in the world of men; worshipping the gods was a kind of rehearsal of attitudes
toward secular authorities. On the other hand, the demons and ghosts of hell
acted like and were treated like the bullies, outlaws, and threatening strangers
in the real world; they were bribed by the people and were ritually arrested by
the martial forces of the spirit officials.5 The common people, who after all
had little influence with their earthly rulers, sought by worshipping spirits to
keep troubles at bay and ensure the blessings of health, wealth, and longevity.
The initiated Taoist priest saw the many gods as manifestations of the one Dao.
He had been ritually trained to know the names, ranks, and powers of important
spirits, and to ritually direct them through meditation and visualization. In
his meditations, he harmonized and reunited them into their unity with the one
Dao. However, only the educated believers knew anything of the complex
theological system of the priest. Thus communal rituals had two levels: (a) a
priestly level, which was guided by the priest’s meditation and observed by
major patrons, who were educated laymen; and (b) a public and dramatic ritual,
usually performed by lower ranked Taoist assistants, which was theatrical in
form. It conveyed the meaning through visible actions such as climbing sword
ladders, or lighting and floating lanterns. The same ritual had a subtle
metaphysical-mystical structure for the theologians, and a visible dramatic
structure for the lay audience.6 Taoism was also an important motif in fiction,
theater, and folk tales. Local eccentrics who did not care for wealth and
position were often seen as "Taoist" because they spurned Confucian
values and rewards. In fiction Taoists were often eccentrics; they also had
magical or prophetic powers, which symbolized their spiritual attainment. They
healed, restored youth and vitality, predicted the future, or read men’s souls.
They were also depicted as the stewards of a system of moral retribution; the
Taoist gods in heaven and hell exacted strict punishments for wrongdoing, and
would let no sinner off the hook. On the one hand, then, they were
non-conformists who embodied different values and life styles; on the other,
their strict moral retribution reinforced the values of the society. Taoism was
"the other way," but it did not threaten the moral consensus. It was,
perhaps, a kind of safety valve to escape the pressures of society, or at least
a complementary channel for alternative views and values. Chinese communists see
Taoism as fatalistic and passive, a detriment to socialist reconstruction. The
People’s Republic has kept alive some practical arts, such as the use of
traditional herbal medicines, which have longstanding links with Taoism. In a
larger sense, since Taoism functioned in imperial China as a retreat and
withdrawal from the struggles of the political arena, one might say that in a
very general way the current relaxation of political pressure in reaction
against the excesses of the Gang of Four represents a Taoistic phase of Chinese
Maoism. When I was a sophomore in high school, I became convinced that Asians
and Americans were too different. I also thought that perhaps true understanding
between the two was beyond the realm of possibility. What started me in this
direction of thought was a class on world religions. An elderly Catholic priest
taught this class, and while he certainly knew a great deal about Catholicism,
it quickly became clear that he was not as knowledgeable about other religions.
Because of my bicultural background, his lack of understanding was especially
jarring whenever he spoke of Asian faiths and beliefs. My ears perked up when we
discussed the Chinese practice of ancestor worship. Most of the class was
non-Asian and found this concept perplexing. One classmate raised the question:
What was the rationale or reason to compel the Chinese to worship their
ancestors? The priest shrugged, professed ignorance, and then speculated that
the Chinese were fearful of the spirits of their ancestors. Maybe the ritual was
meant to placate them, so that these spirits would not punish their descendants
with some sort of curse. This was so far off the mark that I became instantly
incensed. I jumped to my feet and spoke up to contradict the teacher. In
retrospect, I think I probably caused quite a scene. At that moment in time,
almost two decades ago, the reckless impetus of youth possessed me, and I didn’t
even consider a more diplomatic approach. From this incident I learned that
many, many people in America did not have the first clue on what ancestor
worship meant to the Chinese. They regarded this essential cornerstone of
Chinese spirituality as a quaint, exotic ritual, with all the trappings of
primitive superstitions. Recently, I came across another item that seemed to
reinforce this impression. Prior to his untimely passing, celebrated author and
scientist Carl Sagan penned his last book, The Demon-Haunted World. In that
book, Sagan spoke against the spread of irrational beliefs in the world. To
illustrate the decline of scientific thinking in China, he pointed to the
resurgence of "ancient Chinese practices" such as I Ching fortune
telling and ancestor worship (page 17). There it was again: the casual equating
of ancestor worship with primitive, out-dated superstitious beliefs. Apparently
it is not just the average person in America that does not understand this
aspect of Chinese culture, but noted intellectuals as well. Let’s set the record
straight once and for all: ancestor worship springs not from fear or
superstitions, but from gratitude and respect – possibly the highest echelon of
all human emotions. "Drink water, think of source" is the phrase that
the Chinese associate most often with the concept of ancestor worship. The idea
is to never take anything for granted. As you quench your thirst, don’t forget
the spring or well where the water comes from. Without that source you would not
be drinking deeply. In just the same way, one should never, ever take one’s own
existence for granted. Without your ancestors you would not be here. If they
hadn’t lived, loved, struggled, fought, and survived, you would not exist. Just
as you cherish your own life, it makes perfect sense that you should also
cherish your forebears, for they are the ones who paved the way for you. This is
the real essence of ancestor worship: a state of grace known as gratefulness.
It’s a feeling that you are uniquely blessed, as the last link in an
unimaginably long chain of human beings stretching all the way back to the
genesis of humanity. You feel very much a part of this ancient tradition and the
feeling gives you power and strength. In that regard, ancestor worship is not
necessarily superstitious. One does not have to believe in the existence of
ghosts or spiritual beings to feel a sense of gratitude and appreciation.
Likewise, expressing that gratitude and appreciation through a ritual isn’t
always an endorsement of the supernatural. The emphasis on gratefulness extends
into other aspects of Chinese thinking as well. For instance, it elevates filial
piety to its rightful place as a high virtue. This kind of emphasis does not
exist in the "advanced" West, where too many of the elderly die lonely
and are not commemorated by their descendants after their passing. The Chinese
practice is a sharp contrast to this lamentable state. In that regard, ancestor
worship is anything but primitive. The ability to feel gratitude marks an
individual as a worthy human being; the institution of ritualized thanksgiving
marks a people as a truly civilized society. One reason why many Westerners have
such a tough time with this concept is the unfortunate use of the word
"worship." The connotation of this word is entirely religious, with
all the implications of deities and supplicants. Without any other information,
the typical Westerner naturally assumes that the Chinese regard their ancestors
as gods on a similar level as Buddha or Jesus. This is a false assumption that
the Chinese would find ludicrous or laughable if ever they figure out what their
American friends are really thinking. Certainly the Chinese believe their
ancestors exist as spiritual entities, but to go from there to godhood is a
mighty big stretch, indeed. A better word than "worship" would be
"communion." When the Chinese hold incense sticks in their hands and
face the ancestral shrine or gravestone, they are in silent prayer to the dead.
The content of such prayers have to do with greetings, the paying of respects,
invitation to share a meal (thus the offerings of food), and request to watch
over the safety of family members. Note that the Chinese prayers to ancestors do
not include begging for things like forgiveness for sins or transgressions,
victory over Evil, vanquishing of one’s enemies, or a guaranteed entrance into
heaven. That makes sense because departed family members are at best guardian
angels, not gods. When you look at it this way, is the Chinese practice of
ancestor worship/communion really so bizarre after all? In the West, do we not
also pray to departed family members? We most certainly do, and all without
assuming that dear old Aunt Meg has, since her death, become the Almighty Saint
Meg of the Seventh Host. The Catholic priest from my high school days would
never assume that we pray to the dear departed out of some fear of the
supernatural. Carl Sagan, despite his atheist convictions, would never think of
it as some superstitious and irrational mumbo-jumbo. What the Chinese do, in
essence, amounts to the exact same thing. And yet Americans seem to insist on
seeing Chinese customs as both more and less than they actually are. Perhaps
this is because there is a certain need in the Occidental psyche to see the
Orient as mysterious and inscrutable. If so, the insight we have gained today
may come as a disappointment. In the final analysis, and despite superficial
trappings and different styles, we all share a common, universal need to be in
touch with the spiritual world. Beneath the multicultural veneer, our essential
human nature is similar. The insight gives me a new perspective as well. It
tells me that my sophomoric high school views were wrong. The East and the West
are more alike than different. Perhaps true understanding between the two isn’t
an impossible dream after all!