The Age of the Sages

by Mark W Muesse

  Despite the high regard later Chinese had for these early Zhou rulers, Zhou culture was initially not nearly as sophisticated as the Shang dynasty it replaced. Zhou culture lacked writing but quickly adopted the Shang writing system. It also appears that the Zhou rulers embraced parts of Shang religion. The Zhou kings gave a fiefdom to the Shang family members so they could continue to worship and sacrifice to their ancestors. The Zhou rulers themselves probably worshiped the Shang ancestors, even though they had ousted the descendants of these ancestors!

  The Mandate of Heaven

  Like the Shang kings, the Zhou rulers worshiped a high god, in addition to the countless local spirits and divinities composing the heavenly bureaucracy. In Zhou theology, this Supreme Being was called Tian, a term that is ordinarily translated as “Heaven.” In the Shang dynasty, tian was simply a generic term for the heavenly realm, but in the Zhou era, the idea of tian became more ambiguous. The Zhou people considered Tian a personal deity, a being conceptualized in anthropomorphic terms, like Shangdi; in fact, the Zhou rulers originally used the names Shangdi and Tian interchangeably to refer to the highest god. Over time, however, more impersonal associations came to dominate Zhou theology, and heaven was regarded basically as an ultimate principle, like asha in Zoroastrianism. So tian could now mean both a personal god and an impersonal principle.

  But the crucial difference between the Zhou and the Shang concepts of the highest power pertains to morality. From our discussion of the Shang oracle bones, we recall that the gods, from the highest on down, simply had no interest in how humans behaved toward each other, and they did not make moral behavior a condition for granting favors. But Tian did care. This attribution of moral qualities represents a significant shift from preaxial understandings of the gods and is part of the general ethicization process we have seen throughout several axial centers.

  “The crucial difference between the Zhou and the Shang concepts of the highest power pertains to morality: In Shang religion, we recall that the gods simply had no interest in how humans behaved toward each other. But Tian did care. This attribution of moral qualities represents a significant shift from preaxial understandings of the gods and is part of the general ethicization process we have seen throughout several axial centers.”

  Just how far Tian’s moral interests extended remains uncertain. It is not clear, for instance, if Heaven was interested in how the ordinary Chinese man treated his wife or how she acted toward her next-door neighbor. But it is evident that Heaven had an interest in who the ruler was and how he treated his subjects. We know this because a new term entered the Chinese lexicon in the Zhou dynasty: tianming, the Mandate of Heaven. Some of the early classics of China credit the Duke of Zhou with this expression. As it came to be interpreted, the Mandate of Heaven decreed that the ruler governed with divine blessing as long as he was virtuous. Conversely, if a ruler was wicked or inept, Heaven withdrew its mandate, and the ruler’s reign was no longer morally legitimate. This notion is similar to Christian Europe’s belief in the divine right of kings, in the sense that a monarch reigned with the authorization of the deity. But the Chinese conception differed from those European versions that argued that the king had been chosen by god and therefore must be obeyed absolutely. Since the Chinese understanding of the Mandate of Heaven made the ruler’s legitimacy contingent on his virtue and not only on birth, it could be used as moral justification for opposing and even deposing the king, which is exactly what the Zhou rulers did.

  Today, most scholars think the appearance of the Mandate of Heaven shortly after the Zhou dynasty conquered the Shang is more than just an interesting coincidence. It is likely that the Zhou rulers or their supporters developed this notion precisely to justify the overthrow of their predecessors. On the basis of this idea, the Zhou people claimed that the Shang family had become corrupt—and there probably was some merit to that claim—and that consequently Heaven’s mandate had passed to them.

  The concept of the Mandate of Heaven came to assume a critical role throughout Chinese history, up until the twentieth century. And its significance lies in this simple proposition: that the ultimate powers that be—whether these are understood as a personal deity or an impersonal principle—have moral sensibilities and interests. To Westerners brought up with the idea of god based on the Bible or the Qur’an, this may not seem unusual. For Jews, Christians, and Muslims, god is almost by definition moral or the source of human morality. But within the context of this period in Chinese history, to regard the divine as moral was significant.

  Yet that idea was not universally or immediately accepted. Previously, we observed that the documents of the Shang religion focused almost exclusively on the king and his relationships to the gods and ancestors. But now, in the Zhou period, there is enough literary and archaeological material to allow us to glance at the religious life of common folk. From this evidence, we can discern elements of dissent from the official Zhou theology.

  Some aspects of folk religion from this period are available to us in a classic work known as the Shi-jing, or the Book of Odes. In this fascinating text, certain passages are direct protests against Heaven’s apparent injustice, suggesting that not everyone was convinced of Tian’s moral character. The following stanza is one such instance. The author’s complaint might appear as if these verses were taken directly from the book of Job:

  O vast and distant Heaven,

  Who art called our parent,

  That, without crime or offence,

  I should suffer from disorders this great!

  The terrors of great Heaven are excessive,

  But indeed I have committed no crime.

  [The terrors of] great Heaven are very excessive,

  But indeed I have committed no offence.[1]

  Even at this early date, a theological conflict that has continued to plague theists to the present day looms on the horizon. This is the famous problem of evil, which has bedeviled the theistic traditions for centuries. Essentially, the difficulty arises whenever one attributes both omnipotence and morality to god. How can god be both all good and all-powerful when evil exists in the world? Either god is all-powerful but not all-good, or god is all-good but not all-powerful. That is the theistic dilemma. Countless solutions to this problem have been proposed throughout the ages, and none of them has ever gained universal approval. Evil is not really a theological problem for religions that do not believe that god is totally good and omnipotent. Some religions, such as portions of Hinduism, see god as the source of both good and evil. For these traditions, evil is an existential or practical problem but not a theological one. In this poem from the Book of Odes, the dilemma is solved by affirming Heaven’s omnipotence but denying its morality, because it punishes when no sin has been committed. This was exactly Job’s complaint, according to the Bible.

  Folk and Elite Traditions

  This passage from the Book of Odes illustrates that religious perspectives were by no means uniform at this time in Chinese history. Furthermore, this example helps show how differences in theological viewpoint might be related to one’s social location. The king who lived a privileged existence and whose reign was divinely endorsed might be more inclined to regard Heaven as just and benevolent than would a peasant who struggled for daily subsistence and found him- or herself beaten down by misfortune.

  Despite these differences in perspective, it would be a mistake to assume that a sharp separation existed between what have been called the folk and elite traditions in Chinese religion. For many years, scholars of Chinese religion have insisted there was a substantial divergence between the intellectual and highbrow expressions of religion and the way that religion’s beliefs and practices worked in the daily lives of ordinary people. Recently, however, scholars have come to believe that folk and elite religions were not so starkly different, or at least not as much as once supposed. We might think of folk religion and elite religion as opposite ends on a continuum, on which they share a great many of the same b
eliefs and practices but have distinct interests and orientations.

  The religious practices of ordinary people seem to have focused on exactly what one would expect ordinary people to be concerned with. Living close to the land and being very dependent on the vagaries of nature, the religious beliefs and practices of common folk concerned the matters of daily, earthly well-being. Undoubtedly, the people of the land believed in gods, ancestors, and ghosts, just as their rulers did, and surely they performed sacrifices and other rituals to gain favors from the spirit world or to remove or fend off an unwanted demon. The rituals of common people would be oriented toward securing the welfare of an individual or a family or perhaps the village, but would not extend much further. The rituals of the elite—including the king, of course—were centered on benefiting the state itself. And as we have just seen, the ruler had a keen interest in legitimating his reign by claiming the favor of Tian.

  The Later Zhou Dynasty

  Despite the claim to possess the Mandate of Heaven, all was not well during the Zhou period. Even though it survived 800 years and was China’s longest-lasting dynasty, serious rifts began to appear just a few centuries after its establishment. In 771 bce,the Zhou king was murdered by invading nomads, and the capital had to be moved further eastward. This move marked a division between what is known as the Western Zhou and Eastern Zhou periods. The Eastern Zhou period, which lasted about 550 years, was further divided into two periods known as the Spring and Autumn Age (722-481 bce) and the Period of Warring States (475 or 403-221 bce).

  The Spring and Autumn Age got its designation from a book entitled The Spring and Autumn Annals, a chronicle traditionally attributed to Confucius. Even though the period bears such a nice name, this was not a politically or culturally agreeable time in China. The power of the Zhou rulers began to decline, creating instability and uncertainty throughout the region, and the many smaller kingdoms that had been under the control of the Zhou kings began vying with one another to gain superiority.

  Outright chaos ensued when the Period of Warring States began. By now, there were advanced military technologies, and peasants were being conscripted as soldiers. This era was particularly brutal and disruptive, as the name implies, but it was also an immensely creative time philosophically and religiously. The Period of Warring States was also known as the Period of One Hundred Philosophers (or the Period of One Hundred Schools). That alternative name suggests that this age of political disorder prompted the intellectuals to address the pressing issues of the day. And obviously, the most urgent concern was the simple and practical matter of establishing and maintaining human harmony. To put the issue both concisely and precisely: What does it take for people to get along with each other? That was the question of the day, and there was no shortage of answers. Several major philosophical schools were advancing their particular solutions. In terms of subsequent influence on Chinese thought, Confucianism and Daoism were the most important.

  Life of Confucius

  Within this context of political upheaval and philosophical creativity arose the most important figure during the Axial Age in China and, arguably, the most influential Chinese figure of all time, Confucius.

  The Historical Confucius

  What we can say about the life of Confucius is rather brief. The most historically reliable information must be gleaned from a work that most scholars believe comes from near his own time and that bears the imprint of his own thinking. This is a book called the Analects (Lunyu), a collection of his sayings, conversations, and anecdotes related to his life, compiled by his disciples after his death. However, there is no consensus among historians about the extent to which the Analects is historically reliable. Almost everyone agrees that much of the text reflects the perspectives and words of his followers, some of whom may have been removed from him by several generations. Only the first half of the book is generally regarded as reflecting the thought and words of Confucius himself. Even within those parameters, some say only a few chapters (3–9) or just one section—a part of chapter 4—contains words that Confucius may have actually spoken. Others have gone even further to claim that Confucius was not a historical figure at all but a literary trope, an invented character that came to symbolize certain things for the Chinese elite.[2] Most sinologists (the specialists in the study of China) believe a similar thing about Laozi, the reputed founder of Daoism, so such an argument is not at all far-fetched.

  These are very new and controversial claims in Confucian scholarship. By no means have these matters been sufficiently discussed among academics, much less a consensus reached. In view of this state of affairs, it best to present the majority view on the historiographical issues concerning Confucius until and if the dominant view changes. Historical questions, of course, are not the only important issues to address. Although the historical Confucius (as well as the historical Buddha, Zoroaster, and Mahavira) are of great interest, ultimately what is important are the beliefs and practices espoused in the teachings that come to us under their names. The Buddha, Confucius, and Laozi may all be fictions, but the words attributed to them may indeed be true.

  Regardless, most scholars of Confucius do not doubt his historicity. From the Analects and a few other sources, historians surmise that Confucius was born around the year 551 bce, during the Spring and Autumn Period, in the State of Lu, one of the several small principalities that began to compete with one another as the Eastern Zhou dynasty began its slow decline. The same sources suggest he died in 479. Of course, as with the other axial sages, the traditional dates for Confucius are not accepted by everyone who grants that he was a historical individual. Recently, some scholars of Confucius have made the case that he lived closer to the end of the Zhou dynasty.[3]

  Although he is known in the West as Confucius, that term was neither his given name nor the name by which the Chinese have known him. Throughout the history of China, he has been called Kongzi, or Master Kong. The name Confucius is actually a Latinized name coined by Jesuit missionaries in the seventeenth century based on “K’ung-fu-tzu,” an honorific title. But Confucius is the name that has endured, even for scholars in the field, so we will continue with that time-honored practice.

  Personal Qualities

  In addition to the date and location of his birth, scholars believe that he was born to a family of lower nobility, and his father died when Confucius was around three. He was born relatively poor and remained so all his life. Despite his modest beginnings—or maybe because of them—he was an eager and dedicated student. “At fifteen,” he says, “I set my heart on learning,”[4] and this love stayed with him for his entire life. “In a community of ten households there will certainly be someone as loyal and trustworthy as I am, but not someone so fond of learning as I am.”[5] He apparently mastered the process of education as well: “When I study, I do not get bored; in teaching others I do not grow weary.”[6] He expected his students to share his enthusiasm: “To those who are not eager to learn, I do not explain anything.”[7]

  If Confucius were merely an invention of later Confucians, then they did a superb job of portraying an individual who embodied the principles they said he taught. In the sayings of and about Confucius in the first half of the Analects, we encounter a man of great humility and modesty. His disciples said he was “rather unassuming and seemed as if he were an inarticulate person.”[8] There seems not to have been a shred of pretense in him. His greatest concern was self-improvement, rather than passing judgment on the behavior of others. He advised his followers, “When you come across an inferior person, turn inwards and examine yourself.”[9] He was passionate about the arts, particularly music and singing.[10] This appreciation of music extended beyond aesthetics. He believed that music had a moral dimension; listening to appropriate music, he believed, had the power to make one a better person. He was, of course, respectful of authority, and he believed that a humane society depended on respect for one’s superiors. The chapter of the Analects that most describes Confucius’s p
ersonal qualities concludes with this summary: “The Master was genial and yet strict, imposing and yet not intimidating, courteous and yet at ease.”[11]

  Confucius aspired to hold an office of significant political power, or at least to serve as an adviser to a king or duke, but he was never able to gain such a position. He managed to hold one or two minor posts, including the equivalent of police commissioner in his home state. In later life, he surrounded himself with about two dozen disciples, and they preserved the wisdom he imparted. He often traveled beyond the state of Lu to advise the government officials of other provinces.

  Master Kong’s vocation was rooted in a profound moral vision. His essential interest in politics was not for the sake of power or to advance a career but for the good of the realm and the well-being of all citizens. Confucius believed that the key to human harmony—that fundamental aspiration of the dozens of philosophers of this age—lay in good government and, even more pointedly, in the moral character of the ruler and other public servants. Moral behavior must begin at the top, and from there, virtue trickles down, as it were, to the lower rungs of society. If the leader is virtuous, the people will follow suit.

  When we look more specifically at the full scope of Confucian ideas in our next chapter, we will begin to understand why personal morality was so essential to him. We will also begin to see why the thought of Confucius, out of this field of one hundred philosophers, was the one that prevailed and dominated Chinese religion, philosophy, and politics up to the twentieth century.

  * * *

  Ode 4, Stanza 1, The Khiâo Yen, c. 878–828 bce; trans. James Legge. Available at http://www.sacred-texts.com/cfu/sbe03/sbe03116.htm.↵