Although Buddhism brought a higher conception of religion for the
initiated few, it gave no help to the ignorant multitudes, rather it
riveted their superstitions upon them. It spoke of law indeed, and
lust and sin; and of dreadful punishments for sin; but when it
explained sin it made its nature too shallow, being merely the result
of mental confusion; salvation, then, became simply intellectual
enlightenment; it also made the consequences of sin too remote and the
escape from them too easy. The doctrine of "Don," suddenness of
salvation, the many external and entirely formal rites, short
pilgrimages to famous shrines, the visiting of some neighboring temple
having miniature models of all the other efficacious shrines
throughout the land, the wearing of charms, the buying of "o fuda,"
and even the single utterance of certain magic prayers, were taught
to be quite enough for the salvation of the common man from the worst
of sins. Where release is so easily obtained, the estimate of the
heinousness of sin is correspondingly slight. How different was the
consciousness of sin and the conception of its nature developed by the
Jewish worship with its system of sin offerings! Life for life.
Whatever we may think of the efficacy of offering an animal as an
expiation for sin, it certainly contributed far more toward deepening
the sense of sin than the rites in common practice among the
Buddhists. So far as I know, human or animal sacrifice has never been
known in Japan.
In response to the not unlikely criticism that sacrifice is the result
of profound sense of sin and not its cause, I reply that it is both.
The profound sense is the experience of the few at the beginning; the
practice educates the multitudes and begets that feeling in the
nation.
Ceremonial purification is an old rite in Japan. In this connection we
naturally think of the "Chozu-bachi" which may be found before every
Shinto shrine, containing the "holy water" with which to rinse the
mouth and wash the hands. Pilgrims and worshipers invariably make use
of this water, wiping their hands on the towels provided for the
purpose by the faithful. To our eyes, few customs in Japan are more
conducive to the spread of impurity and infectious disease than this
rite of ceremonial purification. No better means could be devised for
the wide dissemination of the skin diseases which are so common. The
reformed religion of New Japan--whether Buddhist, Shinto, or
Christian--could do few better services for the people at large than
by entering on a crusade against this religious rite. It could and
should preach the doctrine that sin and defilement of the hearts are
not removed by such an easy method as the rite implies and the masses
believe. If retained as a symbol, the purification rite should at
least be reformed as a practice.
Whether the use of purificatory water is to be traced to the sense of
moral or spiritual sin is doubtful to my mind; in view of the general
nature of primitive Shinto. The interpretation given the system by
W.E. Griffis, in his volume on the "Religions of Japan," is
suggestive, but in view of all the facts does not seem conclusive.
"One of the most remarkable features of Shinto" he writes, "was the
emphasis laid on cleanliness. Pollution was calamity, defilement was
sin, and physical purity at least was holiness. Everything that could
in any way soil the body or clothing was looked upon with abhorrence
and detestation."[CE] The number of specifications given in this
connection is worthy of careful perusal. But it is a strange nemesis
of history that the sense of physical pollution should develop a
religious rite fitted to become the very means for the dissemination
of physical pollution and disease.
Japanese personal cleanliness is often connected in the descriptions
of foreigners with ceremonial purification, but the facts are much
exaggerated. In contrast to nearly if not quite all non-Christian
peoples, the Japanese are certainly astonishingly cleanly in their
habits. But it is wholly unnecessary to exaggerate the facts. The
"tatami," or straw-mats, an inch or more in thickness, give to the
room an appearance of cleanliness which usually belies the truth. The
multitudes of fleas that infest the normal Japanese home are
convincing proof of the real state of the "tatami." There are those
who declare that a Japanese crowd has the least offensive odor of any
people in the world. One writer goes so far as to state that not only
is there no unpleasant odor whatever, but that there is even a
pleasant intimation of lavender about their exhalations. This exactly
contradicts my experience. Not to mention the offensive oil with which
all women anoint their hair to give it luster and stiffness, the
Japanese habit of wearing heavy cotton wadded clothing, with little or
no underwear, produces the inevitable result in the atmosphere of any
closed room. In cold weather I always find it necessary to throw open
all the doors and windows of my study or parlor, after Bible classes
of students or even after the visits of cultured and well-to-do
guests. That the Japanese bathe so frequently is certainly an
interesting fact and a valuable feature of their civilization; it
indicates no little degree of cleanliness; but for that, their
clothing would become even more disagreeable than it is, and the evil
effect upon themselves of wearing soiled garments would be much
greater. In point of fact, their frequent baths do not wholly remove
the need of change in clothing. To a Japanese the size of the weekly
wash of a foreigner seems extravagant.
As to the frequent bathing, its cleanliness is exaggerated by Western
thought, for instead of supplying fresh water for each person, the
Japanese public baths consist usually of a large tank used by
multitudes in common. Clean water is allowed for the face, but the
main tank is supplied with clean hot water only once each day. In
Kumamoto, schoolgirls living with us invariably asked permission to go
to the bath early in the day that they might have the first use of the
water. They said that by night it was so foul they could not bear to
use it. Each hotel has its own private bath for guests; this is
usually heated in the afternoon, and the guests take their baths from
four o'clock on until midnight, the waiting girls of the hotel using
it last. My only experience with public baths has been mentioned
already. At first glance the conditions were reassuring, for a large
stream of hot water was running in constantly, and the water in the
tank itself was quite transparent. But on entering I was surprised,
not to say horrified, to see floating along the margin of the tank and
on the bottom of it suggestive proofs of previous bathers. On inquiry
I learned that the tank was never washed out, nor the water entirely
discharged at a single time; the natural overflow along the edge of
the tank being considered sufficient. In the interest of accuracy it
is desirable to add that New Japan is making progress in the matter of
public baths. In some of the larger cities, I am told, provision is
sometimes made for entirely fresh water for each bather in separate
bathrooms.
In view of these facts--as unpleasant to mention as they are essential
to a faithful description of the habits of the people--it is clear
that the "horror of physical impurity" has not been, and is not now,
so great as some would have us believe. Whatever may have been the
condition in ancient times, it would be difficult to believe that the
rite of ceremonial purification could arise out of the present
practices and habits of thought. One may venture the inquiry whether
the custom of using the "purificatory water" may not have been
introduced from abroad.
But whatever be the present thought of the people, on the general
subject of sin, it may be shown to be due to the prevailing system of
ideas, moral and religious, rather than to the inherent racial
character. In an interesting article by Mr. G. Takahashi on the "Past,
Present, and Future of Christianity in Japan" I find the statement
that the preaching of the monks who came to Japan in the sixteenth
century was of such a nature as to produce a very deep consciousness
of sin among the converts. "The Christians or martyrs repeatedly cried
out 'we miserable sinners,' 'Christ died for us,' etc., as their
letters abundantly prove. It was because of this that their
consciences were aroused by the burning words of Christ, and kept
awake by means of contrition and confession." Among modern Christians
the sense of sin is much more clear and pronounced than among the
unconverted. Individual instances of extreme consciousness of sin are
not unknown, especially under the earlier Protestant preaching. If the
Christians of the last decade have less sense of sin, it is due to the
changed character of recent preaching, in consequence of the changed
conception of Christianity widely accepted in Protestant lands. Who
will undertake to say that Christians in New England of the nineteenth
century have the same oppressive sense of sin that was customary in
the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries? The sense of sin
is due more to the character of the dominant religious ideas of the
age than to brain structure or to race nature. I cannot agree with Mr.
Takahashi that "To be religious one needs a Semitic tinge of mind." It
is not a question of mind, of race nature, but of dominant ideas.
In this connection I may refer to an incident that came under my
notice some years ago. A young man applied for membership in the
Kumamoto Church, who at one time had been a student in one of my Bible
classes. I had not known that he had received any special help from
his study with me, until I heard his statement as to how he had
discovered his need of a Saviour, and had found that need satisfied in
Christ. In his statement before the examining committee of the church,
he said that when he first read the thirteenth chapter of 1
Corinthians, he was so impressed with its beauty as a poem that he
wrote it out entire on one of the fusuma (light paper doors) of his
room, and each morning, as he arose, he read it. This practice
continued several weeks. Then, as we continued our study of the Bible,
we took up the third chapter of John, and when he came to the
sixteenth verse, he was so impressed with its statement that he wrote
that beside the poem from Corinthians, and read them together.
Gradually this daily reading, together with the occasional sermons and
other Christian addresses which he heard at the Boys' School, led him
to desire to secure for himself the love described by Paul, and to
know more vitally the love of God described by John. It occurred to
him, that, to secure these ends, he should pray. Upon doing so he said
that, for the first time in his life, his unworthiness and his really
sinful nature overwhelmed him. This was, of course, but the beginning
of his Christian life. He began then to search the Scriptures in
earnest, and with increasing delight. It was not long before he wished
to make public confession of his faith, and thus identify himself with
the Christian community. This brief account of the way in which this
young man was brought to Christ illustrates a good many points, but
that for which I have cited it is the testimony it bears to the fact
that under similar circumstances the human heart undergoes very much
the same religious experience, whatever be the race or nationality of
the individual.
In regard to the future life, Shinto has little specific doctrine. It
certainly implies the continued existence of the soul after death, as
its ancestral worship shows, but its conception as to the future state
is left vague in the extreme. Confucius purposely declined to teach
anything on this point, and, in part, for this reason, it has been
maintained that Confucianism cannot properly be called a religion.
Buddhism brought to Japan an elaborate system of eschatological ideas,
and so far as the common people of Japan have any conception of the
future life, it may be attributed to Buddhistic teachings. Into their
nature I need not inquire at any length. According to popular
Buddhism, the future world, or more properly speaking, worlds (for
there are ten of them, into any one of which a soul may be born either
immediately or in the course of its future transmigrations), does not
differ in any vital way from the present world. It is a world of
material blessings or woes; the successive stages or worlds are graded
one above the other in fantastic ways. Salvation consists in passing
to higher grades of life, the final or perfect stage being paradise,
which, once attained, can never be lost. Transmigration is universal,
the period of life in each world being determined by the merits and
demerits of the individual soul.
Here we must consider two widely used terms "ingwa" and "mei." The
first of these is Buddhistic and the other Confucianistic; though
differing much in origin and meaning, yet in the end they amount to
much the same thing. "Ingwa" is the law of cause and effect. According
to the Buddhistic teaching, however, the "in," or cause, is in one
world, while the "gwa," or effect, is in the other. The suffering, for
instance, or any misfortune that overtakes one in this present life,
is the "gwa" or effect of what was done in the previous, and is thus
inevitable. The individual is working off in this life the "gwa" of
his last life, and he is also working up the "in" of the next He is
thus in a kind of vise. His present is absolutely determined for him
by his past, and in turn is irrevocably fixing his future. Such is the
Buddhistic "wheel of the law." The common explanation of misfortune,
sickness, or disease, or any calamity, is that it is the result of
"ingwa," and that there is, therefore, no help for it. The paralyzing
nature of this conception on the development of character, or on
activity of any kind, is apparent not only theoretically but actually.
As an escape from the inexorable fatality of this scheme of thought,
the Buddhist faith of the common people has resorted to magic. Magic
prayers, consisting of a few mystic syllables of whose meaning the
worshiper may be quite ignorant, are the means for overcoming the
inexorableness of "ingwa," both for this life and the next. "Namu
Amida Butsu," "Namu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo," "Namu Hen Jo Kongo," are the
most common of such magic formulæ. These prayers are heard on the lips
of tens of thousands of pious pilgrims, not only at the temples, but
as they pass along the highways. It is believed that each repetition
secures its reward. Popular Buddhism's appeal to magic was not only
winked at by philosophical Buddhism, but it was encouraged. Magic was
justified by religious philosophy, and many a "hoben," "pious device,"
for saving the ignorant was invented by the priesthood. It will be
apparent that while Buddhism has in certain respects a vigorous system
of punishment for sin, yet its method of relief is such that the
common people can gain only the most shallow and superficial views of
salvation. Buddhism has not served to deepen the sense of
responsibility, nor helped to build up character. That the more
serious-minded thinkers of the nation have, as a rule, rejected
Buddhism is not strange.
One point of great interest for us is the fact that this
eschatological and soteriological system was imported, and is not the
spontaneous product of Japan. The wide range of national religious
characteristics thus clearly traceable to Buddhistic influence shows
beyond doubt how large a part of a nation's character is due to the
system of thought that for one reason or another prevails, rather than
to the essential race character.
The other term mentioned above, "mei," literally means "command" or
"decree"; but while the English terms definitely imply a real being
who decides, decrees, and commands, the term "mei" is indeterminate on
this point. It is frequently joined to the word "Ten," or Heaven;
"Ten-mei," Heaven's decree, seeming to imply a personality in the
background of the thought. Yet, as I have already pointed out, it is
only implied; in actual usage it means the fate decreed by Heaven;
that is, fated fate, or absolute fate. The Chinese and the Japanese
alike failed to inquire minutely as to the implication of the deepest
conceptions of their philosophy. But "mei" is commonly used entirely
unconnected with "Ten," and in this case its best translation into
English is probably "fate." In this sense it is often used. Unlike
Buddhism, however, Confucianism provided no way of escape from "mei"
except moral conduct. One of its important points of superiority was
its freedom from appeal to magic in any form, and its reliance on
sincerity of heart and correctness of conduct.
Few foreigners have failed to comment on the universal use by the
Japanese of the phrase "Shikataga nai," "it can't be helped." The
ready resignation to "fate," as they deem it, even in little things
about the home and in the daily life, is astonishing to Occidentals.
Where we hold ourselves and each other to sharp personal
responsibility, the sense of subjection to fate often leads them to
condone mistakes with the phrase "Shikataga nai."
But this characteristic is not peculiar to Japan. China and India are
likewise marked by it. During the famines in India, it was frequently
remarked how the Hindus would settle down to starve in their huts in
submission to fate, where Westerners would have been doing something
by force, fighting even the decrees of heaven, if needful. But it is
important to note that this characteristic in Japan is undergoing
rapid change. The spirit of absolute submission, so characteristic of
the common people of Old Japan, is passing away and self-assertion is
taking its place. Education and developing intelligence are driving
out the fear of fate. Had our estimate of the Japanese race character
been based wholly on the history of Old Japan, it might have been easy
to conclude that the spirit of submission to rulers and to fate was a
national characteristic due to racial nature; but every added year of
New Japan shows how erroneous that view would have been. Thus we see
again that the characteristics of Japan, Old and New, are not due to
race nature, but to the prevailing civilization in the broadest sense
of the term. The religious characteristics of a people depend
primarily on the dominant religious ideas, not on the inherent
religious nature.
XXVIII
SOME RELIGIOUS PRACTICES
Among the truly religious sentiments of the Japanese are those of
loyalty and filial piety. Having already given them considerable
attention, we need not delay long upon them here. The point to be
emphasized is that these two principles are exalted into powerful
religious sentiments, which have permeated and dominated the entire
life of the nation. Not only were they at the root of courage, of
fidelity, of obedience, and of all the special virtues of Old Japan,
but they were also at the root of the larger part of her religion.
These emotions, sentiments, and beliefs have built 190,000 Shinto
shrines. Loyalty to the daimyo was the vital part of the religion of
the past, as loyalty to the Emperor is the vital part of the popular
religion of to-day. Next to loyalty came filial piety; it not only
built the cemeteries, but also maintained god-shelves and family
ancestral worship throughout the centuries. One of the first questions
which many an inquirer about Christianity has put to me is as to the
way we treat our parents living and dead, and the tombs and memories
of our ancestors. These two religious sentiments of loyalty and filial
piety were essential elements of primitive Shinto. The imported
religions, particularly Confucianism and Christianity, served to
strengthen them. In view of the indubitable religious nature of these
two sentiments it is difficult to see how anyone can deny the name of
religion to the religions that inculcate them, Shinto and
Confucianism. It shows how defective is the current conception of the
real nature of religion.
Despite the reality of these religious, sentiments, however, many
things are done in Japan quite opposed to them. Of course this is so.
These violations spring from irreligion, and irreligion is found in
every land. Furthermore, many things done in the name of loyalty and
piety seem to us Westerners exceedingly whimsical and illogical. Deeds
which to us seem disloyal and unfilial receive no rebuke. Filial piety
often seems to us more active toward the dead than toward the living.
Closely connected with loyalty and filial piety, and in part their
expression, is one further religious sentiment, namely, gratitude. In
his chapter in "Kokoro" "About Ancestor-Worship," Mr. Hearn makes some
pertinent remarks as to the nature of Shinto. "Foremost among the
moral sentiments of Shinto is that of loving gratitude to the past."
This he attributes to the fact that "To Japanese thought the dead are
not less real than the living. They take part in the daily life of the
people, sharing the humblest sorrows and the humblest joys ... and
they are universally thought of as finding pleasure in the offerings
made to them or the honors conferred upon them." There is much truth
in these statements, though I by no means share the opinion that in
connection with the Japanese belief in the dead there "have been
evolved moral sentiments wholly unknown to Western civilization," or
that their "loving gratitude to the past" is "a sentiment having no
real correspondence in our own emotional life." Mr. Hearn may be
presumed to be speaking for himself in these matters; but he certainly
does not correctly represent the thought or the feelings of the circle
of life known to me. The feeling of gratitude of Western peoples is as
real and as strong as that of the Japanese, though it does not find
expression in the worship of the dead. That the Japanese are profuse
in their expressions of gratitude to the past and to the powers that
be is beyond dispute. It crops out in sermons and public speeches, as
well as in the numberless temples to national heroes.
But it is a matter of surprise to note how often there is apparent
ingratitude toward living benefactors. Some years ago I heard a
conversation between some young men who had enjoyed special
opportunities of travel and of study abroad by the liberality of
American gentlemen.
It appeared that the young men considered that instead of receiving
any special favors, they were conferring them on their benefactors by
allowing the latter to help such brilliant youth as they, whose
subsequent careers in Japan would preserve to posterity the names of
their benefactors. I have had some experience in the line of giving
assistance to aspiring students, in certain cases helping them for
years; a few have given evidence of real gratitude; but a large
proportion have seemed singularly deficient in this grace. It is my
impression that relatively few of the scores of students who have
received a large proportion of their expenses from the mission, while
pursuing their studies, have felt that they were thereby under any
special debt of gratitude. An experience that a missionary had with a
class to which he had been teaching the Bible in English for about a
year is illustrative. At the close of the school year they invited him
to a dinner where they made some very pleasant speeches, and bade each
other farewell for the summer. The teacher was much gratified with the
result of the year's work, feeling naturally that these boys were his
firm friends. But the following September when he returned, not only
did the class not care to resume their studies with him, but they
appeared to desire to have nothing whatever to do with him. On the
street many of them would not even recognize him. Other similar cases
come to mind, and it should be remembered that missionaries give such
instruction freely and always at the request of the recipient. In the
case cited the teacher came to the conclusion that the elaborate
dinner and fine farewell speeches were considered by the young men as
a full discharge of all debts of gratitude and a full compensation for
services. This, however, is to be said: the city itself was at that
time the seat of a determined antagonism to Christianity and, of
course, to the Christian missionary; and this fact may in part, but
not wholly, account for the appearance of ingratitude.