For a nation that is usually described as not being very religious, Japan has an inordinate amount of shrines and temples. You can’t swing a cat without hitting a shrine or a temple in Japan, and they all look essentially the same to the untrained eye. They are tucked away on almost every street like secret gardens and are an integral part of everyday Japanese life.
And the first thing that will catch your attention when you are trying to figure out how to get to some famous shrine are the markings for them that you will see on every map. They use what a Westerner would immediately think was a German Swastika, but which is actually the very ancient Asian geometric symbol for divinity and spirituality. How about that for some irony?
People of all ages are constantly stopping at their neighborhood shrine during their daily activities. They only stay for a few minutes. But their body language as they enter is definitely of someone walking into a place of worship. They first take a sip from a cup of ceremonial water to cleanse their mouths and hands. Then they solemnly approach the shrine, their hands clasped together in something like a prayer pose but with the ends of their fingers curled inward and touching. They slowly bow and hold it for about ten seconds before raising back up. They end this little interlude by clapping their hands three times. And that’s it. On with life.
But then there are giant temple complexes covering many acres of precious woodland and filled with all sorts of religious props. Some are called shrines, others are called temples. It’s all very confusing to the Western visitor.
Now, I could give you all the tongue-twisting names of the key players and then try and tell you what, for instance, the foxes with the red bandannas around their necks at the entrance to a shrine are meant to symbolize, but you didn’t see them and it probably wouldn’t mean much. Same with the orange goal posts as you enter each shrine, the purification trough where you drink but don’t drink, the straw rope with zigzag pieces of paper wrapped around rocks and trees, the sign boards filled with wooden prayer cards, the fortune telling strips of paper hanging in the trees like white blossoms, the big bell, the stage, and the offering hall. It’s all quite impressive indeed. But you really have to see it to catch the spirit.
The most important thing to know when it comes to Japanese shrines and temples is the difference between Shintoism and Buddhism.
Shinto was Japan’s first religion. It’s basically spirit worship, much like the Hopi Indians of the American Southwest who believe that spirits inhabit — or can inhabit — pretty much everything.
Buddhism arrived much later, around the sixth century, via India, China, and Korea. It’s not about gods or spirits, but rather about each individual becoming the best person they can possibly be.
Today, about 40% percent of the Japanese people identify with an organized religion — 35% Buddhist, 4% Shinto, and 1% Christian.
The big temple complexes tend to be Buddhist — usually the world headquarters for some specific sect of Buddhism. There are apparently lots of them. And the little shrines are Shinto. But there are always Shinto shrines within the Buddhist temples, so it can all get a bit muddled.
After awhile, I just turned it all off and absorbed the architectural beauty, the colors and smells, and the people who came to pay their respects.
But I will tell you about one of my experiences in Kyoto, the “Shrine Capital” of Japan.
I began my last day in Kyoto at the gargantuan Chion-in Head Temple which serves as the headquarters for the Jodi-shu, otherwise known as the Pure Land Sect, whose founder, Honen, proclaimed that sentient beings were reborn in Anida, Buddha’s Western Paradise, by reciting the Nembutsu, the Amida Buddha’s name.
The first temple in the complex was built in 1234. Over the ensuing years, various masters of different sects vied for control until 1450, when the Chinzei Branch finally ruled the day. In 1633, many of the buildings were burned during the Onin War, but they had all been rebuilt by 1651.
The Chion-in Temple is famous for having the largest ceremonial bell in Japan. It was commissioned in 1633, and sits at the top of the grounds above all the buildings, next to a heavenly cemetery snuggled into the base of a lush mountain. The green metal bell weighs 74 tons and takes 25 guys to ring it.
The Chion Temple is also noted for two other things. The first is an architectural feature. The roof beams are all carved with three hollyhock leaves, the crest of the Tokugawa family. The other item of note is more a curiosity. The architect of the structure hid an umbrella in the rafters to bring rain and ward away fire.
I caught the tail end of one the Buddhist services in a large temple filled with reverent worshipers and curious tourists. I sat there in my bare feet, trying to fathom the ancient mystery as five priests in red and white robes and the head priest, wearing a long orange robe, kneeled around a flowery altar with a golden Buddha in the middle as incense filled the air and each priest took turns spouting what I now assume was the Nembutsu ad nausem and occasionally banged small drums or rang various bells as the head honcho waved a big white feather back and forth in the air.
It was grand theater, for sure, and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely.
As I walked outside, one of those weird serendipity moments took place. The sun suddenly burst through the clouds with golden rays, like in one of those god paintings, shining down from the heavens like a gift, and then Van Morrison’s song “Did Ye Get Healed” popped up on my MP3 player. A coincidence? I think not.
I really don’t know what to make of all this awe inspiring Shinto and Buddhist temple stuff.
Personally, I like the smaller shrines that I stumbled onto when I least expected it, while hiking in the woods, or nestled into some cubbyhole corner of a ceremonial garden or cemetery. They are usually stone or rock pile little altars with a hodgepodge of personal trinkets scattered around them — little bottles of oil, bits of metal and cloth, cups, food, candles, incense — that obviously meant something important to the person who left them. I found these special places far more mystical and spiritual than the prodigious pagodas.
I found one weird shrine in the foothills above the Chion Temple that had all sorts of drink bottles and cans laid out in a neat little line — Coca Cola, beer, water, sake — that left me scratching my head in wonder.
I am fascinated by religions. Faith can move mountains — literally — and erect monuments to the ages. And I am a big fan of monuments. But I’m not religious at all. I don’t believe in gods, but I try my best not to piss off the spirits.
And, I guess that in the final analysis, I’m not much different than the Japanese in this regard. It’s always wise to cover your bets.
