). This characterization of religion remains something that other people do, or perhaps, the superstition other people believe in that provides them with ethical constraints. Although he clearly indicated that he was not against religion, Fukuzawa described himself as “wandering away from religion” (shu¯kyo¯ no soto ni sho¯yo¯).59 In this sense, Fukuzawa himself seemed to have a free and empty center.

Kume Kunitake: The Question of Religion When foreigners come to [Japan], they always ask, “What teachings to do you revere? What gods do you worship?” If someone responds that he has no religion [the astounded foreigner] will treat him like a wild man and cut off all contact with him. ¯ K AIR AN JIKKI, 1878 K U M E K U N I TA K E , T O K U M E I Z E N K E N TA I S H I B E I - O

On their mission abroad, the Iwakura embassy brought with them an official historian, Kume Kunitake (1839–1931). Born to a samurai family in Saga domain, Kume was educated in Edo. After returning from the Iwakura mission, he worked on other official history projects for the Meiji government. In 1888, he became a professor at Tokyo Imperial University and wrote widely on Japanese history. Kume was forced to resign in 1892 after publishing a paper that described Shinto as an outmoded custom of heaven worship (Shinto wa saiten no kozoku). 202

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As part of the Iwakura embassy, Kume recorded daily activities, which he published as an official record of the mission in Tokumei ¯ kairan jikki (A true account of a journey of obserZenken Taishi Bei-O vation to America and Europe by the ambassador extraordinary and plenipotentiary [and company], 1878). As he would later observe, prior to the departure of the Iwakura mission, the concept of religion was vague and few Japanese people had experienced firsthand religion as actually lived in Western countries. Because Japanese and Americans considered Christianity to be the paradigmatic religion and European missionaries portrayed it as unique, it seemed clear that if Christianity was a religion, indigenous traditions like Buddhism and Shinto must be something else entirely.60 As Kume would personally demonstrate, this understanding would shift radically as Japanese travelers saw European Christianity with their own eyes. Because an important change in Meiji policy toward Christianity occurred while the Japanese delegation was abroad, there has been considerable speculation on the impact of the Iwakura mission on the Meiji government’s attitudes toward religion in general.61 If we turn to Kume’s account of the mission, we can see at least one person’s changing understand of religion in this encounter. At several places, Kume attempts to explain religion to his readers. In the first volume, in his account of the Young Men’s Christian Association of New York City, Kume provides a long parenthetical discussion of the subject of religion.62 He begins by noting that Japanese subjects should expect to be routinely interrogated by Europeans and Americans about religion, because Westerners believe that it is a fundamental aspect of human nature. Furthermore, Westerners think that religion means an ethical code and the worship of a particular deity.63 If one responds that one does not have a religion, writes Kume, Westerners will react with shock. This is because they believe that without a religion, one cannot have a moral code.64 Accordingly, Westerners treat nonreligious people as dangerous and cut off all social relations with them. Kume further describes what these Westerners mean by religion. He feels compelled to inform the reader, the world is a religiously diverse place full of both positive and negative religions.65 Europeans conventionally divide religion into two major categories and give subclasses.66 The major categories are Christianity and heathenism, which includes Buddhism. This division in world religions, according to the prejudices of the period, falls along racial lines. The “Mongolian race” is essentially heathen, while the “Caucasian race” is Christian.67 Islam is a combination of heathenism and Christianity practiced by Turks. Christianity can be further subdivided along racial lines. Teutonic races are 203

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generally Protestant; Celts are Catholic; and Slavonic races practice Orthodoxy. Kume argues: Not only the European race but also the followers of Mohamedanism strictly observe their own religions and regard other religions as enemies. Even now they are at daggers drawn, their feeling of loathing for each other has never disappeared.68

By contrast to what seems to be an impending religious and racial war, Kume describes the “more gentle” situation in Japan, which he elsewhere divides into two possible religions: Confucianism and Buddhism.69 However, Confucianism, as he informs his readers, is not considered to be a religion by Western scholars but instead is an example of a “moral philosophy.”70 Here he repeats Fukuzawa’s exclusion of Confucianism, although for a different purpose. Because it is not a religion, Confucianism is not in conflict with Buddhism and, by implication, is not necessarily in conflict with Christianity. With Shinto apparently not in the running, Buddhism would seem to be the only remaining candidate for inclusion in the category of Japanese religion. But in Kume’s estimation, Buddhism is not a very good religion because it lacks a functional morality.71 Kume takes for granted that religion is the worship of a god and a system of ethics, and by these lights, Buddhism, in a near miss, has some form of worship, although not of a divinity, and fails to meet all the relevant ethical criteria. In comparison to Christianity, Buddhism seems fundamentally defective and does not count as a proper religion. This does not mean, however, that Kume is willing to promote Christianity in Japan. In particular, he seems to be skeptical of the worship of God and lavishes criticism on Christianity: When we read the Old and New Testaments, which Christians exalt, some parts are merely the unbelievable tales of voices from Heaven or the resurrection of a crucified criminal. Thus, the Bible can easily be dismissed as the ramblings of a lunatic.72

In contrast, Kume advocates Confucianism and suggests that, while not a religion, it could serve as the backbone of Japanese public morality.73 It is Confucianism that appears to be rational here, unlike Christianity, because it does not rest on miracles or worship. The criteria that excluded Confucianism from the category religion are the same criteria that make it valuable. Kume seems to be suggesting an intervention in the Western concept of religion, as he perceives it, by disconnecting ethics from the worship of a deity. This does not mean transform204

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ing Confucianism into a religion; Kume seems to be arguing that the solution to the problem of religion in Japan is to reject “religion” all together. Overall, Kume’s work was important for the conversation on religion, because it familiarized its readership with the concept and some of the possible members of the category, although the racial terms of this analysis seemingly described a “heathen” destiny for the Japanese people. It also seemed to suggest that inasmuch as religion had a moralizing function, this last could be replaced by a well-articulated secular system of ethics like Confucianism. All in all, Fukuzawa and Kume were widely read interpreters of European and American culture and civilization. Their writings suggested that Christianity was not something to be feared, but it was not something to be emulated either. With Christianity as the only universally recognized member of religion, both men seemed to be suggesting that Japan did not need religion as such. In effect it needed to be secularized. For Fukuzawa, the further one got from the monasteries and traditional forms of knowledge the better. For Kume, Japan needed to more fully embrace Confucianism, not as a religion but as a secular system of ethics. Hence, these early encounters with “religion” led to its rejection.

Controlling the Heart: Debating the Role of Religion in the Modern State In the early 1870s, the first generation of Japanese scholars educated abroad as more than merely official delegates returned to the shores of Japan. Invigorated by a postrevolutionary society and their experiences in Europe and America, this small cohort began pioneering efforts that would transform Japanese political and social structures. As elite cultural interpreters, they had a lasting impact on the formation of public attitudes and state policy. At the same time they began their efforts, the problem of defining religion gained national prominence, giving rise to a broad debate at several levels of society. There were many issues at stake. What was “religion”? What was its connection to civilization and progress? What were its uses and limits? And fundamentally, what was the ideal role of religion in the modern nation-state? Could the Meiji state reconcile its Shinto foundations with the call for religious freedom? And equally importantly, what pragmatically should the Japanese state do about Christianity? 205

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One of the major sites for this debate was a short-lived but influential journal, the Journal of the Sixth [Year] of Meiji (Meiroku Zasshi).74 Formulated as the public voice of the Meiji Six Society (Meirokusha), a group initiated by young statesman and educator Mori Arinori in 1874, the journal’s importance made up for its lack of longevity. It was widely read, and contributors included famous scholars and influential officials who were directly involved in setting future government agendas. The journal existed in the interstices between an abstract academic arena and the pragmatics of nation building. While Meiroku Zasshi authors discussed a wide range of issues, from the role of elected assemblies to trade reform, they repeatedly returned to the issue of religion. The following will focus on four major positions in this debate about the meaning of religion and its connection to modernity: one advocated a kind of Christian modernity, another argued for religion as something fundamentally beyond human knowledge, a third argued for religion as the sum of human knowledge, and a final position focused on religion as a very bounded kind of internal state whose freedom was essential. On top of these disparate views of religion, these scholars argued about the proper Japanese term for religion, how religion might relate to science and politics, and they also debated what indigenous phenomena fit into the category. In sum, their writings charted the contours of many possible meanings for religion, demonstrating that far from being a fi xed transfer process or hegemonic Western imposition, Japanese intellectuals had significant tactical range to intervene in the term’s meaning in regard to Japan. Tsuda Mamichi: Christian Modernity The opening salvo in the discussion was made by Tsuda Mamichi (1829–1903). Born into a samurai family in present-day Okayama Prefecture, Tsuda had been an instructor at the Tokugawa Foreign Studies Institute (Bansho shirabesho; lit., “Institute for the Study of Barbarian Books”). In 1862, he was selected, along with Nishi Amane, as one of the first two students ever to be sent abroad to the University of Leiden in the Netherlands for training in Western law and political science.75 On his return, Tsuda was soon recruited to the Justice Ministry where he worked on the composition of a number of early Meiji law codes (including Japan’s first criminal code of law), a task on which he worked while contributing to the Meiroku Zasshi. In 1890, Tsuda would be elected to the first Japanese House of Representatives and in 1896 would be promoted to the peerage with the title of Danshaku (baron). 206

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In the third issue, published in 1874, Tsuda began the discussion of religion in an essay “Methods for Advancing Enlightenment” (Kaika o susumuru ho¯ho¯ o ronzu).76 In this essay, Tsuda takes for granted the reader’s commitment to the larger project of civilizing Japan and begins by attempting to demarcate the limits of Enlightenment itself: In the final analysis, learning falls into two major categories. There is empty learning [kyogaku] that is devoted to such lofty doctrines as nonexistence and Nirvana, the theory of the five elements, or intuitive knowledge and intuitive ability. And there is practical learning [jitsugaku] that solely explain[s] factual principles through actual observation and verification, such as astronomy, physics, chemistry, medicine, political economy, and philosophy of the modern West.77

The essay begins with a bold salvo against the previously hegemonic modes of understanding. Tsuda here echoes the practical/impractical distinction deployed by Fukuzawa as part of a rhetorical strategy for the promotion of Western learning as an alternative to Neo-Confucianism and Buddhism. In these references to Nirvana and the five elements, traditional systems of knowledge have been reduced to nothing more than pointless studies concerned with unobservable abstractions. As Tsuda argues, these systems do not contribute to useful knowledge or the advancement of civilization; instead, they are obstacles to progress. By contrast, a disparate assortment of Western disciplines (including the equally abstract philosophy) are said to be “practical learning,” because they explain facts, recognized by their ability to be observed and verified instead of their ethical utility. Having dispensed with indigenous ethical systems, Tsuda is struck with a dilemma as to how to promote enlightenment and civilization in Japan and, having done so, how to encourage morality in a populace disabused of their illusions. He attempts to solve these issues by repeating a claim that should by now be familiar, connecting religion to ethics and arguing that “the object of religion is to lead the unenlightened so that they will advance along the good path.”78 Religion should be both the vector for public morality and a conduit down which the currents of enlightenment can flow. Japan needs to embrace the religion most conducive to this path, and encourage it among its subjects. In making his argument, Tsuda had to contend with an audience largely unfamiliar with the foreign concept of “religion.” To translate the concept, he uses the word ho¯kyo¯. This term, meaning literally “teachings of the law” or “teachings of the dharma,” had previously been deeply embedded in Buddhist discourse. In its emphasis on law 207

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and teachings, the term fits Tsuda’s larger model of religion as ethical and rational. But to overwrite the term’s Buddhist meaning, Tsuda forgoes a coactive definition and instead provides a list of religions. He informs the reader that there are two religions in Japan: Shinto and Buddhism. There are also many religions in the world, the most important of which are Buddhism, Zoroastrianism, Islam, and Christianity.79 In addition, Tsuda further divides Christianity into Greek, Roman, and Protestant branches. Arguing that religion is essential for public morality and the promotion of civilization, Tsuda suggests that the Japanese government should select one of these religions as the most amenable to civilization and actively encourage that one. Tsuda ultimately concludes that the ideal religion is Christianity (and he seems to imply Protestantism in particular). The Japanese government should therefore proselytize Christianity, although less for its actual teachings than because it makes a good carrier for enlightened civilization.80 This argument did not go over well with many of the Meiroku Society, because despite their attitudes toward Western civilization, many were more reserved in their appraisal of Christianity. Tsuda was more pessimistic in his assessment of the role of Japanese religions. He articulates his criticisms of Buddhism and, to a lesser degree, the Hirata school of National Science in later essays in the same journal, titled “Tengu” (after a type of winged goblin), and argues against supernatural religion in general in a later essay titled “Mysteries” (Kaisetsu).81 Both of these essays address the then widespread Japanese belief in demons, ghosts, and other monsters. Tsuda argues: Men in the mountains take their own shadows for ghosts and the echoes of their own voices for gods of the valley [kokushin]. Still such phenomena in reality are shadows and echoes that are not mysteries once they are clarified by physics. There are no mysteries. Mysteries only arise when we do not clearly understand the phenomena that we see.82

For Tsuda, Western science has the potential for epistemological completeness—there is nothing that it is incapable of explaining. Anything that appears to be a “mystery” or a “miracle” (kikai) is not a true challenge to science, but merely the evidence for some larger natural law. There can be no such thing as a supernatural monster and as Tsuda summarizes with confidence, “There are never goblins and ghosts in the world.”83 Furthermore, belief in demons is particularly bad, because it leads toward mental distress and is contrary to the advance of 208

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civilization.84 These beliefs are backward, and Tsuda saved particular animosity for those superstitions that he thought stood in the way of reason. Tsuda places the blame for the construction of the demonic clearly at the foot of the Buddhist institution. Tsuda argues that monks invented stories of monsters to frighten people and compel their adherence to Buddhism: Thus the priests deceitfully won the faith and admiration of the ignorant by falsely boasting that with their occult powers they would drive away dragons and thunder, expel ghosts and devils, torment the gods of the mountains, and execrate devils.85

Popular belief in the monstrous is a direct result of Buddhist fraud. While respecting the role of the Buddha as a sage, Tsuda believes that his original teachings have become perverted.86 Monsters are not real, and the only thing demonic is Buddhism itself, which is fundamentally corrupt and invested in promoting and then claiming to exorcize demons. In essence, Buddhism is its own heresy. However, Tsuda acknowledges, Christianity retains some not-fully enlightened ideas as well.87 Hence, one needs to differentiate between those aspects of religion that are the most civilized and those superstitious aspects of religion that need to be discouraged. While we might be tempted to dismiss Tsuda’s call for a wide-scale conversion of the Japanese population to Christianity, this possibility was not entirely far-fetched. In a diary entry dated August 1872, the Japanese diplomat Aoki Shu ¯zo¯ (1844–1914) records a discussion with high-ranking members of the Iwakura mission, Kido Takayoshi and Ito¯ Hirobumi, about the subject.88 According to this account, Kido argued that for purely pragmatic reasons, some of his fellow delegates “have been arguing we should petition the emperor so that he and all the government convert to Christianity; their idea is that all countrymen would follow suit, to the immense benefit of our diplomatic relations with the great powers.”89 Conversion to Christianity seemed to some members of the administration to be a way for the Japanese government to transform the nation’s status in the eyes of the West. This seems to have not been rooted in personal attachments to Christianity, as these same senior administrators made no private conversions to the Christian faith. Although we cannot be sure how seriously this idea was being considered, it was nevertheless the case that it remained a distinct possibility.90 The diary entry suggests that the thought was circulating. 209

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Responding to this conversation, Aoki replied that this was an absurd idea that would result in a civil war.91 Popular anti-Christian sentiments were seen as too vast for a radical imposition from above, no matter the potential diplomatic benefit. Nor was Christianity Aoki’s only target. Having studied European law, Aoki recognized the place of religious freedom in modern European constitutions, but he did not recommend implementing such freedoms in Japan (discussed in the following chapter). Neither conversion to Christianity nor a religious liberalism seemed to be a way out of Japan’s international political impasse. To return to the Meiroku Zasshi, while many members of the Meiroku Society repeated the basic architecture of Tsuda’s work and perpetuated a distinction between a positive and rational religion and a negative and irrational superstition, they did not agree about what should constitute either category. Also like Aoki and Kido, most of the Meiroku Society were far from in agreement with Tsuda’s policy recommendations and his praise of Christianity. Nishi Amane: Religion Beyond the Limits of Knowledge Nishi Amane (1829–1897), Tsuda Mamichi’s colleague, wrote his rejoinder to Tsuda’s argument in the following issue of the journal. Born to a family of physicians with samurai status in what is now Shimane Prefecture, Nishi Amane began his education with the study of Confucianism. In 1853, the year of Perry’s arrival, Nishi changed his emphasis to the study of Dutch. Along with Tsuda Mamichi, Nishi was selected by the Tokugawa government to travel to the Netherlands in 1862, where he spent two and a half years studying economics, law, and political science. After returning to Japan, he authored a philosophical encyclopedia modeled on the work of August Comte in 1870 (Hyakugaku renkan) and was known for promoting a version of John Stuart Mill’s utilitarianism.92 In addition to continued publication on a variety of themes, Nishi also worked for the Ministry of Military Affairs (drafting, for example, Cho¯heirei, the Conscription Ordinance of 1873), headed the Tokyo academy Nippon Gakushi’in, and joined the House of Peers in 1890 where he too was made a baron. Today, Nishi is most widely remembered for coining the contemporary Japanese word for “philosophy” (tetsugaku).93 In the fourth issue of Meiroku Zasshi, Nishi penned the first of a series of six articles under the heading “On Religion” (Kyo¯monron).94 Rejecting Tsuda’s ho¯kyo¯ as a translation term, in these articles Nishi trans210

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lated “religion” as kyo¯mon (lit., “the gateway to the teachings”), a term that previously referred to an exposition of Buddhism. In part one of “On Religion,” Nishi argues that kyo¯mon is founded upon a very particular sort of belief or faith (shin), namely the faith in something that is, by definition, unknown.95 According to Nishi, once someone begins to understand the underlying principles (ri) of a particular phenomenon, belief in it no longer requires the active commitment of faith. If we know something to be true, no act of faith is required to recognize it as such. All religions, according to Nishi—from the commoner’s deification of stones to the Confucian belief in heaven—are rooted in an absence of knowledge. Yet as knowledge or science advances, it will identify an ever-growing body of religious beliefs as false.96 According to the ever-expanding horizon of knowledge in Nishi’s model, all religions will eventually be revealed as falsehoods, and thus, a theocratic political system is bound to collapse. Nishi includes in his condemnation religions based upon “a king or an emperor as god”;97 while he does not specify Shinto here, his reference is clear. Moreover, in providing examples of what religious beliefs might be, Nishi reinforced the point, listing “belief in [supernatural] foxes, badgers, buddhas, or celestial beings [tennin],” alongside the divinity of the emperor, and the Confucian concept of heaven.98 Nishi further argues that because belief is emotional, one can never force other persons to believe or disbelieve something, even if one educates them.99 The government must permit people to believe as they choose. On the basis of this claim, Nishi has been interpreted as advocating full-blown freedom of religion and a complete separation of church and state.100 In later installments of the series, however, Nishi calls for a policy similar to that eventually adopted by the Japanese government: It is sufficient for government offices when supervising religion only to regulate externals, leaving the people to believe as they please. . . . We should outlaw the building of shrines and temples without official permission. We should forbid religious services outside churches and temples authorized by the government. Raising banners, ringing bells, and incanting prayers in public should be strictly forbidden except in the compounds of officially sanctioned churches and temples. . . . Religious assemblies in isolated mountains and forests should be generally forbidden. We should absolutely and without question forbid any religious practice likely to bewitch [genwaku] the eyes of men or to foment widespread disturbances by erecting roadside altars, wearing strange priestly vestments, and public movement of wood and stone [religious] icons from distant places.101 211

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In this passage, Nishi hardly advocates freedom of religious expression; indeed, he suggests that the government should forcefully control such expressions in the public sphere. Radically separating external, public practice from internal, private belief, Nishi calls for the former to be comprehensively regulated. Several of Nishi’s envisioned restrictions would come to pass—from an ordinance regulating the establishment of new temples and shrines to rigorous governmental control over religious sects. And, when freedom of religion was ultimately guaranteed in Japan, it would, as Nishi suggested, entail a radical interiorization of the zone of permitted belief. In sum, while Nishi made a persuasive case for the importance of religious freedom in the modern nation, he left a number of nagging issues. Meiroku Zasshi’s contributors were not in agreement with his description of religion as such. It was far from clear that faith, worship, or “belief in the unknown” was essential to religion. Nishi’s work could also be seen as undermining the Shinto-centric imperial system (but when he would later write a draft constitution it would preserve a key place for Shinto defined explicitly as not a religion, but a secular civic duty).102 Further, his identification of religion as rooted in the unknown struck some of the Meiroku Society as tantamount to encouraging ignorance or alternately as radically privatizing education. Both of these seemed to go against the aims of the society. While many members of the Society seem to have granted some of Nishi’s policy recommendations, it fell to other thinkers to articulate the limits of tolerance. Kashiwabara Takaaki: Religion as Knowledge One direct challenge to Nishi’s model came from Kashiwabara Takaaki (1835–1910). Less famous than many of his fellow contributors, Kashiwabara was born in what is today Kagawa Prefecture to a family of physicians. He excelled in the family trade and in 1864, Kashiwabara was made personal physician to the household of Tokugawa Yoshinobu, the last shogun. Following the Restoration, Kashiwabara ran a private medical practice in Shizuoka, where he translated works on Western medicine and corresponded with the Meiroku Society by mail. In February 1875, Kashiwabara published the first of a series of three articles titled “Doubts on [Nishi’s] Theory of Religion” (Kyo¯monron Gimon).103 As one can guess from the title, Kashiwabara vehemently disagreed with Nishi Amane.104 In the first case, he rejected Nishi’s characterization of belief or faith (shin). For Kashiwabara, “belief” is not rooted in an absence of knowledge; instead it is a kind of trust that 212

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begins after the resolution of doubt.105 One comes to believe or have faith in something not because of a lack of evidence but because one trusts in empirical data or in the testimony of others who are presumed to have that data themselves.106 Kashiwabara is repudiating the generally Protestant conception of faith as being beyond reason or evidence. Instead, he is standing up for what I take to be a common Japanese premodern conception of “belief” as a kind of “true-entrusting.”107 Additionally, Kashiwabara distinguishes between different kinds of epistemological commitments, ranging from deep to shallow forms of belief.108 Even the deepest of these commitments can be challenged by a shift in popular consensus, so Kashiwabara argues that it is the duty of the state to intervene in belief. He reads Nishi as advocating a human right to ignorance, under the guise of religion. This Kashiwabara takes to be fundamentally regressive. While in the West people may be allowed to believe as they choose, Kashiwabara argues that Westerners are capable of permitting freedom of religion because they have already eliminated the worst types of “savage religions” (hiya no kyo¯mon).109 In Japan, however, “there are many foolish men and women who are addicted to and confused by heresy [jakyo¯].”110 Kashiwabara goes on to argue that while his colleague suggests that people should have the right to believe as they please even if the objects of their reverence are false or nonexistent, “this is like having a blind man select colors.”111 It is the government’s role to act like good parents and guide the ignorant away from false beliefs and guide them toward the truth. For Kashiwabara, this guidance is itself the essence of religion—not faith. He argues, “the fundamental principle of religion is to search for the truth by frustrating evil [ja], rejecting lewdness [in], and casting out falsehood.”112 Religion is founded on a quest for truth and the repudiation of falsehood and evil. This focus is identical to the project of the Enlightenment and is essential to human nature. “Men should never be without religion even for a day,” as it provides our principle system of guidance in the world and therefore is what distinguishes us from animals.113 Because the government’s main duties are legislation and education, Kashiwabara argues, “Religion has the same end as government.”114 This is the case, because there can be no foundation of laws without a true sense of the good, and hence, the state cannot stand on a fundamental ethical ambivalence. Moreover, as he contends in a later essay, insofar as a government represents the will of the people, it rests on the same epistemological foundation as they do. If people believe in supernatu213

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ral “foxes, badgers, trees, and stones,” the government will be rooted in supernatural foxes, badgers, trees, and stones.115 Accordingly, people should not be allowed to believe as they please.116 Instead, an enlightened government must commit itself to enlightening the people, and it cannot permit false beliefs in the name of “freedom.” In sum, Kashiwabara is advocating something that looks like the religious policy of the early Meiji, although without its specific emphasis on Shinto, with the assumption that religion describes the real world. According to this view, religion has nothing to fear from science or civilization. Indeed, it is hard to distinguish from either of them. Put differently, religion is not a domain distinct from scientific knowledge. It should not be separated from education. In an idealistic sense, it seems to be the duty of the state to promote the truth to its people, and this truth will be compatible with some religious aims and not others. But it is not the duty of the state to protect what it regards as human ignorance or knowledge of the unknown. His definition of religion, however, does not seem to have taken hold. It exists merely as an occluded possibility neglected, like Kashiwabara himself, in the historiography of Japanese modernization. Mori Arinori: Bounded Freedom Ultimately, Mori Arinori (1848–1889), the founder and onetime president of the Meiroku Society, weighed in on the debate about the nature of “religion.”117 Mori was born to a well-to-do samurai family in modern-day Kagoshima Prefecture. In 1865, he was dispatched as a student to University College London. When his funds were cut off by the political turmoil of the late 1860s, Mori traveled to Brocton, New York, and spent a year living in a religious community established by spiritualist mystic Thomas Lake Harris (1823–1906) and loosely based on the teachings of Emmanuel Swedenborg. After his domain gained prominence following the restoration, Mori was made Japan’s first ambassador to the United States (1871–1873). At various times, he was also posted to China and Great Britain. Later in life, Mori would serve as minister of education in two different Japanese administrations.118 With his intense engagement with Western religion, albeit an unorthodox American Swedenborgianism, Mori was uniquely qualified to articulate a position on the issue informed by Euro-American thought. During his time in America, he had already written on religion in English, publishing Life and Resources in America (1871) and Religious Freedom in Japan (1872). The latter was likely authored for a diplomatic 214

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purpose to demonstrate Japan’s potential commitment to religious freedom and dismiss obstacles to the importation of Christianity into Japan.119 Religious Freedom in Japan has overwhelmingly influenced later readings of Mori’s goals, especially in English-language scholarship, such that Mori is identified almost exclusively with the advocacy of religious freedom.120 A closer reading of his writing for Japanese audiences in the Meiroku Zasshi, however, suggests a more complicated position. Mori presented his 1874 article titled “Religion”—using shu¯kyo¯, the term that would become standard—as merely a pastiche translation of Western writings on religion and the state. Mori begins by restating what he understands to be the stances of his dialogue partners: While Tsuda [Mamichi] holds that the soundest policy is to select the best religion in the world and establish it as our national church, Nishi [Amane] believes that the meritorious plan is permanently to establish religious liberty and completely separate church and state in according with the respective principles of religion and government. I feel that religious matters should be left to the individual preference of the people since the government’s responsibility is only to protect human life and property.121

In this paragraph it seems clear that Mori is trying to distinguish his position from the promotion of a national creed advocated by Tsuda. This is not unexpected. More surprisingly, Mori also sees his stance as different from Nishi’s guarantees of religious liberty. Mori seems to be agreeing that the government should not meddle in matters of conscience and that the state should be actively agnostic in terms of religion, which is purely a private matter. This is not a guarantee of religious freedom as such, because it also guarantees something stronger. It is close to Nishi’s position, but it is worth addressing their points of divergence. For Mori, what is being guaranteed is not religious freedom as much as religious noninterference. Although subtle, this is a stronger claim and seems not only to discourage the government from intervention in religious matters but also to assert an individual’s right not be pressured by religious leaders.122 This means that religion must be staged as much as possible in the private rather than public sphere. This is an even more radical exile of religion from politics than articulated in most Western European countries. It requires that the state should not educate on religious matters and should work to prevent religious conflict or the imposition of religious ideas by other actors, particularly as they impact human life and property. 215

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To clarify his position, Mori begins “Religion” with a long summary of Emmerich de Vattel’s Le Droit des gens (1758).123 Here Mori is tactically using the discourse of European international law to construct a policy internal to Japan that would allow it to address its own concerns. As paraphrased, Vattel’s position begins, “Religion that abides in the hearts of men is indeed a spiritual matter, but it becomes the business of the state once it is publically established in the open.”124 Mori’s interpretation of Vattel culminates in the following claim: Government never has any duties in religious matters that relate to more than their external forms. The inner heart of religion is the concern of individuals themselves. None should be able to persecute or control the faith of an individual unless it disrupts and obstructs society. Nor should men be punished for developing their private opinions unless these opinions incite others and create factionalism.125

What Mori is advocating is a rigorous distinction between the internal or private affairs of religion and the external or public activities of religion. As this distinction would become central to the freedom of religion clause in the Japanese Constitution of 1889, it is worth noting that this distinction is true to Vattel, who stated: Religion consists in the doctrines concerning the Deity and the things of another life, and in the worship [Fr., le Culte] appointed to honor the Supreme Being. In so far as it is located in the heart, it is an affair of conscience, in which every one ought to be directed by his own understanding; but so far as it is external and publicly established, it is an affair of state.126

In effect, Vattel is articulating a firm division between internal religion based on an inward worship of God, and an external public form of religion, which is subject to regulation. This argument reaffirms one aspect of Nishi’s emphasis on regulation that perhaps otherwise might have been overlooked. It represented both in Vattel and in Mori the articulation of a particular subjectivity or inward dimension of religion, which, although nominally a domain of freedom, actually facilitated the construction of greater government interference in the affairs of life. By working to ban or curb those aspects of religion that are public and so at least potentially disruptive, this is a move that fits Asad’s model of secularism in that it seems to permit only those external forms of religion that render it serviceable to the state.127 In sum, Mori seems to have imported the Western conception of

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religion of the period, equating it to the recognition and worship of a divinity or a supreme being. Mori goes on to paraphrase Cicero, “men alone among animals acknowledge the existence of God and . . . even rude barbarians, the rightness of their gods aside, invariably recognize the worship of gods.”128 Indeed, as Mori would later remark in an address to prefectural officials in 1887, religion and the desire to worship are built into all human beings.129 In Mori’s work, at least the Western theocentric concept of religion with all its baggage, faults, and artificial distinctions seems to have at last arrived in Japan. Concluding the Debate Mori’s essay was far from the last word on the subject of religion in the Meiroku Zasshi, and even the terminology for translating “religion” was far from stable. Kato ¯ Hiroyuki proposed a particularly interesting alternate term in a three-part essay on church and state in America (Beikoku seikyo¯). Although represented as a translation of American laws, Kato¯ chooses to translate the English “religion” with the Japanese shinto.130 Although not necessarily Kato ¯ ’s original intent, this renders freedom of religion as a possibility that occurs within Shinto. Religious freedom becomes the ability of the individual to choose the god one wishes to worship. While consistent with one aspect of the Western concept of religion and its emphasis on the worship of gods, it also subverts another claim, which is that there is a tight connection between these deities and particular belief systems. Although Kato¯’s translation of religion using shinto was the exception rather than the norm, I would like to emphasize that in the limited spread of the Meiroku Zasshi, there were at least ten different translation terms proposed for “religion,” each located within its own semantic field. While later in the period the term shu¯kyo¯ would come to predominate, there remained a significant struggle for meaning as different thinkers attempted to grapple with the full range of meaning of “religion.” One summary of the Meiroku Zasshi’s debate on religion can be found in an essay contributed by Sugi Ko¯ji (1828–1917). In the third installment of a multipart essay titled “Human Social Intercourse,” Sugi devotes a few paragraphs to the discussion of religion (shinkyo¯). He begins by defining it as an innate belief in God (or gods) that compels man to virtuous conduct.131 While Sugi believed that religion was basically good, there was also an aberrant form (ikyo¯) that was fundamentally bad:

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Endeavoring to replace the affairs of the human world with those of the other world, they misled society along the heretical path of devils and witches [yo¯reikima no jado¯], as if society were condemned to a dream shrouded in mist.132

Sugi is transposing to religion the old distinction between a positively valenced Buddhism and a negatively valenced heretical or imitation Buddhism. We have a true “religion” focused on virtue and God, and false or imitation religion focused on the other world and warding off the demonic. Sugi later called this false religion “superstition” (meishin). While religion is basically good, superstitions are dangerous and must be weeded out if the seeds of civilization are to be planted in Japan. As the later contributor Sakatani Shiroshi (1822–1881) would summarize, monsters, ghosts, and supernatural foxes were the old “expedients of religion” (kyo¯mon no ho¯ben).133 While at the moment people believed in demons, these superstitions vanish with the advancement of civilization, only to be replaced by modern demons (like drug addiction).134 In conclusion, far from passively receiving Euro-American systems of knowledge, the contributors to the Meiroku Zasshi made three important tactical contributions to the invention of religion in Japan. First, unlike Fukuzawa and Kume, they praised religion as an essential aspect of Western civilization and stressed its social function by portraying its role in encouraging moral behavior. For most of the Meiroku Society, religion could be a tool to control the hearts of the people and to unify the morale of the nation. Given this positive valence, religion no longer appeared to be a danger to the state. In fact, it was generally described as an integral part of the larger complex of Western ideas and institutions whose emulation had become a national objective in the 1870s. Second, most contributors reinforced a distinction between religious beliefs to be encouraged by the state and superstitions to be strongly discouraged as threats to public order. This linguistic division served the crucial purpose of excluding delusional beliefs and indigenous practices like spirit possession from discussions of freedom of religion. Finally, they began to articulate the ideological rationale for the Meiji government’s reclassification of Buddhism, Shinto, and Christianity. These arguments provided a framework through which the state could manipulate the category “religion” for its own purposes by rhetorically embracing freedom of religion, while discourage anything it wished to label as superstition. Indeed, it was the duty of the state to define religion in order to mold the hearts and minds of the people. As will be seen in the next chapter, religion was articulated as the paradoxical

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intersection of internal conscience and external association, both of which could be subtly regulated by the state. A Buddhist Shinto Postscript An additional piece of the puzzle—what to do about Shinto—was articulated by an influential Japanese leader who was not part of the Meiroku Society, Shimaji Mokurai (1838–1911).135 A Buddhist Nishi Honganji priest, Shimaji had been sent by his sect to Europe as part of a parallel delegation to the Iwakura mission. Initially, Shimaji had been a supporter of the government’s campaign to promulgate a Shinto modernity.136 However, as the Ministry of Doctrine increasingly came to emphasize the incompatibility of Shinto and Buddhism, Shimaji began looking for another solution. In due course, this led to the production of his most famous work, an essay titled “A Petition in Criticism of Teaching Based on the Three Slogans” (Sanjo¯ kyo¯soku hihan kenpakusho).137 Written in 1872 while Shimaji was in Paris discussing religion with Rosny, this work called for the end of the Great Promulgation Campaign. It did so in novel terms. In broad strokes, like many of the Meiroku authors, Shimaji called for a differentiation between teachings and government. In essence, he argued for a bifurcation of the old meaning of oshie (teaching) in order to facilitate the construction of the secular-religion binary. He also argued for an alternate place for Shinto with regard to this distinction; he was advocating for what I call the Shinto secular. Although I’ve staged this category in a preceding chapter, let us track Shimaji’s formulation of it. Shimaji proposed a division between the political and commonly practiced elements of Shinto on the one hand, and the doctrinal forms of Shinto, including in his estimation most of its particular pantheon, on the other. In Shimaji’s estimation, the essential part of Shinto was that which was compatible with Christianity or Buddhism. In essence, this is a Shinto secular understood in common core terms. In the same breath that he constructed this vision of secular politics, Shimaji constructed a category of religion (shu¯kyo¯). These category formations were entangled. He advocated a meaning for “religion” that would be complementary to, but at the same time independent from, the Meiji ideological project. In effect, the existence of “religion” was premised on its differentiation from both education and politics. In other words, the formation of the Shinto secular was a necessary precondition for religious tolerance. In exchange for embracing a Shinto

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secular-religion dichotomy, a depoliticized Buddhism could then enter into free competition with Christianity for an alternate religious “space” in the heart of the Japanese people.138 Crucially, Shimaji was able to frame this as plausible on the authority of European materials and one cannot overestimate its importance in giving birth to the Shinto secular.139

Inventing “Japanese Religions” One hears of the San-kyau [sic] or the three teachings [Fr., les Trois Enseignements] as the expression by which travelers [to Japan] have come to designate [its] three cults. From this has arisen an error that has been propagated in almost all the books that speak about Japan. One reads invariably that there are three religions of that country—the Religion of Spirits (kami no miti [sic]), Confucianism (zyu-tau [sic]) and Buddhism (hotoke no miti [sic]). Thus [leading to] a host of errors and misunderstandings. L É O N D E R O S N Y, C O N G R È S I N T E R N AT I O N A L D E S O R I E N TA L I S T E S , 1 8 7 3

To return to the incident that began this chapter, in his famous lecture describing the shape of the nascent field, Léon de Rosny summarized European writings about Japanese religion before 1873, arguing that were rooted in the claim that there were three Japanese religions (sankyo¯): Shinto, Confucianism, and Buddhism.140 As Rosny argued, this model was incorrect. The term Oshiye [sic] indicates not a “religion” but rather a philosophy or a teaching.141 Rosny, like many members of the Meiroku Society, would ultimately exclude all three from the list of “Japanese religions.” In fact, as we shall see in a moment, the position Rosny finally advocated would in large part mirror Shimaji Mokurai’s proposal to the Japanese government of less than a year earlier. Rosny was not a consultant for the Japanese state, nor did he understand himself to be parroting what was soon to be the official Meiji stance, nor was his position merely a coincidence. While I have thus far presented the Meiroku Society and the Congrès International des Orientalistes separately, closer analysis reveals them to be significantly enmeshed. Not only were Fukuzawa and Rosny friends, but the treasurer of the Meiroku Society was one of Rosny’s collaborators.142 Even more strikingly, Japanese scholars were members of both bodies, Tanaka Fujimaro (1846–1909), for example, whose paper was presented in the same panel as Rosny.143 Expanding the scale beyond two learned societies provides even more evidence for the transnational nature of this intellectual discourse. To provide one more example, Max Mül-

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ler, the so-called founder of comparative religion, knew Mori Arinori and the two discussed Japanese religion and even translation terms for God.144 These are just some of the interactions we have on record. It seems clear that Japanese scholars articulating “religion” in Japan were profoundly connected to the Europeans and Americans who were articulating “Japanese religions” abroad. As one would expect, “Japanese religions” prove to be the product of this larger transnational network. We can see some small evidence for this in Rosny’s summary of Japanese religions: The doctrine of sprits [Shinto] is a sort of hero worship focused on semi-historical [figures] of national antiquity. This worship can be easily combined with any religion. . . . The doctrine of Confucianism has long been, in Japan, the doctrine of freethinkers [Fr., esprits forts], from it come skeptics and those who are indifferent to religious matters. For them there is no worship, no gods, [and] no idols. . . . The doctrine of Buddhism alone can be considered a Japanese religion; but, as we all know, it is a foreign religion, imported from Korea and established, not without difficulty, in the Island Empire.145

Rosny excludes all three teachings from the category “Japanese religion.” First, Confucianism is excluded from “religion” as a secular philosophy of government and ethics. Rosny echoes both a long history of enlightenment thought and the remarks of Japanese thinkers, including his friend Fukuzawa. In Japan, ultimately this preserved a limited place for a form of Confucian ethics as part of a national system of education. In the West, however, this meant that by and large Confucianism was treated as an outmoded philosophy and not a religion. Second, Rosny excludes Shinto from the category because it is merely a form of patriotism and, more significantly, everyone—even Japanese Christians—could potentially practice Shinto. While arguments for the Shinto secular should no longer be surprising from Japanese intellectuals, it is significant that a European Orientalist is propounding them. In this, Rosny is echoing Shimaji’s argument very closely. Indeed, it seems that the Shimaji was right about what Europeans would be willing to accept. Third, for Rosny, only Buddhism could potentially be a religion in the French sense, but because of its foreign origins, it is not Japanese. For many Europeans, this meant a dismissal of Japanese Buddhism as superstitious and not really Buddhist, an attitude shared by a number of Japanese thinkers who argued that Buddhism was not truly Japanese

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and not even truly a religion. For Shimaji, it meant that one could articulate a pan-Asian Buddhism, which Japanese Buddhism could then lead. However, what it meant to Rosny is more of a surprise. Rosny would later remark on what he saw as the striking similarities between Christianity and Buddhism and conclude that primitive Christianity was Buddhist in origin.146 In making an argument common to Japanese Buddhist heresiography, we have a strange reappearance of an old exclusive similarity, now issuing from the pen of French intellectual and used to defamiliarize the religious foundations of his own culture. What is more, Rosny seems to have taken this claim to heart and personally embraced a Bouddhisme éclectique in his own life.147 Instead of a European hegemonic imposition over Japan, it looks like Rosny is merely repeating the opinions of his Japanese interlocutors. Indeed, we might go so far as to say that it was Rosny whose subjectivity was colonized by Japanese Buddhism, not the other way around.

The most important claim I want to make with this chapter is basic but worth dwelling on: during the 1870s, there was still no obvious Japanese term for “religion.” This is clear evidence that it is glib to talk of Japanese religion projected back through the centuries. When faced with the European term, even Japanese scholars educated abroad had to go searching for equivalents, and they proposed several different contenders and tried to hang different understandings of religion upon them. Insofar as the debate focused on freedom of religion, it meant that there were, in effect, different freedoms on offer. Japan could have freedom of shinto; it could have freedom of ho¯kyo¯; it could have freedom of kyo¯mon; it could have freedom shu¯kyo¯; and so forth. Writing for a moment not as a historian but as a scholar of lost possibilities, I would like to speculate on what these different freedoms might have meant. Freedom of shinto is the most obvious. In the act of guaranteeing freedom of religion as shinto, the Japanese government could have hierarchically included all “religions” into the Shinto institution. This might have functioned on one level as a polytheistic pluralism in which one had the freedom to erect shrines to any deity and to worship the deity of one’s choice. Christianity, brought under this banner, could have been treated as a sect of Shinto, as another god among many. However, this would have in effect denied the denials of monotheism and discouraged religious exclusivity. The Japanese state could have understood guarantees of religious freedom as meaning that one 222

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did not have the power to restrict followers to one creed or to proselytize against another. Freedom of ho¯kyo¯ (“law” and “teachings”), understood in Tsuda Mamichi’s terms, would have represented the hierarchical pluralism of a state church. It could have been freedom in the face of established law (ho¯) and established teachings (kyo¯). The emperor and court could have converted to Christianity (or some other creed), and that would have served as the legal and educational foundation of the nation and the vessels of public enlightenment. Schools could have been organized to include some of the elements of this ho¯kyo¯, but dissent or the selection of a recognized alternative church could have been possible for Japanese subjects. By contrast, freedom of kyo¯mon (“gate” and “teachings”), as represented by Nishi Amane, would have prevented the state from propagating anything for which it did not have scientific evidence, and citizens would have been allowed to base their faith on anything outside the realm of human knowledge. This kyo¯mon would have become increasingly restricted as scientific knowledge continued to advance. Freedom of shu¯kyo¯ (“sect” and “teachings”) could have meant the freedom to privately commit to the teachings (kyo¯) of a recognized sect (shu¯). Notice that I use the conditional “could” for shu¯kyo¯, as well. Despite shu¯kyo¯ becoming the standard term for religion, what the Japanese state ultimately guaranteed in its constitution was yet a different freedom entirely, a freedom it marked by the nonstandard shinkyo¯. Moreover, from the outset this freedom was described as interior, private, and bounded; legally it was distinguished from superstition. The following chapter will trace these policy decisions and their implications.

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Religion within the Limits At about eight in the morning of February 11, 1889, Mori Arinori, the Japanese minister of education and founder of the Meiroku Society, was dressed in his most formal clothing. He was preparing for a ceremony at the Imperial Palace to celebrate the official promulgation of the Japanese Constitution, the first of its sort in East Asia. This was a landmark day for the whole nation, and Mori might have been particularly happy to see that a freedom of religion clause was being included in the final text.1 As he finished getting ready, Mori was interrupted by his assistant. He was told that a young man named Nishino Buntaro¯ was outside claiming to need to talk to him urgently about an impending assassination plot.2 Mori seems to have treated the matter with some skepticism and told his assistant to question Nishino further. Later, as he crossed Nishino’s path on his way to his carriage, he had no idea that the young man was not his protector, but his death. By the time Mori saw the knife it was too late. While Mori was bleeding to death in his parlor, the Japanese emperor was preparing to make an oath to the gods at the Three Shrines of the Imperial Palace (Kyu¯chu¯sanden).3 The ceremony was timed to coincide with the official anniversary of the founding of Japan by the mythical Emperor Jimmu, rhetorically linking the modern constitution to a Shinto past. The ceremony began with the emperor offering a sacred branch at the shrine dedicated to the sun goddess Amaterasu and proclaiming an oath to his divine ancestress; official messengers were tasked with communicating this oath and the new constitution to the gods 224

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of the land in rituals in shrines from Iwakisan in Aomori to Kirishima in Kagoshima, and of course at Ise.4 Wrapped in the outward form of the Shinto secular and enshrining a National Science–inflected conception of imperial sovereignty, the Japanese Constitution of 1889 also protected religious freedom. In this regard, the constitution was the culmination of a long process begun with the international treaties of the 1850s. It in effect produced religion as a Japanese legal category. While the last chapter addressed the intellectual history of religion in Japan and the process by which it was distinguished from superstition, this chapter discusses the implementation of freedom of religion as a matter of policy. The advantage of turning to laws instead of academic journals is that laws oblige a government to make concrete its metaphysics. In formulating laws to guarantee (and inevitably limit) freedom of religion, the Meiji state was forced to indicate what it took religion to mean.5 This chapter will explore the official definition of religion and look for the contradictions and impasses built into its legal construction. A short last section will address the staging of this category abroad in the formation of religious studies as an academic discipline in Japan. Both Talal Asad and Isomae Jun’ichi have argued that the secular emplacement of toleration reduces religion to mere “beliefs.” Asad in particular has argued that the secular state, recognizing that “belief cannot be coerced,” permits religion only in the private sphere. On the whole, I agree that the modern state reduces religion to belief and that toleration is an attempt to assure its subjects that their beliefs—and only their beliefs—are free. I also agree that defining religion as a particular type of interiority enables the state to extend its power in new ways and contributes to generating a newly depoliticized and private term called religion. In contrast to Asad and Isomae, however, I see this as only part of a dual structure. To simplify, on one level, religion is produced as a subset of beliefs, whose freedom is protected. Yet, in the same moment, belief is seen as capable of coercion; the state merely agrees not to force a certain creedal subset. The modern nation-state is predicated on its ability to produce a particular type of subject or citizen. Hence, the state differentiates between true beliefs (i.e., facts or political facts) and false beliefs, both of which are conditioned through a process of enculturation and education. Put differently, through public ritual practices (like the Pledge of Allegiance), national festivals, and national education, the state is invested in modifying the beliefs of its subjects via 225

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disciplining processes that work on the body and the mind simultaneously. Moreover, through banning certain superstitions and regimenting “insanity,” the state is also committed to a kind of mental hygiene. Thus, the seeming dualism of mind and body, mapped onto belief and practice—believe what you want, but do what we tell you—is merely a rhetorical strategy to guarantee a freedom that the state is already committed to limiting. Asad and Isomae have overlooked something else: “religion” is constructed not as a belief but as membership in a recognized institution. This is true because of the most fundamental paradox of religious belief—the state knows that a given belief is “religious” (instead of, say, delusional) because it is connected to the doctrines of a constituted body. A person’s most private convictions are legally validated only through their social connections. The practice of going to church, for example, is seen as legitimating a particular kind of belief. But not anything can be a church. This was not unique to Japan; many modern nation-states regulate the legal standings of churches or distinguish between protected religions and banned “cults.”6 Internal convictions are often framed by external controls. This chapter will flesh out that argument.

Internal Convictions Religious belief, as a matter of internal conviction concerning the relations between God and man, is in itself purely spiritual and confined to the human soul. H E R M A N N R O E S L E R , CO M M E N TA R I E S O N T H E CO N S T I T U T I O N O F T H E E M P I R E O F J A PA N , 18 91

The imperial constitution of 1889 is one of the most studied texts in modern Japanese history. The details of its composition have been extensively researched.7 Its article guaranteeing religious freedom has also attracted its share of attention.8 Scholars and journalists writing on the subject both in 1889 and today have been generally divided into two camps. Initially, many praised Japan for its liberalism, as it was one of few countries at that time to guarantee religious freedom.9 By contrast, more recently there has been a tendency to interpret the constitution as authoritarian and to emphasize that, despite its assurances of freedom, Japan has enshrined State Shinto.10 Here I thread the needle between those two positions by demonstrating that the Meiji constitution was in line with European constitutions of the era. I also show how this sort of constitutional tolerance, in Japan as elsewhere, produces religion as a paradoxical kind of interior belief, recognized 226

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by institutional association, and bounded on both sides by state truths and banned superstitions. The process of formulating the Meiji constitution began in 1872. In that year, the Japanese diplomat and legal scholar Aoki Shu ¯zo¯ was commissioned by the influential statesman Kido Takayoshi to begin drawing up Japan’s first draft constitution. As Abe Yoshiya and John Breen have both argued, freedom of religion was already recognized as a potential problem in this regard.11 Accordingly, Aoki consulted with Prussian legal scholar Rudolf von Gneist (1816–1895), seeking advice about how the Japanese state should deal with religion. Von Gneist advised Aoki to prohibit Catholicism and establish Buddhism as a state religion.12 When completed in 1873, the relevant articles of Aoki’s draft constitution read as follows: Article 12: It shall be prohibited to believe [shinko¯ suru] in Christianity and other [foreign] religious doctrines [shu¯shi]. Article 13: In the nation of Japan, Buddhism [Shakakyo¯ ] shall be the chief religious doctrine [shu¯shi] of belief [shinko¯ ].13

I would like to emphasize two points about these articles. First, they attempt to intervene directly in the area of “belief” (shinko¯). Second, the text describes a new position for Buddhism in the state as the primary religious doctrine of the Japanese people. In so doing, Aoki is not abolishing the Shinto secular. He is not putting Buddhist legitimating principles into place as an alternative locus of Japanese sovereignty or political ritual. Rather, following the Prussian model, the articles would have established a Buddhist church as a distinct state institution. This constitution was, however, was never promulgated. Over the next seventeen years, more than twenty-eight different versions of the constitution were drafted. These draft constitutions generally contained articles guaranteeing religious freedom.14 The most significant exception was a brief draft constitution, Kokken Taiko¯, written in 1880 by the emperor’s Confucian tutor and court advisor, Motoda Eifu (1818–1891). This text is worth dwelling on for a moment as a lost possibility, as much for what it does not say as for what it does: Article 3: Benevolence, righteousness, rites, humility, loyalty, filial piety and honesty shall be the basic principles of the national teaching [kokkyo¯ ]. The conduct of ruler and ruled, high and low, the constitutional government, and its laws shall all accord with these principles. 227

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Article 5: The Emperor shall have the authority to govern and instruct [chikyo¯ ] the whole nation.15

Scholars have accused Motoda of attempting to set up Confucianism as a state religion, and indeed, kokkyo¯ is often translated as such.16 This translation is particularly implausible here. Motoda is not attempting to give priority to Confucianism or any other religious institution, nor is he saying that there would be only one religion in Japan. Instead Motoda is using oshie in its older Chinese resonance as a system of politics and ethics promulgated by the sovereign (see article 5). In essence, the text argues that a set of virtues or ethical principles (largely Confucian in origin) should be the starting point for national ethics, politics, and education, and therefore should serve as the basis for the conduct of ruler and ruled. Motoda’s proposal looks more like an aggressively secular state founded on cardinal ethical principles than a classical theocracy. Despite Motoda’s influence, however, there is no evidence that his proposal was taken seriously. More representative of the religious freedom in these draft constitutions might be the Nihon Kokken An. This draft was written by a special four-person committee of the Japanese Senate (Genro ¯ in), commissioned in September 1876.17 The relevant article, which was explicitly modeled on Prussian, Austrian, and Danish constitutions, read as follows: Article 14: Japanese subjects shall have the freedom to observe the religion [shu¯shi] in which they believe [shinko¯ ]. However, any such [religion] which is an obstacle [bo¯gai] to civil or governmental affairs is prohibited.18

Like many of the other draft constitutions, this text explicitly articulates religion in terms of belief, in essence granting Japanese subjects a particular kind of interiority. This text also makes explicit one of my larger points about the nature of this freedom. It bifurcates religious beliefs into permitted and prohibited forms, stating bluntly that some religious beliefs can obstruct state policy and that such beliefs are prohibited. This article shows, in stark terms, that religious freedom only covers those religions or religious beliefs that do not impede state power. One might argue that because beliefs cannot be coerced, the state may as well respect their freedom. While clearly the state cannot read minds, the regulation of beliefs is far from a moot point. Beliefs can be regulated only in their expression, but this article assumes that such regulation is possible. This assumption about the regulation of belief is true of both the freedoms guaranteed and the freedoms denied. 228

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Indeed, this draft constitution was far from exceptional, and many of the twenty-eight draft constitutions use variations on this theme, bifurcating belief into permitted and prohibited manifestations.19 Although they did so with slightly different terminology, as by the late 1870s, the term shu¯kyo¯ had become the dominant translation term for religion. Over the following ten years no particular draft constitution gained sufficient traction to be promulgated, in part because a number of incompatible domestic and international constituencies needed to be appeased. By 1881, however, the power balance had stabilized sufficiently to legitimate a new constitutional committee, formed under the direction of Ito¯ Hirobumi (1841–1909), later Japan’s first prime minister. Ito¯ brought in two Prussian legal scholars—Hermann Roesler (1834−1894) and Albert Mosse (1846−1925)—to advise the official constitutional committee.20 Among the many thorny issues addressed by the committee during its two years of meetings, one of the most problematic was balancing the tension between promoting Shinto and granting freedom of religion.21 In its final form, the Japanese Constitution would firmly assert the divine descent of the emperor and root his authority in his embodiment of the will of heaven. Service to this imperial cult as a basic duty of all Japanese subjects would stand side by side with religious freedom as twin pillars of official policy. While scholars today have tended to see the balance between mythico-ideological sovereignty and religious freedom as a paradigmatically Japanese contradiction, when compared to other nineteenth-century constitutions (particularly when placed in the context of Roesler’s commentaries), the Japanese Constitution looks much less unusual.22 Scholars wishing to emphasize the Shinto aspect of the constitution have generally pointed to two of its articles: Article 1: The Empire of Japan shall be reigned over and governed by a line of Emperors unbroken for ages eternal. Article 3: The Emperor is sacred [shinsei] and inviolable.

At first pass a contemporary reader might see these as embodying Shinto mythology. Indeed, some scholars have charged these very articles with enshrining the Japanese emperor as a living god.23 The first article does explicitly evoke the Shinto National Science rhetoric of divine descent of the imperial line. Also, a reference document (sansho¯) 229

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distributed internally within the Japanese Privy Council during the debates about this draft of the constitution connects article three to the use of shinsei in the National Science classics.24 I will grant that these articles have been given a Shinto pedigree. As the same reference document notes, however, article three is identical to Japanese translations of the Austrian, Portuguese, and Spanish constitutions of the period.25 For example, article 48 of the Spanish Constitution of 1876 states: “La persona del Rey es sagrada e inviolable.” Here it is the European monarch who is “sacred and inviolable.” Moreover, in his commentary on the Japanese Constitution, Roesler states that article three—and indeed, the entire edifice of the sacred Japanese throne—are consistent with European norm: It rests upon the notion of the divine nature and origin of the supreme power which is testified by the Christian as well as by every other religious belief and is only denied by philosophical freethinkers. It is an express rule of the Christian faith that submission is due to the supreme power because it is instituted by God himself. The Emperor holds His power from Heaven through the medium of His glorious ancestors, but not from any human authorization or concession; consequently He cannot be held responsible to His subjects, but to Heaven alone.26

In most of this passage, Roesler could as easily be writing about the Prussian kaiser or frankly most of the monarchs in Europe.27 In a curious blending of Shinto and Christian theological language, he suggests that the emperor is answerable not to his subjects but to heaven alone. Strikingly, Roesler is transferring the divine right of kings to a non-Christian ruler. By linking European and Japanese legitimating principles, he argues that only a crass “freethinker” would reject the idea of divine sovereignty, Japanese or otherwise. As a phrase, “sacred and inviolable” functions similarly for European and Japanese rulers: in the European case, it cloaks the sovereign in a legal language explicitly redolent of Christian theology; in the Japanese case, it functions to articulate a legal basis for sovereignty in modified Shinto terms.28 One could argue that the European language is nothing more than legal boilerplate. This is precisely my point: in parallel to European secularization of Christian theological language to buttress the nation-state, Japanese leaders produced equivalent legal expressions rooted in transposed Shinto terms. These articles do not differ greatly from the legitimating principles accorded to European rulers, and so what scholars see as Shinto extremism turns out to be transplanted European monarchism.29

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The committee that produced these articles also worked to formulate an understanding of religious freedom that did not conflict with the obligatory public performance of state rituals. As we know from the committee’s records, the Privy Council was unconcerned about the odd Japanese subject who might refuse to attend an imperial festival, but they were preoccupied by the possibility that a certain interpretation of religious freedom might prevent a Japanese official, presumably a Christian convert, from participating in the necessary rites of state.30 Roesler provided a German draft of a toleration article: “The freedom of religious confession [religiösen Bekenntnisses] is guaranteed as long as it does not disrupt the public order or welfare, or prevent the fulfillment of obligations to the state.”31 Although reworded somewhat in the Japanese version, Ito¯ Hirobumi was able to convince the Privy Council that religious freedom would not conflict with official duties. His version of the article passed by eighteen votes in the thirty-person committee.32 The final language of article 28 of the Constitution of the Empire of Japan issued in 1889 stated: “Japanese subjects shall, within limits not prejudicial to peace and order, and not antagonistic to their duties as subjects, enjoy freedom of religious belief.” This article has been read as a restrictive clause that only superficially protected freedoms in order to promote State Shinto.33 Be that as it may, it should be noted that this was largely in line with other constitutions from the period: T H E CO N S T I T U T I O N O F N O R WAY (1814 )

Article 2: The Evangelical-Lutheran Religion remains the public Religion of the State. The inhabitants who profess it are obliged to educate their children in the same. Jesuits and [Catholic] monastic orders shall not be tolerated. Jews are still excluded from access to the kingdom.34 T H E CO N S T I T U T I O N O F P R U S S I A (18 5 0)

Article 12: Freedom of religious confession, of association in religious societies (Art. 30 and 31), and of the common exercise of religion in private and public, is guaranteed. The enjoyment of civil and political rights shall not be dependent upon religious belief. But the exercise of religious liberty shall not be permitted to interfere with the civil or political duties of the citizen. Article 14: The Christian religion shall be taken as the basis of those state institutions connected with the exercise of religion, notwithstanding the religious freedom [Religionsfreiheit] guaranteed by Article 12.35

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Article 11: The Catholic, Apostolic, Roman religion is that of the state. The nation agrees to maintain the church and its ministers. No one in Spanish territory will be persecuted [molestado] for his religious opinions or the exercise of his form of worship, provided he respects Christian morality. Not permitted, however, are other public ceremonies or events, which are not in [accord with] the state religion.36

I am not trying to idealize the Japanese Constitution. There were countries (such as France or the United States) that provided stronger guarantees of religious freedom.37 My point is that these counties were the exception rather than the norm by nineteenth-century standards. The Japanese Constitution is often compared to the Prussian one, as if to imply that both were drafted by protofascists destined for the Axis. But Prussia was a multiconfessional state, and its constitution afforded more religious liberties than many of its contemporaries did. The examples of Spain and Norway demonstrate the more typical case: a constitution that simultaneously established a state religion and provided for private religious freedom, or guaranteed religious freedom as long as it did not conflict with state interests.38 The first type produced a hierarchical pluralism in which one religion was the first among equals and in many cases the only lawful form of public religious expression. It was also not outside of bounds for countries like Norway to ban specific religious groups like Jesuits or Jews. Japan was unusual to the degree that it did not set up a state church. Had Japanese leaders wanted to do so they had plenty of precedents, but despite enshrining a Shinto secular, Ito ¯ Hirobumi explicitly rejected a state church.39 Still, Japan was not unusual in that it preemptively guarded against religious forms it deemed threatening. We might further ask, what did the Japanese Constitution understand religion to be? Although in their debates committee members used shu¯kyo¯ (sect teachings), the term then standard for religion, the constitution itself employs a different term, shinkyo¯ (lit., “belief teachings”). This term, which had been bandied about in the earlier debates of the 1870s, was used to mean something like “religious conviction.”40 The presence of this unusual terminology in the Japanese Constitution reinforces the point that what was guaranteed was a type of belief, located in a private sphere, not a freedom of association, political action or indeed anything that could be externalized in public. This construction of religion as belief was itself fairly novel, as neither Buddhism nor Sect Shinto had defined themselves in terms of a credo or body of belief.

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Thus, the constitution artificially bifurcated belief and practice, and then relegated religion to the former. Ito¯ Hirobumi further explicated the meaning of article 28 in an official commentary on the Japanese Constitution, which set legal precedents: [A]lthough internal [naibu] freedom of religious belief is complete and exempt from all restrictions, so long as manifestations of it are confined to the mind; yet with regard to external matters [gaibu] such as forms of worship and modes of propagation, certain necessary restrictions of law or regulations must be provided for, and besides, the general duties of subjects must be observed.41

Ito¯’s commentary utilizes this artificial binary between an internal world of belief and an external world of practice. Moreover, it is clear that religious beliefs as matters of conscience are completely free from restriction under the Japanese Constitution, but all possible means of their external expression are subject to regulation. A Japanese subject could think what he or she liked, but only insofar as the actions associated with those beliefs meshed with national obligations and publicly conceived reality. Nevertheless, despite the rhetoric of internal freedom, even the most private of beliefs was seen as subject to coercion. Having described the formation of religion as a legal category in the Japanese Constitution it is now our task to refine the argument about religion put forth by Talal Asad and, following him, Isomae Jun’ichi. Asad has argued that the modern idea of a secular society included a distinctive relation between state law and personal morality, such that religion became essentially a matter of (private) belief . . . the idea of religious toleration that helps to define a state as secular begins with the premise that because belief cannot be coerced, religion should be regarded by the political authorities with indifference as long as it remains within the private realm.42

Isomae has stated that following the principles of Western-style enlightenment, “religion” [shu ¯ kyo¯] was entrusted to the sphere of the individual’s interior freedom, while the ‘secular’ sphere of morality [do¯toku] was determined to be a national, and thus public, issue. With a clear differentiation between the religious and moral categories being made along the private–public dichotomy, Western modernity came to be com-

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prehended in terms of a dual structure. From the beginning, the very notion of an individual with an interiority was for the first time made possible as a form of self-understanding only through the transplantation of Christianity and the related concept of religion.43

Both scholars are right to emphasize the formation of the legal category of religion as a predicated on the construction of religion as a type of interior belief. At the very least, this is the kind of rhetoric that Ito¯ Hirobumi appealed to when granting and limiting religious freedom. I also agree that constructing religious freedom in those terms increases state power by relegating religion to private, rather than public, life. But I think things are even more restrictive than either Asad or Isomae have argued. Primarily this is because it seems both have taken too seriously the state’s attempt to construct a false Cartesian idea of the mind as an autonomous unit, such that an individual’s belief and practice (as well as public and private spheres) can be fundamentally distinguished. Surely both Asad and Isomae would be happy to see criticism of the idea of a unitary subject, but I want to go further and suggest that even the secular is fundamentally committed to a paradox in which an autonomous Cartesian subject is maintained at the very moment that it is being annulled. In parallel, the state produces a public-private dichotomy rhetorically while it is in the process of invalidating it. Fundamentally, I am objecting to Asad’s claim that secular states are premised on the idea that belief cannot be coerced, as well as to Isomae’s idea that the Japanese state was constructing simply a private-public dichotomy around the area of religion. Despite Ito ¯ Hirobumi’s articulation of the coordinated binaries belief-practice, internal- external, and public-private, these were false assurances. First, let me reiterate the basic point that what makes belief possible is habit: our fundamental choices of belief are continued by repeated actions whose genesis is already both obscured and conditioned.44 Put simply, the fact that John Smith is a Christian has more to do with the regular habit of church attendance from childhood than it does with Pascal’s “wager” to select belief in rational sense.45 I do not want to completely write off all self-fashioning or conversion; I am merely suggesting that even the most important of convictions is shaped by practices.46 This is relevant to the Japanese case, because the modern technocratic state is founded to at least some degree on education and hence is based on the assumption that people’s ideas can be altered by national policy. Toward this end, the state works to inculcate national truths and eliminate superstitions that it views as detrimental to 234

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its own order. Education implies that beliefs can be modified via practice, and therefore the newly asserted belief-practice dualism instantly breaks down. Second, what counts as a religious belief for these states is not internal conviction but external association with a recognized religion. The secular state is committed to recognizing a kind of conviction as free from state influence, but this internal belief is recognized only in outward form and via its association with a collective organization. A truly individual conviction is considered eccentricity or madness when it is not connected to a legally recognized community. Paradoxically, the Cartesian autonomous individual is only protected in communal form. This was just as true of the United States as it was of Meiji Japan. In the United States, the Draft Act of 1917 provided a statute for conscientious objectors who were members of “any well-recognized religious sect or organization . . . whose existing creed or principles forbid its members to participate in war.”47 A Quaker in good standing with his church would have been exempted from the draft, but someone who refused to go to war on the grounds of a personal revelation from God would have been denied. Even today in American states as different as New York and North Carolina one can receive a medical exemption from vaccination on religious grounds but not for moral or personal reasons. You can say no to vaccination as a member of the Church of Christ, Scientist, but if you object on the grounds that you think vaccination is harmful, unethical, or because demons told you it was bad, your petition would be rejected.48 What I want to emphasize is that in the process of identifying religious beliefs for the purposes of religious freedom, the state is committed to determining what counts as a legitimate religious belief, and it does so by giving priority to already established religious organizations and by excluding beliefs judged delusional or superstitious. Third, govermentality works in part by channeling human life into areas that it can manage and by allowing freedoms of expression and belief in areas that it does not care about (or at least areas in which it does not find itself in conflict). Beliefs are demarcated as religious precisely when their expression is irrelevant. This relates to a problem with Isomae’s attempt to map a distinction between ethics and religion on a public-private dichotomy. When the Meiji state began to promote ethics in textbooks, it committed itself to an intervention in private life. Ethics were nothing less than the alteration of individual beliefs and the transformation of relationships within individual homes and 235

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families. Moreover, the state intervened in beliefs when they were seen as obstructions. It banned as superstitions (or quarantined as madness) those beliefs that seemed to obstruct its biopolitical goals or its patriotic ceremonies. Religion turns out to be a very limited type of belief, indeed. In essence, belief is not free, and these nation-states know it. Belief is ever open to intervention.49 Even radical tolerance, as enshrined in the U.S. Constitution, can only protect a certain subset of beliefs that might be considered religious, and these, largely through reference to institutional affiliation. Religion is not what you think but what you practice and with whom you practice it. And these practices and institutions are regulated. Finally, and this is perhaps a rather philological point: the Meiji constitution uses not shu¯kyo¯ (sect and teaching), as Isomae suggests, but shinkyo¯ (belief and teaching). The basic binary distinction between public and private, between religion and ethics is not the point of the Meiji constitution. By using a nonstandard term for religion with belief in it, the Japanese state is producing a further distinction not quite as readily at hand in English. It distinguishes religion (shu¯kyo¯) understood in an institution or cultural sense as an external and religion (shinkyo¯) understood in terms of internal belief or conviction. While Ito¯ Hirobumi claims that shinkyo¯ is concerned with an internal world and free from regulation, shu¯kyo¯ is very different beast. Leaving internal convictions rhetorically (but not actually) free, the Japanese state would then set out to regulate external religious affiliations as a matter of course. All that remains is to show how this regulation was produced. The following will trace laws defining what counted as a legitimate religion and attempts to eliminate superstitions and heretics. None of this was seen as a violation of religious freedom.

External Controls In spite of these [legal] prohibitions, immoral and deviant religions have been growing steadily in recent times, causing no small injury through their superstitions. . . . If left to themselves, there is no telling how much harm may occur. ¯O ¯ NIPPO ¯ , NOVEMBER 22 , 189 9 “ P R OS EC U T I O N O F I M M O R A L A N D D E V I A N T R E L I G I O N S ,” T O

While the last section described the formation of a legal category of religion (shinkyo¯) as internal set of beliefs connected to an external religion (shu¯kyo¯), this section will trace the Japanese government’s at236

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tempts to regulate both.50 Each term can be seen as having its dangerous opposite. On the one hand, shinkyo¯, as permitted belief, could be contrasted with meishin (superstition or, lit., “errant belief”). On the other hand, shu¯kyo¯, as religious institution, could be contrasted with ruiji shu¯kyo¯ (pseudoreligion).51 Despite this new terminology, the ancestors of superstition and pseudoreligion can be seen in older attempts to regulate heresy. Hence this section will trace the Japanese state’s attempt to enact external controls over the dark negations of religion, as conceptions of heresy were articulated in new forms. Already in 1884, the Japanese state had begun to structure a patchwork of laws to legally recognize legitimate religious organizations.52 In the face of newly established freedoms being worked out in the 1889 constitution, the Japanese legal establishment began putting into place further laws to regulate religion and control its expression. This can be seen in an 1889 directive issued to the police for the regulation of temples, shrines, and churches. 5. Churches [kyo¯kai] or places for preaching [sekyo¯-sho] which are engaged in manufacturing or distributing Shinto or Buddhist prayer talismans or various titles for the purposes of encouraging wealth. Henceforth, these are banned. 6. Churches, places for preaching or otherwise used for the purpose of spells [kin’en], prayer rituals [kito¯ ], or for spreading slanderous theories [fusetsu], lies [mo¯go] or as place for deceiving [kyo¯waku] people. These are banned.53

Issued six months after the Japanese Constitution granted freedom of religion, these directives reinforced the seriousness of preexisting regulations for institutional religion. Even though freedom of belief had been acknowledged, the speech of religious leaders was not free; they needed to be monitored and controlled. The deceptive powers of charismatic leaders remained suspect, and the police were charged with preventing citizens from being swindled by peddlers of magical amulets and faith healing. The Japanese Constitution’s guarantees of religious freedom were further put to the test on January 9, 1891, when the educator and prominent Christian Uchimura Kanzo ¯ (1861–1930) refused to bow appropriately before an imperial image.54 He argued that his actions were justified by the Christian prohibition against idolatry and that his actions fell under the constitutional protection of religious freedom. Although seemingly trivial, this incident sparked a public controversy among educators and lawmakers, which in turn spawned the publica237

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tion of hundreds of articles and dozens of books. In the end, Uchimura Kanzo ¯ was pressured into resigning from his position as a teacher, an act that the state did not deem a violation of his freedom of religion. As this incident illustrates, the respectful treatment of the emperor was understood as a requirement of public order, not a matter of private belief. Over time, worries about religious extremists, charismatic authority, and heresy led to even greater restriction of the acceptable sphere of “religious beliefs.” Oddly enough, it was a novel that led most directly to the acceleration of the campaign to reign in “dangerous” false religions. Ko¯haku dokumanju¯ (The red and white poison buns), which first appeared in serial form between October and December of 1891 in the Yomiuri Shinbun newspaper, had a profound impact. The author, Ozaki Ko¯yo ¯ (1868–1903), was arguably the most popular writer of his era.55 He was guaranteed a fairly wide circulation even before he chose his sensational topic—sexual impropriety and the distribution of fake holy water by a greedy religious group he referred to as “Gyokurenkyo¯.”56 After the story’s publication, newspapers identified the inspiration for Gyokurenkyo¯ as the new religious movement Renmonkyo ¯ .57 Now extinct, Renmonkyo¯ was then one of the most dynamic religious movements in Japan. It reportedly boasted over nine hundred thousand followers, concentrated largely around Tokyo.58 Given that the group had been established only in 1883, this indicated remarkably rapid growth. Founded by a former shrine medium and diviner, Shimamura Mitsu (1831–1904), Renmonkyo ¯ was very loosely affiliated with the Shinto sect Taiseikyo ¯ . The focus of Renmonkyo ¯ ’s teachings was the miraculous power of the Lotus Sutra, which Shimamura regularly demonstrated through acts of faith healing. Several scholars have suggested that the sudden growth of the organization was connected, in particular, with the claim that its particular form of holy water (jinzui, shinsui) cured a range of illnesses, including the dreaded cholera.59 Renmonkyo¯’s rapid growth and focus upon faith healing may have been what initially attracted Ozaki Ko ¯ yo¯’s criticism. On March 28, 1892, the newspaper Yorozucho¯ho¯ sounded the same theme in an article titled “The Immoral Religion of the Renmonkyo¯ Church” (Inshi Renmonkyo¯kai).60 This was an exposé of the scandalous past of Renmonkyo¯ and Shimamura Mitsu, complete with revelations of sexual improprieties and the exploitation of popular superstitions for financial gain. The topic proved so popular that Yorozucho¯ho¯ turned it into a ninety-four-part series, which was picked up by a number of

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other newspapers and reproduced in sensationalistic pamphlets.61 In short order, a number of sectarian Shinto and Buddhist groups publicly distanced themselves from Renmonkyo ¯ , speaking out against it in lectures and articles with such titles as “The Extermination of a Superstitious Religion” (Yo¯kyo¯ taiji).62 While Renmonkyo ¯ attempted to sue for slander, the public outcry prompted an investigation by the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. Holy water was confiscated and reported to contain ammonia.63 Judged unsafe for drinking, its use was banned by the entire church. After a struggle between the Bureau of Shrines and Temples and Renmonkyo ¯ ’s affiliate organization Taiseikyo¯, Shimamura was stripped of her official religious status and most of the group’s preaching and religious activities were curtailed, which led to the death of the organization. Following the Renmonkyo ¯ incident, there was a public outcry against heretical cults (inshi jakyo¯) and pseudoreligions (ruiji shu¯kyo¯). This represents a return of Tokugawa heresiographical terminology now equated with the neologism “pseudoreligion.” Clearly this demonstrates that despite the new terminology, old anxieties persisted. These fears were exacerbated by popular opposition to a number of Meiji policies expressed by mediums under the influences of fox possession and oracular trance. They also resulted from suspicion of new religious movements (shinshu¯kyo¯ undo¯) in general. Less than one year after Renmonkyo¯ had been effectively destroyed, attention was placed on another group called Tenrikyo ¯ .64 Founded in 1838 by a woman named Nakayama Miki (1798–1887), Tenrikyo ¯ was based upon a revelation ¯ no Mikoto, that Nakayama received from a deity she called Tenri O which she transcribed in two books, Mikagura-uta and Ofudesaki.65 With these as its foundational texts, by the mid-Meiji era Tenrikyo ¯ had become one of the largest and most powerful new religious movements in Japan. After the Renmonkyo ¯ incident, Tenrikyo¯ was perceived as threatening because it was also a rapidly expanding organization that used holy water and magical healing in its system of practices. From 1893 to 1896, Tenrikyo¯ was subject to criticisms from established churches and the popular press who accused it of being superstitious and of taking advantage of its followers for financial gain.66 This criticism culminated in legal action on the part of the state. In April 1896, the Home Ministry issued a secret directive to prefectural governments to keep closer control of Tenrikyo ¯ . It did not remain secret for long, as the To-

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kyo Metropolitan Police Department issued their own policies in regard to it, and various presses confirmed its existence. Although it was not published widely at the time, the full text of the secret directive is now available.67 Contained within this document were accusations of improper commingling of male and female parishioners and the use of banned rituals for magical healing. Tenrikyo ¯ leaders felt that a response was essential if the organization was going to survive. To that end, they instituted a series of internal reforms, including getting out of the way of state medical policies by limiting distribution of amulets for painless childbirth and restricting the practice of faith healing to that performed with the consent of a doctor.68 They also reduced the presence of women and musical instruments in their evening rituals. These changes seemed sufficient to have prevented the dissolution of the organization, although public wariness of Tenrikyo ¯ was not completely eliminated. Articles attacking Tenrikyo¯ as superstitious continued to be printed in a variety of sources at least through the turn of the century.69 Having become a matter of public concern with the Renmonkyo ¯ incident, hostility and suspicion toward pseudoreligions and heretical cults persisted in the public arena.70 Banning various rituals and festivals did not seem to sufficient and, in the early 1890s, a number of influential members of the state reemphasized the value of education as a method for molding national character. While science and morality continued to be strongly advocated, a number of textbooks—public and private—began to advocate certain ideas and discourage others. By the turn of the century, banned beliefs were consistently grouped under the heading “superstition” (meishin), an important category in these textbooks. This trend became more significant after a series of scandals about bribery led to a change from the government endorsement of elementary school textbooks to their direct composition by government committee following April 13, 1903.71 This new round of government texts continued to provide basic scientific education and patriotic slogans, yet they also placed a new emphasis on the development of personal cultivation, producing a new place for it in the school curriculum under the heading “moral training” (shu¯shin). This type of ethics, borrowed from Neo-Confucian discourse, did not produce simplistic value distinctions but instead focused on the cultivation of specific virtues, such as benevolence and filial piety. For the first time, these textbooks also addressed one key popular concern only hinted at in their immediate predecessors, namely, superstitions. From 1903 to the end of the Second World War, 240

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elementary school children were taught to cultivate an awareness of superstition as a danger to be avoided. Alongside lessons based on stock phrases such as “honor your parents” (fubo o uyamau), one encounters “avoid superstition” (meishin o sakeyo).”72 In the context of shu¯shin ethics, avoiding superstition became a moral imperative. It meant that it was wrong to believe in superstitions; they were not just false, they were damaging to the nation and detrimental to the individual. It was not new to suggest that superstitions are bad for Japan because they impede progress; however, in these lessons, they are also described as poisonous to a person’s spirit (kokoro). According to one textbook from 1907, for example, superstitions damage people’s minds leading to fear and psychosomatic illness.73 Here again, madness and superstition fold in on each other. Children were discouraged from believing in superstitions and were counseled that spreading them was morally reprehensible. Further, these textbooks also attributed selfish motives to tales of the mysterious. In the words of one lesson, “Today, we will recount how people say various mysterious [fushigina] things with the intention of making a [financial] profit for themselves.”74 According to this account, something as simple as repeating a ghost story could have negative moral implications. For the benefit of the child and the community, one was encouraged to cultivate a form of skepticism. Yet this was not the skepticism associated with freethinking. These shu¯shin lessons discouraged the child from deciding on his or her own if something is true. Instead, as the following example illustrates, avoiding superstition meant the radical subordination of experience to a new sense of the real. According to a third grade textbook: In the world, wherever ghosts appear, or wherever there are people who say that they have seen monsters, they have created these things in their own minds. This is because so-called monsters and ghosts truly do not exist.75

In essence, “avoiding superstition” is an a priori dismissal of unusual experiences. It rests upon the assumption that universal laws are consistent and comprehensible, and that apparent perceptions of ghosts and monsters are nothing more than delusions.76 No matter what you think happened, you did not see a ghost. The cultivation of this attitude is the development of a sense of realism that has specific boundaries. It means believing in a particular idea of the everyday. It is no wonder that the spread of this new sense of realism occurs in the wake of 241

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realist fiction. Just as proponents of realist fiction argued for the elimination of the supernatural, ‘avoiding superstition’ meant cultivating a sense of reality impervious to experiences or perceptions that appear to contradict this. This sense of the everyday did not mean the complete exclusion of the invisible world. Again, the elimination of superstition was simultaneous to the promotion of the national gods and spirits of the war dead. One system of images and rituals was being banned at the expense of another. In order to distinguish the two, superstitions were identified with specific lists of nonexistent entities and ineffective rites. In these textbooks, enumerating superstitions was a taxonomic enterprise. Few sources fail to list beasts and practices relegated to the category of superstitions. Although there is some variation amongst lists, one key version appeared in the first government-sponsored ethics textbook in 1903 and was essentially unchanged from 1904 through 1912.77 It ran as follows: 1. Do not say that foxes or badgers deceive or possess people. 2. There is no such thing as winged goblins [tengu]. 3. There is no such thing as curses [tatari]. 4. Do not believe in dubious ritual prayers [kaji kito¯ ]. 5. Do not trust in the efficacy of magic or holy water. 6. Do not put your trust in divination, whether by written oracles, physiognomy, geomancy, astrology, or ink stamp. 7. It is wrong to be concerned with omens [engi] and auspicious or inauspicious days.78 8. Do not otherwise believe in anything that is generally similar to these things [mentioned above].79

The official dictionary of educational materials (Kokutei Sho¯gaku Kyo¯kasho Kakuka Kyo¯zai Jiten) issued in 1904 reproduces this list in a slightly altered form, adding ghosts, monsters, the dog-god, and humanfoxes.80 The composition of the original list reproduced in these official materials must have originated in the closed meetings of the Ethics Textbook Survey Commission (shu ¯shin kyo¯kasho cho¯sai iinkai) of 1900 through 1903; however, the inspiration for the various terms of ¯ (1858–1919), a member of the comthis list is unclear.81 Inoue Enryo mission, discusses this list in depth in his own publications, but he does not take credit for any aspect of its composition and even suggests amendments that he believes make it more effective.82 Nor does Inoue provide clues to external influences. But some precedents can be found 242

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in the writings of arch-modernizer Fukuzawa Yukichi and others associated with his movement. In Fukuzawa’s 1897 collection of essays, Fukuo¯ Hyakuwa (One hundred tales from old man Fukuzawa), an essay devoted to monomania (henkyo¯ no koto) addressed different kinds of psychological obsessions. After discussing paranoia, Fukuzawa discusses a form of mental illnesses resulting from a psychology trapped in a superstitious hell (meishin yu¯mei). This hell is described as rooted in divination practices including physiognomy and geomancy.83 Again, unreason is considered mental illness. Moreover, in an editorial appearing in Fukuzawa’s Jijishinpo¯ newspaper, in 1896, the list of false superstitions was expanded to include other forms of divination as well as curses by spirits living and dead, belief in the spirit of foxes and badgers.84 This provided a more proximate precedent to the list ultimately reproduced in government textbooks. Of all that could have been indicated as superstitions in the ethics textbook list—from demons to gods to unlucky numbers—some were probably not chosen for the list because they were unimportant (e.g., taboos surrounding the number 4 in Japanese) and others because they were ambiguous (e.g., the magical powers of saints). Upon analysis, this eclectic list produces three significant patterns, divided as follows: (1) the elimination of the demonic; (2) the elimination of the miraculous; and (3) the suspicion of fraudulent charismatic figures. In the mention of ghosts, monsters, the dog-god, winged goblins, and human-foxes, there seems to have been a conspicuous attempt to eliminate those supernatural creatures with dark or otherwise negative associations. At the same time, the ancestral spirits, gods, bodhisattvas, and angels more positively connected to established religious institutions have been ignored. The light of reason banished evil as nonexistent, while good remains a choice. Looked at another way, Buddhist and Christian groups are unlikely to have protested in the name of the devil or demons, but would likely have expressed their anger if Jesus or Amida had made it onto the list of superstitions. Furthermore, denying the efficacy of prayer rituals and magic is effectively a rejection of supernatural power. The miraculous has been abolished, whether its inspiration comes from a divine ancestor or a fox, while in the past there was a continuum of very real spiritual entities—from magical animals to demons to gods and buddhas.85 With the introduction of scientific authority, a wedge is driven between those creatures which are permitted to exist (such as the gods) and those that are eliminated. Even more strikingly, the supernatural enti243

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ties said to exist are prohibited from having any impact on the world.86 The gods have been exiled into an invisible realm, become increasingly irrelevant because they no longer impact the real world. The bans on holy water, prayer, and divination demonstrate that superstition and religion were close siblings in the eyes of the authors of these textbooks. All of these techniques were practices common to a range of Buddhist and Shinto religious professionals. Prohibiting them is part of the attempt to distinguish legitimate religion from “heretical cults.” This reinforced the control of prophecy and religious authority by the state and discredited a number of previously active sources of revelation. Winged goblins, foxes, and badgers were known to possess people or in other ways serve as conduits for prophecy. Hence, these textbooks should be seen as part of a larger governmental campaign to control the beliefs of Japanese subjects. The regulation of external religion appeared with equal urgency. When a new civil code was issued in 1898, article 34 allowed an association or foundation for the purpose of “worship [saishi], religion [shu¯kyo¯], charity, science or the arts” could incorporate and become a juridical person. This position in regard to religion was further clarified in the 1899 Law for the Implementation of the Civil Code (minpo¯ shiko¯ ho¯), where further conditions were established regulating temples and shrines. Also in 1899, the Home Ministry issued an ordinance that attempted to require all those who were engaged in preaching a religion (shu¯kyo¯) to register their residences with local officials and get governmental permission before opening a new church or other institution for religious purposes.87 Those who did so without authorization could be arrested and imprisoned.88 These are just some of the ordinances the Meiji government enacted for the purposes of regulating recognized religions. Although in a piecemeal format, when the Japanese government finally established a Bureau for Religions (Shu¯kyo¯ kyoku) the regulation of Buddhist, Shinto, and Christian sects would become standardized, again it should be noted that secular Shrine Shinto, as nonreligious, fell under the jurisdiction of a different bureau.89 The state also continued to legally ban superstitions in a variety of forms, and when a revised penal code was issued in 1907, the criminal code of 1880 was expanded and altered: 17. [It is a misdemeanor] to deceive people through the unauthorized performance of divination, prayer [kito¯ ], magic [fuju], or by conferring on them magical talismans [mamorifuda].

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18. [It is a misdemeanor] to obstruct medical treatment through the performance of spells [kin’en], prayer rituals [kito¯ ], or magic [fuju] for sick people, or otherwise distribute charms [shinpu] or holy water [jinzui].90

Number 17 is quite similar to number 12 of the previous criminal code; yet the new version adds a ban on magic, which broadens the range of the ordinance to include practices common to popular religious specialists such as spirit mediums. Offense number 18 is an expanded version of the Ministry of Doctrine regulation noted above. It also increases the number of regulated practices. The presence of holy water in this list is especially suggestive, coming as it does after the Renmonkyo¯ and Tenrikyo¯ controversies. However, the enforcement of number 18 seemed to rest on perceptions of the obstruction of Western medicine. As the following example indicates, it bears the potential to discourage folk medicinal practices: In June 1907, shortly after the new laws came into effect, a fortyseven-year-old woman named Haru Mikami was arrested for providing healing prayers and distributing magical charms. Accused of two cases of fraud and obstructing medicine through the use of faith healing, Haru was almost immediately sentenced to thirteen days in prison. Two years later, a former egg buyer named Miura Soyo was arrested and sentenced to seven days in detention because, following a divine encounter, she had begun promoting herself as a faith healer.91 Individuals were punished and whole organizations policed. In 1901, for example, the Aomori City police prohibited the Suijin Kyo¯kai branch of Ontakekyo¯ from establishing a shrine in Aomori on the basis that it was a fraud and did not represented a legitimate religion.92 These incidents demonstrate that the boundaries between acceptable religious behavior and illegal superstitions were the subject of regular contestation.

The Birth of Religious Studies in Japan Epilogue

I want to use this last section to extend a final point about religion I made in the last chapter. Following the construction of religion (shu¯kyo¯) as a legal and intellectual category, Japanese thinkers came to intervene in the global conversation of religion. They did so not just at Orientalist conferences but also by participating in the birth of religious studies

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as a discipline.93 In so doing, Japanese (and other non-European) scholars effectively forced a redefinition of religion. Once Buddhism and Shinto were taken seriously as religions, religion could no longer be defined as each culture’s way of worshiping God, nor could it be defined as a combination of ethics and the worship of a supreme being (unless one were to discount the absence of Shinto ethics or transform Buddha into a supreme being). In this non-European scholars and informants contributed to the shift from hierocentric to theocentric definitions of religion.94 But I do not regard this as a liberation of religion so much as the precipitate death throes of a faulty category. When Anesaki Masaharu (1873–1949), Japan’s first professor of religious studies (shu¯kyo¯gaku), gave his inaugural lectures in 1898, it was still a fairly new discipline in Japan as elsewhere.95 Max Müller and C. P. Tiele had only begun charting the contours of a science of religious studies in the 1870s.96 In 1898, there were only a handful of academic positions dedicated to the history of religions or comparative religion in the world, and most of them were in Western Europe. The first professorship of history of religions in the United States (at Harvard) had only been created in 1891.97 When Anesaki’s position was formalized and he was given a chair at Tokyo Imperial University in 1905, there were still no chairs for Religionswissenschaft or Religionsgeschichte in Germany, and nothing of the kind in southern Europe.98 With Anesaki’s appointment, Japan instituted one of the first nondenominational religious studies programs in the world. But by 1905, Japanese intellectuals had been keeping pace with the growth of religious studies for some time. Starting in 1876, Buddhist historian Nanjo¯ Bunyu ¯ had begun studying with Max Müller and the following year Japanese historian Baba Tatsui was teaching E. B. Tylor about the Kojiki.99 Lectures on the science of religion had been going on in Japan since 1884.100 By the 1890s, Japanese intellectuals were contributing papers on Japanese religions in Euro-American academic and popular journals.101 Japanese participation in the 1893 World’s Parliament of Religions in Chicago has been widely studied for its significance for Japanese Buddhists, it also left its mark on the nascent discipline of religious studies.102 Kishimoto Nobuta, after returning to Japan from the parliament, along with Anesaki Masaharu established a Japanese Association for Comparative Religion in 1896. In 1900, the first major international conference of the academic study of religion (Premier Congrès International d’Histoire des Religions) was convened in Paris with Japanese scholars in attendance. Throughout this period, Japanese intellectuals contributed to the discipline of religious stud246

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ies early (both at home and abroad) and they too had a part to play in shaping the field’s contours. This raises some interesting issues for our understanding of the field. The close historical relationship between the history of religious studies and Christian mission is no secret. One has only to flip through The Religions of Japan (1904) by one of the American founders of the study of Japanese religions, William Griffis, to find the purpose of comparative religion explained like this: “To know exactly the defects of the religion we seek to abolish, modify, supplement, supplant or fulfil [sic], means wise economy of force. To get at the secrets of its hold upon the people we hope to convert leads to a right use of power.”103 Furthermore, the historical connection between religious studies and colonialism is also becoming a truism.104 But these are both narratives that tend to emphasize Euro-American Christian dominance and they become more complicated if we recognize the role of Japan in the process. In general, these criticisms of the field hold true, but in sometimes surprising ways. Japanese religious scholars did have a direct historical connection to colonialism—but as colonizer rather than colonized. The study of religion was connected to Japanese imperialism in Korea and Taiwan. For examples, in 1895, one the founders of religious studies in Japan, Kishimoto Nobuta, surveyed Korea and the Liaotung Peninsula at the request of military authorities, where he cataloged local religious practices.105 Also, in the 1930s, Japanese sociologist Murayama Chijun (1891–1968) collaborated with colonial officials in producing volumes on Korean shamanism, superstitions, and pseudoreligions.106 Just as the Japanese colonial empire positioned itself as an anti-imperial empire, however, Japanese scholars writing about Asia could position themselves as liberating Asian religion from European intellectual dominance.107 In effect, a change of hegemony could be framed as a postcolonial intervention. More surprising, however, is the connection between Japanese religious studies and mission. On the one hand, we have figures like Kishimoto Nobuta, whose sense of the category religion was rooted in connection with his Unitarianism. The degree to which he was involved in Japanese religious colonialism, he did so not as a Shinto missionary but as an avid Unitarian. Under the influence of his son Kishimoto Hideo (1903–1964), who became the chair of the Religious Studies department at the University of Tokyo, a kind of Unitarian— and in that sense Christian—ecumenism gave a Protestant cast to the burgeoning field for two generations. On the other hand, Japanese Buddhists, like Inoue Enryo ¯ , used their 247

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knowledge of Euro-American religious studies to promote Buddhism in Japan and denigrate Christianity. What is more, Japanese Buddhists were key figures in the presentation of Japanese religions abroad and often did so with proselytizing agendas. For example, one of the Japanese participants in the Premier Congrès International d’Histoire des Religions would go on to proclaim that in contrast to Christianity it was “Buddhism [that] can claim the glorious title of universal religion [Fr., religion universelle].”108 In other examples, Anesaki’s devotion to Nichiren Buddhism would make its appearance throughout his work and later D. T. Suzuki’s writings on Japanese religion would be framed as Zen apologetics. It was not only Buddhist activists that promoted their tradition abroad, but also Sect Shinto leaders, such as Nishikawa Sugao.109 Having negotiated the category religion in treatise and legal codes, Japanese scholars in effect came to stage shu¯kyo¯ on an international stage. Combined with the rising power of Japan in the world system, the intervention of Japanese scholars in the global dialogue (and the data provided to Western academics by informants in Japan) began to alter the category religion in the Euro-American academy in subtle, but profound ways. For example, a careful reader of Tomoko Masuzawa’s The Invention of World Religions might be struck with the observation that in addition to more commonly recognized international religions like Christianity, Islam, or Buddhism, Shinto has somehow appeared as a member of the category of world religions.110 This point can be starkly illustrated through reference to a Dutch journalist, Leopold Aletrino, who took it upon himself to explain the world religions to his readers in 1968. His Six World Religions, which was written for a presumed Christian audience, lists the following as world religions: Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Shinto, Chinese religion, and Judaism. Despite omitting everything indigenous to Subsaharan Africa and North America and condensing Daoism and Confucianism into the category “Chinese religion,” Aletrino has found space to devote a whole chapter to Shinto.111 Moreover, against this list of exonyms with their conspicuous, doctrine-conferring suffi xes (or geographical vagaries like “Chinese religion”), Shinto stands out as a native Japanese term: not “Shintoism”— just “Shinto.” This is even more striking when you realize that Japanese thinkers like Kishimoto Nobuta were describing Shinto as a unique religion having “neither code of morals nor system of beliefs.”112 To conclude, what Masuzawa sees as the hegemony of Euro-American universalism can also be seen as the result of a protracted negotiation that has in fact dethroned Christianity. By becoming merely one of 248

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other world religions, Christianity has been reduced in stature, even as it maintains its status as the prototype of the category. The introduction of non-European religions into the category “religion” has produced the shift in meaning. In essence, the category of religion has been increasingly de-Christianized. But because Christian theological propositions were the only thing holding the category together, this has contributed to its disintegration.

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Conclusion In the late 1860s, most of Japan’s inhabitants perceived the following three entities as similar types of supernatural beings and frequently conflated them linguistically: (1) the emperor of Japan (tenno¯); (2) the ox-headed divine king, god of plagues (Gozu tenno¯); and, (3) the four divine kings of Buddhism (Shi-tenno¯).1 Almost immediately after the Meiji constitution came into effect, these three types of tenno¯ were differentiated by the official policy of the new regime. Law mandated belief in the divine descent of the emperor of Japan, banned belief in the ox-headed divine king, and deemed faith in the four divine kings “religious,” and thus a matter of personal choice.2 As this example demonstrates, the invention of religion was the result of interlinked processes that transformed the cultural landscape in new ways. Interpreting Japanese modernity as only the rise of science or the secular state, for example, would fail to explain this division. There was no scientific reason to believe in the divine descent of the emperor, nor did science provide a reason to eliminate the ox-headed divine king; but this was not the case of the four guardian kings. Instead, it was this newfound distinction between fact, superstition, and religion that was as much in question as the contents of any given category. As I have shown, this triad was replicated at many different levels of Meiji ideology, from laws to textbooks. This trinary formation is important because there has been a call by genealogists of religion to locate the category’s formation in two key binaries. Talal Asad has called for religion and the secular to be considered to251

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gether. Serge Margel has emphasized the dialectic between religion and superstition—on top of which, Michel de Certeau has noted that science formulates through rhetorical opposition to superstition.3 Insofar as the secular claims to be a political instantiation of scientific modernity, it too produces superstition as its opposite. In some sense, I think all of these scholars are right, but they have each only described part of the system. Instead of binaries, I see a trinary formation in which the real is negated by superstition, which is in turn negated by religion. My main goal in writing this book was to trace the invention of religion in Japan, but it could almost as easily have been called “the invention of the secular in Japan” or “the invention of superstition in Japan,” as each is entangled in the other. To draw together the narrative threads that have underpinned the manuscript, I would like to very briefly renarrate all three of these inventions before speculating a bit about the system from which they emerge.

The Invention of Superstition By the eighth century, Buddhist and Confucian texts imported from China provided both a demonic epidemiology and taxonomies of dangerous rites. They also cautioned that the Sangha and the state respectively could be threatened by the destabilizing influence of evil spirits and charismatic leaders. Accordingly, from early on, the Japanese state worked to restrict licentious cults and limit the power of the demonic, and it did so because demons and dark rituals were presumed to have power, not because they did not exist. When the state could not expel demons and angry spirits, they could be tamed either through pacification rites or on a discourse level through the mode I have called hierarchical inclusion, which allowed Japanese intellectuals to recoup demons as provisional manifestations of buddhas and gods. This allowed wrathful figures, such as Kitano Tenjin, to be rendered of service to the state. For a brief moment after Francis Xavier arrived in Japan in 1551, it seemed possible that Catholicism too could be domesticated and reinterpreted within a Buddhist symbolic system. Instead, the Jesuits asserted the fundamental untranslatability of their doctrine, even as competing European groups caused Japanese leaders to view Christianity as the outreach of colonial power. Following the implications of exclusive similarity, Christianity came to be characterized as a heresy or diabolical imitation of Buddhism with dangerous political ambitions 252

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and aided by demonic techne. As the Tokugawa state consolidated its authority over the Japanese islands, it banned Christianity and other heretical Buddhist sects, which it understood to represent alternate political centers. Again, this was a campaign against coalition formation or group affiliation: regulated predominantly in terms of funeral practices, it was not a campaign against beliefs, per se. The Tokugawa state remained committed to taming demons and expelling barbarians until the arrival of Europeans and Americans made this no longer possible. After the Meiji Restoration, the new regime attempted to discipline its subjects as it carried out a new civilizing project partially based on Western models. But it continued the Tokugawa-era policy of banning demonic techne and heresies, including Christianity, while at the same time it worked to eliminate the vestiges of the Tokugawa order. This ideology was generally framed in terms of customs and reflected Confucian assumptions about the regulation of norms through altering behaviors and a post-Aizawa sense that unifying the country meant standardizing local rituals and celebrations. By the mid-1870s, however, it became clear that Christianity could not be expelled nor could Buddhism be fully subsumed under the Meiji state’s official ideology. Ultimately, this would give birth to a distinction between false beliefs, which represented obstacles to the state ideology, and optional beliefs understood as religion. In roughly the same period, the Meiji state launched a coordinated hygiene campaign alongside compulsory national education. Accordingly, it came to be increasingly concerned about what people believed in addition to what customs they practiced. In this period a new term, superstition (meishin), was formulated to describe beliefs that were considered especially objectionable. The superstitions that attracted the attention of the educational institution were in part holdovers from older conceptions of the demonic, but following the 1889 constitution the state also attacked religion’s doppelgangers, so-called pseudoreligions. Moreover, strongly held beliefs that did not accord with state mandated reality, and were not channeled into acceptable religious forms, were now often described as signs of irrationality or madness. While inheriting the vestiges of an older conception of evil and the demonic, the new category of superstition was legitimated as being in opposition to science and political reality. Superstition appears most in discussions of monsters, unlucky numbers, and the beliefs of savages. While its referent is generally to the anomalous—a seemingly senseless collection of debris— superstition’s construction as a category is anything but arbitrary. It exists as a 253

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marker for beliefs that should not be believed. The disenchantment of the world in a Weberian sense is not merely the product of the rise of an instrumental rationality, but also asymmetrically banishes evil and obstacles to state power. In other words, superstition is the inverse of established truths (scientific, political, and religious). Thus, superstition’s place in binary relations has been vital to the formulation of the term to which it was opposed. If one seeks to understand the invention of religion or the conflict between related artificial binaries (such as religion and science), one must look not only at the creation of these concepts but also at their differentiation from superstition.

The Invention of the Secular I have attempted to make a number of interventions in the familiar scholarly objects Kokugaku, State Shinto, and secular. In an attempt to trace backward the argument that Shinto was not a religion and understand the history of the hybrid Shinto-scientific ideology of the Meiji state, I turned my attention to the Tokugawa epoch. Following the expulsion of Christianity in the seventeenth century, Japan entered a period of relative isolation. In the early eighteenth century, Japan did begin importing European medical and astronomical texts, which they purged of Christian influence. In this way, Japanese intellectuals received a secularized (or at least de-Christianized) version of European civilization before anything of the kind existed in the European world. In this instance at least, secularization could be seen as something done to Europe rather than as something Europe inflicted on the rest of the world. Put differently, insofar as Japan was the place where Western science and later politics came to be de-Christianized, the secular seems to be less a direct product of Protestantism than a reduction of Christianity produced through asymmetrical encounter.4 By closely analyzing the major thinkers in the Shinto National Science movement, I recuperated an overlooked connection between the invented tradition of modern Shinto and the importation of these European works. I argued that in this encounter with European civilization, National Science was articulated as de-Christianized science. What National Science offered Meiji leaders was not a “faith” or “religion,” per se, but instead a system of knowledge and an outward form of politics. Following the Meiji Restoration, Shinto gained power not as a relic of feudalism but as a product of the politics of a modern nation-state, 254

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and it did so by being excluded from freedom of religion and the requirements of tolerance. Over the course of Japanese modernity, Shinto was located in the public sphere and its commitments and institutions gained, rather than lost, social significance. In the early Meiji period, National Science stepped in to provide a new ideology, but its adherents also provided the Japanese state with new knowledge (or political truths) to sustain this ideology. National Science served as the basis for an invented tradition that would serve as the outward political form of Japanese sovereignty. It produced what I call the Shinto secular, presented as an ideological common core that was supposed to unite all Japanese subjects. As I argued, the Shinto secular was about creating a particular Japanese subjectivity or Japanese-ness, formulated in terms of a nation-state and modern European science, articulated in relation to the person of the emperor, and mediated via a particular constellation of higher-order ideographs. The Shinto secular was distinguished from religion and served as the foundation of the outward form of Japanese politics and national identity. As such, it was made the duty of all Japanese subjects. The state was thereby able to promote its ideology and reduce Christianity (as well as Buddhism and Sect Shinto) to merely one option among others. Over the Meiji epoch, National Science was transformed into a set of academic disciplines. In being linked to the world system and a larger academic conversation, however, it lost its authority over universals and was instead reduced to trying to explain Japanese exceptionalism. Ultimately, a combination of Shinto and science was promoted in a range of government sources, including law codes, pamphlets, textbooks, and public ceremonies, which all circumscribed the space of a new official reality. This synthesis was in some sense unstable. In official materials, the existence of the divine gods of Japan was treated as a legal fact; generally speaking, however, the gods’ prophetic voices and miraculous powers faded from elite discourse at the very moment their compatibility with science was being stressed. This represented not, as it is often claimed, a complete collapse of Shinto authority but instead a shifting ideological space in which the gods of Japan were conceived of as embodying and obeying the rules of a mechanistic cosmos.

The Invention of Religion I described the encounters between Japan and Europe beginning with the arrival of Francis Xavier in 1551, in the period before the modern 255

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category religion emerged in either region. Following the implications of exclusive similarity, I demonstrated how the perceived similarity between Buddhism and Christianity led to each characterizing the other as a heresy or diabolical imitation. The Japanese had no need to formulate a new term for religion, because they were able to represent Christianity within existing heresiographical discourse, while at the same time expelling Christians from their Japan. The category of religion was introduction to Japan in the diplomatic conjuncture of the mid-nineteenth century. This term had no indigenous analogs and posed a problem for early Japanese translators. In this period, religion was largely understood as a near synonym for Christianity, and as late as 1864 even influential leaders and intellectuals like Yokoi Sho ¯ nan and Inoue Kowashi largely understood Christianity as a potentially dangerous Buddhist heresy. Against this backdrop, Japanese negotiators translated “religion” in such a way as to quarantine Christianity and forestall missionary activity. By the 1870s, it was clear to Japanese policymakers that it was no longer possible to exclude Christianity completely. Also, by this period, Japanese intellectuals had encountered “religion” abroad. They debated indigenous analogs to the distinctions and possible translation terms for “religion,” each of which implied a different meaning. Japanese scholars and diplomats abroad were involved in the construction of the Oriental and even began to intervene in the global conversation on the study of religion. The creation of the 1889 constitution provided Japanese leaders with an opportunity to define religion as a particular type of interiority, restricted not only in expression but also bounded by mandatory truths and banned superstitions. On another level, religion was constructed not as a belief but as membership in a recognized social institution, which could also be regulated. Through the legal invention of religion, the state was able to extend its power in new ways. I have been mainly arguing with two opposing camps of scholars: one group continues to think that religion is a universal, found in every society; the other regards religion as a purely European hegemonic imposition. Addressing this first group of scholars, I have demonstrated that before the 1870s the Japanese had no indigenous concept of religion analogous to that formulated in the West at any previous point. Moreover, I have shown that religion had to be actively indigenized. While there were no Japanese religions before the mid-nineteenth century, by the end of the Meiji epoch, religion had been formulated as a Japanese legal category. The resulting process produced religions in Japan. These religions were not invented out of whole cloth but were 256

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assembled via a process of bricolage that splintered, fused, and transformed Japanese traditions to fit a new mold. Buddhism, Shinto, Kokugaku, Confucianism, Shugendo, and a host of other cultural systems were radically restructured, taking on new forms. Through this process, some institutions became religions, some sciences or philosophies, while others were expunged. Moreover, the political-intellectualcultural landscape was also radically altered in accordance with these new conceptual divisions. To inadvertently project backward these changes is a gross distortion, and no scholar of Japan can afford to ignore this process of the invention of religion. In response to the second group of scholars, I have demonstrated that the category of religion was not mere imposition. It was not simply a mondialatinisation in the Derridean sense. The asymmetries of power did give inordinate influence to Euro-American conceptual structures, but the Japanese were far from passive recipients or imitators. Instead, Japanese intellectuals, leaders, policymakers, and diplomats were involved in a process of negotiation that produced religion in Japan. In the face of international pressure, Japanese leaders produced a category for religion that carved out a private space for belief in a set of officially recognized religions, but also embedded Shinto in the very structure of the state and exiled various “superstitions” beyond the sphere of tolerance. Japanese intellectuals abroad were also part of the dialogue that gave birth to religious studies as a discipline. Buddhist and Shinto apologists presented reconfigured versions of their traditions as religions to compete both domestically and on the global stage. The combined pressure of non-European actors (whether as scholars or native informants) has begun to strain religion as a category, leading to our current moment, in which the term religion lacks analytic cohesion and is in the process of disintegration. The very critical turn promoted by Asad and others (and indeed this very work) was made thinkable by the collapse of religion as an analytic category. This trajectory can also be seen as an analysis of the transformation of the meaning of oshie/kyo¯ (teachings). Before the modern period, oshie generally referred to combination of what we might call education, politics, religion, science, and ethics. Over the course of modernity, oshie became differentiated and new terms (like shu¯kyo¯ or kyo¯iku) took on some of its old meaning. These terms were defined in opposition to each other, for example, shu¯kyo¯ was effectively what was left over from oshie after politics, education, and knowledge had been removed. Oshie was fractured into a range of different meanings each located 257

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in new discourse and linked up to the world system in different ways. For example, Japanese religion was put in dialogue with Christianity, Japanese philosophy encountered Heidegger, and Japanese politics was placed in the context of international law. Not only was the “present” was altered, but the “past” was also, in that new concerns in the historiography were projected backward into the historical material along with these new divisions. Some Japanese intellectuals became (retroactively) scientists, politicians, or religious leaders, and were understood in those terms. Portions of the Japanese past became understood as “feudal,” and Ho ¯ nin came to be understood in comparison to Francis of Assisi.5 When reproduced on an international level, internal differentiation became global fusion. Moreover, a whole host of new oppositions was put into place between religion and the secular, science and superstition, etc. In one sense, oshie was turned inward on itself producing internal oppositions. Compounding this, the three early modern oshie—Buddhism, Shinto, and Confucianism—were fractured in new ways. Buddhism became a religion, Shinto was divided into religious and secular political forms, and Confucianism became a philosophy. Not only did this process radically transform all three terms with respect to global categories like religion and philosophy, but it differentiated them from each other. The separation of Shinto and Buddhism is but one case in point. Again, various sites or texts were retroactively designated as Buddhist or Shinto, Confucian or protoscientific. This has altered the historiography correspondingly. Stated simply, my fundamental contribution to the discipline of religious studies is this: various entities become religions.6 I want to emphasize that this was not a teleological or transhistorical process, but one that originated out of a particular logic at a particular moment in Western Christendom, and its globalization was necessarily selective and to some extent arbitrary.7 It should also be noted that this was a modern process, articulated in various stages, but in essence coinciding with the formation of globalization or more precisely what I call transnational modernity.8 There were no medieval religions. This is as true of Christianity as it is for Japanese Buddhism. Becoming a religion is the result of diverse processes. First, there are the differentiations and fusions of modernity, which come to demarcate different domains like politics, science, and religion. The newly designated members of these domains are simultaneously recombined and fused into new forms. To provide an example, Christianity as a religion has come into being through a partial separation from politics 258

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and science, as well as through the combination of different local or regional Christianities. Second, crucial to this differentiation process in terms of religion is the emplacement of the real-superstition-religion trinary designations, which is reproduced at different levels. Thus, the process of becoming a religion for Japanese Buddhism was selfconscious encounter with modern science, a purging of superstitions, and a demarcating of itself in religious terms. Third, the process of becoming a religion is the result of international diplomacy and domestic law. The globalization of religion was as much a result of international diplomacy (and the globalization of constitutional law) as it was a product of the European Enlightenment. It almost goes without saying that this was generally a negotiated process, rather than merely hegemonic imposition. European Christendom, however, had a disproportionate influence on this process. Fourth, becoming a religion involves linking up with the world system of identified religions. For example, in the middle of the nineteenth century, Japanese Buddhists suddenly found themselves in juxtaposition with Sri Lankan Buddhists. This sort of global linkage is asymmetrical, in part because Christianity is the prototypical center of the category. To be considered a religion is always to be compared to Christianity. This, of course, has transformed Buddhism, but being put in dialogue with other religions has had an impact on Christianity, as well. Fifth, religious studies itself is part of this process. To be studied as a religion by our discipline transforms the dialogue. At the very least, it changes religions’ self-representation, their relationship to other religions, and their relationship to the legal system. Finally, this process is always incomplete. Christianity, Buddhism, and so on always retain remainders that are not fully brought under the category. Moreover, this process of becoming a religion is still ongoing. Indeed, in a certain sense it may be seen as having permeated the whole intellectual stratum of modernity.9 Even in modernity, religion cannot be taken as a self-evident category. Religious studies must therefore be the discipline that suspends its primary object of inquiry, never taking for granted religion’s meaning.

The Third Term Having recapped the narrative of each invention (secular, superstition, religion) for Japan, I would like to lay out the trinary in ideal types on an abstract level, starting with the Real.10 259

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Real

The project of techno-scientific modernity aims for a complete description of the world, which it describes as the factual or real. This is also an aesthetic realism, which serves to drain the universe of metaphor. The world is, but does not stand for something other than itself. The Real is presented as the neutral background, against which human activity takes place. Modern secular states link themselves up to this scientism to present their ideologies as already accomplished facts or realities independent of belief. They enshrine higher-order ideographs on the side of the real as central features of the state ideology, while at the same time producing a world of fact, which they can regulate, classify, and control. There has been a well-established critique of various forms of what I call the Real, but neither Delusion nor Religion as categories line up with that critique as neatly as one might assume.11 Delusion

In consolidating itself, scientism expels older or alternate world descriptions, which it marks as superstitions. Most importantly, it produces completeness by dismissing as delusory those positions that necessarily lie outside the system. Unreason becomes madness. Things like miracles have to be denied because as the possibility of the exception that undermines the universality of the rule, they call into question the whole enterprise. When states link themselves up to this scientism, they work not only to eliminate perceived obstacles to the assertion of their new order but also to banish the demonic. The power of evil is presented as delusion. In this first binary, the world is divided into the things that exist and the things that do not. Put simply, the world is split into those things that the state promotes as mandatory truths and those that it expels as backward superstitions. Religion

From the vantage point of the Real, religion emerges from the category of superstition. It is not a fact. It does not describe the “material” world. It is threatening inasmuch as it lays claim as an alternate description of the Real. For the state, religion is the superstition that cannot be expelled. It comes to exist as a paradoxically optional set of beliefs between state truths and banned delusions. I want to emphasize that this 260

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is not a static structure but a dynamic process in which each term is in a Hegelian sense the sublation of the preceding category. Further, I’ve just provided a schema from the vantage point of the Real, but it could be presented from the perspective of any of the three terms, where it would look different. Another way to get at this schema would be to peg it to the contours of European history. A very cursory overview of the history of the term “superstition” or superstitio will help elucidate this point. In Thomas Aquinas’s Summa Theologica (1265–1274), the opposite of religion is superstition, understood as the practice of offering “divine worship either to whom it ought not, or in a manner it ought not.”12 For Aquinas, religion as true worship gains coherence as a category only by excluding false modes of worship (superstitions). The definition of both is built into the structure of their opposition. This binary held sway for most of five hundred years, but by the end of the eighteenth century, superstition increasingly came to be seen as the opposite to reason. In the nineteenth century, at the inception of self-consciously scientific discourse, superstition had begun shifting from a religiously defined term (associated with misdirected worship or demonic covenants) to a reference to beliefs in direct conflict with the newly forming scientific worldview.13 One of the watersheds of modernity turns out to be a shift in the oppositional structure of a religion-superstition binary to a science-superstition binary. Accordingly, some thinkers would target religion wholesale as superstitious. It is no coincidence that the previous legacies of superstition—divination, magic, and the demonic— continued to be the foil of even scientific tracts that provided new rationales for old targets. To further explore the implications of this trinary, I would like to turn to a Derridean conception of the third term. In a dialogue with Maurizio Ferraris, published as El gusto del secreto, Derrida makes a telling observation about the function of the third term: And in the end everything we have said about the system comes down to a question of the “third.” This third term can be taken as the mediator that permits synthesis, reconciliation, participation; in which case that which is neither this nor that permits the synthesis of this and that . . . [but it could] designate the place where the system does not close. It is, at the same time, the place where the system constitutes itself, and where this constitution is threatened.14

In the binary operation between real and delusion, religion functions as the third term in this Derridean sense. Religion is the point where 261

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the system does not close. Like all of these terms it has a dynamic function. Its role emerges from a position as the negation of the negation, and therefore looked at from one perspective, it is the conjunction from which the system emerges. From another perspective, religion is either a species of the real or a species of superstition; the origin of the real or the origin of the superstition; or the excluded middle.

Postscript In 1915, the Japanese colonial government in Korea issued a set of Regulations for Missions (Fukyo¯ kisoku). These regulations recognized three legitimate religions (shu¯kyo¯; Ko., chonggyo): Shinto, Buddhism, and Christianity. The rest of the Korean landscape—from indigenous shamanism to new religious movements—fell into the category of pseudoreligion (ruiji shu¯kyo¯; Ko., yusa chonggyo), which was governed by the Bureau of Police instead of the Department of Religion.15 Moreover, as part of its colonizing endeavors, the Japanese government built Shinto secular shrines in Korea as sites for the performance of public patriotism and loyalty to the new Japanese empire.16 The trinary of secular, superstition, and religion was put into place by force, and what had originally been a Japanese tactic to deal with foreign powers had become a strategy in Korea to which the Koreans had to formulate a response in return.

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Appendix: Religion Explained I have formatted the translation as a dialogue below, but the reader should note that Arai Hakuseki’s lines are addressed to the reader, not to Sidotti. Japanese, Chinese, Italian, and Portuguese terms have been translated, but I have placed the phonetically rendered European terminology in bold and italics. The meaning of these foreign terms would likely not have been clear to Hakuseki without Sidotti’s explanations. For my translation, I’ve used the Japanese text reproduced in Arai 1968, 92–93.

Arai Hakuseki, Seiyo ¯ kibun (Tidings from the West) Sidotti: As a rule, in each [section] of the world, there is a doctrine [kyo¯ho¯] that is held with esteem. There are only three different types [shu¯, lit. lineages or sects] [of this doctrine]. One of these is called Christian. This is the law of Jesus. We call this Christão in the language of Portugal. The second type is called heathen or gentile. Hakuseki: When I asked him [Sidotti] about this [heathen] law or sect, he told me that they erect numerous buddhas and serve them. But if this was in fact a teaching, he failed to explain in what it consisted. Sidotti: The third [type] is called Mohammedan. Hakuseki: This is probably what is referred to in China as Huihuijia [Islam]. Sidotti: In the region known as Europe everyone is a Christian. However, each region has a different sect [shu¯ha] [of Christianity]. I belong to the Catholic

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sect. When that Christianity first came about, it was the original law and from it came various heresies. Hakuseki: This is probably a reference to that teaching’s various heterodoxies [itan]. Sidotti: Luther, Arius, Calvin, and Manicheó, these are all heresies. In the place called Holland they are [followers of the heresy] of Luther. Hakuseki: Luther is a person’s name. In Portuguese he is called Lutero. Originally, [he] was a Christian, but he established his own lineage. From what I understand from inquiring from Dutch people, it is like how from the founder of the Zen school sprung up various esoteric lineages [kyo¯ge betsuden]. Sidotti: In the region Asia, many places partake in the teachings of the Moguls, which is also called Mohammedan. Hakuseki: In Africa, there is a country called Turkey, it is said to have become Mohammedan. When I reflect on this, in Europe there is a place called Moscovia, which is like the Mogul [Empire], but we may question as to whether they are also Mohammedans. On inquiring, I did not receive a satisfactory explanation of this issue. Sidotti: Further, in China they have a style of reverence and they call this learning Confucian. Hakuseki: This must be what we call the Naturalist study [shizen no gaku] tradition of the Confucians. According to [Sidotti’s] teachings, heaven, earth, and the myriad of things did not come in to existence by themselves. According to them, Deus created all of these things. However, in contrast to this, for the Confucian [Naturalists], the Great Ultimate [Taikyoku] produced the dual principles. Therefore, the Great Ultimate is another word for reason [ri] itself. It is said to be nothing more than this. Sidotti: These [Confucians] we call Atheists. Hakuseki: In this he is referring to the practices of the Confucians. There are those in this country here who revere the way of the Zhou [dynasty] and Confucius. When I reflect on this, the Westerner’s explanation of this is incoherent and superficial, and therefore not worthy of further discussion.

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Notes In legal materials, dates are written as reign year, month, day. The Gregorian date is appended in parentheses to dates before the change to the solar calendar on January 1, 1873. Also on these dates an intercalary leap month will be designated with a “b” when it occurs. For references to records in the main legal collection of the Meiji period, the Ho¯rei Zensho, the department that issued the law or edict will be followed by the proclamation number if available (not all have numbers). For dates before 1873, this information will be followed by the date according to the above scheme. For example, Dajo ¯ kan 187, 2.3.5 (4/16/1869) means proclamation 187, issued by the Dajo ¯ kan (The Council of State) in the second year of Meiji, third month, fifth day, which corresponds to the Gregorian 4/16/1869. INTRODUCTION

1. 2. 3.

4.

Baba 1905, 1. See also Toda 2002. Mitani 2006, 125. President Fillmore’s letter to the Japanese “emperor” (by which he meant the shogun) included the following, “The Constitution and laws of the United States forbid all interference the religions or political concerns of other nations” (Perry 1856, 297). A second letter from Commodore Perry reassured the Japanese that “the United States are connected with no government in Europe, and that their laws do not interfere with the religion of their own citizens, much less with that of other nations” (299). Despite their guarantees, the potential Christianization of Japan was in fact one of the major unofficial goals of the American expedition, coming second only to trade. Neumann 1954. Moreover, as Perry would later remark

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5. 6.

7.

8.

9.

10. 11. 12.

13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23.

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about his mission to Japan in 1856, “To Christianise [sic] a strange people, the first important step should be to gain their confidence and respect by means practically honest and in every way consistent with the precepts of our holy religion” (Cary 1993, 2:32). Precisely what they thought it meant will be discussed in chapter 3. These were seirei (Dai Nihon komonjo 1901, 1:239), kyo¯ho¯ seiji (ibid., 247), oshie (ibid., 252, 256), kyo¯ho¯ again, and other countries’ shu¯shi kyo¯ho (ibid., 262). When the Japanese official translator for the Perry encounter, Hori Tatsunosuke, produced the fi rst English-Japanese dictionary printed in Japan, he made different choices, translating “religion” as shu¯shi, shinkyo¯ (Hori 1869, n.p.). By contrast, the Medhurst dictionary available to the expedition translated “religion” as osihe [sic] (Medhurst 1830, 49). A sloppy critic might accuse me of reifying the very terms I am trying to deconstruct, but philosophical archeology rests on producing the very intellectual object it subverts. Also, “religion” is my primary suspended term and one can’t in practice suspend all the terms of a text. At best you can, pull up a term and a few other entangled structures. Kant 1969; Heidegger 2004; Rorty, Vattimo, and Zabala 2005; Durkheim 1968; Weber 1963; Rey 2007; Habermas 2008; Geertz 1973; Lévi-Strauss 1985, 35; Murdock 1955. Smith 1962. Asad 1993; Derrida and Vattimo 1996; Dubuisson 1998; Fitzgerald 2000; Masuzawa 2005; McCutcheon 1997; Smith 1998. Almond 1988; Chidester 1996; Girardot 1999; Jensen 1997; Sugirtharajah 2003. For a survey of debates around the invention of Hinduism, see Lorenzen 2006. For example, Fitzgerald (2000) describes it as largely a product of liberal ecumenical theology. See Asad 1993. For example, Morris 1987, 1. Asad 2003. Margel 2005. See also Beveniste 1969; Martin 2004. Cohen 1994, 118; De Certeau 1985. Kuhn 1996, 183. My use of this quote (and framing of this section in general) is inspired by Rossi 2001, 9f. Bachelard 1938. Rossi 2001, 9f. Ibid.; Bachelard 2002, 28. Equally problematic, as a type of obstacle, I will argue, is the assumption that certain universals (e.g., religion), despite a particular language’s lack of terminology, are merely waiting to be recognized. While the heart as organ must have preexisted the word “heart,” the meaning of the heart in either a scientific or poetic context is the product of its historical context.

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24. For a full literature review see, Josephson 2011. 25. According to Isomae’s account, the fulcrum of the modern construction of religion was a politically instigated bifurcation of a public morality (do¯toku) and a private religion (shu¯kyo¯), which functioned as a way for nineteenth-century Shinto polemicists to assert their dominance over Japan. This work had its predecessors in studies of shu¯kyo¯gaku in Japan, such as Kishimoto 1979, Suzuki 1979, Hikaku Shiso ¯ shi Kenkyu ¯ kai 1975. See also Shimazono and Yoshio 2004. 26. Two main criticisms of Fitzgerald were that he used no Japanese sources and that the Japanese indeed had an indigenous term for religion, shu¯kyo¯, whose full history he had overlooked (Shimada 2001; Reader 2004). The sole review of Isomae’s work in English (Reader 2005) was largely critical, citing it for having swallowed “undigested” and uncritically a mass of postcolonial theory, failing to address pre-Meiji Japanese history, and again ignoring the continuities of the term shu¯kyo¯. 27. Although I have benefitted from Fitzgerald’s critical attention on the category “religion,” I disagree with many of his substantive claims. More importantly, I have tried to write an aggressively multilingual work. In regard to Isomae, while I have benefited from Isomae’s scholarship, I hope I have avoided these criticisms by writing a broader work both chronologically and in its scope of sources, and also by critically engaging with theorists from Asad to Edward Said. My work further differs from Isomae vastly in detail and scope, and where there is significant overlap I have made my differences clear. However, to avoid redundancy, I have largely avoided discussing the discipline of religious studies in Japan (except for a few pages in chapter 8). 28. I will return to the term shu¯kyo¯ in chapter 7. 29. Yu 2005, 16. 30. Nakamura Hajime has argued that in Sino-Buddhist technical language, shu¯ functioned as a translation of the Sanskrit siddha¯nta, meaning ineffable ultimate principle, while kyo¯ translated the Sanskrit des´ana¯, meaning provisional verbal explanation. Thus, in its premodern Buddhist usage shu¯kyo¯ referred to a linguistic expression of the ultimate principle of the dharma (Nakamura 1991, 146, 64–68). See also Kawada 1957, 25–90; Suzuki 1979, 13–17; Krämer 2009, 6–7. 31. Argument about continuities and discontinuities in regard to the concept of religion in China have been made by Robert Campany, Vincent Goossaert, and others (Campany 2003; Goosaert 2004). 32. Reader 2004. 33. Pye 1994, 2003. 34. Pye translated the relevant text as Tominaga 1990. 35. This translation is discussed in detail in Josephson 2011, 595–96. 36. While Confucianism, Shinto, and Buddhism might have been considered members of the same category when compared as oshie (teachings), by the

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37.

38. 39.

40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45.

46.

47.

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late nineteenth century they were not equally considered to be religions. Confucianism was a philosophy, Shinto was bifurcated into religion and statecraft, and only Buddhism was considered a religion by most (although many Japanese intellectuals and Christian missionaries argued that it was no more than a superstition). For example, “religion” is defined as “Culte rendu à la divinité” in Larousse 1967, 895. And in “Religion,” Larousse Dictionnaire http://www.larousse. fr/dictionnaires/francais/religion/67904 (accessed December 27, 2011) (discussed below), “religion is” “Ensemble déterminé de croyances et de dogmes définissant le rapport de l’homme avec le sacré.” In this span, worship rendered to the divinity has become rapport between man and the sacred. Although my research is ongoing this pattern also holds other European languages. One can see precedents for this in an earlier shift in scholarly sources, and particularly in Durkheim. Dictionary definitions are conservative in regard to both theory and language use, but this represents the popularization of a significant change. Ibid. This view appears in the writing of numerous scholars from Eliade to more contemporary examples like Norris and Inglehart 2004. Moreover, experiential definitions of religion addressing vagaries like transcendent experience are equally common. For example, see Winston King’s article “Religion” in the Encyclopedia of Religion (Detroit: MacMillan, 1987), 7693. Given that shin/kami often functions as a translation for sacred, this concept easily blends into the theocentric defi nition. Diderot and D’Alembert 1969, 14:78. Translated in Feil 2000, 24. Ibid. See also Feil 1974, 678. Except some forms of Shinto and, of course, Japanese Christianity. This is like telling American Christians that their God is merely another name for the Confucian Heaven (ten) and that the details of the difference between the Abrahamic God and deanthropomorphic Heaven were insignificant. I will later call this broader mode hierarchical inclusion (see chapter 1). One of the presents members of the American expedition gave to the Japanese was A Dictionary of the English Language (edited by Alexander and Henry Reid [New York: Appleton, 1845]) (Beasley 2002 1: 133). This dictionary defi nes “religion” as “duty to God, piety, a system of faith and worship,” and “superstition” as “religious belief or practice not sanctioned by Scriptures, false religion.” According to this dictionary, the Japanese might have had superstition at best, but no religion. A definition of religion, such as “a system of practices and beliefs” or “producing a connection between a teaching and bounded community,” would be insufficient to generate today’s list of religions. As would most

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48. 49.

50. 51.

52. 53. 54.

55. 56. 57.

58.

59.

60.

61.

of the hierocentric defi nitions rooted in conceptions of the sacred or transcendence. MacFarlane 1852, 203. Ibid., 230. This account is based on Rundall 1850, v. However, Rundall’s claim about thirty-four religions is based on his loose translation of a letter by Rodrigo de Vevero y Velasco (1564–1636) written in 1610 (Rundall 1850, 184). See Murakami and Murakawa 1900, 70–71. This enterprise had its roots in the eighteenth century, but much of the key terminology (such as “scientist”) was nineteenth century in origin. Some scholars, including Peter Harrison (1990) see the origins of this discipline in the English Enlightenment, while others, such as Michel Despland (1979), see important forerunners in France, and still others like Arie Molendijk (2005) look to the Dutch scholar Cornelius Tiele (1830–1902). Müller 1893, 14. Griffis 1904, 4. Moreover, this science of religion was largely understood in evolutionary terms—as progressing from “fetishism” to monotheism. Accordingly, latenineteenth- and early-twentieth-century scholars of Japanese religions essentially ranked what they found in terms of this progression (Ibid., 33–33). Smith 1998. However, the Oxford English Dictionary gives 1801 for “Boudhism” [sic]. See chapters 1 and 2. The term “superstition” was used in early-nineteenth-century sources to describe something that did not even qualify as a religion. For examples of this colonially, see Chidester 1996. The account of his captivity was published as Zapiski o prikliucheniiakh v plenu u iapontsev (Notes from the Adventures of a Prisoner of the Japanese; 1816; reissued 2004). Golovnin’s account was translated into English in 1819, and even translated into Japanese as So¯yaku Nihon Kiji (Record of an unfortunate encounter in Japan, 1825; reproduced in Golovnin 1979). Unfortunately, the Japanese edition omits the survey of Japanese culture in the original. Siebold’s writings on Japanese religion appeared in Voyage au Japon, exécuté pendant les années 1823 à 1830 (1838–1840). They originally appeared in German under a slightly different organization as Nippon: Archiv zur Beschreibung von Japan. Portions were translated into English as Manners and customs of the Japanese (1841). His name is also written Germain Felix Meijlan. Meylan’s writings on religion appear in Japan: Voorgesteld in schetsen over de zeden en gebruiken van dat ryk (1830). Klaproth spent most of his academic career in Paris, but he had also

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62. 63.

64. 65. 66.

67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76.

77. 78. 79. 80. 81.

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traveled in China and Central Asian with Golovnin. His knowledge of Japanese came from a Japanese castaway (Walravens 1999, 186). For a full summary of Klaproth’s life and work, see Walravens 1999. Klaproth’s writings about Japan are largely to be found in Annales des Empereurs du Japon (1834). Golovnin 1819, 3:41. While this representation might strike us as odd, Francis Lieber (1800– 1872) in his popular Encyclopaedia Americana summarized what was likely a widely held understanding, in less flattering terms: “The Hindoo religion has nowhere been more disfigured by superstition and subsequent additions than in Japan” (Leiber 1849, 7:175). For a more general discussion of the process through which Buddhism came to be understood as something other than Hinduism, see also Almond 1988. Meylan 1830, 67. Siebold 1841, 346; 1975, 133. Meylan 1830, 72. “Du. alziend oog van den Oppermagtigen God” (p. 73). Golovnin too saw Shinto as essentially monotheistic, but with an almost Eastern Orthodox cult of saints, called kami in Japanese (1819, 42). Meylan and Golovnin argued for four, while the other two saw only three religions. Meylan 1830, 67. Golovnin asserted a fourth religion based on the worship of celestial bodies (1819, 47–48). Kaempfer’s conclusions about Japanese culture were likely a product of his largely unsung interpreter Imamura Gen’emon Eisei (Katagiri 1995). For some of this history see Bodart-Bailey’s introduction to Kaempfer 1999, 7–11. Ibid., 7. Kaempfer 1906, 1:138. Ibid., 2:1–2. See Kaempfer 1999, 7. There were precedents for a tripartite division in French and Spanish Jesuit materials, which will be discussed in chapter 2. The largest single influence on descriptions of Japanese religions was probably Luis de Guzmán, Historia de las Missiones que Han Hecho Los Religiosos de la Compañia de Iesus (1601). Psalmanazar 2007, 167–69. Ibid. For a full-length study of Psalmanazar, see Keevak 2004. For editions, see ibid., 9. Kircher divides Chinese religion into three parts (which may have been Psalmanazar’s inspiration): a learned sect based on the writings of Confucius that worship one deity associated with heaven and earth to which

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82.

83.

84. 85.

86.

87. 88.

89. 90. 91.

92. 93.

they sacrifice bulls and sheep; a second sect called the Sciequia (in Japan, Xaca or Amida) that believes in a transmigration of souls and worship multiple idols, and a third called Lanzu that does not worship deities but which instead performs exorcisms for spirits. Kircher also suggests that origin of Japanese religion can be found in Egypt(1979, 131–34). He also believed that the Brahmins took their name from Abraham and that they had propagated an Egyptian superstition in different parts of the world including Japan. In essence, for Kircher Japanese religion was Egyptian superstition (pp. 151–53). Brook 1993. According to the famous expression of Emperor Xiaozong (r. 1163–1189), “Use Buddhism to rule the mind, Taoism to rule the body, and Confucianism to rule the world” (p. 17). Expressions like “Japanese religion” or “Japanese religions” were just beginning to gain some currency in European languages in this period (e.g., the Latin Japoniorum religione) (Varenius 1673, 135–36). Isomae has argued that “the phrase ‘Japanese religion’ first appeared as an academic term in 1907” (2005, 236). But in other European languages this is off by several centuries. In English the exact phrase “Japanese religion” appears by 1765 (Mosheim 1765, 2:301) and in an academic context at least by 1800, when Thomas Pennant wrote, “The Japanese religion is split into a multitude of sects each differ in some tenets yet all agree in five indispensible [sic] commandments”(p. 257). Smith 1998. For example, the first uses of the term “religion” in English referred to people entering into “religion” to describe the process of joining a monastic order (Smith 1998; Smith 1963, 31). Smith 1998. This can also be seen in a well-known example. Hernán Cortés (1485–1547) followed this usage in the second Carta de Relación (1520) to describe Aztec culture in terms of their “monks” (Sp., religiosos) and “mosques” (Sp., mezquitas). Cortés 1922, 1:100. Lancilotto, Sobre Japon, reproduced in Ruiz de Medina 1991, esp. 56–59. Although the work was originally in Italian-inflected Old French, for convenience, I’ve gone to an early Italian edition in the following. According to tradition, Marco Polo dictated this work to Rustichello da Pisa while they were together in prison in Genoa in 1298. For a discussion of the history and authorship of the text, see Jackson 1998. Polo 1827, 361–68. This is likely a reference to the failed Mongol invasions of Japan of 1274 and 1281. Ibid., 367–68. “Le operazioni di questi idoli sono di tante diversità, e così scelerate e diaboliche, che sarìa cosa empia, abominevole a raccontarle nel libro nostro” (ibid., 368). For different positions, see Boyarin 2004; Buell 2005. Benveniste 1969, 516f. It is also worth noting that Indo-European culture

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also did not have a way to distinguish religion as an institution from other structures, such as the law. 94. In Ionic Greek, the closest term, threskeia, appears only at the late date of first century BCE and even then refers to ritual practices, not systems of belief (ibid). 95. Emile Benveniste (1969) provides three different etymologies for the term religio: 1) from re-lego, meaning either rereading or rechoosing, 2) re-ligare denoting rebonding or reconnecting, and 3) res-legere from gathering together. Benveniste ultimately favors the latter, but there continues to be significant disagreement. 96. It did have a secondary meaning as kind of fear or hesitation in the presence of a supernatural power and therefore it also was clearly evoked to describe a conscientious performance of ritual duties (see “Religio,” Oxford Latin Dictionary, 1st ed.). 97. Two examples will make this usage clear. In the play Curculio by Plautus (ca. 254–184 BCE) the protagonist states “vocat me ad cenam, religio fuit, denegare nolui” (he invited me to dinner, it was an obligation [religio], and I could not refuse). In another play, Andria, by Terentius (ca. 185–159 BCE), the character Chremes says, “At mihi unus scrupulus etiam restat, qui me male habet” (but I still have a scruple which restrains me). To which Pamphilus replies, “Dignus es Cum tua religione odium: nodum in scirpo quaeris.” (You with your obligation [religione] you deserve to be hated. You are creating unnecessary difficulties. [lit., seeking a knot in a reed]). Examples in Benveniste 1969, 520. I have retranslated the Latin into English using Benveniste’s French as a reference. 98. This view has been criticized by Asad (1993). 99. Foucault 1971, 60. 100. “The state” is always an ideological construct rather than a single historical actor. It is made up of conflicting actors with their own interests, factions, and impulses, but in that it presents itself as a unity or coherent entity it can be studied as unitary in terms of its reception. Please treat all further references to “the state” in this regard. CHAPTER ONE

1. 2. 3. 4.

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For a biography of Ii Naosuke, see Mori 2006. Shimada 1968, 415. Ibid. In translating these terms as “heresy,” I am not trying to describe sects with different doctrines, so much as groups that are labeled as such. In essence, “heresy” is shorthand for exclusion on the basis of reputed similarity rather than difference. The radical disparity between Christian concepts of “heresy” and the Japanese context will be noted throughout.

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5. 6. 7.

8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13.

14. 15.

16.

For previous translations of jakyo¯ (Ch., xiejiao) as “heretical teachings,” see Haar 1992. For meaningful action and its conjoined hermeneutics, see Ricoeur 1981. The Harris Treaty will be discussed in chapter 3. For Yoshitaka’s proclamation, see Kirishitan Bunka Kenkyu ¯kai 1977, 263; for his diary, see Fukuo 1989, 131f. For the larger context, see Higashibaba 2001, 11; Schurhammer 1973–1982, 4: 219–20; Ebisawa 1942a. For the history of interpretations of this proclamation, see Krämer 2010, 79–82. Krämer and Higashibaba argue that Tenjiku was not a specific place but referred to any unknown land far to the West. But period Japanese world maps located Tenjiku in a very specific Buddhist geography based on Xuanzang’s pilgrimage. While Tenjiku was not a precise location, it did describe a single expanse, which stretched from what is now China to Iran. Crucially, Europe did not appear on these maps (Muroga and Unno 1962; Ayusawa 1964). Schurhammer 1973–1982, 4:223. Fukuo 1989, 134. See the section’s epigraph and also Schurhammer 1973–1982, 4:223. Ibid., 225. Ibid., 225–26. Ibid. See also Schurhammer 1928, 25–33. Anjiro ¯ was also known as Yajiro ¯ , Angelo, or Paulo de Santa Fé. See Schurhammer 1973–1982, 4:108; Schurhammer 1928, 69–72. Anjiro ¯ was not alone in suggesting Buddhist translations for God. Lourenço Ryo ¯ sai, the first Japanese Jesuit lay brother, stated, “The Shingon sect says that we teach their Dainichi, the Zen sect that our Dios is their ho ¯ ben, the Hokke sect that our Dios is their myo ¯ , and the Jo ¯ do sect that our Dios is their Amida” (Schurhammer 1928, 39, quoted and translated in Krämer 2010, 76). For a biography of Ryo ¯ sai, see Ebisawa 1942b. Elisonas 1996, 31f. Ku ¯ kai 1983, 1:782 (emphasis added). Ku ¯kai is paraphrasing the Bodhimandala of Ekaksara-usnisacakra Sutra. My translation is very slightly adapted from Abe 1999, 267. Some of the inspiration for “hierarchical inclusion” comes from Paul Hacker’s “inklusivismus,” by which he means the appropriation of central concepts of “alien” systems into one’s own. Hacker, however, argues that this inklusivismus applies only to the Indian subcontinent and that it is distinct from any European patterns. Hacker thus tries to articulate simultaneously Indian and Christian exceptionalisms. I have departed quite far in formulating hierarchical inclusion more broadly to captures Hacker’s observations about India, but also to include Japanese and European data and recent thinking on assimilation (Oberhammer and Hacker 1983, esp. 12f).

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17. For this binary in European colonialism, see Janmohamed 1985. 18. Hierarchical inclusion does not function identically in different cultures or contexts; nevertheless, variations of hierarchical inclusion (and exclusive similarity) are widespread. 19. Also called interpretatio Graeca (see Ando 2005). 20. For examples of “syncretism,” see Nosco 1984, 19, 170; Totman 2000, 128. There has been a more recent vogue for vague terminology such as “association” “fusion” “amalgamation,” or “blending” (see, e.g., De Bary 2008, 1: 283). Although avoiding the pejorative implications of syncretism, these terms also presuppose equivalent systems, miss hierarchical power relations, and seem to imply the production of homogeneity. Fundamentally, this terminology misses that ideological systems can simultaneously integrate and preserve disparate symbols. By contrast, Mark Teeuwen and Fabio Rambelli describe honji suijaku as a “combinatory paradigm.” This does well to suggest the mode’s vacillations and its strategic nature. But it has several shortcomings. Most importantly, it does not capture the hierarchical nature of the process. “Combinatory” also seems to suggest the union of two elements into one combined whole, instead of a system that incorporates elements. So it risks implying fusion. Finally, despite the authors’ intentions, “paradigm” could be interpreted as a worldview instead of as a technique. Nevertheless, “combinatory paradigm” is a vast improvement over previous terminology (Teeuwen and Rambelli 2003, 1–29). 21. For a critique, see Chidester 1996, 224. 22. See Murayama 1974; Teeuwen and Rambelli 2003. 23. Iyanaga 2003a, 147. 24. This logic could be extended to texts. Indeed, the original technical usage of the phrase honji suijaku by Zhiyi (538–597) described a method for reconciling Buddhist scriptural inconsistencies through a hierarchy of readings that subordinated some scriptures to others. Looking beyond the deployment of a single phrase, we can see that hierarchical inclusion could be made to encapsulate almost anything under a preferred organizing principle. It allowed for readings capable of managing all sites of difference, e.g., Fujiwara no Tameaki’s rereading of the Ise Monogatari, which transformed it from a collection of romantic vignettes into a complex Buddhist allegory. For Tameaki, see Klein 2002. 25. For most of these moves compare Iyanaga 2003and Teeuwen and Rambelli 2003. 26. Hayashi, Shinto ¯ denju (1644–1648), reproduced in Taira 1972, 11–58. 27. Herman Ooms (1985) has demonstrated that Tokugawa ideology functioned by overlaying different symbolic systems on the figure of the shogun. The ruler functioned as Confucian emperor, an incarnation of Amaterasu, and an embodiment of the Cosmic Buddha. But that did not mean any interpretation would be tolerated.

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28. The Jesuits in China also debated the appropriate translation of God, until Pope Clement XI intervened in the Ex Illa Die of 1715. 29. Elison 1973, 36. 30. Proclaimed Tensho ¯ 15.6.19. Reproduced in Ebisawa 1970, 106–7. 31. The translation of the Muju ¯ Ichien quote in the epigraph is from Sanford (1991, 3). I retranslate this passage below, but use Sanford’s here because of the poetic phrase “strange aberrations.” 32. Kornicki 1998, 323. 33. See Iyanaga 2003b, Iyanaga 2006, Faure 2000. Monkan (1278–1357) had become the subject of jealousy in part through his patronage by Emperor Godaigo. 34. See Manabe 2002. 35. Reproduced in Moriyama 1965, 574–75. 36. The Latin comes from the Greek α‘ι′ρεσις meaning to take or choose. This term occurs in the New Testament neutrally to refer to different sects. 37. Le Boulluec argues that Justin Martyr invented the Christian conception of heresy in this sense, although it would perhaps be worthwhile to consider the Jewish and Platonic precedents that Le Boulluec dismisses as unworthy of consideration (Le Boulluec 1985, esp. 1:37, 110–12). 38. This semantic field extends into two terms often translated as “heresy”— itan and gedo¯. For more on itan see chapter 6. Gedo¯, literally “outside the way,” referred to non-Buddhist philosophical position and radical departures from Buddhism, hence “non-Buddhist” or “un-Buddhist” might be good translations. Regardless, these terms often blended together. 39. One can find isolated reference to “Shinto ¯ -shu ¯ mon” or “Shinto ¯ -shu ¯ ,” but as Krämer shows these terms are very rare, appearing only in the second half of the eighteenth century. As he argues, they occur in specifically anti-Buddhist polemics by Kokugaku scholars and therefore work to emphasize something normally thought of as lacking in Shinto, but present in Buddhism (Krämer 2010, 93–4). 40. For demons outside the empire, see Shanhaijing 1989, for demons in the body, see Unschuld 1985, esp 34–44. 41. Strickmann 2002, 58–89. 42. Indian Buddhism constructed its own heresies as well (Faure 2003, esp. 55). 43. Most biographical narratives about the Buddha recount his temptation by Ma¯ra, the demon king. 44. Canonical Buddhist works will be referred to by “T” followed by their Taisho ¯ volume and number, (sometimes followed by verse) referring to their location in the standard edition of the Chinese Buddhist Cannon, the Taisho¯ shinshu¯ daizo¯-kyo¯. The S´u¯ram . gama Sutra was most probably composed in China. 45. My translation is based on that found in Buddhist Text Translation Society (hereafter, BTTS) 1996, 247. See also T 19.945.

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46. Although meiwaku means “to annoy” in contemporary Japanese, its older Chinese meaning is “to deceive or confuse.” 47. BTTS, 161. 48. Ibid., 119. Pagination refers to the translation and parallel Chinese text appearing in BTTS. 49. By “monstrous possibilities,” I mean the implicit monstrosity of dehumanized manifestations of buddhas and bodhisattvas, wrathful deities, hell realms, and the complexities of “left hand” tantra and antinomianism. 50. For Buddhism’s dark path, see Josephson, forthcoming. 51. In 1582 in Shimabara, Jesuits again burned Buddhist statuary (Higashibaba 2001, 92). 52. Higashibaba 2001, 46. 53. D . a¯kinı¯ appear in a range of Buddhist sources, e.g., Dafu ding guang ju tuoluoni jing T 19.946. 54. D . a¯kinı¯ came to refer to a specific deity or to a class of entities. Shingon scholars further bifurcated d.a¯kinı¯ as a class into two types: good d.a¯kinı¯ that devoured defi lements and bad d.a¯kinı¯ that devoured human organs (Unsho ¯ 1912, 154–55; Chaudhuri 2003, 157). 55. Heike Monogatari 1933, 29. They also appear in the Genpei Seisuiki 1893, 57. 56. Taiheiki 1995, 3:311–14. 57. Ibid., 4:240. 58. For example, see “Keiran shu¯yo¯shu¯,” T 76: 633b. 59. Shinran 1997, 1:255–92. 60. Ibid., 1:274. I have substituted the English “devils” for maras above. 61. Ibid., 1:275. 62. Dobbins 1980, 38. I do not wish to suggest, as Richard Bowring does, that these are attempts to defend of the true essence of Shinran’s teachings (Bowring, 2008, 395). 63. Moriyama 1965. While all of these terms could be translated “heresy,” they point to different aspects: heretical practices, heretical sects, heretical views, heretical teachings. 64. Moriyama 1965, 574–75. 65. Sanford 1991. My description of this ritual is based on Sanford 1991 and Moriyama 1965. 66. Sanford 1991. 67. I would like to thank Iyanaga Nobumi for drawing my attention to this connection. 68. The composition and authorship of Goyuigo¯ is controversial, but Brian Ruppert suggests an early-tenth-century composition (Ruppert 2000, 105). 69. The ritual’s main elements are as follows: grains resulting from the cremation of a Buddha are made into a jar, covered in gold leaf, and smeared with aloe, while a group of five especially ascetic monks chant mantras, offer mustard seeds to local gods, and burn incense. After one hundred days, a wish-fulfi lling jewel is produced (Ruppert 2000, 151–55).

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70. The Cakrasamvara-tantra also describes a ritual for killing one’s enemies that involves an anointed skull empowered by d.a¯kin.i and animal sacrifice (Gray 2006, 30). 71. Faure 1998, 4f. 72. Ibid., 52–4, 127, 260. Although it is not clear how frequently sexual intercourse occurred in Japanese tantric circles, Faure makes a good case for the importance of at least symbolic sex rituals. 73. Muju ¯ 1966, 285. 74. One can fi nd echoes of this in terms such as jain (fornication or adultery). 75. See Ketelaar 1990. 76. The Proclamation on the Expulsion of the [Christian] Padres (1614), drafted by Ishin Su ¯den, reproduced in Ebisawa 1970, 25:491–2. 77. Tsang 2007, 1. 78. Ibid. 79. See Kanda 1991, Tsang 2007. 80. Ieyasu had already begun to eliminate the spread of Christianity in his own inner circle earlier in 1605 (Gonoi 1983, 122; Paramore 2009, 53). 81. Elison 1973, 3; Gutiérrez 1971, 161, 170–71; see also Toda 1988. Although Shimabara was represented as a Christian rebellion at the time, more recent scholarship has place the rebels’ Christianity in doubt (Paramore 2009, 178). 82. In a 1590 work (discussed in the following chapter), the Jesuit leader Alessandro Valignano argued that while slavery is bad, he mainly blames the Japanese for selling their own people, adding that Japanese slaves would be better off if they were sold to the Portuguese because they make good masters (Moran 1993, 107–8). 83. For a key figure in this tragedy, Cristóvão Ferreira, a Portuguese Jesuit turned anti-Christian inquisitor, see Proust 1998. 84. Jannetta 2007, 54; Numata 1984, 55–59. There was also limited contact with Korea in this period (Suganami 1984). 85. Paramore (2009) argues that Japanese Neo-Confucians accused rivals of being “Christian” in order to discredit them and solidify their particular brand of orthodoxy. I argue that this Neo-Confucian anti-Christian rhetoric can be thought of as part and parcel of an anti-Buddhist position. 86. For one example, the Satsuma Shu¯mon Tefuda Aratame Jo¯moku: The following statements pertain to regulations concerning the Christian sect and the Ikko ¯ sect in connection with the present directive for document inspection. Special care shall be taken in investigating the Christian sect. Persons about whom there is any doubt should be arrested immediately and reported. Moreover, the Ikko ¯ sect, which is prohibited within the lord’s domain, shall also be carefully investigated. Of course, persons who are affi liated with this sect (shu¯shi) shall be reported. (Haraguchi 1975, 156)

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My translation is based on the corrected Japanese text found in that volume while consulting Haraguchi 1975, 45. 87. Elisonas 1994, 361. 88. Tamamuro 2001, 265. For a general study of the danka system, see Tamamuro 1999 or Hur 2007. For a discussion of the relationship between the suppression of Buddhist sects and Christianity in this period, see Nosco 1996. 89. Higashibaba 2001, 130. 1587 Hideyoshi stated “The bateren [Christian] sectarians, it has come to the attention, are even more given to conjurations with external elements than the Ikko ¯ followers” (translated in Elison 1973, 117–18). 90. The 1811 Chinese ban listed Christianity alongside indigenous heresies including the Buddhist “Mahayana” Dashengjiao sect (Laaman 2006, 70). 91. The language of Shu¯mon Tefuda further reinforced this position, e.g., shu¯shi, sometimes described as a premodern term for “religion,” here refers to a Buddhist sect. 92. Hur states: “It is ironic that religious inspection was fully implemented as a national policy precisely when its original cause—the problem of Christianity—had virtually ceased to exist” (2007, 95). As I argue, this is because its main focus is not Christianity, but Buddhism. Indeed, except for the introduction, Shu¯mon Tefuda does not mention Christianity at all. Regulations 2–7 all discuss details for dealing with former Ikko ¯ shu ¯ followers (Haraguchi 1975, 156–58). CHAPTER T WO

1. 2. 3. 4.

5.

6.

278

Arai 1968, 7. Siddoti had been confi ned in a closed palanquin. Nakai 1988. Despite contact with the Netherlands, Christianity was still barely understood in the Tokugawa period. For example, Ogyu ¯ Sorai stated that “because there is no one who has ever seen a Christian book, today there is no one who can even say what kind of thing [Christianity] is” (Ogyu ¯ 1973, 36:434–35; also translated in Paramore 2009, 112). Arai Hakuseki wrote influential ethnographies on the Ryukyu islands, Notes on the Southern Islands (Nanto ¯ shi) in 1719 and the Ainu of Ezo in Notes on the Ezo (Ezoshi, 1720), both based largely on interviews conducted while in Japan. Strenski 2006. This argument is criticized in Dubuisson 1998, esp. 65–80. In a variation on this position, Krämer argues that cross-cultural interactions result in local terms for specific religions being extended to encompass the foreign other as “religions,” but does not inevitably lead to the formation of a singular for “religion” as a domain of experience (Krämer et al., 2010).

N OT E S TO PA G E S 45 – 4 9

7. 8.

9. 10. 11. 12.

13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18.

19. 20. 21. 22.

23. 24.

25.

Smith 2004, 180. For example, cuius regio, eius religio. But the same historical moment also led to a renewed sense of the unity of the churches and later to the reentrenchment of the unity of Christendom. Chijiwa, esp. 222–28. Ikanto Buru ¯sha is probably a transcription of the Portuguese encanto bruxa, “witch of enchantment.” Chijiwa 175–81, for “dark arts” see esp. 190. For more on this mission, see Massarella 2005; Elisonas 2007. ¯ kuwa As this text was found in the library of Sesso ¯ Sossai, Elisonas and O Hitoshi argue that was one of the materials that he gathered during his research on Christianity. Sanctos no gosagueo, reproduced in Ko ¯ so 2006, 126–32. Ko ¯ so 2006, 128. Chijiwa 202. In Sanctos it is written Mafo¯ and used to describe both ArchHeretic Simon Magus and witchcraft. See Ko ¯ so 2006, 7, 17. For the charge of sexual perversion, Chijiwa, 237. Justin Martyr 1997, 26. For examples in Tertullian, see Van Windenn 1982. For biblical precedents, see Luke 4:41, Mark 3:11–15. For this “silence” in European encounters abroad, see Acosta 1894, 2: 45 “de este silencio que Christo puso á los demonios, que hablaban en los ídolos, como estaba mucho antes profetizado en la divina Escritura.” For this connection see Elisonas 2000a. Jacobus de Voragine 1965, 541. Translated by Michael Ryan in Jacobus de Voragine 1993, 2:110. See Elisonas 2000a, 39. Jacobus de Voragine 1965, 540. In 1595, the multilingual dictionary produced by the Jesuit Mission in Japan defined the Latin Idololatria as “the adoration of idols” (Pg., adoraçao de idolos), yet translated this into phonetic Japanese as Butjinno reifai, faisô, which I take to mean “to pay respect, worship the buddhas and gods” (Calepino 1595, 2: 340). For a discussion of Jesuits dictionaries in Japan, see Debergh 1982. However, compared to “superstition,” “religion” could also be a positive classification. Justin Martyr’s appropriation of Platonic philosophy as essentially preChristian Christianity, and to some degree the Christian inclusion of the Hebrew Bible both functioned as hierarchical inclusions. See also Acts 17:23. In a further twist, a work framed as a dialogue between Chijiwa and his Japanese cotravelers was printed in Latin in 1590 as De Missione legatorum iaponensium ad Romanam curiam (hereafter De Missione and, in Portuguese translation, Diálogo sobre a missão dos embaixadores japoneses à Cúria Romana, hereafter Diálogo). It was in fact written by Alexandro Valignano and Duarte de Sande. Within Valignano ventriloquizes a counter-

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26.

27.

28.

29. 30. 31. 32.

33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38.

280

ethnography that describes Europe as he wished its foreign visitors had seen it. Chijiwa is made to praise a peaceful Christendom; oddly, at the very moment that Europe was ripped apart by the French wars of religion (Elisonas 2007, 43). Strikingly, Valignano writes dialogue in which Chijiwa compares Japanese heathens (Lt., ethnici, ethnicis) to lawless and irreligious (Lt., exleges et irreligiosas) Africans, all of whose false gods will be swept away by Christian truth (De Missione, Diálogo, 118 [Portuguese], 119 [Latin]). Finally, the work has Chijiwa claim that the solution to Japan’s turbulent milieu is to be found in mass conversion to Christianity and submission to Christian kings (Elisonas, 2007, 43; see also De Missione, 4, 32; Diálogo, 98 [Portuguese], 99 [Latin]). The Japanese were not alone in treating Christianity as a demonic heresy originating in Buddhism. Chinese precedents can be found in Poxieji (1640), included in Zhou 2001, and other examples can be found in Kern 1992. A full study of the Chinese influence on Japanese conceptions of heretical Christianity is unfortunately outside the scope of the present work. Still, Tokugawa Nariaki reprinted Poxieji in 1855 and seems to have found it relevant in post-Perry Japan (Paramore 2009, 121–23). Contra Plato, Phaedrus 240c: “similarity begets friendship.” Indeed this whole chapter could be seen as a counter-example to a simplistic reading of the theory of homophily. Japanese Christian converts have been omitted for space reasons and because they have been disproportionally represented in accounts of this period. Yet, they described shifting parallels between Christianity, Buddhism, Confucianism, and the science of the period. This material is clearly worthy of a more extensive reappraisal, which is unfortunately outside the scope of the present work. Also known as Jakyo¯ taii (The true meaning of heresy). See O ¯ kuwa 1984, 363–6. Hur 2007, 74–75. Reproduced in Ebisawa 1970, 494, 462. Ibid.,494, 462–63. The text provides phonetic Japanese for Portuguese terms; I have translated the Portuguese terms but rendered them in italics. The Portuguese words presented are in order: Deus, Anjo, Paraiso, Purgatorio, Inferno, Bautismo, Confessão, Mandamento, Virgem, Excomungado, Maça, Contas, Kirikimo (which from context is probably a misrendering of Reliquia). It is telling that So ¯ sai seems to have misunderstood “excommunication” as a reference to a staff used in different kinds of Buddhist rituals. Ibid., 494, 463. Ibid., 494, 463. See Kuhn 1996. Arai 1968, 97–98. Ibid. Arai was not terribly fond of Buddhism, stating in Tokushi Yoron (1712)

N OT E S TO PA G E S 52 – 5 6

39.

40. 41. 42. 43. 44.

45.

46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51.

52. 53. 54.

that “owing to the rise of Christianity, Buddhism has become an instrument of government, and when that happens we cannot escape the criticism that we are using wolves to hunt wolves” (Arai 1903, 331, translated in Arai 1982, 301). Kirishitan Monogatari, reprinted in Hiyane 1926, 1–2; Elison 1973, 321. Hiyane has replaced some of the hiragana in the original with kanji in his edition. This is not without errors. I consulted Elison’s translation while preparing my own. See chapter 1. Higashibaba 2001, 46–7. Hayashi Razan, Yaso o kinzuru jo¯ (1640), cited and translated in Paramore 2009, 74. Hiyane 1926, 25. Elison 1973, 355. E.g., Viswanathan 1998, 3: “The book’s main thesis—that conversion is the subversion of secular power . . .” Viswanathan also argues that conversion is subversive because it demonstrates that identities are not fi xed. But many Tokugawa intellectuals had already formulated their version of a Confucian discourse around civilization as transformative of identities. They were frightened not at fluidity of identity, but at Christianity’s ability to solidify imperial (what Viswanathan might call “secular”) power. Of course this highlights the difference between British Empire and the Tokugawa state. Paramore discusses this theme as a contrast to the pragmatic fears of military invasion(2009, 60). For another example, Tadano Makuzu also believed that “the foreign heresy” (Ikoku yori jaho¯) had already infected the country, warping people in preparation for an eventual invasion by foreigners (1994, 390). Miura 1930, 433, translated by Leon Hurvitz in Miura 1952a, 292–93. Miura 1930, 434; 1952a, 293 (translation). Sunzi 3:1. Translated in Wakayabashi1986, 249. For the extension of this argument into Meiji anti-Christian writings, see Paramore 2009, 131–161. Hayashi Razan writes, “The ones they call Christians, disguising themselves as merchants, come and bewitch the stupid masses with their heretic arts. Thereby, worldly people pursuing the profits of the trading ships, mix with the yabbering barbarians, talking and interacting with them freely” (quoted and translated in Paramore 2009, 73). Paramore’s original citation is incorrect, however; the original passage appears in Hayashi 1979 1:136. Thanks to Levi McLaughlin for drawing my attention to this text. Elison 1973, 245. Aizawa 1930, 417–19. Likely, Aizawa was not aware of the death of the fi rstborn (Exodus 11:1–12:36), as this would have been a more striking illustration.

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55. For example, a 1551 entry in the diary of the Yoshida Shinto family refers to Christianity as “demonic doctrine” (maho¯) and argues that it was re¯ uchi Yoshitaka (Higashibaba 2001, 44; Okada sponsible for the failure of O 1955, 160). Also, in a variant of this theme, Suzuki Sho ¯ san compared Christian powers with that of the King of Demons (Mao¯) suggesting that regardless of their power neither should be embraced (Ebisawa 1970, 452–53). 56. Miura 1930, 476; translated by Leon Hurvitz in Miura 1952b, 347. 57. Ibid. 58. Ibid. 59. The relevant historical materials have been collected in Miyamoto et al 1968–1984, 11:58–69. See also Seki 2002; Nakagawa 1999 192–4, Seki 2002. 60. For the older argument see Yamane 1985, for the more current see Masuda 2000, 140–1, Nakagawa 1999, 192–94. ¯ hashi 2005. 61. O 62. Nakagawa 1999, 207. 63. For Jesuit scientific presentations in China, see Hsia 2009. 64. Ketelaar 1990. 65. See Asad 1993, 27–28; 2003, esp. 181–204. 66. The main thread of Jesuit literature that saw Japanese “paganism” as a form of idolatry rooted in different sects, e.g., Guzmán (1601, 398–400) breaks Japanese religion down into three principle sects (Sp., sectas), and described each in terms of their particular idols. 67. Collado, Ars Grammaticae Japonicae Lingoae (1632), cited in Krämer 2010, 80n24. Schurhammer 1928, 102. Although as Krämer notes Baltasar Gago used “Buppo ¯ ” as an umbrella term for Japanese Buddhist sects, however this usage was by and large ignored (see Krämer 2010, 80). 68. Postel 1553, esp. 19–32. This work is discussed in some detail in Elisonas 1996, 48–50. Postel also suggested that the similarities between the words “Abraham” and “Brahmin” meant that Indians were really Hebrews (19). 69. Postel 1553, 32. See also Elisonas 2000b, 4; 1996, 50. 70. Kuntz 1981, 50f, esp. note 164. 71. This is perhaps less far-fetched than it might seem. In 1549, Xavier described a group of Christians that had been discovered in India on the Malabar Coast. Not surprisingly, the Portuguese tried to make them accord with Catholic rites and doctrines (De Souza 1998, esp. 33). 72. Elisonas 2000b, 3. 73. See Schurhammer 1973–1982, 4:269. 74. For example, Portuguese in India would write back about having discovered a Christian country. In 1499 about the Indian city of Quolicut (Calicut) it was said “the king is Christian [Pg. Christão] and so are the majority of his people” (Pope 1937, 25–26).

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75. Schurhammer 1973–1982, 4:20. This also seemed like a way of replacing the souls lost to Protestantism in Europe. 76. This essay exists in multiple versions with significant variation. Its history is outlined in Schurhammer 1973–1982, 3:364–65. 77. Translated in Schurhammer 1973–1982, 3:482–84. “Cogy” is likely a reference to Sanbo ¯ Ko ¯ jin, a wrathful deity believed to protect the three treasures of Buddhism and often depicted with three heads (Bernard Faure, personal communication). Elisonas, however, rejects this possibility, arguing that Sanbo ¯ Ko ¯ jin was too peripheral to be put on the same plane as Dainichi (Elisonas 1996, 60). But as the protector of the three treasures Ko ¯ jin was an important figure and of course Shingon discourse has historically tended to collapse diverse deities into Dainichi. For alternate speculations as the identity of “Cogy,” see Elisonas 1996, 32–35. 78. It is hard to tell how much of this text is the result of honest confusion, and how much represents Anjiro ¯ ’s attempt to produce a picture appealing to the Jesuits. 79. Ruiz de Medina 1991, 60. Schurhammer 1973–1982, 3:572–73. 80. In my translation, I’ve used the Italian edition of this letter appearing in Ruiz de Medina 1991, 60, 61, 68. But the last sentence translated above is slightly different in the Spanish than the Italian. Here I’ve followed Coleridege (1872, 2:215) and Schurhammer (1973–1982, 3:571–73) in using the Spanish variant above for its poetic imagery. The Italian line translated “I myself [suspect] that some heretic Christian has sown this sect, as did Mohammad.” 81. Tolan 2002, esp. 50–55, 135–69. This conflation of Islam, heresy, and foreign culture also defined Catholic missionary history abroad with its description of Aztec “mosques” (Smith 1998). 82. Tolan 2002, 52–53. 83. Ibid., 105–34. 84. Schurhammer 1973–1982, 4:224 85. Ibid. 86. Fróis 1976, 15; Schurhammer 1973–1982, 4:224. 87. Schurhammer 1973–1982, 4:224–25. 88. Charlevoix recounts an incident about a demon possessed little girl. When Japanese monks attempted perform an exorcism the demon expressed outrage, because “it was the Christian fathers with whom demons were fighting a war. But you, our loyal ministers, whom have been permitted to rule [by our demonic graces], you are joining our worse enemies to exterminate us!” (Charlevoix 1828, 1:263–65). As the text continues this incident exposes the struggle between Japanese monks and Christian priests as the war between God and the devil over the souls of men. Also, José de Acosta described the “de confesion extraño, que el Demonio” had introduced to Japan (Acosta 1894, 2:100). 89. See Edgerton 2001.

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90. Higashibaba 2001, 92. 91. Lach 1994, 2:1, 676. For another example, the Jesuit bishop of Japan in 1606 claimed that one of his parishioners was especially talented at exorcising devils (Casal 1959, 32). 92. Del Rio 2000, 262–63. 93. Ibid. 94. Fróis 1955, 146. 95. Fróis 1955, 2:132. For Vilela, “The devil has brought the people to such a state that they also worship many ridiculous things” (Cooper 1965, 300). For Cocks, “and before the temple the sorserars [sic] or witches stood dansing [sic]” (ibid., 304). For Gago, see Lach 1994, vol. 1: book 2, 680. Despite Lach’s claim that Guzmán was “balanced,” if we turn to the original source we see that he frequently refers to Asian religion as demonic, e.g., “all parts of the Indies the devil was worshiped” and the Daimoku is a “demonic invention” (Sp., invencion del demonio), etc. (Guzmán 1601, 386, 399). For Crasset (1715, 1:43), in which a “bonze” named Cambadoxis is described as being either a human or a devil in human-form who ordered his followers to worship Satan and have commerce with demons. 96. The English merchant John Saris (1570–1643) describes a particularly loathsome demon named Tencheday (Tensho¯-daijin) in whose temples Japanese priests are supposed to regularly offer virgins. The creature has sex with the women, and after fulfilling its carnal desires it leaves behind monstrous scales as payment (Purchas 1939, 152). 97. See Sumário dos erros em que os gentios do Japão vivem, attributed to Cosme de Torres or Juan Fernández (reproduced in Ruiz de Medina 1991, 655–67). 98. See Almond 1988, 124. 99. Spanish text reproduced in Schurhammer 1929. I have consulted the translations in Schurhammer 1973–1982, 4:268 and Cooper 1965, 317 while preparing my own. 100. The Spanish condemnation of indigenous religion in Columbia in the same period was phrased similarly. See Splendiani et al. 1997, 2:52f. 101. The term Torres and his contemporaries used most was “sect” (Sp., secta; Pg., seita). Ernst Feil (1986) argues for “sect” as a concept of “religion” avant la letter, but this risks missing the excluded similarity built into the term. For example, the Real Academia Española (1739) defi nes secta as “an error, or false religion, different, or separate from the real and Catholic Christianity, a teaching of some famous Master, as the sect of Luther, Calvin, Mohammed.” Hence. a “sect” is a defective imitation of Catholicism and draws Protestants and Muslims together as heretics. 102. Translated in Schurhammer 1973–1982, 4:224–25. 103. Justin Martyr 1997. 104. Isidore of Seville 2006, 3 (translator’s preface). 105. In references to Isidore of Seville, I have consulted both the 1911 edition

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and the translation of 2006. References follow a book, chapter, verse format. Isidore of Seville IX:i.1. 106. Isidore of Seville VIII:xi.5–8. Isidore suggests that the fi rst similacrum could have been made by Ishmael, Prometheus, or Cecrops. 107. Ibid., VIII:xi.1, 11–12, see also VIII:x.1–9. Isidore uses several expressions to refer to pagans gentilis and variants including gentium (literally Gentile) and paganis (pagan). He equates both terms in VIII:x.1. 108. Ibid., VIII: v.2. See also Tolan 2002, 12–3. 109. Isidore of Seville VIII: iii.1–3. 110. Ibid., VIII: iv.2; 2006, 174 (Barney’s translation). Note that the section De haerisibus Iudaeorum is not identical in all textual variants as noted by Barney. 111. Ibid., VIII: vi.22–23. 112. Similar slippage occurred in many places, e.g., John Chrysostom’s fourthcentury work, Adversus Judaeos. Also, Spanish writing from the New World in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries conflated Iudio (Jews) and Indio (Indians) to accuse both Jews and Indians of being pagan idolaters and cannibals (Elkin 1993, 80, 81–2). 113. Valignano 1944, 160–61, translated in Elison 1973, 43. 114. Moran 1993, 51f. 115. Harrison 1990, 11–12. 116. Cited in ibid., 11. 117. Scholars have generally represented Cusanus as discussing different “religions,” but the text describes representatives of different nations or peoples. 118. Harrison 1990. See Cusa 1962, 185–237. I have consulted both the Latin text in Cusa 1990 and Dolan’s translation. 119. Cusa 1962, 200. 120. Ibid., 203. 121. For examples, see Harrison 1990, 11; Yamaki 2002. 122. Cusa 1962, 204. 123. Ibid., 188. 124. Ibid., 206. He also argues that God’s true name will silence these spirits. 125. Arai 1968, 92–3. 126. Also pronounced kyo¯bo¯. 127. Only Sidotti’s explanation of Islam seems straightforward to Arai. But Arai is unable to ascertain Islam’s geographic scope from Sidotti. So this too ends in disappointment. CHAPTER THREE

1. 2.

See Mitani 2006, 19–40; Ayusawa 1964. Putiátin argued that Russia would make a natural ally for Japan, a proposal that had some Japanese supporters (Stern 2008, 27.)

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3. 4.

5. 6. 7.

8.

9.

10.

11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

286

For the translation of “steamship,” see Liu 1995, 296. For the others, see So ¯ go ¯ and Hida 1986, 113, 149–50, 394–95. I do not which to suggest that “religion” was more difficult than any of the other modern concepts such as “rights” or “modernity.” My point is precisely that religion was a modern concept. For an example, see “An Expedition to Japan” New York Times, Feb. 2, 1852. Stumpf 2006. While expanding their empires, European colonialists did on occasion guarantee the rights of indigenous “religions” to minimize resistance or assuage the fears of local elites, as they did, for example, in the French Algiers Convention of 1830. Considering that Hugo Grotius demonstrates that the connection between international diplomacy and the genealogy of “religion” is closer than might first appear. His De veritate religionis Christianae (1627) was influential in Christian circles and De jure belli ac pacis (1625) set precedents for the modern concept of religion and was also a foundational text for international law. For the fi rst claim, see Harrison 1990, 72; for the second, see Stumpf 2006. Western diplomats used this hybrid legal and Christian theological text as precedence in their relations with Japan (Stern 2008, 10). One early example of this taxonomic rupture was the replacement of the Honzo¯ko¯moku system of botanical categories with a modified Western system in the Shokugaku keigen by Udagawa Yo ¯ an (1833) (Ueno 1964, 326f). For example, according to an 1811 work by Kyokutei Bakin (1767–1848), winged goblins (tengu) are a “real” type of creature divided into five categories: stars, yakshas, quadrupeds, tree spirits (kodama), and ghosts of the dead (De Visser 1908, 82–83). But in the 1896 Nihon Daijiten, “tengu” are classified not as real but as one of a number of “imaginary animals [so¯zo¯ ¯ uda 1896, 1332). For further discussion of the encyclopedic do¯butsu]” (O mode in the classification of monsters, see Foster 2009. For the paradoxes of translation, see Derrida 1999 (“translated” into English in 2001). For some discussion of tropes of equivalence in East and West, see Liu 1995, 3–10. Howland 2002. Liu 1995, 26. Howland divides the process of translation into: “analogs” describe foreign words presented either in phonetic Japanese or alongside Japanese terms to produce a semantic bridge; “translation words” refer to both existing and new Chinese compounds; finally, “loan words” refer to imported terminology that is flagged as such with katakana (Howland 2002, 76–88). For clarity, I divide the act of translation up differently from Howland and instead based on contemporary historical linguistics.

N OT E S TO PA G E S 75 – 8 0

16. So ¯ go ¯ and Hida 1986, 302–4. 17. Trask 1996, 17f. 18. Ibid., 389–90. It was also intended to be homophonous with the Dutch ereki, making the translation denki technically both a phonetic and loan translation. 19. According to the Bréal language change model, synonyms gradually tend to diversify their meaning or lead to the extinction of one of the terms (see Bréal 1976). 20. Wittgenstein 2001, aphorism 66. 21. See Rosch 1973; Rosch et al. 1976; Lakoff 1987. Although the theory has been further refi ned since its initial proposal, it continues to play an active role in cognitive linguistics. 22. Saussure 1986, 115. 23. Ibid., 114. 24. As is well known, both Jacques Derrida and Pierre Bourdieu have criticized structuralism. Derrida (2003, 351f) argued against the fundamental nature of binary oppositions and, more broadly, that meanings in these structures are fi xed. Bourdieu (1977) has focused on how practice and habit alter social and cultural structures and has further suggested that different meanings can underlie the same set of rules. While borrowing from structuralism, I’d like to dispense completely with essential binaries or universal deep structure to make instead more modest claims about the construction of categories. 25. Goldstone and Rogosky 2002, 297. 26. Barr and Caplan 1987. Following Goldstone and Rogosky (2002, 297), I am using “extrinsic” in a slightly different way than the implied interconceptual dependency as it is used in Barr and Caplan’s work. 27. While the boundaries of a conceptual web could in theory be extended almost indefinitely, I will instead restrict the term to refer to neighboring concepts (loosely defi ned). 28. Of course none of these conceptual webs is universal or essentially Japanese. 29. Cited in Liu 1995, 3. 30. Section epigraph translated in Beaseley 1955, 104. 31. Moriyama Takichiro ¯ (also Einosuke) is referred to in European accounts with different names and spellings, e.g., Harris 1959, 226–27. 32. Although scholars generally refer to Harris Treaty as the first attempt to translate “religion” into Japanese (Shimazono and Tsuruoka 2004; Suzuki 1979; McKenzie 2003). I have found an earlier source in the correspondences of the Perry expedition (see the introduction). 33. Rimer 1995, 4. The spread of Russian Orthodoxy was personally important to Putiátin. He funded the Orthodox mission in Japan, where his daughter ultimately became a deaconess. 34. Ivanov 2004, 4–5.

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35. Stern 2008, 40. Baron Gros would successfully open China to missionaries. 36. In 1846, Pope Gregory XVI optimistically appointed the French priest Théodore-Augustin Forcade (1816–1885) as the vicar apostolic of Japan, a fairly meaningless post at the time. 37. As Napoleon III gained increasing power in France, so did the clergy (Ford 2005, 116–17). 38. Medzini 1971, 21. 39. While President Pierce had made the expansion of American power the raison d’être for his administration, by the time Harris was appointed in August 1855, Pierce was currently reeling from the publication of the Ostend Manifesto and trying to downplay charges of expansionism. Hence, Pierce wanted to demonstrate continued engagement with Japan, but it was not the focus of his attentions. Griffis (1895, 17f) argues that Harris was selected because of his personal friendship with the secretary of state and that expectations were low. 40. According to John Stern (2008, 33), Harris’s sense of mission did not prevent from him demanding a prostitute as one of his fi rst requests as a resident consul. 41. Harris 1959, 465–68. 42. These petitions continued until the Japanese government officially guaranteed religious freedom in the 1889 constitution (Henning 2000, 43, 46). 43. Cary 1993, 2:13. 44. Williams was also part of the 1837 Morrison mission. 45. “Above all the Christian world will not forget that to you more than to any other man is due the insertion in our treaty with China of the liberal provision for the toleration of the Christian religion” (Williams 1889, 412). 46. Included in Perry 1856, 72. 47. Balk et al. 2007, 61. 48. Jansen 2000, 81; Kataoka 1963. For a fi rsthand account, see Chijs 1867, 209. 49. More recently scholars have started focusing on the combined impact of multi-national actors, but there has been a long history of different European nations trumpeting their particular country’s achievements in “opening Japan,” e.g., Beasley 1995. 50. For example, Article 8 of the 1857 United States–Japan Treaty. 51. Kogure 2008, 102. 52. Iwashita 2000. 53. Kogure 2008, 102–3. 54. Mitani 2006, 51, 65. The other big issue was the wisdom of investing in costly coastal defenses in a period of fiscal crisis. 55. Kogure 2008, 135–36. The Dutch lieutenant Gerhardus Fabius sent letters to the Dutch Ministry of Colonial Affairs describing the situation in Japan, which in part inspired this conversation.

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56. 57. 58. 59. 60.

61. 62. 63.

64. 65.

66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73.

74. 75. 76.

77. 78.

Ibid., 136, 140–43. Ibid., 131–34. Williams 1889, 284. For more on Hotta’s attitudes, see Hotta Masayoshi gaiko¯ monjo 1981 and Satoh 1908. The first pro-trade faction was represented by senior Bakufu advisors Toki Yorimune and Iwase Tadanari, while the latter included Kawaji Toshiaki and Mizuno Tadanori. For a discussion, see Beasley 1955, 102–3. Bakumatsu Gaikoku Kankei Monjo 18, 384–86, translated in Beasley 1955, 170–71. Ibid. Yokoi 1899, 394–95, translated in Duus 1997, 140. Yokoi thought Christianity was most similar to the Buddhist Ikko ¯ sect. But to be fair, he did not much care for either. Ironically, Yokoi was assassinated because it was believed that he had secretly become a Christian. Yokoi 1899, 397. Japanese popular views of Christianity were so far from the realities abroad that Japanese castaway Nakahama Manjiro¯, after spending more than ten years in the United States, ended up reporting on his return: “The Kirishitan sect is not to be found [in the United States].” Ishii 1971, 267. Stern 2008, 30–40. Indeed, the Russian Treaty of October 24, 1857, made no mention of religion. Chijs 1867, 214–215. Ibid., 215. Mitani 2006, 261. The Dutch treaty of 1855 also did not include anything on religion. A British vessel would indeed try to smuggle opium into Japan on Nov 7, 1859 (Cary 1993, 2:40). Stern 2008, 35. Article 29 of the American version of the Treaty of Tien-Tsin. In the Chinese text, “religion” is not translated as a general term, instead it lists the teachings (jiao) of Protestantism and Catholicism. Bakumatsu Gaikoku Kankei Monjo 18: 249–346. Stern 2008, 40. Official titles: Additionele artikelen overeengekomen tusschen de Nederlandsche en Japansche gevolmagtigden (Dutch); Nichiran tsuikajo¯yaku (Japanese). The Dutch supplemental treaty is reproduced in Lagemans 1858–?, 4:331–38. The Japanese version is in Teimei kakkoku jo¯yaku ruisan 1874, 27–42. Lagemans1858–?, 4:335. Teimei kakkoku jo¯yaku ruisan 1874, 37. In 1884, the Japanese state commissioned the production of new translations of all the international treaties. In retranslating the Dutch treaty, while most of the language was un-

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79. 80.

81.

82. 83.

84. 85. 86. 87. 88.

89. 90. 91. 92.

93.

94.

290

changed, Dutch religion became shu¯ho¯. Clearly, translations for “religion” were particularly unstable and continued to be heavily revised in the formation of modern Japanese legal language (see Teimei kakkoku jo¯yaku isan 1889, 1:525). Fujibayashi 1810. This dictionary was based on the earlier Edo Haruma (1796), which has the same translation for godsdienst. In letters back to the minister of colonies, Dunker Curtius praised this as a step forward and suggested that it might represented the sign that the Japanese leadership were warming to Christianity. He also promised to continue pressing the issue (Chijs 1867, 283–84n3). Lagemans 1858–?, 4:338. It also seemingly reopens a distinction between Dutch godsdienst and Christelijke—preserved in Dutch, but not Japanese language interactions—that represents an ambivalence about the relationship of the Dutch “religion” and Dutch Christianity. But it also seems to have been written to restrict the Dutch importation of Chinese Christian texts. Ibid., 333. The Japanese also ultimately got to purchase modern steamships from the Netherlands. For another account from the Dutch side, see Stellingwerff and Fabius 1988. Kogure 2008, 193–5. Harris 1959, 512. Ibid. Treaties and conventions concluded between Japan and Foreign Nations 1871, 22 (emphasis added). For the fi nal Dutch version of the treaty, see Parry 1969–81, 119:264–65. “Religion” is rendered godstdienst, while religious worship becomes Godsdienstoefening. However, the final Dutch text was likely produced by Heusken based primarily on the already negotiated English version. Hirakawa 1997, 899. Yokoi used shu¯shi particularly in the context of doctrinal dispute and sectarian violence, e.g. Yokoi 1899, 397. Liu 1995, esp. 26. For the Tokugawa government arguing according to a Japanese treaty term, see Stern 2008, 22–23. For arguments based on the spirit of the articles and Japanese attempts to intentionally frustrate treaty implementation, see Auslin 2004, 34–61. Great Britain, August 26, 1858, Article 9 (Treaties and conventions concluded between Japan and Foreign Nations 1871, 59); France, August 26 1858, Article 6 Treaties and conventions concluded between Japan and Foreign Nations 1871, 67). I list below in chronological order the treaties with references to “religion” in all European languages from the 1860s (pagination follows Treaties

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and conventions concluded between Japan and Foreign Nations 1871). Portugal, IX (religiao), 76; Prussia, IV (Religionsübung), 83; Switzerland, IV, 93; Italy, IV (religione), 129; Denmark, IV, 140; Spain, IV, 158; Sweden and Norway, IV (Godsdienst), 168 (Dutch); North Germany, IV (Religionsübung), 177 (note that this was the first appearance of shu¯kyo¯ in a treaty); AustroHungary, IV (religion) (English), 189. 95. Evidence for this includes the fact that the mission received financial support from the French Empress Eugénie. Abe 1978, 115. 96. Abe 1978, 116. Burkman 1974, 148f. Petitjean fi rst sought and received confi rmation from the French government that it would intervene if necessary. Medzini 1971, 153. CHAPTER FOUR

1. 2.

3. 4. 5. 6.

In the second epigraph, I have only slightly amended the translation in Nitta 2000, 263–64. Below are a few more examples of this widespread argument: Tanaka Yoritsune and Senge Takatomi: “[Shinto] is the source of all teachings of the world. . . . It should be clear as day that this Way of the Gods [a.k.a., Shinto] is not to be spoken of in the same breath as those “religions” that were founded by the wisdom of men” (translated in Nitta 2000, 262). For Okunomiya Zo ¯ sai’s argument to the same effect, see Sawada 2004, 105–6. Ariga Nagao: “[Shinto] is a duty. Therefore this cannot be regarded as religion” (translated in Holtom 1938, 69). Nishi Sawanosuke argued that “Shinto is not a religion [shu¯kyo¯],” because it is rooted in the original energy of the universe (sekai no genki) and therefore should not be mistaken for a subjective religion (Yasumaru and Miyachi 1988, 75–83). For more examples, see Yamaguchi 1999, 13; Thal 2001, 106–8. These repeated statements are also evidence for the counterclaim that some Japanese thinkers did believe that Shinto was a religion. Nevertheless, it remained an ongoing issue of debate until 1945 with government committees being launched to study the matter (including the Shu ¯kyo ¯ Seido ¯ Cho ¯ sakai of 1926). Yet, the preponderance of opinion in the period seemed to be that Shinto was not a religion. This system was abolished by the Shinto Directive (Shinto¯ Shirei) issued by the occupying powers in 1945. Summarized in Asad 2003, 181. This chapter focuses on what will become Kokutai Shinto or Kokka Shinto, not the diverse Shinto sects that were ultimately declared religious. See Nitta 2000. Isomae Junichi has argued that the government pragmatically defined Shinto as nonreligion because it located “religion” as

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7.

8.

9. 10. 11.

12. 13.

14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19.

20. 21. 22.

292

belonging to an internal subjective sphere (of belief or faith or what have you) and instead located Shinto as a public morality (do¯toku). But I think morality is the wrong term. Isomae 2003. The dominant narrative connects these to a reaction to Neo-Confucianism. A second counternarrative to Esoteric Buddhism. See Murphy 2009. Alternate self-appellations for these movements such as kogaku, ko ¯ gaku, and wagaku, nevertheless retained gaku. Gaku is a common word ending used to demarcate a systematic field of learning or science. In English, “science” and endings like “ology” are equally slippery. This view is still widely repeated in nonspecialist writings throughout the academy, e.g., Super and Turley 2006, 19. Kuroda 1981 (in English); Kuroda 1980 (in Japanese). Particularly important in this regard have been Yasumaru Yoshio, Sueki Fumihiko, Abe Yasuro ¯ , Ito ¯ Satoshi, Iyanaga Nobumi, and in European languages Allan Grapard, Helen Hardacre, John Breen, Harry Haratoonian, Anne Walthall, Mark Teeuwen, Bernhard Scheid, Klaus Antoni, Sarah Thal, Barbra Ambros, Mark McNally, Wilburn Hansen, Susan Burns, and others. For the “three teachings” and Yoshida Shinto, see Endo ¯ 2003, 110. In Chinese Buddhist texts, shendao had several referents, but most significantly as one realm of rebirth, namely rebirth as a god (Teeuwen 2002, 241). One thus might be justified in describing premodern Shinto as a branch of Buddhist “theology.” Scheid and Teeuwen, 2006, 295f. Teeuwen 2002, 255. Ibid., 248. Although space prohibits discussion, one should not underestimate the importance of Yuiitsu Shinto in this process (Scheid 2001). Hence the alternate title Zhou Yi, although the current version extant in both China and Japan is a product of the Tang period (Ng 2000, 3). Yi Jing, commentary on the Trigram 20: “Contemplation” (Ch., guan; Jpn., kan): “Contemplating the divine way [Jpn., shinto; Ch., shendao] of heaven, one accurately [understands] the four seasons. When the sages establish their teachings in accordance with this divine way all under heaven follow.” For this passage and Shinto, see also Teeuwen 2002, 254. For example, Hayashi Razan tried to hierarchically include local deity rituals in his formulation of Confucianism (see Ng 2000, 97–99). A separate issue concerns the shifting meaning of kami (see Havens 1998). Different ritual specialists did promote their particular brand of rite as more efficacious in regard to these deities and some argued that they were particularly good at performing rituals for a subset of these gods or that their gods were more powerful than their competitors’ deities.

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23. Despite the equation of the Japanese term ten with the Sanskrit deva, ten remained functionally synonymous with kami. 24. Shinran aside, most Japanese Buddhist schools did encourage local deity rituals. 25. For Sanno ¯ Gongen and his iconography, see Shiga Kenritsu Biwako Bunkakan 1991. 26. For example, the elephant-headed Kangiten, which is a transformed Ganesa (Iyanaga 2003a). 27. For most of the Edo period, while alive this figure was called kinri (or kinrisama) and after death with a title ending in the suffi x in. The term tenno¯ was not generally used from the time of Juntoku tenno ¯ (1210–1221) until its revival in reference to Ko ¯ kaku tenno ¯ (r. 1779–1817) (Watanabe 1998, 39). 28. Some Edo period thinkers referred to the shogun as a “king” (o¯) and the Tokugawa administration as the “court” (cho¯tei) (ibid., 35). 29. Shogun comes from Sei’itai sho¯gun (great barbarian subduing general), paralleling the etymology of emperor (Lt., imperator) meaning “commander.” 30. For example, Osborn 1861, 20. 31. Shimazono 2006a; Teeuwen 2007. 32. Ko ¯ noshi 2000, 61. 33. Meiji government mandated smallpox vaccination in 1870 (Rotermund 2001, 393–95). 34. For the classic account, see Bartholomew 1989. 35. Munn 1860, 407. 36. While the great earthquake of 1880 was actually centered northeast of Tokyo, it is remembered as the Yokohama Earthquake because it was the new “scientifically designed” Western buildings in Yokohama that collapsed, while older structures closer to the epicenter remained standing. Something similar happened in the Great Nobi Earthquake of 1891 (Clancey 2002, 254). 37. Johnston 1995, 42–43; Ravina 1993, esp. 206. 38. Yajima 1964, 345. 39. The Inspectorate of Books (Shomotsu Aratameyaku) was founded in 1630 at the Shuntoku Temple, and initially Buddhist monks were responsible for discovering references to Christianity. Following 1685, this bureau was ¯ ba 1980, 45–82). largely overseen by the Mukai family (O 40. Any book deemed to have excessive Christian references was either burned (if the whole book was unacceptable), or selected passages were blacked out with ink. After 1720 more texts, instead of being burned, had the Christian passages removed and were thus allowed into Japan. For example, Hsieh Chao-Che, Five Miscellaneous Offering trays (Wu za zu, 1600) was purged of even a short reference to Mateo Ricci and then distributed in Japan with this passage omitted. Thus, one could have read about

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41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48.

49. 50. 51. 52. 53.

54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67.

294

Hsieh’s theory of magnetism and esthetics, but none of his comments on Christianity. Even if they got around the import process, Japanese booksellers were prevented from selling banned works on Christianity. While Japanese authors were not officially prohibited from mentioning Christianity, some Japanese works were banned for Christian references (Kornicki 1998, 329, 332). Ibid., 326. ¯ ba 1980, 52. O For example, God was necessary to Newton’s physics, basically to counterbalance entropy (Newton 1718, query 31). Devine 1981. For the persistence of Western demonic techne in the popular imagination of the 1850s, see Fukuzawa 1958–1964, 12: 130–34. Jannetta 2007, 94, 121; Mitani 2006, 31–33. Hirose 1964, esp 65f; Screech 2002, 235f; Keene 1969, 13–14; Kristiansen 1996; Nakayama 1969. The change was only slight, because the new calendar was based on a Chinese work that integrated both Chinese and Western astronomy (Hirose 1964, 66). For more about the academy founded by Hayashi Razan, see Suzuki 1973; Kobayashi 1965, 290f. Ki is hard to translate into English. While in other places it is better translated as “energy,” here it means something like “form” or even “matter.” Tucker 1989, 94–95. See Kirstiansen 1996, 264. Meiri is difficult to translate into one word in English. It combines characters mei (fate or destiny), and ri (principle); a literal translation might be the awkward “principle of destiny.” Nishikawa 1907, 1–2. Kaibara Ekiken argued for a similar scientific kyu¯ri (Tucker 1989, 67). Kristiansen 1996, 264; Kornicki 1998, 329. The revised calendar of 1755 still failed to predict the solar eclipse of 1763. Screech 2002. Ibid., 2. Muroga and Unno 1962. Okada 2010. Okada 1997, 79f. See also Okada 2001, 2003, 2010. Okada 1997, 92f. Nikugan also could mean to see with the naked eye. Tengen was one of the six Buddhist supernatural powers (rokujinzu¯). De Bary et al. 2005, 630–31. Translated in Smith 1948, 136. Ibid., 634. Also known as Kikkawa. Wakon yo¯sai appears in Essays on Enlightenment (Kaika Sakuron; 1867) (Carr 1994, 285).

N OT E S TO PA G E S 10 8 –10 9

68. As the character sai also carries the nuance of “genius” or “talent,” it could alternately be translated as “know-how.” The phrase was fi rst popularized in the Muromachi Era (1392–1573) text Kanke Ikai, which was falsely attributed to Sugawara. 69. For a discussion of this shifting locus, see Mitani 1997. 70. In his argument against Neo-Confucianism, Fukuzawa Yukichi appropriated and redefi ned the Confucian term “practical learning” (jitsugaku). In Gakumon no Susume (1872–1876) and Bunmeiron no Gairyaku (1875), Fukuzawa repurposes “practical learning,” using it as a reference to Western science, which he argued was “practical” or “utilitarian” in its ability to produce measurable results and technical advances. In appropriating the mantle of “practical learning” for Western science, Fukuzawa inverts the characterization of Neo-Confucianism, which he argues is fundamentally impractical because its theories lack verifiable results. 71. Debates about how to properly translate Kokugaku are currently ongoing. One common translation is “Nativism,” which I find exceptionally misleading, because it dismisses the movement from the outset as xenophobic and imagines that its contours were purely political. Another recent proposal by Mark McNally (2005) has been the term “exclusivism.” This misses the degree to which Kokugaku scholars were engaged in capturing and including other forms of knowledge and has the distinct disadvantage of being etymological unconnected to the Japanese. Other common translations are “National Learning” or “National Study.” Each of these is trying to get at Kokugaku’s two characters—koku (“nation”) and gaku (“learning”)—which is part of what I am trying to do here by using “National Science.” But I admit that my translation is a provocative attempt to push it out of the discourse that immediately would tend to dismiss this movement as an outmoded philosophy or worse as a “religion.” I break down the two parts of my translation to provide a justification: First, koku is clearly a reference to the islands of Japan, but insofar as contemporary uses of koku are merely synonyms for Japan (e.g., Japanese as kokugo), one could translate this as “Japanese science,” which would have some of the appropriate resonances. Yet, because its followers were trying to render the movement universal, I think “Japanese” is less than ideal. Susan Burns (2003) and others have argued that it is a mistake to think of this movement as nationalism because it predates the nationstate and instead imagines a cultural commonality. I would argue that nationalism are frequently born before nations and are deeply tied to culture. For those reasons, I think “national” works best for the fi rst character of this movement. Second, my translation of gaku as “science” is bound to irritate some scholars, because they connect science with objectivity or anachronistically with a form of the scientific method articulated only in the nine-

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teenth century and largely modeled on physics. In part I am pushing back against this because the contemporary discourse around science is so Eurocentric that it has been seriously asked if the Japanese or Chinese ever had any form of science at all (see Hart 1999). The objectivity of science is frequently paradoxically tied to assertions of Euro-American superiority. It is often claimed that Europeans were the only ones to discover objective ways of looking at the world and that this objectivity was predicated on mathematical models and the experimental method. I would happily argue with this claim and assert that “science,” whatever we understand it to be, emerged in multiple cultural contexts. However, I do not wish to mislead: Kokugaku did not develop the research methodology of Baconian science until much later, at which point it was already transforming into something else. Nevertheless, Kokugaku did see itself rooted in objective evidential research, and as such was regarded as empirical. Third, my translation of gaku as “science” is also going to bother some people who have inherited the idea of an essential conflict between science and religion. For some, science is supposed to be secular and secularizing. However, before the mid-nineteenth century, European science was deeply entangled with Christian theology. In the eighteenth century, European science (natural philosophy) came to be marked as a different approach to theology, but it was seen as exploring God’s book as the world instead of God’s book as the Bible and was therefore represented as complimentary to theology. Looked at comparatively, Kokugaku is doing something very similar. Particularly after Hirata, Kokugaku becomes a new way of reading the world as a text. Thus, Kokugaku shares a lot more with the history of European science than is generally recognized. Furthermore, as Western science would later be de-Christianized, Kokugaku seems to have gotten there first. Fourth, I’d like to remind my readers that the special place reserved for “science” in the English lexicon is fairly unusual. Most modern European languages do not differentiate systematical knowledge in the same way. Figures like Newton did not refer to themselves as scientists, but as natural philosophers. The term “science” in English only became differentiated from arts and natural philosophy in the early nineteenth century. And it did so in part as a kind of “antiphilosophy” rooted in skepticism. In this sense, most of the formation of Kokugaku predates the formation of a distinct term for “science” as we now understand it in English. Moreover, Kokugaku is also inheriting its gaku from a long history of Chinese thought. If the resonances of “natural philosophy” were still in play, I would happily translate Kokugaku as “national philosophy.” But sadly philosophy is understood so anemically in the American academy that I expect “national philosophy” would sound to readers like outmoded philosophizing about the nature of government instead of evidential research. Antoni and other German scholars who use Nationalphilologie

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72.

73. 74. 75. 76. 77.

78. 79. 80. 81. 82.

83.

(national philology) hit close to the mark in emphasizing the importance of this technique for Kokugaku (e.g., Antoni 1998, 152). But while accurately capturing the importance of philology, this misses the breadth that Kokugaku scholars claimed to have achieved. Closer might be to use the German Wissenschaft, as this term encompasses any systematic pursuit of knowledge including what in English might be called both the humanities (e.g., literary studies, Literaturwissenschaft) and sciences (e.g., material science, Materialwissenschaften). English speakers might think of National Science as sharing its claim to “Science” with Political Science. Finally, I will grant that a problem with “National Science” is that it runs the risk of missing that the movement was focused not only on philology and cosmology but also on poetry and the power of language. Again, however, it may be more like the European history of science than it might first appear. In that it resembles early attempts to recover “adamic” language, which shaped the birth of science in early-modern Europe (Bono 1995). Moreover, scholars have already noted the nexus of poetry, science, and ways of describing the world in Europe (Harrison 2007). One might also think of the “gay science” inherited from Provençal (gaya scienza) as a euphemism for poetry and evoked in Nietzsche’s Die fröhliche Wissenschaft to play on both poetry and science. While traditional lineages, inspired by Hirata Atsutane, claim that Kada no Azumamaro and Kamo no Mabuchi (1697–1769) founded National Science, a number of other individuals also contributed to the birth of the movement including, most significantly, Yoshimi Yoshikazu (Yukikazu) (1673–1761). See Endo ¯ 2003 and Teeuwen 1996, 313–40. For his definition of Kokugaku, see Yoshimi 1942, 1:34. For a survey of these philological endeavors, see Haga 1980. My translation follows Elman 1984. Elman 1984. Burns 2003, 49–42; Nosco 1990, 41–67; Hirano 1965; Murphy 2009; Rüttermann 2000. Indeed, Kokugaku scholars’ contributions to the study of the Japanese language (especially in morphology and phonology) have an important place in the history of Japanese linguistics. See Bedell 1968; Kaiser 1995, 2000. For a biography of Motoori, see Jo ¯ fuku 1988. See Motoori 1997. For a discussion of Norinaga’s contributions to philology and the study of Japanese grammar see Yanada 1950. My awareness of this text and its importance comes from McNally 2002. Part of the argument had to do with Hattori’s interpretation of Takamano-Hara and Yoro-no-osu-kuni. For a more detailed discussion of his argument, see McNally 2002. Hattori 1978, 255–56. My translation differs only slightly from McNally 2002, 366.

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84. Hattori 1978, 255. My translation differs only slightly from McNally 2002, 362. 85. This “Sandaiko ¯ Debate” has been discussed by McNally (2005, 165–66) in English and in Japanese by Ozawa Masao (1943). See also Miki 1969, 36–37. 86. For his autobiographical account, see Hirata 1911, 1:334f. It should be noted that Hirata did not identify his movement as “Shinto.” It was only later that his followers captured “Shinto” and their movement became Kokugaku Shinto. 87. For Hirata’s reading in astronomy, see Nakayama 1973, 177–78. Hirata also frequently praised Nishikawa Joken (Hirata 1911, 1:54). See also Hirata 1967, 186–88. 88. Hirata 1977, vol. 7. 89. Harootunian 1988, 148. 90. See ibid., 1988, 149. 91. Hirata makes this point repeatedly, e.g., Hirata 1911, 1:6–7; Hirata 1977, 7:259. 92. Scholars have emphasized the influence of Christianity on Hirata’s thought (e.g., Ishida 1983, esp. 149–50). But it would be more accurate to say that Hirata attempted hierarchically include various streams of learning including what he knew of Christianity. 93. Hirata 1911, 1:53, translated in De Bary et al. 2005, 2:513. I have only slightly amended this translation. 94. Hirata 1911, 1:3. Hirata also deploys what sounds like an almost anachronistically contemporary metaphor, stating that “when we speak in terms of the sword, [Japan] is the sharp cutting edge” (translated in Hirata 1967, 203). 95. Harootunian 1988, 154. 96. For Hirata, not only had the god’s inspired Western science but they had also inspired Westerners to bring scientific works back to Japan (Hirata 1911, 1:22). 97. Hirata 1911, 1:22, translated in De Bary et al. 2005, 1:135. 98. Walthall 1998, 135. 99. Hansen 2008. 100. Translated in ibid., 184. 101. Ibid., 182f. 102. Hirata argued that his followers should study all forms of learning and render them of service to the nation. Hirata 1911, 1:5–7. 103. These titles are puns and hard to translate. The fi rst title could be translated as “Indignant Discourse on Western Writings,” but Hirata is playing with the homophone Sei (West) and Sei (Sage) and also hinting at Seiseki (sages’ traces). The second title is a play on Shutsujo¯ ko¯go by Tominaga Nakamoto.

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104. For the relationship between Kokugaku and Suika Shinto, see Shigemichi and Abe 1972, 497–506. 105. Hirata 1911, 1:5, 97. 106. Hirata 1977, 10:279–537. 107. Ibid., 10:280. He singles out the Ikko ¯ and Nichiren sects (10:449, 474). See also Ketelaar1990, 30–36. 108. Translated in ibid., 36. 109. Hirata 1977, 10:280. See also vol. 6, esp. pp. 20–30. 110. See Walthall 1998, 130. 111. For examples of Kaibara Ekiken’s writings on Shinto, see Dazaifu jinja engi (The legends of Dazaifu Shrine) and Jingikun (Lessons of the gods), for his science Yamato honzo¯ (The plants of Japan) (collected in Kaibara 1910.). For Kasahara Hakuo ¯ and the fusion of Kokugaku and Western medicine, see Ban 1976. For Motoori Haruniwa’s writings on linguistics, see Kotoba no Yachiniwa (The crossroad of words) (Motoori 1880) and Kotoba no Kayoiji (The passage of words) (Motoori 1977). 112. Fujiwara 1973. 113. Tsurumine published several works on the combination of Shinto and astronomy including his own True Pillar of the Heavens (Ame no mihashira, 1821) and Inquiries into Natural Laws (Kyu¯ri Wakumon, 1834). 114. Tsurumine, reproduced in Fujiwara 1973, 283–360. The combination of Shinto and astronomy occurs throughout, but for gods and magnetism see p. 289. 115. Sato ¯ , reproduced in Shimazaki 1977, 362. 116. Ibid., 363. My translation is based on Okada 1997, 35. 117. Sugita 1969, 29. 118. The actual knife-work was delegated to a member of the outcast class whose name was unfortunately not recorded. 119. Itself a translation of the German Anatomische Tabellen (1722) by Johann Adam Kulmus, it was translated into Japanese as Kaitai Shinsho (1775). 120. Sugita 1969, 31. 121. Both are famous for the beginnings of European medicine in Japan. However, Maeno’s political writings have been less studied. Still, the juxtaposition of Maeno and Aizawa comes from Wakabayashi. 122. Maeno identified different schools within Western learning. He distinguished between natural philosophy, their “science of the investigation of principles” (kyu¯rigaku) and the foundational science of nature mentioned above. However, he argued that Europeans had mastered knowledge of the three powers (sansai): heaven, earth, and man (Numata 1974 1:129–130). 123. An articulation of a relationship between the body and the body politic was not unique to Maeno. A connection between medicine and statecraft had long been made in standard kanpo¯ medical texts, such as Huangdi Nei-

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jing (see Unschuld 2003). Tokugawa thinkers like Ogyu ¯ Sorai commented on Huangdi Neijing and connected it to both medical and political thought (Shogimen 2008, 97–103). 124. Reproduced in Numata 1974 1:127–80. 125. Ibid., 147. 126. Ibid., 147–48. 127. Ibid., 129. 128. Ibid., 147. 129. Ibid. To be fair, Maeno was describing something like Christian civilization. Yet, he seems to have understood Christianity as including Catholicism, Dutch teachings, African teachings (by which he probably meant Judaism), and Islam (described as a branch of Catholicism). These Western “teachings” (oshie) were interpreted in Confucian terms and with a Confucian vocabulary. 130. The word Mitogaku became common in the Meiji period, previously it was referred to as Tenpo¯gaku, “the science of the Tenpo ¯ period.” 131. Aizawa’s understanding of the foreign threat was influenced by his reading of the account of Arai’s interrogation of Sidotti (recounted in chapter 2). 132. Aizawa 1931. 133. Koschmann 1987, 58–64. 134. See chapter 6 for more discussions of Confucian conceptions of heresy. 135. Clear parallels can be found in Mencius, the second Tengwen Gong section, especially Mengzi 3B9. 136. Translated in Wakabayashi 1986, 152. 137. Anderson 1991. For Kokugaku as imagined community, see Burns 2003. 138. Analects 2:3. 139. A similar argument can be found in the writings of Xunzi (ca. 312– 230 BCE). 140. For example, Ogyu ¯ Sorai and Dazai Shundai (Yasumaru 1979, 28f). 141. Wakabayashi 1986, 194. 142. Ibid., 209. For Aizawa’s reading of Christianity, see chapter 2. 143. “The skilled commander procures not only supplies from the enemy; he also conscripts manpower. The barbarians employ occult religions and other mysterious doctrines to seduce foreign peoples into their fold” (Wakabayashi 1986, 211). 144. Ibid., 200–1. 145. Ibid., 261. 146. Ibid., 262. 147. Ibid., 158. 148. For Aizawa describing Christianity using disease as a metaphor, see ibid., 211. 149. Ibid., esp. 214, 259.

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150. Clausewitz 1883, 170–76, esp. 172. 151. Wakabayashi 1986, 165. 152. The latent question is if standardization is all that is needed or if the rituals have their own power independent of their call to unity. ¯ kuni 1937, 4, 79. Translated in Breen 1996a, 182. Sukunahikona (also 153. O written Sukunabikona) is a tiny deity mentioned in the Kojiki who was ¯ namuchi in the formation of the land. For O ¯ kuni believed to have aided O and his importance, see Breen 1996a. Breen dates this text from 1854 (181), but the other sources I’ve examined suggest the document was presented in 1855 through the intermediary of Fujita To¯ko (1806–1855) (see ¯ kuni 1937, 1:5, also reproduced in Tahara 1973, 679. O ¯ kuni 1937, 1:75–144. 154. O 155. Ibid., 1:81. 156. Ibid. ¯ kuni was the central theorist behind the 157. As John Breen has argued, O Shinto ideology advocated by the early Meiji state (Breen 1996a, 179). ¯ kuni, see Brüll 1966. 158. For a full-length study of O 159. Reproduced in Tahara 1973, 449. 160. Ibid. 161. Ibid., 410,see also p. 439. ¯ kuni 1937 1:3. Translated in Breen 1998b, 584. 162. O ¯ kuni here echoes a claim that had been articulated earlier by Hirata. 163. O 164. Tahara 1973, 510. ¯ kuni 1937, 4:79. 165. O ¯ kuni 1937 3: 323–4. 166. For example, O 167. Tahara 1973, 498–501, 510. ¯ kuni is repeating claims made by Hirata. 168. Again, O 169. Put more precisely, as this chapter has shown, Japanese thinkers described a natural affinity between their reconstructed Shinto tradition and Western astronomy, physics, and so on, while simultaneously they rejected Christianity. National Science was thus remodeled according to categories and habits of thought liberated from Western natural philosophy and political theory instead of Christian theology. 170. Fujitani 1968, 118–29. 171. Wilson 1983, 420. For the radical commodity price increases, see Motoyama 1997, 22–23. 172. Davis 1984, 207; Fujitani 1968, 168. 173. Ee ja nai ka could be translated as “Isn’t it good?” However, “Why not?” captures the combination of popular outrage, wildness, and fatalism that the movement embodied. 174. Sho ¯ ji et al. 1970 307–71. 175. Hirota 1994; Yasumaru and Fukuya 1989, 3f; see also Wilson 1983, 408; Ooms 1993, 83f.

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N OT E S TO PA G E S 131–13 4

176. Yasumaru 1979. For a discussion of Kokugaku and the mobilization of both samurai and village elites, see Walthall 1998, Walthall 2000, and Motoyama 1997, 34–5. 177. I do not mean to imply complete unity of Meiji government ideas of Shinto. For a full-length study, see Sakamoto 1993. 178. For parallel Puritan ideology, see Purkiss 2006, esp. 323f. CHAPTER FIVE

1.

Scholars who find the term “Shinto secular” unpalatable might prefer to think of this edifice as “Shinto civil religion,” with the large caveat that like American civil religion, it has defined itself precisely as outside the category religion. 2. The case of sezoku will be discussed shortly. 3. Some of these terms have been translated as “state religion,” but I think this is incorrect in this context. For kokkyo¯, see Hardacre 1989, 66. For chikyo¯, see Jingikan 4, 3.1.3. (1/3/1870), for kokka no so¯shi, see Dajo¯kan 234, 4.5.14 (7/1/1871), Ho¯rei Zensho. For these and others, also see Yamaguchi 1999, 13; and Sakamoto 1994, 232–38, 284–300. For religion, see chapter 8. 4. Isomae 2003, 101. 5. The formation of the Shinto secular is only one part of the story. My hope is not for it to become the new unitary metanarrative for Meiji ideology (like emperor worship was), but instead to see what might appear when we allow this juxtaposition. 6. Krämer, forthcoming. 7. The limits of this tolerance will be discussed in chapter 8. 8. Taylor 1998, 33. Taylor also describes a second secular mode as defi ning “an independent political ethic.” His example is Grotius. But for Japan it might as easily been Confucius, because it was a Confucian ethics distributed in ethics textbooks and the Imperial Rescript on Education that had this function in the Meiji state. For readers unfamiliar with Confucian ethics, in brief, they were not predicated on salvation or on a particular church but instead described as universal norms with rational foundations. Taylor (2007) later argued that this Deism was merely one key phase on the way to the modern Secular age. 9. Although in so doing they occasionally produced Shinto sectarians, who lashed out at Buddhism. Nagao Ryu ¯ichi (1982) emphasizes the common ground of State Shinto kokutai ideology, but not as the secular. 10. One parallel might be contemporary European rhetoric that claims to exclude Islam on the ground that it is supposedly not “secular” enough. 11. For examples, one might think of the theologies constructed by Japanese Christian leaders, Ebina Danjo¯ and Kozaki Hiromichi. See Chamberlain

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N OT E S TO PA G E S 13 4 –13 8

12.

13.

14. 15.

16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

25.

26. 27.

28. 29.

1912, 16; Iwai 2009; Kozaki 1913. For the evolution of this Japanese Christianity, see Mullins 1998. For space reasons I will avoid the periodization scheme of State Shinto promoted by Murakami (1970) and rearticulated by different scholars (for example, Isomae 2007). I do not wish to create the impression that State Shinto was born fully formed in the early days of Meiji, but only some of its vicissitudes will be traced here. Nitta Hitoshi describes the term “State Shinto” as originating in the inter war years in the English language scholarship of Kato¯ Genchi and D. C. Holtom (esp. Holtom 1922) and then gaining widespread currency only after the Shinto Directive of 1945 (Nitta 1999, 6). However, in English debates about how to understand this form of Shinto embedded in the state go back at least as far as Chamberlain 1912 and in Japan beginning in the 1870s. Murakami 1970, 141. I have only slightly amended the translation appearing in Shimazono 2006b, 53–54. This broad versus narrow reading of State Shinto is described in Nitta 1999. The narrow model appears in the work of Ashizu Uzuhiko (1987), Sakamoto Koremaru (1994), and, with slightly different emphasis, in Isomae (2003, esp. 98–100). Anidjar 2008; Asad 2003; Taylor 1998, 2007. Jager 2008, 803. One might think here of what Robert Bellah (1967) called “civil religion.” See Schmitt 1985. McGee 1999. For example, see Holyoake 1896, esp. 50. Foucault 2000, 131. For “scientific authority” as capital, see Bourdieu 1999, 34. Given that ideologies produce their own logics, they can get away from the control of the governments and ideological state apparatuses that promote them (Althusser 2008). In Marxist terms each new class “has to give its ideas the form of universality, and represent them as the only rational, universally valid ones” (Marx and Engels 1970, 65–66). Asad 2003, 201. Further treatment is due to the relationship between superstition and its supposed siblings “fanaticism” or in European archaic usage “enthusiasm.” The bifurcation of Shinto was necessarily incomplete. Isomae Jun’ichi in his analysis of State Shinto has argued that it was “was an ambiguous system, clearly classifiable as neither ‘religion’ nor ‘secular’” (2007, 99). While a move in the right direction, Isomae has tended to deemphasize the bifurcation of State and Sect Shinto. This meant that one

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30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41.

42. 43.

44. 45.

46. 47. 48. 49.

304

portion of Shinto could be lodged on the side of the secular while another became a religion. Japanese politicians would play across both valences. Hence, State Shinto resembled American civil religion. Isomae also emphasizes the radical changes that Shinto underwent in this process, and while I would agree with him to some extent, he ignores both the history ¯ kuni, and even of Shinto as politics already envisioned by Aizawa and O by Confucian Suika Shinto thinkers. Also, Isomae seems to think that this was an attempt to remove Shinto from competition with Christianity, but this ignores the fact that Sect Shinto was placed in direct confrontation with Christianity and indeed the Shinto secular was designed in such a way as to limit a kind of Christian extremism that could cause Japanese subjects to be disloyal to the emperor. Taylor 2007, 3. Smith 1991. Ooms 1985. Thal 2005, 83, although from an earlier period. Wakabayashi 1986, esp. 54f. Fukuzawa 1875. See chapter 7. For the “as if” quality of ideology, see Žižek 2008, 34. Gluck 1985. Breen 1996b. See also Jansen 2000, 337–41. The oath is known in Japanese as Gokajo¯ no Goseimon. This line, evocative of Francis Bacon’s Novum Organum, had a more proximate origin in the writings of Japanese Neo-Confucian scholar Yokoi Sho¯nan, who, like many of his fellows, had advocated a pragmatic fusion of Japanese ethics and European knowledge. On the cover of Novum Organum (1620) Bacon quoted Daniel 12:4 in the Latin vulgate: “Multi pertransibunt & augebitur scientia.” Yokoi stated, “knowledge should be taken from all the countries in the world” (“Chishiki o sekai bankoku ni torite”) (see Kokuze Sanron in Sakuma and Yokoi 1970). For a discussion of Yokoi, see Harootunian 1970, 321f. Breen 1996b, 408n6. The text of the oath was fi nalized by Kido Ko ¯ in. For the realist novel, see Watt 2001; Levine 2008. For biopolitics as a sign of modernity, see Foucault 2010, and as secular, see Mendieta 2009, 245–46. Asad 2003, 13. Ayusawa Shintaro (1964, 291f) argues that this book more than any other shaped popular opinions of the West in the latter half of the nineteenth century. Watanabe 1988, 123. Fukuzawa 1975, 136. Kiyo¯ka 1985, 123–24 (emphasis added). Fukuzawa 2008, 132; Krämer, forthcoming.

N OT E S TO PA G E S 142 –143

50. Krämer, forthcoming. 51. Fukuzawa 2008, 132. 52. Fukuzawa call this movement “imperial science” (ko¯gaku). See Craig 2009, 113–15; Fukuzawa 2008, 230–32, 236. 53. Fukuzawa 2008, 232. 54. For changing conceptions of the role of education in the face of capitalism and imperialism in the Meiji epoch, see Motoyama 1998. 55. Yuasa 1970, 150. 56. Even the most basic terminology was not yet uniform across the newly formed disciplines. For example, the Journal of the Mathematics Society (Su¯gaku Kyo¯kai Zasshi) circulated a poll that called on its readers to select a standardized translation for a set of corresponding English term, e.g., it gives three choices for “mathematics”: (1) su¯gaku, (2) su¯rigaku, and (3) sangaku (ibid., 153). 57. Another Japanese literary trend genbun itchi (literally, the unity of speech and writing), can also be seen as having emerged out of the simultaneous influence of Western linguistic norms and a National Science approach to language. Put simply, genbun itchi epitomized the ascendancy of spoken Japanese over Sino-Japanese characters (kanji) and grammar. The indigenous origins of the genbun itchi movement can be found in Hirata Atsutane and Motoori Norinaga’s attempt to recover “the spirit of words” (kotodama) which they understood to lie in an authentic performative or spoken Japanese that they believed had been obscured by Chinese literary representations. Similarly, the promoters of the genbun itchi movement wished to flatten the distinctions between written and spoken language to allow a new form of Japanese that more accurately communicated contemporary concerns. One tends to think of language reform as rationalizing and bureaucratic—the mundane changes by which colour becomes color. But genbun itchi, like kotodama, partook of a more profound reforming impulse. Both set out to bring language closer to the world (see Karatani 1993, 47–51). Ironically, many of the authors who promoted genbun itchi did so in the archaic literary Japanese that they were criticizing (Shiga 1986, 117). 58. Part of the argument rested on the assertion the equivalence of the terms sho¯setsu and “novel.” This also amounted to the claim that the novel had indigenous precedents. 59. Ueda 2007. 60. Futabatei Shimei (1864–1909) also published an essay on the importance of the realist novel. This work, A General Theory of the Novel (Sho¯setsu So¯ron, 1886) advocated a similar theory of literature, however, based on the work of Russian critic Vissarion Grigoryevich Belinsky (1811–1848). Belinsky had famously called for a rejection of fantasy and an embrace of “truth” as the central aim of modern literature. Futabatei also called for a new dedication to the expression of truth (shinri) and argued that the only

305

N OT E S TO PA G E S 143 –14 6

61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66.

67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72.

73. 74. 75.

76. 77. 78.

79. 80. 81. 82.

306

medium suitable was a novel rooted in “realism” (shajitsushugi, riarizumu). This meant that, as in the nineteenth-century West, the “real world” as understood by science came to be expressed in literature as a rejection of the supernatural (Futabatei 1971; Suzuki 1996, 22–23, 193). Translated by Twine. Tsubouchi 1981, 48. For the Japanese, see Tsubouchi 1974, 98. Tsubouchi 1981, 48. Tsubouchi 1974, esp. 51–68. Ibid., esp. 68–76. Ibid., 76–8. Maeda (2004, 255f) connects these changes to both Tsubouchi’s influence and the shift from woodblock to moveable type, which worked together to displace previous image based arts and to transform the textual paradigm of Japanese fiction. Foucault 1990, 139f. See also Foucault 1973. Although with the formation of the medical school (Igakusho) in the 1860s, the Tokugawa policies were already beginning to change. See previous chapter. It did grant limited exceptions in the areas of ophthalmology and surgery (Jannetta 2007, 158). Jannetta 2007, 131–47. “While Western medical technology has been previously opposed, its beneficial aspects shall be employed henceforth” (Dajo¯kan 3.3.3 [March 4, 1870], Ho¯rei Zensho). In 1875, it was transferred, still under Nagayo’s control, to the Home Ministry and renamed the Sanitation Bureau (Eiseikyoku). Johnston 1995, 178–9. Nagayo described borrowed the term from the Zhuangzi and producing for it a new meaning based on European political/medical discourse. Ban 1987, 156; see also Johnston 1995, 179. Translated in Johnston 1995, 179. Nagayo was also responsible for the first system of mandatory vaccinations in 1870. Naibusho ¯ 9.1.12, Ho¯rei Zensho. This policy was continued by Nagayo’s successor, Goto ¯ Shinpei (1857–1929) appointed in 1890. Goto ¯ made his argument for the direction of national medicine in The Principle of National Health (Kokka Eisei Genri, 1889). He also advocated for a close relationship between the state and the health of its citizens, using the metaphor of a national body. For similar policies in China, in part inspired by Nagayo’s efforts, see Rogaski 2004. See Burns 1997. Aoki1986, 4:62. Ibid., 4:15, 46–93. See also Rotermund 2001.

N OT E S TO PA G E S 14 6 –15 0

83. References to the Sanitation Bureau occur throughout. For prestige, see Whitney 1885, 378. Nagayo ¯ is listed as an honorary member (Sei’ikai geppo¯, 1887, 6:12, 232) and an article of his appeared in the journal in 1890. 84. Mano 1887, 157. 85. Ibid. ¯ kuni, but 86. Mano not only refers to Sukuna hikona, an important figure to O he also uses the term hitogusa, or “man-grass.” As Harootunian has noted, aohitogusa was central to Kokugaku rhetoric (Harootunian 1988, esp. 17). 87. Expert witnesses (kanteinin) were established as part of the new legal and civil codes of 1890. Minjisosho¯ho¯ 1890, 323–33; Keijisosho¯ho¯ 1890, 135–42, esp. 135. 88. This idea was also common globally as numerous thinkers (from phrenologists to literary theorists) presented their work as “scientific.” 89. For example, following the new concept of knowledge associated with this class of experts, official sources quickly adopted statistics (i.e., numerical quantification) as the primary method for the assessment of information. Accordingly, the modern survey replaced the gazetteer, which had preserved tales of miracles along with local history. 90. Dajo¯kan 1.2.13 (February 25, 1868), Ho¯rei Zensho. 91. While Carol Gluck (1985) has argued that emperor centric ideology did not properly formulate until the 1890s, this ideology seems present here in at least embryonic form. 92. Motoyama 1997, 91–92. The curriculum of the school was divided into Honkyo¯gaku, statecraft, rhetoric, applied science and barbarian studies (gaibangaku). In a radical departure from previous policies, however, Chinese learning was exteriorized into the explicitly “foreign” domain of barbarian studies. 93. They were Hirata Kanetane (1799–1880), the adopted son of Hirata Atsutane and leader of the Hirata faction; Yano Gendo¯ (Harumichi) (1823– 1887), another National Science scholar and member of the Hirata faction; ¯ kuni Takamasa. and Tamamatsu Misao (1810–1872), a former student of O Motoyama 1997, 84–85. See also Sakamoto 1993, 179–206. 94. Motoyama 1997, 130–131. 95. Sawada 2004, 91. 96. On the goals of the Hirata faction to establish theocratic control, especially Yano Gendo¯, see Breen 1998b; Harootunian 1970, 393. 97. Dajo¯kan 234 and 235, 4.5.14 (January 7, 1871), Ho¯rei Zensho. ¯ kuni faction 98. Ibid. Placing Amaterasu at the apex was a victory of the O over the Hirata faction (Thal 2005, 151–53). 99. Bernard 2006, 83. 100. For a reading of this separation placed in parallel to the English “Reformation,” see Sekimori 2005. 101. See Inoue 2006, 252–53.

307

N OT E S TO PA G E S 15 0 –153

102. Jingikan 165 1.3.17 (April 9, 1868), Ho¯rei Zensho. 103. For a discussion of what happened to a particular betto¯ when he renounced his Buddhist status, see Thal 2002, 394f. For the laws that effectively laicized Buddhist monks in general by stripping them of their special legal status, see Jaffe 2001. 104. In the clarification of this edict issued by the same department approximately one month later, the laicization of the betto¯ and shaso¯ is described as being intended to end the mixture of Buddhism and Shinto (shinbutsu konko¯) which this edict bifurcates into (implicitly false) Buddhist faith and (implicitly true) service to the kami (shinkin). Jingikan 280 1.4b.4 (May 25, 1868), Ho¯rei Zensho. 105. Dajo¯kan 260, 1.4.24 (May 19, 1868) and 366, 1.5.3 (June 22, 1868), Ho¯rei Zensho. 106. Dajo¯kan 1.3.28 (May 20, 1868), Ho¯rei Zensho. 107. Ibid. 108. While some edicts were issued in the name of the Department of Rites, many likely came directly from the Council of State. 109. According to one of the imperial edicts that began the campaign its mission was: “The ideal of the unity of state and ritual (saisei itchi) is held by the whole Nation. . . . At this time the Heavenly Course of the Nation has turned, and thus all things are become new. By all means, polity and education should be made clear to the Nation, and thus the Great Way of the Gods should be promulgated” (Imperial Edict 3.1.3 [February 3, 1870], Ho¯rei Zensho). I have largely followed the translation in Kono 1940, 385. 110. Hardacre 1986, 47. 111. Originally formulated by Eto¯ Shinpei. 112. Kyo¯busho¯ 8.11.27 (November 11, 1875), Ho¯rei Zensho. 113. See Miyake 2007. 114. Ketelaar 1990, 105–6. 115. Fujiwara 1993, e.g., Miyake 2007, 1:65–67, 79, 2:674–81. 116. As will be discussed, the campaign was also by many measures a failure. 117. This policy contributed to the persistence of the emperor as divinity in the popular imagination. Although no government-sponsored shrines were established to the Meiji emperor during his lifetime, already in 1876 a shrine was dedicated to the emperor as a god in Ishinomaki (Kato¯ 1931). 118. In the late 1870s there was a lengthy debate that split the Shinto community into confl icting camps. This controversy, known as the Pantheon Dispute (saijin ronso¯), focused on whether O ¯ kuninushi no Mikoto, the primary deity of Izumo, should be included in the official pantheon as the God of the Underworld (Hardacre 1986, 51; Antoni 1998, 206–8; Fujii 1977, 1–3). 119. Takamimusubi was associated with the gods of heaven and Kamimusubi was associated with the gods of earth, while Amenominakanushi was praised as a central figure in Hirata Atsutane’s work.

308

N OT E S TO PA G E S 153 –157

120. Hardacre 1989, 46. 121. Fujitani 1996, 10. 122. Hardacre 1986, 46. 123. Again, the state was not unified. Some factions attempted to revive the Jingikan, while others opposed (Gluck 1985 esp. 138–41). 124. It would recover some of this power in 1940 with the creation of the Jingi’in. 125. Dajo¯kan 214, 5.8.3 (September 5, 1872), Ho¯rei Zensho. 126. The actualities on the ground did not always reflect the government’s ideas, and despite the prohibition, Buddhist monks continued to teach in schools throughout Japan (Tanigawa 2008). 127. Hardacre 1989, 33; Bernard 2006, 86. 128. Indeed, the Shinto embedded in the state in many ways reflected the Shinto elements drawn together by National Science in the Tokugawa period. 129. Translated in Burns 2003, 194. I’ve substituted “National Science” for Kokugaku. For the history of this new Kokugaku, see Burns 2003, 187–219. 130. Watanabe Shoichi (1990) argues that Kokugaku has European analogues. He describes the history of English National Science (Igirisu Kokugakushi), which he identifies as a discipline dedicated to discovering the essence of a nation by studying its literature in philological and exegetical modes. 131. Kokugakuin began in 1882 as the Research Institute for the Imperial Classics (Ko¯ten Ko¯kyu¯jo). It was renamed Kokugakuin in 1890, when it began offering majors Japanese history, literature and law, although it was not given official university status until 1920 (Kokugakuin Daigaku hyakunen sho¯shi 1982). 132. For example, the project begun in 1879 to publish the Koji Ruien (Encyclopedia of ancient matters). 133. Brownstein 1987; Eschbach-Szabó 2000. 134. For examples, see Ueda Kazutoshi’s famous 1894 lecture “Kokugo to kokka to” or Haga Yaichi, Kokubungakushi jikko¯ (1899), both of which transformed claims about Japanese language and literature into arguments about Japanese national essence. Ko¯noshi2000, 64–65. 135. Lewin 2003, 118; Kaiser 1995, 48. 136. Examples of government and privately authored textbooks with Shinto gods include: Yasutomi 1873, vol. 1; Murata 1877, vol. 1; Sato¯ 1877; Hoshino 1880; Katsu ¯ra 1887; Kuroki 1893, vol. 1; Jinjo¯ Chu¯gakuka Ko¯giroku 1895, vol. 9; Gakkai Shishinsha 1899, vol. 1; Fukyu¯sha 1900, vol. 1l Monbusho ¯ 1904b; Kyo ¯ iku Gakujutsu Kenkyu ¯kai 1910, vol. 1; Monbusho¯ 1910, ¯ mori 1934, vol. 1; Nishida 1941, vol. 1. vol. 1; O 137. Takahashi and Takeya 1897, 2. 138. By late Meiji, while the gods were gone from the science textbooks, they were present in the history (and ethics) texts promoted by the same educational department.

309

N OT E S TO PA G E S 157–159

139. Brownlee 1997; Burns 2003, 193–219; see also Mehl 1998. 140. Minear 1970; Gluck 1985; Skya 2009. 141. Minear 1970. 142. Although to be fair, kokutai did not originate as a Shinto concept but a Confucian one, and to some degree Aizawa had already secularized it. For sovereignty’s theological past in Europe, see Schmitt 1985. 143. Literally translated as “shrine to invite the spirit [of the deceased].” 144. For parallels, see Inglis 2008. 145. Naimusho¯ 6, 8.1.25, Ho¯rei Zensho. 146. The Sho¯konsha already existed for this purpose and had been moved from its previous position in Kyoto Higashiyama in 1869. It was originally specified as a resting place for those who died after the sixth year of Kaei, 1853. Tucker (1999, 8) argues that this deification of loyal warriors was inspired by the Confucian Book of Rites. 147. Dajo¯kan 67, 8.4.24, Ho¯rei Zensho. 148. For the Sho ¯ konsha as a system for pacifying the “bad dead,” see Antoni 1988. 149. Dajo ¯ kan 12.6.4, Ho¯rei Zensho. 150. Antoni 1988, 124. 151. For a discussion of Yasukuni festivals see Kobori 1998, 72f. For textbooks that discuss the Yasukuni Shrine, see for example Futsu ¯kyo ¯ iku 1910, 8:151–52. Also, in a songbook for second graders, a children’s tune commemorated the enshrinement at Yasukuni (Kyo ¯ eki Sho¯sha Kakkiten 1907, 3:20–22). 152. Sakurai 1911, 25. 153. Futsu ¯kyo ¯ iku 1910, chapter 9, discusses deification at Yasukuni, while chapter 10 discusses the workings of steam power. 154. For Australian parallels see Inglis 2008. 155. Kyo ¯ busho¯ 5, 9.10.23, Ho¯rei Zensho. 156. Thal 2005, 206. 157. Naimusho¯ 7, 15.11.24. Ho¯rei Zensho. 158. Following Ashizu Uzuhiko, Teeuwen has argued that the government was not trying to raise the status of Shinto, but cut it off. His evidence is a Home Ministry ordinance issued in 1887, stipulating that after a transitional period of fifteen years, state funding would be eliminated for all shrines (Teeuwen 1999, 115). However, against this argument, the state never actually eliminated funding; instead, they renewed it several times. More importantly, even proponents of State Shinto argued that it could be self supporting and idealized the idea of community donations to fund national shrines. For example, in 1882 the draft constitution produced by Nish Amane argued for a State Shinto that could be supported by popular donation (Hardacre 1989, 116). But I will grant that the government was far from unified around the issue of State Shinto. 159. Naimusho¯ 8, 16.2.26, Ho¯rei Zensho. Their public performance and charac-

310

N OT E S TO PA G E S 159 –16 6

ter was reinforced by the 1891 issue of rules for the celebration of holidays at elementary schools(Shimazono 2009, 102). 160. Imperial Edict 36, 33.4.27, Ho¯rei Zensho; Sakamoto 2000. 161. Of course, like most secular bifurcations the state continued to play on ambiguities and invoke both registers at once. 162. For examples, see Brownlee 1997, 96–101. 163. Iida 1903, 272–73 (this essay was published posthumously). I consulted the translation provided in Wachutka (2002, 224) while preparing my own. 164. Wachutka 2002, 228. 165. Thal 2002, 110. 166. For these global processes, see Beyer 2006. 167. See also Sawada 2004, 89. 168. See chapter 8. 169. The shared understanding of secularism common to Asad and Taylor is that it is Protestant in character. This assumption should already make us suspicious, because it is a variation of a claim common to Christian fundamentalists who accuse liberal Protestants of being secular and therefore inauthentic. For Asad and Anidjar this allows them to attack secularism as merely the imposition of European colonial hegemony. For Taylor the Christian roots of secularism allow him to imagine the possibility for a simultaneous flourishing of secularism and modern Western religion. But as I have been arguing here, the Japanese case shows us something different. 170. These theorists would have anticipated American redefinition of State Shinto as a “religion” in 1945. 171. See Taylor 2007, 15–17. 172. See chapters 3 and 8. 173. Tahara 1973, 504. CHAPTER SIX

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

Naimusho ¯ 1879, 385f. In particular, Tanaka seems to have been offering healing prayers rooted in the God of the Wondrous Law (Myo¯ho¯gami) (ibid.). Takahashi 1992, 74–5. For the monstrous in Meiji folklore and literature, see Figal 1999. Masayama 1993, 213. Figal 1999; Kawamura 1997. Platt 1998, 162. Fujitani 1996, 10. In the first five years after the promotion of the new educational system (1872–1877), nearly two hundred schools were damaged or destroyed by rioting (Platt 1998, 160f).

311

N OT E S TO PA G E S 16 6 –169

10. Anderson 1999, 6–7. This classification system was also consistent with the “scientific” views of the era, especially the writings of Herbert Spencer (1820–1903) (Spencer 1897; Japanese translation, 1883–1885). 11. Civilization in this context was defi ned as both engagement with Roman law (including its successor legal institutions) and Christianity. Hence, Muslim and East Asian countries were viewed as only semi-civilized, a position not reversed until the late nineteenth century. Africa and the Americas fared even worse, as they were treated as “savage” and therefore open to full colonization by “civilized” countries. For an example, see U.S. Secretary of State Frederick Frelinghuysen’s letter to the chairman of the Senate Committee on Foreign relations, April 29, 1882, on the subject of extraterritoriality (Frelinghuysen 1882). 12. For haircuts in civilization discourse, see O’Brien 2008. 13. Howell 2005, 131f. This idea was consistent with the Confucian premise that the hierarchy of society is maintained through proper rites and ritual forms. For Chinese Confucian examples, see Zhan 2007. 14. Howell 2005, 6; Walker 1999, 129. 15. For example, the idea of taming internal barbarians is used by Meirokusha Sakatani Shiroshi to reconcile the revolutionary slogan “revere the emperor, cast out the barbarians” (sonno¯ jo¯i) with the political realities of a Westernizing Japan. In his new reading the barbaric became unenlightened Japanese rather than Westerners (translated in Braisted 1976, 524). Braisted’s translation of the Meiroku Zasshi will hereafter be abbreviated MZ. 16. Here I mean “mimesis” largely in the sense evoked by Rene Girard rather than Homi Bhabha. 17. Fukuzawa 1875, 21–23. 18. Howell 2005, 155. Oku Takenori describes this as a division between “civilization” (kaika) and “deluded-ignorance” (meimo¯). Oku 1993, 5f. 19. For example, forcing prisoners to carry a heavy boulder as means of punishment was originally modeled on similar practices in Britain. Those in favor of it stressed these origins to argue for it as an enlightened form of correction. Yet its opponents identified it as backward and against “civilization” (Botsman 2005, 193f). 20. For another example see Cusumano 1982. ¯ sei fukko no daigo¯rei (Great proclamation for the restoration of 21. See the O imperial rule), in Tsuboya 1893, 301. 22. Breen 1996b, 426. 23. The reference to “universal justice” could also be translated as “international law” (ibid.). 24. Ibid., 427. 25. MZ 404–5. 26. Even “Edo” could function this way. See Gluck 1998, 262. 27. This binary division was criticized. Endo ¯ Kichisaburo ¯ explicitly made fun

312

N OT E S TO PA G E S 169 –175

28. 29.

30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38.

39. 40.

41. 42. 43. 44. 45.

46. 47.

48. 49.

of the distinction and its arbitrariness: “It is said that believing in many gods is barbaric [yaban], but believing in only one god is civilized” (Endo ¯ 1917, 13). Sai no kami is another name for the guardian deity of travelers (Do¯sojin). The Nebuta festival is a celebration in which paper images of gods, people, and other objects are thrown into a large body of water in order to expel misfortune or illness. A deity commonly represented by a phallus. Compiled from Kawamura 1991, 33–34; Oku 1993, 6–9; and Ogi et al. 1990, 3. For haircuts, see the translation that began this chapter; for public nudity and topless bans, see Oku 1993, 9. For an example, see Monbusho ¯ 1904a. See Sand 1998, 204–5, Esenbel 1996. Ketelaar 1990, 51–52. Ibid., 52. Gluck 1985, 182. As Donald Shively (1965) has demonstrated, in the Tokugawa period the main impetus of sumptuary regulations (kenyakurei) was to discourage people (especially wealthy farmers and merchants) from public displays outside of their class status. However, instead of further reinforcing class distinctions, the Meiji regulations attempted to repress both regional and status differences as part of an attempt to produce national subjects. Kyo ¯ busho ¯ 26, 6.7.5, Ho¯rei Zensho. Hirata describes this stone lingam in Indo Zo¯shi, reproduced in Hirata 1911, vol. 1. (Kato ¯ 1924, 11). The Zen priapus was identified as Do ¯ so Konsei Daimyo ¯ jin. Kato ¯ 1924, 11. In this sense it could be seen as a particularly aggressive form of hierarchical inclusion. Quli II:119. Cited together in Sugawara 1894, 3:5. For example, the Ming legal codes advocated strangling spirit mediums or Daoist priests who engaged in yiduan healing techniques (Sutton 2004, 209). For examples, see Kleeman 1994. An incident in the Shoku Nihongi, dated 730, echoes similar themes: “In the Aki and Suo ¯ provinces people have received false reports of fortune and misfortune. Having heard of the efficacy of this place’s prayers, large numbers of people have gathered together [at] a monstrous shrine [yo¯shi] to a dead spirit” (Koji Ruien 1967, 8:81). Nihon Shoki 3:92–95. See Como 2008: 53–4.

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N OT E S TO PA G E S 175 –181

50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55.

56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64.

65. 66.

67.

68. 69.

70.

71. 72.

314

Engishiki, cited in Koji Ruien 1967, 8:81. Hérail 2008, 609. Fugeki are also mentioned in the Nihonshoki incident. Hérail 2008, 609. See Tominaga’s “Okina no Fumi” (1967; Tominaga and Baigan 1972), Izawa 2005, and Nakai 1942. For inshi, see So¯sho¯ 4.8. 19, Article 30, Ho¯rei zensho. For jashu¯mon, see Prefectural Service Rules (Fuken Ho¯shoku Kisoku) 175, 2.7.27, reproduced in Sakamoto 1964, 24. Umeda 1971–72, 4:353. Cited in Kawamura 1991, 35. For miko in Japanese history, see Meeks 2011. For example, the common phrase for “captivating beauty” or literally “beauty that leads [men] to stray” (mayowasu yo¯na utsukushisa). Shibata and Koyasu 1873, 1159. Quoted in Kawamura 1997, 17. For a discussion of the Ketsuzei ikki, see Kawamura 1997, 19–23. “Spirit-speaking” (kuchiyose) refers to a type of ritual in which a medium (often in dialogue with a saniwa) channels a spirit (Fairchild 1962, 55.) Kyo ¯ busho ¯ 2, Meiji 6.1.15, Ho¯rei Zensho. After the Ministry of Doctrine was dissolved, in 1882 the Ministry of the Interior reaffi rmed this proclamation. Kawamura 1997, 38f. This was probably because in practice there was so little distinction between shrine priests and these oracular figures; and the Shinto priests needed government authority to reject the later from the shrines. This regulation was not eliminated until 1880 despite the legal revisions of 1873 (Shiho ¯ sho ¯ 1870, III.D.7). My translation differs only slightly from Ch’en 1981, 134. It also seems unlikely that attitudes toward ritual techne like fox possession could have changed so quickly. Fugeki clearly evokes the Chinese wu¯xi, which is often translated as “witches and wizards” (Nakai 1942; emphasis added). A portion of this quote is translated in Havens 1994, which I considered while preparing my own translation. Nakai’s argument is further evidence that only a thin line existed between shrine priests and the other types of practitioners named. Hence, he is not capable of defining shrine priests, or Shinto for that matter. Nakai focuses not on differences in practice, but instead upon differences in intentions, which he thought existed between legitimate shrines and their licentious rivals. Naimusho ¯ 1879, 2: 385–6. Although there are no enforcement statistics, the Keishi Ruiju¯ Kisoku (Naimusho ¯ 1879) gives examples of specific cases.

N OT E S TO PA G E S 181–18 5

73. The term ohira is nonstandard. They may have specialized in a particular agricultural deity or this may have been a variation on Oshirasama belief (Liscutin 2000, 304). 74. Translated in Liscutin 2000, 199. I have Americanized the spelling. 75. Kyo ¯ busho ¯ 22, 7.6.7, Ho¯rei Zensho. 76. Takeda 1991. 77. Ibid. 78. The full text runs as follows: “Midarini kikyo¯kafuku o toki, mata wa kito ¯ fuju nado o nashi, hito o madowashite ri o hakarusha” (Shiho ¯ sho ¯ 1880). 79. “Inshijakyo ¯ no Torishimari” 1899. 80. The fines were between 50 sen and 1 yen 50 sen. 81. Watarai 2003, 56. 82. Often the mentally ill were locked in special isolation cells located in the house (Okada 1977, 353f). 83. See Yagi and Tanabe 2002. 84. Foucault 1961. 85. Taylor 2007. 86. To suggest that fox possession might be the result of madness was not new. Already in the Edo period physician Kagawa Shu ¯toku (1683–1755) had written, “Regarding what is popularly called ‘fox possession’ it is all a type of madness [kyo¯sho¯], it is not caused by the curses of a wild fox. True cases of fox possession are one or two in a million” (Kawamura 1997, 65). 87. See Nakamura 2001, 2003. 88. See Komatsu 2000. 89. Casal 1959, 24f; Bathgate 2001, 221; De Visser 1908, 50–51. Nakahara Yasutomi (1400–1457) argued that these incidents of fox wielding were evidence for the false Buddhism present in the Latter Days of the Dharma (mappo¯). Thus, there seems to have been a continuing connection between fox possession and “evil cults” (Bathgate 2001, 223). 90. In other regions such as Shikoku, a similar complex of beliefs centered on dogs and supernatural powers provided by the Dog-God (Inugami). 91. Kawamura 1997, 61. 92. Quoted in ibid., 61–2. 93. Yanagita 1957, 312. 94. Quoted in Kawamura 1997, 63–4. 95. Ibid., 82f. 96. Ibid. 97. Eisei Tsu¯ho¯ 1885, 24–37. It also refers to a previous report on the same subject which I have not been able to locate. 98. Watarai 2003, 163. 99. Indeed, Carmen Blacker records an incident in 1922 when a fox spirit was supposedly banished by being shown the portrait of Emperor Meiji (Blacker 1975, 4–5). 100. This may in part be due to fundamental changes in the Japanese legal

315

N OT E S TO PA G E S 18 5 –18 9

code. Previously it had been based on Tokugawa and Chinese precedents, but under the influence of French legal scholar Gustave-Émile Boissonade (1829–1910), a new Japanese code was formulated based on the Napoleonic Code (Boissonade 1886; Epp 1967, 37–45). 101. Yasui 1873, 11–13. I’ve based my translation on Yasui 1875, 22–25. For more on Yasui, see Paramore 2009, 127–28. 102. Ichiki Sho ¯ uemon, translated in Ketelaar 1990, 55. 103. Ibid., 50. 104. Ibid., 54–65. 105. Abe 1978, 114–15; Urakawa 1927, 1:180. 106. Abe 1978, 115. 107. Medzini 1971, 153. Abe gives a different date (1978, 117). 108. Robert Van Valkenburg (also spelled “Valkenburgh”), the U.S. minister in residence in Japan, reported this incident to his superiors in an official correspondence dated August 23, 1867 (United States Department of State, 1870, 17:2:59). 109. Roches seems to have been balancing two competing constituencies. First, missionaries, who wanted to provoke a confl ict that would lead toward greater freedom of religion; and second, merchants and French officials who were particularly interested in continuing France’s positive relation with the Japanese government (Medzini 1971, 154). 110. Roches also sent a letter to Petitjean warning him that he was causing a diplomatic incident and that he should stop encouraging Japanese Christians to publicly flaunt the nation’s laws (Ibid.,155). 111. Thelle 1987, 13; Burkman 1974, 181; Ishii 1958, 44. See also Dajo ¯ kan 279, 1.4b.4; Dajo ¯ kan Keiou 4.3 [no date], Ho¯rei Zensho. There are different variants extant of these signs. 112. Translated in Burkman 1974, 181–2. 113. For the regulation, see Dajo ¯ kan 314, 1.4b.17 (6/7/1868), Ho¯rei Zensho. Burkman (1974, 204–5) estimates that over three thousand were exiled and following British diplomatic sources suspects that 17 percent of the original deportees died. 114. Kaimusho ¯ 38, 3.1.17 (2/17/1870), Ho¯rei Zensho. 115. For a full study of the Urakami persecutions, see Kataoka 1963. 116. Calls for full Japanese freedom of religion went back to the Urakami incident of 1867. For example, Van Valkenburg petitioned the shogun: “Intolerance in regard to religious matters would at this moment be regarded in a very serious light by the Christian world, and perhaps be followed to a greater or less extent by the withdrawal of the sympathy of the great western powers, of which the government of the Tycoon stands so much in need” (United States Department of State 1870, 17:2:59–60). The American case was reinforced at the further bequest of the “Evangelical Alliance” headed by Isaac Ferris (ibid., 60).

316

N OT E S TO PA G E S 18 9 –192

117. United States Department of State 1870, 1:750. Significance discussed in Suzuki 1979, 17. 118. The term shu¯kyo¯ would again emerge in Japanese diplomacy the following year in a treaty with North Germany in which the German freie Religionsübung was translated as shu¯kyo¯ o jiyu¯ ni okonau. Both could be translated into English as the “free exercise of religion.” 119. Umeda 1971–72, 4:129. The diary of Kido Takayoshi records some of the debate among Japanese policymakers about these signs and their amendments (Kido 1983, 1:17–18, 52). 120. When the Iwakura mission reached Salt Lake City in February 1872, the United States representative insisted that any new U.S.-Japan treaty should include an article guaranteeing religious freedom (Breen 1998a, 155). 121. Ibid. 122. Dajo ¯ kan 68, 6.2.24. Ho¯rei Zensho. 123. For example, Ueno Kagenori at the Foreign Ministry appealed to the Dajo ¯ kan for clarification on this edict and its meaning for Christianity in Japan (Breen 1998a, 160f). 124. Ibid. 125. McKenzie 2003, 40. 126. Van Gent 2009, 22. 127. Clark 1997. 128. For example, see Ikeda 1976b, 89. CHAPTER SEVEN

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

For Rosny’s reputation, see “Eccentric Life of a Famous Professor,” New York Times, May 12, 1907. For his remarks, see Congrès International des Orientalistes 1876, 1:142–48. Rosny’s paper was titled “Les religions et le néo-bouddhisme au Japon” and Burnouf’s was “Sur la religion primitive des Japonais.” For Burnouf, see Congrès International des Orientalistes 1876, 1:140–42. For Rosny in particular see Le Japon et la France 1974, 83; and Kumazawa 1986. For Burnouf and comparative religion, see Masuzawa 2005, 248–55; and Jordan 1905, 511–12. Rosny used this lecture as a basis for La Religion Japonaise (1881) (Jordan 1905, 440). Jordan discusses both this lecture and the work of Rosny and Burnouf in general as the beginning of the study of Japanese religions in the history of comparative religion. For examples of the international reactions to Rosny’s presentation, see “The Oriental Congress in Paris,” Journal of the Society of Arts, October 3, 1873, 866–67 (from the UK); and “Notes,” The Nation, Vol. 16, 1873, 431 (from the U.S.). The proceedings were also printed in France in 1876. For books about Japanese religion before 1873 see the introduction.

317

N OT E S TO PA G E S 192 –19 6

6.

7.

8. 9.

10.

11. 12.

13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22.

318

According to Said, “My contention is that Orientalism is fundamentally a political doctrine willed over the Orient because the Orient was weaker than the West, which elided the Orient’s difference with its weakness”(1994, 204). “The Orient is the stage on which the whole East is confi ned . . . . An Orientalist is but the particular specialist in knowledge for which Europe at large is responsible” (63). See also Prakash 1995. While Said (1994, 99) omits the Congrès International from his discussion, his genealogy of Orientalism includes the societies that sent representatives to the Congress. One of the “Oriental” panels was on “Semites.” For racialized readings of the affair, see Burnouf 1872, 292f. Even Rosny’s session on Japanese religions veered into a rhapsodic outpouring of sentiment about the beauty of Japanese women (Congrès International des Orientalistes 1876, 1:150–53, 160). According to Said’s model, the feminization of the Orient should have applied to men as well. But this gendering was not explicit in the Japanese portion of the conference. Scholars have tried to fudge a reading of Japan as experiencing colonization in the nineteenth century, but a self-imposed imitation is not cultural colonization, unless for example we want to read French Chinoiserie as a colonization of France by China. For Japan’s brief encounter with slavery, see chapter 2. Congrès International des Orientalistes 1876, 1:60. The conference was even announced in Japanese newspapers in advance, where it was described as a public meeting of Asian Studies (To¯yo¯gaku Ko¯kai). See Congrès International des Orientalistes 1876, vol. 3, appendix. For example, Rosny’s session mentioned above included two papers by Japanese scholars. The issues discussed in volume 1 of Congrès International des Orientalistes (1876) can be easily mapped on to early issues of the Meiroku Zasshi. Rosny also met with Terashima Munenori and Fukuchi Gen’Ichiro. See Horiguchi 1995 and Matsumoto 1950. Horiguchi 1995, 132. Horiguchi records numerous meetings that Shimaji made with Rosny in 1872 and 1873 to discuss the subject of religion. For Shimaji’s place in the “New Buddhism movement” (shinbukkyo¯ undo), see Ikeda 1976a, 135–50. Shimaji, “Sanjo ¯ kyo ¯ soku hihan kenpakusho” (1872) (reproduced in Yasumaru and Miyachi 1988, 234–43), discussed later in the chapter. Indeed, Rosny recounts his encounter with Japanese curés in Rosny 1875. See De Certeau 1990, 48. But this distinction has a long precedent in military circles. See chapter 3. Fukuzawa 1966, 111. From the American side, see “The Japanese,” Daily Alta California, March 19, 1860. The last Tokugawa mission to the West had been the Keicho ¯ Embassy

N OT E S TO PA G E S 19 6 – 2 0 0

23. 24. 25.

26. 27.

28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41.

42. 43. 44. 45.

(Keicho ¯ Shisetsu) of 1613–1620, undertaken with the sponsorship of the Vatican and led by Hasekura Tsunenaga (1571–1622) (Gonoi 2003). Fukuzawa 1966, 112. For details of these missions, see Medzini 1971; Ericson 1979. For some of the record of Fukuzawa’s travels in Asia, see Nomura 1950. As Yamazaki argues, members of the Iwakura mission recognized from the beginning that Japan had a problem reconciling an open country, the propagation of Christianity, and a state founded on Shinto principles (Yamazaki 2006, 5). Duke notes that all 380 Japanese students then living abroad were recalled by the Tokugawa government in 1867 (Duke 2009, 182). For example, in England Japanese students were hosted directly by clergymen (Cobbing 1998, 143). In the United Sates, Julius Seelye, president of Amherst College and ordained minister in the Dutch Reformed Church, hosted Japanese students. For his encounters with Uchimura Kanzo ¯ , see Miura 1996, 32. For the encounters of Satsuma students with Thomas Lake Harris and the Brotherhood of the New Life, see Van Sant 2000, 82–83. Cobbing 1998, 143. Nakamura went in the face of a clause in the foreign student regulations specifically forbidding conversion to Christianity (Cobbing 1998, 147). Schwantes 1953, 124. For Meiji period interpretations of evolution, see Funayama 1965, 294–349. See Ballhatchet 1988 and Watanabe 1978. Fukuzawa, 1866, 25. Ibid., 25. This Japanese translation of the idea of rights is discussed in Howland 2002. Ibid. Ibid. Fukuzawa 1866, 33. See Hikaku Shiso ¯ shi Kenkyu ¯ kai 1975, 20–21. For instance, in the seventeenth century, zenshu¯ was generally understood as the “principle of Zen,” not as the “Zen sect.” For earlier Buddhist uses of these two characters, see Nakamura 1991, 59–146. Reader 2004. See Koizumi 2002, 2–36. Note that Mori Arinori had previously also used shu¯kyo¯ in Ko¯ro kiko¯ (1866) to discuss the multiple religions of Russia (shuju no shu¯kyo¯). (7). Fukuzawa 2008, 46. Ibid., 19. Ibid., 124. Guizot (1886, 128–31) in effect argued that religion was not just morality or a sentiment toward the divine, but more importantly a powerful principle of association and collective action.

319

N OT E S TO PA G E S 2 01– 2 0 4

46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54.

55. 56. 57. 58.

59.

60. 61.

62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70.

320

Fukuzawa 1875, 5:21; translated in Fukuzawa 2008, 189. One might also evoke Descartes here. Fukuzawa 2008, 120–30. Ibid., 131. Ibid., 127. Ibid., 71–2. Fukuzawa was far from consistent on this point. Fukuzawa 1875, 5:22; 2008, 190. Fukuzawa later revised his understanding of Shinto. While admitting that he knew very little about it, he stated that he had no specific objection to Shinto, and he even presumed that it must have “principles of its own.” Yet, he objected to its attempts to merge with the government (The Independence of Learning [Gakumon no Dokuritsu, 1883], discussed in Kiyo ¯ ka 1985, 171–72). Fukuzawa 1875, 5:22. Ibid., 24; 2008, 192. Fukuzawa 1875, 5:25; 2008, 193. Fukuzawa would say as much in a speech delivered March 12, 1898: “As far as morality is concerned, the progress made by Japanese civilization has been based upon Shintoism, Confucianism, and Buddhism. . . . However, now that our ports have been opened, and we have been conducting diplomatic relations in the Western way, the old ways based on the three teachings are becoming obsolete” (translated in Oxford 1973, 248). This could also be translated as “free from religion.” But Fukuzawa is intentionally evoking chapter 1 of the Zhuangzi, which Watson has translated as “free and easy wandering,” hence my translation above. (Zhuangzi 1968)For a discussion of Fukuzawa’s personal religious beliefs, see Koizumi 2002, esp. 29–32. Van Der Werf 60; Yamazaki 1993, 308. Francisque Marnas (1931), John Breen (1998a), Yamazaki Minako (1978, 1993, 1994, 1999, 2006), and Arjan van der Werf (2002) all agree that the Iwakura mission had an impact on Meiji religious policy, but they disagree quite considerably about what shape that impact took. Unfortunately, there is not space here to trace the full debate. Kume 2002, 1:364. Ibid.,1:364–5. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid., 5:157–8. Ibid., 5:157. Ibid., 5:156. Ibid., 1:365. Ibid., 1:367. Kume does seem to have some hesitation about this catego-

N OT E S TO PA G E S 2 0 4 – 211

rization because he argues that European so-called moral philosophy is nothing more than “summarized Christian beliefs.” 71. Ibid., 1:366. 72. Ibid., 1:365. 73. See ibid., 1:366f. 74. The name comes from year it was founded according to the Japanese calendar, which in the Gregorian calendar was 1874. 75. At Leiden they studied with Simon Vissering (1818–1888). Vissering is reputed to have also initiated both men in the local Masonic Lodge (Otterspeer 1989, 367). 76. MZ 38–40; MZJ 1:117–21. 77. MZJ 1:117–8. I have largely followed the translation in MZ 38. 78. MZ 38; MZJ 1:118. 79. MZ 38; MZJ 1:118–9. 80. MZ 40; MZJ 1:121. He also argues that only the most liberal aspects of Christianity should be adopted. 81. MZJ 2:329 82. MZ 316. 83. MZ 317; MZJ 2:323. 84. Ibid. 85. Translated in MZ 186. 86. MZ 266–67. 87. MZ 40. 88. Aoki 1970, 38–44. Discussed in Breen 1998a. 89. Aoki 1970, 42. Translated in Breen 1998a, 158. 90. A similar possibility was floating in an issue of Jiji shinpo ¯ attributed to Fukuzawa Yukichi, although like a number of editorials in that newspaper, it was probably not actually written by him. Nonetheless, the article titled “In religion as well, we have to follow Western custom” (Shu¯kyo¯ mo mata seiyo¯fu¯ ni shitagawazaru o ezu) also suggested that adopting Christianity might be the only way for the Great Powers to treat Japan as an enlightened nation. Fukuzawa 1958–1964, 9:529–36. 91. Aoki 1970, 43. Breen 1998a, 158. 92. See Havens 1968. 93. For a full lengths studies of Nishi Amane, see Havens 1970; Nishi Amane Kenkyu ¯ kai 2005; Sugawara 2009. 94. MZJ, 1:155–160. 95. Ibid. see also MZ 50. 96. MZJ 1: 158–9. 97. MZ 60. 98. MZ 50, 59. 99. MZJ 156. 100. For example, MZ 54n5.

321

N OT E S TO PA G E S 211– 217

101. MZJ 181–2. My translation differs only slightly from MZ 61–2. 102. Abe 1969a, 68–69. 103. MZ 359–62; MZJ 3:39–46. 104. Despite following some of Nishi’s terminology, Kashiwabara uses “teachings” (oshie) as the dominant translation term for religion. 105. MZ 359. 106. Ibid. 107. By “true-entrusting,” I mean to evoke Taitetsu Unno’s translation of Shinran’s shinjin, which describes a trust that something known is indeed the case in a sense very different from either Luther’s fide or the conventional reading of Hebrews 11:1. (Shinran 1984). Although lacking space to make the case here, I have significant doubts that “shin” should be translated as “faith” in most nonmodern Japanese materials. 108. Ibid., 360. 109. MZJ3:42. 110. MZJ 3:42. I have slightly modified the translation on MZ 360. 111. MZ 360. 112. MZJ 3:43. I have slightly modified the translation on MZ 361. 113. MZ 362. 114. MZ 362. 115. MZ 371–72. 116. MZ 362. 117. Mori’s contribution actually predated Kashiwabara and some of the other essays on the topic. Organizing these sections by author has the disadvantage of overlooking the back and forth of the debate. 118. For biographies of Mori, see Hall 1973 and Inuzuka 1986. 119. Although framed as a discussions for a Japanese audience, the work’s composition in English and the fact that it was never translated, suggests that it was largely authored for Americans as part of Mori’s larger diplomatic mission (Hall 1988; Yoshino 1927, 11:59. 120. See Hall 1973; Swale 2000. 121. MZ 78. 122. This echoes Mori’s spiritualist influenced anti-institutionalism. 123. Le Droit des gens is heavily indebted to Christian Wolff’s writings on the subject and accordingly a Liebnitzian conception of Natural Law. 124. MZ 70. 125. MZ 82. 126. Vattel 1863, 1:339–40. 127. Indeed, this makes sense of Mori’s more pragmatic stance toward Shinto later in life. See Hall 1973, 294. 128. MZ 83. See also Cicero 129. Mori 1972, 1:549. 130. MZJ 197.

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N OT E S TO PA G E S 217– 2 26

131. MZ 246; MZJ 2:175. The Japanese kami could be read as either plural or singular. 132. MZ 247; MZJ 2:176. 133. MZ 254; MZJ 2:193. 134. MZ 254f. 135. See also Ketelaar 1990, 124–26. ¯ shu¯ seikyo¯ kenbun, reproduced in Shimaji 1973. 136. See his O 137. Reproduced in Yasumaru and Miyachi 1988, 234–43. 138. As ammunition Shimaji brought back and translated contemporary European works, which were critical of Christianity. See Shimaji 1973, 2:84–97. 139. Nitta Hitoshi places the origins of the Shinto as “nonreligion” argument in Shimaji’s hands (Nitta 2000, 253). 140. Indeed, much of the scholarship on the subject continued to refer to Kaempfer’s 1727 work (discussed in the introduction), e.g., Steinmetz 1859. 141. Congrès International des Orientalistes 1876, 1:144. 142. Shimizu Usaburo ¯ collaborated with Rosny and served as the Meiroku Society’s treasurer. For Fukuzawa and Rosny’s relationship, see Matsubara 1990 and Matsumoto 1950. 143. Tanaka did not present the paper in person, but instead had it read by Imamura. 144. For Müller and Mori’s letter, see Müller 1902, 2:93. For a discussion of this exchange, see Girardot 2002, 279–80. 145. Congrès International des Orientalistes 1876, 1:144–45. Rosny essentially repeated these claims (1883, 237). 146. Rosny 1894b. Also, Émile Burnouf (1888) either independently or under Japanese influence was also a proponent of a similar argument. 147. For his eclectic Buddhism, see Rosny 1894, although interestingly he tried to make an argument for a basic Buddhist monotheism. For its personal importance for Rosny, see also Olcott 1891, xi–xii. This transnational reinvention of Buddhism will be explored in greater depth in Josephson, forthcoming. CHAPTER EIGHT

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

The form religious freedom ultimately took was different from that advocated by Mori. Hall 1973, 4–5. Fujitani 1996, 107–8. Ibid., 108. Various agencies within the Meiji state would interpret this notion differently. For example, the 2001 French law designed to restrict “mouvements sectaires.”

323

N OT E S TO PA G E S 2 26 – 231

7. 8. 9. 10.

11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34.

324

Shimizu 1940; Suzuki 1941–1942; Osatake 1943; Beckmann 1957; Inada 1960–1962;. Siemes 1962, 1964; Banno 1992; Takii 2007. Abe 1968–1970;. Nakajima 1976; Hardacre 1989, 115–21. Long 1889; “The Old and Modern Japan,” editorial, New York Times, Feb. 13, 1890. As Matsui Shigenori described it, “Although the Meiji Constitution had the appearance of a modern constitution, its contents were highly conservative” (Matsui 2006, 122; see also Inoue 1991, 113–16). Abe 1968; Breen 1998a. Abe 1969a 60–62. Nakajima 1976, 6. Technically the language of Article 12 seems to ban all religion outright. Nakajima 1976. Reproduced in Osatake 1943, 271. Abe 1969b, 184. ¯ kuni Takamasa’s disciple Abe 1969b, 63–65. The committee included O Fukuba Bisei. Inada 1960, 295. See Inada 1960–1962; Abe 1968–1970. Interestingly, Roesler was a Catholic convert and Mosse was Jewish. For an extended discussion of Roesler’s impact on the drafting of the Japanese Constitution, see Suzuki 1941a, 1941b, 1942. O’Brien and Yasuo 1996, 40–41. Huntington 1985, 124–25; O’Brien and Yasuo 1996, 41; De Bary et al. 2005, 2:794–95. Inoue 1991, 113–14; Shimizu 1940, 335–36. Ibid. Siemes 1962:21. However, Roesler would have preferred article 1 to read, “Japan is a hereditary monarchy forever indivisible” (ibid.,16). To be fair, Roesler uses language that evokes seventeenth-century absolutism rather than nineteenth-century neo-monarchism. By Shinto I mean particularly the invocation of divine descent and the term shinsei. For a reading as Shinto extremism, see Skya 2009, 44–5. Inoue 1991 116–17; Shimizu 1940, 225–26. For the original see Suzuki 1942, 76. Inoue 1991, 117. Kitagawa 1966, 212–14; Hori 1988; O’Brien and Yasuo 1996, 41; Herzog 1992, 99. Grunnloven undertegnet på Eidsvoll 1814. Article 4 established that the king would always be Lutheran, while article 5 established his person as sacred. Article 93 restricted state office to Lutherans. To be fair, the Norwegian Constitution had changed its position on Jews, if not Catholics, by 1851.

N OT E S TO PA G E S 231– 237

35. Verfassungsurkunde für den Preußischen Staat 1850. 36. Constitución española de 1876. 37. While the United States Constitution famously protects freedom of religion, individual state constitutions were closer to the European norm. From the Constitution of Massachusetts (1780, still in force), which establishes a Protestantism as a state religion, to the State Constitution of New York (1894), which guaranteed religious freedom “but the liberty of conscience hereby secured shall not be so construed as to excuse acts of licentiousness, or justify practices inconsistent with the peace or safety of this State.” A number of other state constitutions also explicitly required belief in God as a requirement for holding public office or swearing oaths. 38. For other examples, Article 11 of the Ottoman Constitution (Kanûn-ı Esâsî) of 1876, Articles 3 and 84 of the 1849 Danish Constitution (Danmarks Riges Grundlov), and even Article 2 of the Hawaiian Kingdom Constitution of 1887, which did not establish a state church, but guaranteed religious freedom only when not “inconsistent with the peace or safety of the Kingdom.” 39. Ito ¯ 1889, 53–54. 40. See Kyo ¯ busho ¯ 8.11.27, Ho¯rei Zensho.Shinkyo¯ can be seen as a functional translation of religious confession (religiösen Bekenntnisses). 41. Official translation appears in Ito ¯ 1889, 55. 42. Asad 2003, 205. 43. Isomae 2007, 93. Isomae is also building on Karatani Ko ¯ jin’s assertion that a new interiority was produced in modern Japan (Karatani 1993). While Karatani pegs interiority to the novel, Isomae argues that it comes from Christianity via the formation of “religion.” I’m dubious about both of these claims for historical reasons. 44. Peirce 1877. For a slightly different concept of “habitus,” see Bourdieu 1990. 45. Pascal was aware of this and argued that “Proofs only convince the mind, custom is the origin of our firmest and most believed truths”(1950, 128). 46. Instead of a naive behavoralism that effectively renders belief irrelevant in the face of practice, I’d like to note what Slavoj Žižek describes as the paradoxical status of belief before belief, namely that “by following a custom, the subject believes without knowing it, so that the final conversion is merely a formal act.” (2008, 39). 47. Macgill 1968, 1356. After 1940 it was modified to exempt those “who, by reason of religious training and belief, is conscientiously opposed to war in any form” (1357). 48. Knight 2004. 49. It also criminalizes certain kinds of activities based on the beliefs behind them, e.g., “premeditation” for murder. 50. The epigraph is cited and translated in Ikegami 1994, 18–19.

325

N OT E S TO PA G E S 237– 242

51. Nevertheless, in many areas the central binary distinction remained between religion (shu¯kyo¯) and superstition (meishin). For an example, see Tsunashima 1904. 52. Abe 1970b, 280 53. Keishicho ¯ 1888–1889, 2:312–14. 54. Instead of the deep bow performed by other teachers at his school, Uchimura only made a short bow from the waist. 55. Anderson 1999, 248. 56. Takeda 1991. 57. Ibid. 58. Ibid. 59. Ibid.; Takeda 2000; Watanabe and Igeta 1991. Sawada also discusses the rise and fall of Renmonkyo ¯ in some detail (see Sawada 2004, 236–58). 60. Launched in 1892 by Kuroiwa Ruiko ¯ , Yorozucho¯ho¯ was initially intended to be a newspaper for the masses. It circulated widely at the time, at least in the Tokyo region, but exact readership figures at the time are not know (Takeda 1991). 61. Takeda 1991. 62. Jo¯do kyo¯ho¯ (Pure Land News) 32:179, cited in Takeda 1991. 63. The truth of these claims was never verified. 64. Ikegami 1994. 65. For a discussion of Miki’s revelations, see particularly Straelen 1954, 24f. 66. Ikegami 1994. 67. Nakayama 1997, 215–19. 68. Ibid.; see also Straelen 1954, 147. 69. See for example To¯o¯ nippo, February 4, 1900; Ikegami 1994. 70. See Garon 1997, 60–63. 71. Kaigo 1962, 168f. 72. The expression could also be read meishin o sakeyo. For fubo o uyamao, see Nose 1892, 1f. 73. Futsu ¯kyo ¯ iku 1906–1907, 4:58–9. 74. Ibid., 4:58. 75. Ibid., 4:56–57. 76. See chapters 5 and 7. 77. Kokutei Sho¯gaku Kyo¯kasho Kyo ¯ zai Kenkyu ¯kai 1904; Monbusho ¯ 1904a; Futsu ¯kyo ¯ iku 1906–1907. Kyo¯iku Gakujutsu Kenkyu ¯kai 1910; To¯kyo ¯ Kyo ¯ ikukai 1912. Perhaps inspired by the same demands, private textbooks also independently produced similar lists (Omachi 1903, 47–48). 78. The meaning of engi as omens, although different from its Buddhist usage as history or karma, is still current in contemporary Japanese. 79. Monbusho¯ 1904a, 53 80. Kokutei Sho¯gaku Kyo¯kasho Kyo ¯ zai Kenkyu ¯kai, 1904 543. 81. Kaigo 1962, 618f.

326

N OT E S TO PA G E S 242 – 247

82. Inoue 2000, 130–31. For more on Inoue Enryo ¯ , see Josephson 2006 and Josephson, forthcoming. 83. Fukuzawa 1897, 321. 84. Fukuzawa wrote many, but not all, Jijishinpo¯ editorials. Therefore this list cannot be definitively attributed to him. But it was attributed to Fukuzawa in an anonymous article, “Meishin no Konjiho ¯ ” 1897. 85. In a counterintuitive manner, the fi rst to be banned are not invisible creatures, but those whose presence are the most observable and have the biggest impact on changing the world—e.g., foxes that possess people and can be seen in physical form. 86. Neither the officially sanctioned Shinto deities nor religious entities, such as buddhas, are allowed to affect the world through miracles or oracles. 87. Naimusho ¯ 41, 32.7.27, Ho¯rei Zensho. 88. Abe 1970b, 228–29. 89. Imperial Edict 36, 33.4.27, Ho¯rei Zensho. See also Krämer 2011, 184–8. 90. Ho ¯ ritsu Kenkyu ¯kai 1911; see also Kawamura 1997, 39. 91. Ikegami 1994. 92. Ibid. 93. For the history of religious studies in Japan, see Suzuki 1970, 1979; Ikegami 2000; Tsuchiya 2000; Isomae 2003. 94. To reiterate, Japanese thinkers in the premodern period had no category they defined in hierocentric terms. I’m not arguing that the binary of sacred-profane arose in Japan. But including non-European religions in the category “religion” did necessitate a new way to defi ne membership. The sacred-profane binary is but one such attempt. 95. These lectures were published in Anesaki 1900. See also the pioneering Anesaki 1899. 96. Most importantly, Müller with the 1873 Introduction to the Science of Religion and Tiele with his 1876 Geschiedenis van den Godsdienst. 97. Sharpe 1975, 137. There were, however, positions of comparative theology or natural religion in the United States earlier. 98. Ibid., 125–26. 99. Müller 1880; Tylor 1877. 100. Ishikawa Shundai and Inoue Enryo ¯ had been giving lectures on the science of religion in Japan since 1884 and 1887, respectively (Suzuki 1970, 158). 101. For examples, see Kishimoto 1894; Okakura 1894; Takakusu 1896. 102. Sharpe 1975, 138–40; Ketelaar 1990, 136–73; Snodgrass 2003; Harding 2008. 103. Griffis 1904, 7–8. For another example, see Terry 1910. 104. Lopez 1995; Chidester 1996; McCutcheon 1997; Fitzgerald 2000. 105. Suzuki 1970, 167. 106. Atkins 2010, 70–3; Murayama 1971.

327

N OT E S TO PA G E S 247– 2 59

107. Takakusu 1944. 108. Fujishima 1889, xi. 109. Barrows 1893, 2:1374–5. 110. Masuzawa 2005, 2–3, 44, 133ff. 111. Aletrino 1968. He assumes his reader is already familiar with Christianity. 112. Kishomoto 1894, 206. CO N C L U S I O N

1.

2.

3. 4. 5.

6.

7. 8.

9.

328

Fujitani 1996, 7–9; see also Miyata (1970, 42f) for a discussion of the popular confusion between the physical person of the emperor and the divine kings in general, but especially Gozu Tenno ¯ . Gozu Tenno ¯ is an Oxheaded figure often associated with plagues and the Gion Shrine in Kyoto. The Four Divine Guardian Kings were imported from Indian Buddhism as protective deities associated with the four directions. Gozu Tenno ¯ was banned as part of Dajo ¯ kan Edict 1.3.28. The guardian kings are not specifically mentioned in Meiji legislation, but the temple of the Four Guardian Kings (Shitenno¯ji) was recognized as Buddhist institution. Asad 2003; Margel 2005; De Certeau 1985. Each of these binaries has been remarked upon by others. See introduction. One form of Christianity can, of course, reduce another in this sense, e.g., Protestant-Catholic interaction. I am not arguing against comparative research as such. Depending on the project, it could be valuable to compare Nichiren and Thomas Aquinas, or Skeletor and Santa Muerte. I am merely putting forth a commonsense call for a very careful interrogation of the categories through which this comparison is made. I agree with Peter Beyer that becoming religion is a modern phenomena linked to globalization. However, I’m skeptical about the role of Luhmannian binary coding in this process. Instead I see it originating through something closer to linguistic category formation with a prototypical center on Christianity and via a process of linguistic differentiation rather in terms of purely function systems (Beyer 2006). For some efforts to trace how Japanese Buddhism became a religion, see Josephson 2006, forthcoming; Hoshino 2009. Beyer 2006, 79. I mean to contrast transnational modernity with the localized modernities of specific regions. I see, for example, Tokugawa Japan as representing an alternate modernity. I would defi ne transnational modernity as the new global condition resulting from the interaction of these various local modernities, which have each been transformed by being drawn into the world system. Quentin Meillassoux has argued that there has been a global enreligement

N OT E S TO PA G E S 2 59 – 262

10. 11.

12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

(religionizing) of rationality such that all belief systems are now seen as equally legitimate (2008, 47–48). While I do not fully buy this narrative— particularly not as a description of modernity or even as essentially religion—it does capture the way that a certain contemporary pattern of thought renders everything (from Christianity to science) in terms of being merely a belief. To be clear, the contents of the categories are underdetermined and the categories are asymmetrical. Although my model was partially inspired by the classical Lacanian triad (real, imaginary, symbolic) it does not map on to it fully (Lacan 2006). I’d also like to distance my use of the Real from Lacan’s portrayal of the Real as kind of unattainable being in itself. Aquinas 1981 3: 1585. For example, Whewell 1858, 126–28, 226–27, 534. Derrida and Ferraris 2001, 5. Cho¯sen So¯tokufu kanpo¯ 1910, 911, Taisho 4.8.16. The Cho ¯ sen Shrine (Cho¯sen Jingu¯; Ko., Choso ˘ n sin’gung) constructed in 1925 was of particular importance to the Shinto secular in Korea.

329

Character Glossary Aburatori ikki Airandojin Aizawa Seishisai akuma akuma harai Amaterasu Amaterasu-o ¯ mikami Ame no mihashira Amenominakanushi no kami Anesaki Masaharu Aochababa Aoki Shu ¯zo ¯ arai Arai Hakuseki Ariga Nagao azusamiko Bansho shirabesho Bateren Tsuiho¯ no fumi Beikoku seikyo¯ betto¯ bo¯gai Bukkoku Rekisho¯hen bunmei kaika bunmei Bunmeiron no Gairyaku Buppo¯ Butsurigaku no Yo¯yo¯ Chijiwa Seizaemon chikyo¯ Cho¯heirei Cho¯sen Jingu¯

膏取一揆 阿爾蘭人 会沢正志斎 悪魔 悪魔祓い 天照 天照大神 天の真はしら 天之御中主神 姉崎正治 青茶婆 青木周藏 荒い 新井白石 有賀長雄 梓巫 蕃書調所 伴天連追放之文 米国政教 別当 妨害 佛国暦象編 文明開化 文明 文明論之概略 佛法, 仏法 物理学之要用 千々石清左衛門 治教 徴兵令 朝鮮神宮

331

C H A R A C T E R G LO S S A R Y

Chosoˇ n sin’gung Daigakko ¯ kisoku Daikyo¯in Dainichi Nyo¯rai Dai Nihonshi Dajo¯kan d.a¯kinı¯ danka seido Danshaku Dashengjiao denki Denkito¯ Do ¯ gen Do¯sojin Edo Haruma Einosuke eirei eisei Eiseikyoku Ekikyo ¯ engi Engishiki enmi enmi satsujin Ezoshi Foshuo famiejin jing fubo o uyamau fugeki fugeki no yakara fujin Fujita To ¯ ko fuju Fuju-fuse Fuken Ho¯shoku Kisoku Fukuba Bisei Fukuo¯ Hyakuwa Fukuzawa Yukichi Fukyo¯ kisoku, fumie Fumon Entsu ¯ Fusao Kan fusetsu fushigi fusho

332

朝鮮神宮 大学校規則 大教院 大日如来 大日本史 太政官 荼吉尼, 荼枳尼, 䆣吉尼, 拏吉尼, 拏吉儞. 檀家制度 男爵 大乗教 電気 電気灯 道元 道祖神 江戸ハルマ 栄之助 英霊 衛生 衛生局 易經 縁起 延喜式 厭魅 厭魅殺人 蝦夷志 佛説法滅盡經 父母をうやまう 巫覡 巫覡輩 不仁 藤田東湖 巫呪 不受不施 府県奉職規則 福羽美静 福翁百話 福沢諭吉 布教規則 踏絵 普門円通 総生寛 誣説 不思議 符書

C H A R A C T E R G LO S S A R Y

Futabatei Shimei fu¯zoku gaibu gaido¯ Gaijasho¯ gakko¯ gakari gaku gakujutsu Gakumon no Dokuritsu gedo¯ genjitsu sekai Genpei Seisuiki Genro ¯ in genwaku genwaku Gogaku Shinsho Gokajo¯ no Goseimon Gokokujinja gongen goryo¯ Goto ¯ Shinpei Goyuigo¯ Gozu tenno¯ guan Guangxi Guangzhou Gyoju¯ Mondo¯ Gyokurenkyo ¯ Hachiman Bosatsu ¯ kami Hachiman O haibutsu kishaku Haja kensho¯ sho¯ Hasekura Tsunenaga Hashika sho¯shutsu shi no zu Hattori Nakatsune Hayashi Razan heifu¯ Heike Monogatari henkyo¯ Hiden Hirata Atsutane Hirata Kanetane hiya ho¯ben

二葉亭四迷 風俗 外部 外道 改邪鈔 学校掛 学 学術 学問之独立 外道 現実世界 源平盛衰記 元老院 幻惑 眩惑 語学新書 五箇条の御誓文 護国神社 権現 御霊 後藤新平 御遺告 牛頭天王 觀 廣西 廣州 馭戎問答 玉蓮教 八幡菩 八幡大神 廃仏毀釈 破邪顯正鈔 支倉常長 麻疹送出しの図 服部中庸 林羅山 弊風 平家物語 偏狂 悲田 平田篤胤 平田銕胤 鄙野 方便

333

C H A R A C T E R G LO S S A R Y

ho¯kyo¯ Ho¯kyo¯sho¯ Hongaji Hongaku Kyoyo¯ Hongaku honji suijaku Honkyo ¯ gaku honzengaku honzon Ho ¯ so ¯ gami hossu Hotta Masayoshi Hozumi Yatsuka Huangdi Neijing Hyakugaku renkan hyo¯kito¯ ichiko Iida Takesato ikko¯-ikki Ikko¯shu¯ ikyo¯ Imukyoku in Inoue Enryo ¯ inryoku inshi inshi jakyo¯ Inshi Renmonkyo¯kai Inugami Ise Monogatari ishiki ishiki kaii jo¯rei itan Ito ¯ Hirobumi Ito ¯ Jinsai Iwakura Shisetsudan Iwakura Tomomi Izawa Banryo ¯ jaho¯ jaho¯ no ransho¯ jain jaken Jakusho¯do¯ kokkyo¯shu¯ jakyo¯

334

法教 宝鏡鈔 本願寺 本学挙要 本学 本地垂迹 本教学 本然学 本尊 疱瘡神 法主 堀田正睦 穂積八束 黃帝内經 百学連環 憑祈祷 市子 飯田武郷 一向一揆 一向宗 異教 医務局 院 井上円了 引力 祀, 祠 祠邪教 祠蓮門教会 犬神 伊勢物語 違式 違式詿違条例 異端 伊藤博文 伊藤仁斎 岩倉使節団 岩倉具視 井沢蟠竜 邪法 邪法濫觴 邪 邪見 寂照堂谷響集 邪教

C H A R A C T E R G LO S S A R Y

jakyo¯dera Jakyo¯ taii jaro jaryu¯ jasetsu jashin jashu¯mon jiaohua jigoku Jiji shinpo ¯ Jingi’in Jingikan Jingisho ¯ jinzu¯ jinzui jisei no hen jitsugaku jiyu¯ jo¯do Juho¯ Yo¯jin Shu¯ Kada no Azumamaro Kaei kagaku Kagawa Shu ¯ toku Kagutsuchi Kaika Sakuron kaika kaimo¯ sekai Kaisetsu Kaitai Shinsho kaji kito¯ kakubutsu kyu¯ri Kakunyo kakure kirishitan Kamimusubi no kami kamiyo Kamo no Mabuchi kampei taisha kan Kanagaki Robun Kangiten kanjo¯ Kanke Ikai kanpo¯

邪教寺 邪教大意 邪路 邪流 邪説 邪神 邪宗門 教化 地獄 時事新報 神 院 神 官 神 省 神通 神水 時勢の變 実学 自由 浄土 受法用心集 荷田春満 嘉永 科学 香川修徳 具土神 開化策論 開化 怪妄世界 怪説 解体新書 加持祈祷 格物究理 覚如 隠れ切支丹 神産霊神 神代 賀茂真淵 官幣大社 觀 仮名垣魯文 歓喜天 灌頂 菅家遺誡 漢方

335

C H A R A C T E R G LO S S A R Y

Kanrei higen Kanrin Maru kanteinin kaozheng Kashiwabara Takaaki Keicho ¯ Shisetsu Keichu ¯ keiki no ten Keiran shu¯yo¯shu¯ Keisatsu Hanshobatsurei keishin aikoku Keishi Ruiju¯ Kisoku kenyakurei Ketsuzei kijin kikai kin’en kinri Kirishitan kanagaki Kirishitan monogatari Kirishitan shu¯mon kito¯ kitsune-mochi kitsune sage kitsune-tsukai Kitsunetsukibyo¯ Setsu kiwameshiru Kocho ¯ kodama kogaku ko ¯ gaku Ko ¯ gyoku Tenno ¯ Ko¯haku dokumanju¯ Koho¯ Koji Ruien Kojiki Kojikiden ko¯jo¯ho¯tai Kokka Eisei Genri kokka no so¯shi Kokken Taiko¯ kokkyo¯ kokoro kokushin

336

管蠡秘言 咸臨丸 鑑定人 考證 柏原孝章 慶長使節 契沖 形気の天 渓嵐拾葉集 警察犯処罰令 敬神愛国 警視類聚規則 倹約令 血税 鬼神 奇怪 禁厭 禁裏 喜利志袒仮名書 切支丹物語 切支丹宗門 祈祷 狐持ち 狐下げ 狐使 狐憑病説 窮め知る 戸長 木霊 古学 皇学 皇極天皇 紅白毒饅頭 古方 古事類苑 古事記 古事記伝 皇上奉戴 国家衛生原理 国家の宗祀 国憲大綱 国教 心 谷神

C H A R A C T E R G LO S S A R Y

kokutai Kokuze Sanron Konakamura Kiyonori Konseijin ko¯sho¯ kuchiyose Ku ¯ kai Kume Kunitake Kusunoki Masashige Kyo ¯ busho ¯ kyo¯do¯shoku kyogaku Kyo¯gyo¯shinsho¯ kyo¯ho¯ seiji kyo¯ka kyo¯kai Kyokutei Bakin kyo¯mon Kyo¯monron Gimon Kyo¯monron kyo¯sho¯ kyo¯waku Kyu¯chu¯sanden kyu¯hei kyu¯hei goissen Kyu ¯rijuku kyu¯risetsu Kyu¯ri Wakumon Kyu¯shu¯ Isshin li Liji Lunyu ma Maeno Ryo ¯ taku maigo makai mamorifuda Mano Jo ¯ Man’yo¯ daisho¯ ki Man’yo¯shu¯ Mao¯ Masayama Morimasa matsuri mayoi

國體, 国体 国是三論 小中村清矩 金勢神 考證, 考証 口寄 空海 久米邦武 楠木正成 教部省 教導職 虚学 教行信証 教法政治 教化 教会 曲亭馬琴 教門 教門論疑問 教門論 狂症 誑惑 宮中三殿 旧弊 舊弊御一洗 究理塾 究理説 究理或問 旧習一新 理 禮記 論語 魔 前野良沢 迷子 魔界 守札 真野丈 万葉代匠記 万葉集 魔王 増山守正 祭り 迷ひ

337

C H A R A C T E R G LO S S A R Y

mayowashi so¯ro¯ meicho¯ meifu meimo¯ meimo¯ meiri no ten meiro Meirokusha Meiroku Zasshi meishin Meishin no Konjiho¯ meishin o sakeyo meishin yu¯mei mihuo Mikado miko minpo¯ shiko¯ ho¯ Miroku Mitogaku Miura Baien miya Mizuno Tadanori mo¯go Monkan Mori Arinori Moriyama Takichiro ¯ mo¯setsu moto Motoori Norinaga ¯ hira Motoori O mozhu Muju ¯ Ichien Myo¯ho¯gami Myo¯reiritsu Nagayo Sensai naibu naimusho ¯ naiyu¯ gaikan Nakai Chikuzan Nakamura Masanao Nakayama Miki nanban Nanto ¯ shi narasu

338

迷わし候 迷鳥 冥府 迷妄 迷蒙 命理の天 迷路 明六社 明六雑誌 迷信 迷信の根治法 迷信を避けよ 迷信幽冥 迷惑 御門, 帝 巫女 民法施行法 弥勒 水戸学 三浦梅園 宮 水野忠徳 妄語 文観 森有礼 森山多吉郎 妄説 本 本居宣長 本居大平 魔著 無住一円 妙法神 名例律 長与専斎 内部 内務省 内憂外患 中井竹山 中村正直 中山みき 南蛮 南島志 馴らす

C H A R A C T E R G LO S S A R Y

Nichibei shu¯ko¯ tsu¯sho¯ jo¯yaku Nichiran tsuikajo¯yaku Nichiren Nihon Daijiten Nihon Kokken An Nihonshoki Nihon shomin seikatsu shiryo¯ shu¯sei Niinamesai nikugan nin Nippon Gakushi’in Nishi Amane Nishikawa Joken Nishi Sawanosuke no¯byo¯ nyoishu Oda Nobunaga o¯do¯ Okina no Fumi ¯ kuni Takamasa O oni o¯sei fukko ¯ sei fukko no daigo¯rei O oshie ¯ uchi Yoshitaka O Ozaki Ko ¯ yo ¯ Ozawa Masao Poxieji Quli reigi reikon Renmonkyo ¯ ri ro¯shu¯ ruiji shu¯kyo¯ Ruiju Sandai kyaku Sai no Kami saisei itchi saishi Saisho¯ no Chu¯jo¯ Sakuma Sho ¯ zan Samejima Naonobu Samidare sho¯ Sanbo ¯ Ko ¯ jin

日米修好通商条 日蘭追加条約 日蓮 日本大辞典 日本国憲按 日本書紀 日本庶民生活史料集成 新嘗祭 肉眼 仁 日本学士院 西周 西川如見 西沢之助 脳病 如意珠 織田信長 王道 翁の文 大国隆正 鬼 王政復古 王政復古の大號令 教 大内義隆 尾崎紅葉 小沢正夫 破邪集 曲禮 礼儀, 禮儀 霊魂 蓮門教 理 陋習 類似宗教 類聚三代格 塞の神 祭政一致 祭祀 宰相中将 佐久間象山 伸島尚信 五月雨抄 三宝荒神

339

C H A R A C T E R G LO S S A R Y

Sandaiko¯ Sandaiko¯ benben sangaku Sangan yoko¯ saniwa Sanjo¯ kyo¯soku hihan kenpakusho Sanjo¯ no kyo¯soku sankyo¯ Sanno ¯ sansai sansho¯ Sato ¯ Nobuhiro seifu no iryoku seirei Seiseki Gairon Sei’itai sho ¯ gun Seiyo¯ Jijo¯ Seiyo¯ Kibun sekai sekyo¯-sho Senkyo¯ Ibun Sesso ¯ So ¯ sai Shaji kyoku shajitsu Shakakyo¯ shakujo¯ Shanhaijing shaso¯ Shi-tenno¯ Shimaji Mokurai Shimamura Mitsu Shimizu Usaburo ¯ shin shinbutsu bunri rei shinbutsu konko¯ shinbutsu no raihai shinbutsu ryo¯do¯ shinjin Shinjo ¯ shinkeibyo¯ shinko no heifu¯ shinko¯ shinkoku shinkyo¯ no jiyu¯

340

三大考 三大考辯々 算学 三眼餘考 審神 三条教則批判建白書 三条ノ教則 三教 山王 三才 参照 佐藤信淵 政府の威力 政禮 西籍慨論 征夷大将軍 西洋事情 西洋記聞 世界 説教所 仙境異聞 雪窓宗崔 社寺局 写実 釈茄教 錫伺 山海經 社僧 四天王 島地黙雷 島村光津 清水卯三郎 信 神仏分離令 神仏混淆 神佛之禮拜, 神仏の礼拝 神仏両道 信心 心定 神経病 振古の弊風 信仰 神国 信教の自由

C H A R A C T E R G LO S S A R Y

shinkyo¯ shinkyo¯ shinnyo shinpu Shinran shinri Shinritsu Ko¯ryo¯ Shinron shinsei shinsetsu shinshu¯kyo¯ undo¯ shinsui shintai butsuzo¯ shinteki Shinto ¯ denju Shinto¯ Shirei Shishinden Shitenno ¯ ji shizen no gaku Sho¯chu¯ bankoku ichiran Sho¯konjo¯ Sho¯konsha Shokugaku keigen Shomotsu Aratameyaku Sho¯setsu Shinzui Sho¯setsu So¯ron sho¯shi Shoulengyan jing sho¯yo¯ shu¯ho¯ shu¯kyo¯ shu¯kyo¯ fushin shu¯kyo¯ no iryoku shu¯kyo¯gaku Shumisen shu¯mon Shu¯mon Tefuda Aratame Jo¯moku Shuntoku shu¯shi kyo¯ho shu¯shi Shushigaku shu¯shin kyo¯kasho cho¯sai iinkai shu¯shin shu¯shiso¯

信教 神教 眞如, 真如 神符 親鸞 真理 新律綱領 新論 神聖 真説 新宗教運動 神水 神躰佛像 神敵 神道伝授 神道指令 紫宸殿 四天王寺 自然之学 掌中萬國一覧 招魂場 招魂社 植学啓源 書物改役 小説神髄 小説総論 正祀 首楞嚴經 逍遙 宗法 宗教 宗教不信 宗教の威力 宗教学 須弥山 宗門 宗門手札改条目 春徳 宗旨教法 宗旨 朱子学 修身教科書調査委員会 修身 宗旨争

341

C H A R A C T E R G LO S S A R Y

Shutsujo¯ Sho¯go So ¯ bo ¯ kigen sonno¯ jo¯i Su¯gaku Kyo¯kai Zasshi su¯gaku Sugawara no Michizane Sugi Ko ¯ ji Sugita Gempaku Sukunahikona sumikeshi Sunzi Bingfa Sunzi su¯rigaku Suzuki Akira Tachikawa-ryu ¯ Taiheiki Taiji Jashu¯ Ron taikyo¯ senpu undo¯ Taiseikyo ¯ Takama-no-Hara Takamimusubi no kami Tamamatsu Misao Tama no mihashira Tanaka Fujimaro Tanaka Hisajiro ¯ tatari ten Tenchu¯ki tengen tengu Tenjiku Tenmon Giron tennin Tenno¯ Tenpo ¯ gaku tenri jindo¯ ¯ no Mikoto Tenri O Tensha Tensho ¯ Daijin Tenshu Tenshukyo¯ tetsugaku Tianjin Tiaoyue Toda Ujiyoshi

342

出定笑語 草茅危言 尊皇攘夷 数学教会雑誌 数学 菅原道真 杉亨二 杉田玄白 小彦名 墨消 孫子兵法 孫子 数理学 鈴木朗 立川流 太平記 対治邪執論 大教宣布運動 大成教 高間原 高御産巣日神 玉松操 霊能真柱 田中不二麿 田中久次郎 祟り 天 天柱記 天眼 天狗 天竺 天文義論 天人 天皇 天保学 天理人道 天理王命 天社 天照大神 天主 天主教 哲学 天津條約 戸田氏栄

C H A R A C T E R G LO S S A R Y

Tokoyo kami Tokugawa Mitsukuni Tokugawa Nariaki Tokugawa Yoshimune ¯ Tokumei Zenken Taishi Bei-O kairan jikki Tokushi Yoron Tokyo Nichinichi Shibun Tominaga Nakamoto to¯yo¯ do¯toku seiyo¯ gakugei Toyoda Mitsugi To ¯ yo ¯ gaku Ko ¯ kai Toyotomi Hideyoshi Tsubouchi Sho ¯ yo ¯ Tsuchimikado Tsuda Mamichi Tsurumine Shigenobu Uchimura Kanzo ¯ Uchimura Kanzo¯ Fukeijiken Udagawa Yo ¯ an ujigami Umemura Toyotaro ¯ Unsho ¯ wagaku wakon kansai wakon yo¯sai weisheng wu¯xi Wuzazu xiejian yaban Yakken yamatogokoro Yano Gendo ¯ (Harumichi) yashiro Yasokyo¯ Yasoshu¯ Yasukuni Shrine Yatabe Ryo ¯ kichi Yi Jing yiduan yin Yo¯kai hakase yo¯kai

常世神 徳川光圀 徳川斉昭 徳川吉宗 特命全権大使米欧回覧実記 読史余論 東京日々新聞 富永仲基 東洋道徳西洋学芸 豊田貢 東洋学公會 豊臣秀吉 坪内逍遥 土御門 津田真道 鶴峯戊申 内村鑑三 内村鑑三不敬事件 宇田川榕庵 氏神 梅村豊太郎 運敞 和学 和魂漢才 和魂洋才 衛生 巫覡 五雑爼 邪見 野蛮 訳伴 倭心 矢野玄道 社 耶蘇教 耶蘇宗 靖国神社 矢田部良吉 易經 異端 妖怪博士 妖怪

343

C H A R A C T E R G LO S S A R Y

Yokoi Sho ¯ nan Yo¯kyo¯ taiji Yomiuri Shinbun yonaoshi yo¯reikima no jado¯ Yoro-no-osu-kuni Yo¯ro¯ Ritsuryo¯ Yorozucho¯ho¯ yo¯shi Yoshida Kanetomo Yoshikawa Tadayasu Yoshimi Yoshikazu (Yukikazu) yo¯so¯ Yu ¯kai yu¯mei Zenshu ¯ Zhiyi Zhou Yi Zhu Xi Zhuangzi Zo¯butsusha Zo ¯ butsushu zoku Zokuto¯ritsu Zonkaku

344

横井小楠 妖教退治 読売新聞 世直し 妖霊鬼魔の邪道 夜之食国 養老律令 万朝報 妖祠 吉田兼倶 吉川忠安 吉見幸和 妖僧 宥快 幽冥 禪宗 智顗 周易 朱熹 莊子 造物者 造物主 賊 賊盗律 存覚

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379

Index Abe Masahiro, 84 Abe Yoshiya, 227 abominable skull ritual, 36–37. See also magic; Tachikawa school Acts of the Saints, 46–49 Aizawa Seishisai, 55–56, 120–25, 128–29, 142, 151, 161, 176, 253 Aletrino, Leopold, 248 Amaterasu, 94, 101, 121, 124, 127, 134, 147, 153, 156, 224 amulets, 16, 237, 240 anatomy. See medicine Anderson, Benedict, 121 Anesaki Masaharu, 246, 248 Anidjar, Gil, 135, 162 Anjiro ¯ (translator), 25–26, 28, 51, 60 anthropology, 2–4, 11, 16–18, 43–45, 49, 63, 66–67, 71, 128, 135, 189 Aoki Shu ¯ zo ¯ , 209–10, 227 Aquinas, Thomas, 261 Arai Hakuseki, 44, 51–52, 55, 58, 68–70, 263–64 Art of War, The (Sunzi), 55 Asad, Talal, 2–5, 76, 135, 137, 140, 162, 216, 225–26, 233–34, 251, 257 assimilation. See hierarchical inclusion astronomy, 97, 102–19, 125–27, 143, 207, 254 Baba Tatsui, 246 Babylon, 14 Bachelard, Gaston, 5–6

backward customs, 20, 170, 172–73, 176, 186, 190 badgers, 180, 184, 211, 214, 242–44 Baelz, Erwin von, 185 barbarism, 20, 22, 26, 43–44, 49–50, 52–55, 72, 83, 122, 164, 166–72, 176–78, 206, 253 biopolitics, 140, 144–45, 182, 236. See also hygiene campaign black magic. See magic book burning, 29, 33, 66. See also censorship Breen, John, 227 Buddha, Cosmic. See Cosmic Buddha Buddhism: and Christianity, 22–23, 28–30, 38–40, 46–52, 54, 58, 62, 69, 84–85, 124, 190, 222, 252, 256; and Confucianism, 58, 98–100; and heresy, 23–25, 31–41, 58, 124, 174, 186–87, 253; and India, 24–25; and Shinto, 98–101, 114–15, 129, 150–51, 186. See also Cosmic Buddha; Nichiren Buddhism; Pure Land Buddhism; Shingon Buddhism; Single-Minded sect; Tantric Buddhism Burnouf, Émile, 192 calendar, 104, 161, 171–72. See also astronomy Casanova, José, 95, 162 categorization. See taxonomy

381

INDEX

Catholicism, 25, 28, 36, 40, 44–47, 60–64, 67–69, 80, 92–93, 141, 187, 198–201, 204, 227, 231–32, 252, 263. See also Jesuits censorship, 104–104, 106. See also book burning Certeau, Michel de, 5, 252 charismatic leaders, 174–76, 178, 181, 237–38, 252 Chijiwa, Miguel. See Chijiwa Seizaemon Chijiwa Seizaemon, 46–49; Kirishitan kanagaki, 47 China: and Buddhism, 31, 98–100, 252; and Confucianism, 55, 69, 98–99, 252, 264; and Daoism, 98–99; and France, 85–86, 187; and Japanese colonialism, 193; and Shinto, 98–99; and United States, 81 Christianity: and Confucianism, 197; converts to, 40, 86, 92, 187–88, 197, 209; as Buddhist heresy, 22–23, 28–30, 38–40, 46–52, 54, 58, 62, 69, 84–85, 124, 190, 222, 252, 256; as hypothetically Japanese, 13, 59–61; and Shinto, 134; Tokugawa period ban on, 18, 23, 38, 40–42, 50, 57, 62, 92, 103, 173, 187–88, 253 Christianity in plain letters (Kirishitan kanagaki; Chijiwa Seizaemon), 47 civilizing project, 164–68, 170–71, 200–201, 207–8, 253 classification. See taxonomy cognitive linguistics, 76 cognitive psychology, 77 Collado, Diego, 59 colonialism, 3, 54, 82, 193–95, 247, 252, 262 commerce. See trade comparative religion, 11–12, 192, 221, 246–47 Comte, August, 210 conceptual web theory, 76–78 Confucianism: and atheism, 69–70; and Buddhism, 58, 98–100; and Christianity, 197; and deities, 110, 114; and education, 149, 154; and government, 54–55, 186; and heaven, 10, 210–11; and heresy, 29, 124, 173–75, 179; and ritual, 121; and Shinto, 98–101; religious status of, 13, 201, 204–5,

382

220–21, 227–28, 257–58. See also NeoConfucianism Congrès International des Orientalistes, 192, 194, 220 Constitution of the Empire of Japan, 21, 94, 138, 190, 216, 224–29, 230–33, 237, 251, 256 Cosmic Buddha (Dainichi Nyo ¯ rai), 25–26, 28, 60, 62, 64, 101 cults, 14, 20, 23, 29, 47, 59, 151, 166, 173, 175–79, 182, 186, 188, 191, 226, 239–40, 244, 252 cultural imperialism, 54–55, 118 Cusanus (Nicholas of Cusa), 67–68 customs. See backward customs; evil customs Dainichi Nyo ¯ rai. See Cosmic Buddha d∙a¯kinı¯, 33, 36, 57, 183 danka system, 41 Daoism, 13, 15, 29, 98–101, 129, 174, 248 darkness, 20, 122, 168 deities, 8, 27, 99–100, 203–4, 216; Buddhist, 27–28, 30, 34–35, 49–51, 100, 151; Christian, 49–51, 56, 61, 67; Confucian, 99–100; Daoist, 100; Hindu, 27; pagan, 67–68; Shinto, 13, 27–28, 99–100, 110, 117, 126–29, 148, 151, 157, 160, 171, 177, 179, 183, 185, 217, 222 delusion, 31, 137, 176, 188, 190, 235, 241, 260–61. See also superstition demons, 14, 16, 20, 26–27, 30–38, 45–49, 51–53, 56–59, 62–66, 68, 104, 164–66, 173–75, 190–91, 208–209, 218, 235, 243, 252–53, 260–61. See also devils Derrida, Jacques, 2–3, 76, 261 devils, 25, 34, 45, 49, 58, 60, 62–68, 191, 209, 218, 243. See also demons diplomacy, 3–4, 17–19, 23–24, 53, 71–74, 78–79, 81, 132, 167, 187, 189, 194–97, 209–10, 214, 256–57, 259. See also international relations disciplining process, 168, 190, 226 disenchantment, 20, 63, 162, 168, 178, 180, 185, 254 divination, 34–35, 170, 173–76, 179, 180, 182, 242–44, 261 Doctor Monster. See Inoue Enryo ¯ dog-god, 185, 242–43 Do ¯ gen (monk), 34

INDEX

Donker Curtius, Jan Hendrik, 83, 85, 88–89 Dubuisson, Daniel, 3 Dutch East India Company. See Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie Dutch relations with Japan, 40, 79–91 education: national system of, 123, 131, 146, 149, 154–55, 157, 167, 221, 225, 228, 240, 253; and religion, 132, 214–15, 219; and science, 142, 145, 149; and secularism, 137; and Shinto, 19, 149 empiricism, 107, 110–12, 126, 144, 213 enlightenment campaign, 20, 142, 150, 152, 165, 167–68, 170, 178, 199, 207, 213 Enlightenment (European), 14–15, 73, 135, 167, 213, 259 enthusiasm. See superstition erotic imagery, 36–37, 172, 174 ethics, 201, 204–5, 207–8, 235–36, 240–42, 257; and Confucianism, 105, 108, 205, 211, 228, 240; and Shinto, 246 ethnography, 18, 38 44–49, 60–61, 63 etiquette, 164, 170–72 evil cults, 20, 23, 29, 166, 175–78, 186, 188, 191. See also heresy evil customs, 115, 165, 169, 172, 176, 186 evil spirits, 31, 35, 57, 122, 252. See also demons excluded similarity. See exclusive similarity exclusive similarity, 24, 28–38, 222, 49, 51–52, 65, 252, 256 faith healing, 237–40, 245 Faure, Bernard, 37 Feil, Ernst, 10 Ferraris, Maurizio, 261 Fitzgerald, Timothy, 3, 6 fortunetelling, 176–77 Foucault, Michel, 6, 136–37, 144–45 foxes, 21, 33, 56–57, 178–81, 183–86, 211, 214, 218, 239, 242–44, 315 freedom of religion, 4, 19, 21, 23, 73, 78–82, 85–93, 94–96, 133, 137–38, 152, 186, 189–91, 198–202, 205–6, 210–18, 222–29, 231–38, 255 Fróis, Luís, 63

Fukuba Bisei, 128 Fukuzawa Yukichi, 140–42, 147–49, 153, 164, 167, 195–96, 198–202, 204–5, 207, 218, 220–22, 243 Fumon Entsu ¯ , 107, 109 Genji Monogatari, 144 ghosts, 16, 31, 165, 177, 208–9, 218, 241–243 globalization, 258–59 Gluck, Carol, 139 Gneist, Rudolf von, 227 goblins, 113, 180, 208, 242–244 God. See deities gods. See deities Golden Legend (Jacobus de Voragine), 48–49 Goldstone, Robert, 77 Golovnin, Vasiliı˘ Mikhaı˘lovich, 12–13 Great Promulgation Campaign, 152–53, 155, 157, 219 Griffis, William Elliot, 11, 247 Guizot, François, 200 Gyokurenkyo ¯ , 238 Harris, Thomas Lake, 214 Harris, Townsend, 80–82, 85, 89 Harris Treaty, 19, 23, 78, 82, 89, 196 Harrison, Peter, 67 Hattori Nakatsune, 111–12 Hayashi Razan, 28, 53 healing rituals, 164, 173, 181–82. See also faith healing heathenism. See paganism Hegel, G. W. F., 135, 147, 261 Heike Monogatari, 33–34 heresy, 18, 20–42, 46–48, 57, 62, 69, 124, 164, 174–77, 187–90, 236–40, 244, 252. See also heresiography; heretical anthropology heresiography, 45–46, 174, 222 heretical anthropology, 43, 45, 49, 63, 66 hierarchical inclusion, 24, 26–29, 49, 60, 62, 66, 68, 100, 115, 126, 151, 252, 274 hierocentrism, 9–11, 246 Hirata Atsutane, 111–16, 124–25, 145, 160, 172 holy water, 238–39, 242, 244–45 Hotta Masayoshi, 84, 86, 88 Howland, Douglas, 74

383

INDEX

Hozumi Yatsuka, 157 hygiene campaign, 139–40, 146–47, 182, 186, 253 iconoclasm, 32–33 ideographs, 136, 138, 149, 154–55, 160, 168, 255, 260 ideology, 26, 54, 127–28, 131, 135–37; Meiji, 19, 78, 93–97, 124–25, 128–40, 145–52, 159–61, 165–69, 218–19, 251–55 idolatry, 13–17, 32–33, 48–49, 59, 63–66, 68–69, 237 Iida Takesato, 160 imperial cult, 98, 101–2, 149–50, 229 India, 24–25, 51–53, 100, 113 Inoue Enryo ¯ , 242, 247 Inoue Kowashi, 256 international law, 72–73, 163, 166, 216, 258 international relations, 21, 92, 166–67, 170, 189, 191. See also diplomacy Io Naosuke, 22–23, 38 Isidore of Seville, 65 Islam, 15–16, 61–62, 69, 103, 203–4, 208, 248, 263 Isomae Jun’ichi, 6, 225–26, 233–36, 291–92, 304 Ito ¯ Hirobumi, 190, 209, 229, 231–34, 236 Iwakura mission, 20, 194, 196–97, 202–3, 209, 219 Iwakura Tomomi, 197 Izawa Banryo ¯ , 175 Jacobus de Voragine, Golden Legend, 48 jakyo¯. See heresy Japanese Constitution. See Constitution of the Empire of Japan Japanese-Dutch Supplementary Treaty, 86 Japanese-ness. See national identity Japan-United States Treaty of Amity and Commerce. See Harris Treaty Jesuits, 16, 18, 25, 28, 33, 39, 44, 46–48, 51–52, 55, 57, 59–63, 65–66, 231–32, 252 Jews. See Judaism Jo ¯ do Shinshu ¯ . See Pure Land Buddhism Johnston, William, 145 Journal of the Sixth [Year] of Meiji. See Meiroku Zasshi Judaism, 10, 15, 61, 65, 87, 231–32, 248

384

Kaempfer, Engelbert, 13–14 Kaibara Ekiken, 116 Kakunyo (author), 35 Kamakura period, 34, 98–99 kami. See deities Kasahara Hakuo ¯ , 116 Kashiwabara Takaaki, 212–14 Kato ¯ Hiroyuki, 217 Kawamura Kunimitsu, 179 Keichu ¯ (monk), 110, 119 Ketelaar, James, 38 Kido Takayoshi, 209–10, 227 Kirishitan kanagaki (Chijiwa Seizaemon), 47 Kirishitan Monogatari, 49, 52–53 Kishimoto Hideo, 247 Kishimoto Nobuta, 246–48 Klaproth, Julius Heinrich (pseud. Jules Henri), 12–13 Kokugaku. See National Science Korea, 100, 193, 221, 247, 262 Koschmann, Victor, 120 Kuhn, Thomas, 5, 51 Ku ¯ kai (monk), 26, 36 Kume Kunitake, 198, 202–5, 218 Kuroda Toshio, 98 kyo¯. See oshie Lakoff, George, 76 Lancilotto, Nicolò, 16, 60–62, 64 Legenda Aurea (Jacobus de Voragine), 48–49 licentious behavior 172–75, 179–80, 183, 252 Liu, Lydia, 74, 91 MacFarlane, Charles, 11 madness. See mental illness Maeno Ryo ¯ taku, 117–19 magic, 30, 36–7, 48, 50, 56–8, 63–4, 175–9, 182–5, 191, 237, 239–40, 242–45 Mano Jo ¯ , 146–47 Margel, Serge, 5, 252 Masayama Morimasa, 165 Masuzawa, Tomoko 3, 248–9, 266, 317, 328 material culture. See technology McGee, Michael, 136 medicine, 97, 102–3, 111–13, 117–18, 123, 129, 145–46, 174, 180–83, 212, 245, 254 mediums, 21, 56, 170, 176–78, 181–82, 188, 239, 245 Meiji ideology. See under ideology, Meiji

INDEX

Meiji Restoration, 101, 124, 130–31, 158, 161, 169, 172, 181 Meiji Revolution. See Meiji Restoration Meiroku Society, 196, 206, 208, 210, 212, 214, 218–20, 224 Meiroku Zasshi, 20, 206, 210, 212, 215, 217–18 mental illness, 183, 185, 190, 243, 253, 260 metaphysics, 104, 105, 108, 114, 141, 225 Meylan, Germain, 12–13 mikado, 101 military agendas, 28, 39–40, 54–55, 79, 83–84, 122 Mill, John Stuart, 210 missionaries: in China, 85–86, 187; eviction of, 30, 40–41; in Japan, 4, 18–19, 23, 44–45, 54, 63, 72–73, 79–80, 81, 92–93, 187, 203, 256. See also Jesuits Mito [Domain] Science. See Mitogaku Mitogaku, 96, 119–20, 125 Miura Baien, 54, 56 Mizuno Tadanori, 84 modernity, 3–4, 20, 72, 95, 135, 139–44, 161–62, 164, 168, 206, 251, 255–61 monasticism, 16–17, 31–32, 37, 51, 60–61, 64, 141–42 monotheism, 9–10, 13, 60–61, 103, 222 monsters, 165, 208–9, 218, 241–43, 253 morality, 104–6, 118, 124, 132, 162, 201–8, 218, 232–33, 240–41, 248 Mori Arinori, 206, 214–17, 221, 224 Moriyama Takichiro ¯ , 79, 86, 90–92 Mosse, Albert, 229 Motoda Eifu, 227–28 Motoori Haruniwa, 116 Motoori Norinaga, 110–11, 116, 144 Mugurai no Mikoto, 147 Muju ¯ Ichien, 37 Müller, Friedrich Max, 11–12, 67, 220–21, 246 Murakami Shigeyoshi, 134 Murayama Chijun, 247 Nagayo ¯ Sensai, 145–46, 181 Nakai Chikuzan, 175, 180 Nakamura Masanao, 197 Nakayama Miki, 239 Nanjo ¯ Bunyu ¯ , 246 national identity, 119–23, 128–29, 138, 161, 191, 255

National Learning. See National Science National Science, 19, 109–117, 119, 125–29, 136, 136–49, 151, 153–57, 160–61, 179, 186, 208, 225, 229, 233, 254–55; translation of Kokugaku as, 295–97 Neo-Confucianism, 104–9, 114–15, 180, 201, 207, 240 Netherlands. See Dutch relations with Japan Nichiren Buddhism, 41, 248 Nichiren (monk), 34 Nicholas of Cusa, 67–68 Nishi Amane, 206, 210–13, 215–16, 223 Nishikawa Joken, 105–6, 108 Nishikawa Sugao, 248 Nishino Buntaro ¯ , 224 Oda Nobunaga, 39 ¯ kuni Takamasa, 125–28, 130–31, 140, O 148–50, 163 Ontakekyo ¯ , 245 opium, 84–85, 88 Orientalism, 20, 192–95, 221, 256 Original Science, 125–28, 163 oshie, 7, 161, 200, 219, 228, 257–58 ¯ uchi Yoshitaka, 24 O ox-headed divine king, 251 Ozaki Ko ¯ yo ¯ , 238 paganism, 15–17, 45, 48, 58–68, 69, 203. See also idolatry pantheism, 64 paradigm, 27, 103, 139, 145, 147–48, 160–161, 166, 177, 185 Perry, Matthew, 8, 10–11, 72, 78–79, 82, 84, 210 phallic worship, 172–73 pluralism, 14–15, 222–23 polytheism, 65, 95, 98, 222 Portuguese relations with Japan, 40 Postel, Guillaume, 59, 61 private-public dichotomy. See publicprivate dichotomy Protestantism, 10, 45, 61, 63, 66, 81, 135, 162–63, 198–99, 200–201, 204, 208, 213, 247, 254 prototype effect, 76–78 Psalmanazar, George, 15 pseudoreligion, 237, 239–40, 247, 253, 262 public health, 19, 145, 182–83

385

INDEX

public-private dichotomy, 4, 21, 95, 159, 162, 212, 215–16, 223, 225–26, 231–36, 238, 257 Pure Land Buddhism, 35, 39, 41, 57, 153 Pye, Michael, 7–8 Reader, Ian, 6–7 realist novel, 19, 140, 143–44 realism, 136–37, 147, 166, 241, 259–60. See also realist novel Record of Great Peace (Taiheiki), 33–34 religion, genealogy of, 3–6, 8–18, 73, 251 religious freedom. See freedom of religion religious studies, 2–4, 6, 21, 192–95, 225, 245–49, 257–59 Renmonkyo ¯ , 238–39, 245 riots, 166, 171, 178–79, 187 Roches, Léon, 187–88 Roesler, Hermann, 229–31 Rosch, Eleanor, 76 Rosny, Léon de, 192, 195–96, 219–22 Rossi, Paolo, 6 sacred-profane binary, 9–10, 199 Said, Edward, 20, 192–93 Sakatani Shiroshi, 218 Sakuma Sho ¯ zan, 108 Samejima Naonobu, 194–95 Sanctos no gosagueo no uchi nuqigaqi, 47–49 Sato ¯ Nobuhiro, 116–17 Saussure, Ferdinand de, 77 Schurhammer, Georg, 62 science. See National Science; Original Science; science-religion binary; secularization: of Western science science-religion binary, 5, 11, 17, 18, 20, 58, 75–76, 95–97, 136, 197, 252–54, 261 Screech, Timon, 106 secularism, 4–5, 10–11, 19–20, 129, 132–42, 147–48, 152, 159–64, 166, 168, 171, 190–91, 205, 212, 216, 219–21, 225, 227–28, 232–35, 244, 251–55, 258–62 secularization, 9, 95–96, 104, 119, 135–37, 141–42, 150–51, 157, 162–63, 205, 230, 254; of Western politics, 119, 123, 163, 254; of Western science, 103–104, 119, 163, 251, 254 separation of religion from politics, 58, 95, 202, 211, 258 Sesso ¯ So ¯ sai, 50–52; Taiji Jashu¯ Ron, 50

386

shamanism, 21, 124, 181, 247, 262 Shimaji Mokurai, 195, 219–22 Shimamura Mitsu, 238–39 Shingon Buddhism, 24–26, 28–29, 36–37, 62, 183 Shinjo ¯ (monk), 36 shinko¯, 227–28, 232, 236–37 Shinran (monk), 34–35 Shinto, 94–163; and Buddhism, 98–101, 114–15, 129, 150–51, 186; and Christianity, 134; and Confucianism, 28, 98–101, 114, 120–21; and Daoism, 98–101; and Hinduism, 100–101; and political science, 118–24, 138, 150; and ritual unity, 120–24, 128, 134, 138, 149–54, 157; and secularism, 19–20, 96, 132, 137, 159, 161, 165, 191, 219–20, 225, 227, 255, 262; and State Shinto, 20, 96, 132–33, 161–62, 226, 231, 254. See also National Science; Original Science; Shrine Shinto shrines and temples: 99–101, 115 134, 139, 150, 157–60, 180–87; regulation of, 41, 151, 181–82, 211–12, 237, 244 Shrine Shinto, 19, 134–35, 161, 244 shu¯kyo¯, 6–8, 74, 189, 199, 215, 217, 223, 229, 232, 236–37, 257. See also religion, genealogy of Shushigaku. See Neo-Confucianism Sidotti, Giovanni Battista, 44, 68–70, 263–64 Siebold, Philipp Franz von, 12–13, 81 Single-Minded sect (Ikko ¯ -shu ¯ ), 39, 41, 57 Smith, Jonathan Z., 3, 45 Smith, Wilfred Cantwell, 2 sociology, 2, 24, 247 spirits, 31, 34–36, 56–57, 115, 122–23, 157–58, 170, 176, 185, 220, 242–43, 252 Sugi Ko ¯ ji, 217–18 Sugita Gempaku, 117–18 Suguwara no Michizane, 108 Suijin Kyo ¯ kai, 245 Sunzi (author): Art of War, 55 Sunzi Bingfa (Sunzi), 55 supernatural, 8, 21, 36, 47, 107, 144, 151, 164–65, 208, 211, 213–14, 218, 242–43, 251. See also superstition superstition, 4–5, 12, 18, 20–21, 74–75, 137, 146, 163–66, 173, 177, 179–80, 184–185, 190–91, 209–10, 218, 221–23,

INDEX

226–27, 234–45, 251–54, 256–62; genealogy of, 261 S´u¯ram ∙ mgama Sutra, 31–32, 51 Suzuki, D. T., 248 Swedenborg, Emmanuel, 214 syncretism. See hierarchical inclusion Tachikawa school, 29–30, 35–36, 46, 51 Taiji Jashu¯ Ron (Sesso ¯ So ¯ sai), 50 Taikyo¯ senpu undo¯. See Great Promulgation Campaign Taiseikyo ¯ , 238–39 Taiwan, 14, 193, 247 Takaki Kanehiro, 146 Tale of Genji (Genji Monogatari), 144 Tale of the Heike (Heike Monogatari), 33–34 talismans, 182–83, 237, 240, 244 Tanaka Fujimaro, 220 Tanaka Hisajiro ¯ , 164, 166 Tantric Buddhism, 24–26, 28, 37. See also Shingon Buddhism Taoism. See Daoism taxonomy, 74 Taylor, Charles, 133, 135, 138, 163, 183 Taylor, E. B., 246 technology: Western, 56–58, 103, 106, 108, 127, 129, 141, 160, 197 temples and shrines. See shrines and temples Tenrikyo ¯ , 239–40, 245 theocentrism, 9–11, 13, 87, 217, 246 Tiele, C. P., 246 Tokugawa period: and ban on Christianity, 18, 23, 38, 40–42, 50, 57, 62, 92, 103, 173, 187–88, 253; and biopolitics, 144–45; and diplomatic missions, 140, 196–97, 210; and international relations, 72, 81–85, 187 Tokugawa Ieyasu, 40 Tokugawa Mitsukuni, 110, 119 Tokugawa Nariaki, 125, 128 Tokugawa Yoshimune, 106 Tokugawa Yoshinobu, 212

Tominaga Nakamoto, 7, 175 Torres, Cosme de, 63–64 Toyoda Mitsugi, 56–57 Toyotomi Hideyoshi, 28, 41 trade, 40, 72, 78–79, 81–84, 86, 88, 166, 190, 206. See also Harris Treaty translation, 72–79 translingual practice, 74, 91 transnational modernity, 258 treaties, 4, 19, 23, 71–74, 78–92, 163, 166, 187, 190, 193, 196–98, 225 Troeltsch, Ernst, 10 Tsubouchi Sho ¯ yo ¯ , 143–44 Tsuda Mamichi, 206–10, 215, 223 Tsurumine Shigenobu, 116 Uchimura Kanzo ¯ , 237–38 Unitarianism, 247 United East India Company. See Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie Valignano, Alessandro, 66 Vattel, Emmerich de, 216 Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie, 40, 81–82, 87 VOC. See Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie Williams, Samuel Wells, 81 Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 76 Xavier, Francis, 25, 28, 59, 61–63, 252, 255 xenophobia, 22–23, 53, 178 Yasumaru Yoshio, 130 Yatabe Ryo ¯ kichi, 197 Yokoi Sho ¯ nan, 84–85 Yoshida Kanetomo, 28 Yoshikawa Tadayasu, 108 Yu ¯ kai (cleric), 30, 35 Zhu Xi, 104. See also Neo-Confucianism Zonkaku (cleric), 35

387