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THE TAO OF XI’AN
VICTOR PAUL BORG VISITS XI’AN’S CITY GOD TEMPLE AND TELLS THE UPLIFTING TALE OF A HISTORIC MONASTERY FAST HEADING TO RUIN, NOW SAVED BY A RESTORATION SCHEME
STEPPING INSIDE CHENGHUANG CITY GOD TEMPLE, you come face to face with two exhortations prominently etched in two wooden columns. One asserts that the virtuous have nothing to dread, the other admonishes that the malicious have everything to fear. This did not stop the Red Guards from rampaging through the Taoist monastery in 1966, smashing statues and icons. To complete the desecration, they kicked out the monks and turned the monastery into a flea market.
“Luckily,” says Liu Shitian, the spiritual leader of the monastery, “they did not destroy the buildings themselves; perhaps because they could appreciate the beauty and robustness of the architecture.”
In 2004, the market was banished, the temple reopened and Liu Shitian was installed as its spiritual leader. Now a living temple and attraction, in April this year a radical, year-long restoration began that will cost US$7 million. Some of those funds even came from the government, allowing the temple to turn another page in its long history, one that mirrors the twists and upheavals of China’s own story.
THE CITY GOD
The 620-year-old monastery was built during the Ming Dynasty to enthrone the city god, the highest deity in the temple and the guardian of Xi’an. The god, in his human life, was a man named Ji Xin who served as a general in the army under Lu Bang, the first emperor of the Han Dynasty.
Once, the story goes, the emperor’s army was besieged during a battle, and Ji Xin swapped his clothes with the emperor. This allowed the latter to slip away as the enemy swooped on Ji Xin, who was slain in the guise of his master. This clinched Ji Xin’s fate: in the afterlife he became the omnipotent city god and controller of everything in Xi’an, from natural disasters like earthquakes or droughts, to economic success or ruin, and even the gender of newborn babies.
Ji Xin, with his fiery eyes, sharp nose and sword held to his chest, certainly draws a crowd. Worshippers light joss sticks in sombre contemplation, then make the rounds of the three temple-halls, kneeling in front of each deity (the city god, the woman god and the fire god) to offer their personal prayers. Many leave symbolic paper pendants that are festooned on interior walls, or attached to strings fastened outside. These pendants – upon which the believers scribble their name and hang at the temple for a year – contain wishes known only to the name-bearer, who returns throughout the year to make more offerings and murmur more pleas, all in the hope that the city god will make their wishes come true.
“There has been a resurgence in the belief of Tao,” says Liu. “Old people tend to be more studious in their beliefs, but the religion is growing in popularity among all ages, especially among young people. Perhaps what appeals to them is that there are few rigid creeds in Tao, though of course everyone is expected to be compassionate and helpful towards the needy and the poor.”
SIGNS OF AGE
For tourists, the site is doubly alluring as a living temple full of artistic riches. The temple is attractive even in its weathered, crumbling state, the result of a 40-year hiatus in maintenance. Sagging ceilings, cracked wood, chipped carvings, grass growing among the bamboo-shaped tiles on the roofs, a rotting musty smell, dusty and decrepit grounds – all of this gives the temple a palpable sense of history.
“We want to retain the old look,” explains Liu. “What we’re doing is a restoration – not a reconstruction. We won’t paint the wood, we won’t change the entire roof, only fix the broken parts. And if a carving has a piece broken off, then we will simply reconstruct the missing bit in a way that blends with the rest of the carving.”
Yet the huge wooden doors have some panels of carvings that have entirely disappeared and I ask Liu what type of motifs they will put up as substitutes. “We will reconstruct the original ones,” he says. “We have some old pictures that reveal what the original carvings were like, and, in the cases where we don’t have pictures, we are using an old historical manual that details the artistic creation of every part of the temple.”
It’s in the wooden carvings that the temple’s artistry reaches its zenith. These proliferate throughout the doors in outgrowths of fantasy and symbolism. They depict various animal motifs, particularly representations of dragons, and floral themes in the traditional Chinese style – all are carved in minute and textured details, the animals ensconced among whorls of carvings as thick and dense as unkempt ivy.
Some of these pieces aren’t glued or nailed to the doors, but made to fit snugly in their sunken panels, held in place by slight tension. Jumbles of other dramatic sculpturing also spread under the eaves, providing a kind of embroidered finish to the structural design. (In traditional architecture, roofs were designed in a way that would allow them to sway and release tension and hence survive earthquakes.)
“It’s very hard nowadays to find people who know how to do these carvings,” says Liu. “We only managed to find a few old artisans who still know this craft – the youngest is 72 years old. Luckily, a few young people are now learning the techniques from these old people.”
The Tao association is engaged in much more than simple restoration. “For us,” explains Wang Ching Hua, a senior monk at Chenghuang temple, “restoring the intangible heritage of Taoism is as important as protecting the relics. This includes traditional music that was originally performed for royalty during the Tang Dynasty.
Then, during times of revolution, the musicians sought refuge in temples – now we’ve started performing this music in the temples.
“Additionally, once Chenghuang Temple is restored, we will start holding concerts and operas at the theatre stage here, to attract more people to the temple.”
TAO FOR TWO
There are two other Taoist temples in Xi’an. The largest, Baxian Gung, has several temple halls sprawling along interconnecting courtyards and a lush garden outback. The main hall, the Hall of Eight Immortals, enthrones Dong Hua Dijun, the temple’s highest deity. It also holds lesser gods and two cone-shaped columns that are riddled with small niches, all holding thumb-sized deities. If you visit in the afternoon, you might catch the musical religious rite, but there is much to hold your attention at any time and informative panels in English make sense of it all. Yongle Road; daily 8am–5pm; RMB5.
Minz Sheng Gung, originally built here 2,000 years ago, crumbled away over the centuries. In 1999 a new temple began construction, now a living monastery set near the summit of a mountain with great views of Xi’an. Although bereft of historical atmosphere, its dense artistic riches make up for this (including rich murals, top). The main deity, Xian Zu Dian, nestles in a deep, densely-carved wooden niche – the central feature of the main hall that also reveals dozens of mantelpiece-size deities placed in small candlelit niches. 40 minutes drive from Xi’an; open daily 8am–6pm; entrance is free.
GETTING THERE
Chenghuang Temple is down an alleyway off West Street, about 200 metres west of Bell Tower in Xi’an’s city centre. Open daily from 8am to 6pm; entrance is free.
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