Series on the History of Chinese Philosophy, Pt. 9
Was Confucius just another Sexist A**Hole?
Confucian Ritual, Gender, and Normativity
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Welcome to Part 9 of the series. Other parts can be found here:
In the last installment, we looked at how ritual propriety lies at the heart of the Great Learning’s social programs and the Doctrine of the Mean’s advice for cosmic-personal harmony.
This time around we’ll be looking forward from there in order to consider how rites and etiquette shaped later philosophical developments in China. We should try to keep in mind that the Confucian emphasis on ritual was intended to promote reverence and composure among the people, as this first passage of the Liji makes clear:
The Liji says: Always and in everything let there be reverence; with the deportment grave as when one is thinking (deeply), and with speech composed and definite. This will make the people tranquil. [Liji 1:1]
The idea is that such practice carries with it a certain depth that is embodied in the concept chèng, or sincerity. As Wing Tsit Chan has explained it, chèng is:
… not just a state of mind but an active force that is always transforming things and completing things, and drawing man and Heaven together in the same current. Insofar as it is mystical, it is transcendent. But its practical aspect has never been forgotten. [pg. 96]
And, as we’ve already seen, the rites were more than just empty observances for Confucius.
But, it would be a mistake to think that Confucian philosophers were the only ones who cared about ritual propriety. In fact, the Zhōngyōng is often considered the most “Daoist” text in the Confucian canon. Of course, labels like “Daoist” and “Confucian” are really just designations that later generations bestowed on these thinkers to help make sense of the history…it’s not as if scholars were running around introducing themselves according to their preferred philosophical views.
A nice example of how integrated these early philosophies probably were can be seen in the text known as the Wǔxíng. We’ve already seen the five elemental movements [earth, wood, fire, metal, water] the text is named after, back when we discussed Chinese poetry and the Yijing. The Wǔxíng was lost until 1973, when it was discovered in a tomb dating to the Han dynasty. It was written in the same silk scroll as the Daòdéjīng — which is usually considered the primary work of Daoist philosophy. But, in 1993, another tomb was discovered at Guodian that was even older (dating from the Warring States period) and in it was a version of the Wǔxíng written on bamboo strips with both the Dà Xuè and Zhōngyōng.
As you can see in the Wǔxíng passage quoted below, there’s even a reference to shendu — being cautious (shen 慎) when alone (du 獨)— a concept that’s central to the Zhōngyōng:
“The turtledove in the mulberry tree, its children are seven.
The handsome profound person, his demeanor is one.’
Able to be one, he is then able to be a profound person.
The profound person acts to shenqidu.” [being cautious when one’s alone]
We’ve already discussed how and why the period of Zhou collapse became known as zhū zǐ bǎi jiā (or Hundred Schools of Thought), due to the great number of advances made in philosophy and culture at that time, despite widespread political turmoil. Generally speaking, the history of Chinese thought has been less fractured than its “Western” counterparts, with older ideas often absorbing newer ones.
That’s not to say Chinese philosophy hasn’t had its share of ugliness and violence over the centuries — like when Legalist advisors to the Qin emperor arranged the fénshū kēngrú (Burning of Books and Burying of Scholars) for dealing with their Confucian and Daoist rivals, or when the neo-Confucian scholar Hanyu was nearly executed for writing an essay about how disgusting he found the Buddhist relic known as “Buddha’s fingerbone,” or the various rebellions throughout history motivated by Daoist factions.
But, the approach for most of China’s history has been to view philosophical diversity as beneficial to the state.
Song-Ming Lixue (aka Neo-Confucianism)
In the 16th century — the period when Europeans became interested in converting China to Catholicism — Confucianism was still the core doctrine, though by this time it had absorbed so much from Daoism and Buddhism that historians refer to it as neo-Confucianism. There were two main lines of thought during this time, both neo-Confucian in origin.
On one hand, there was the Lĭxué [Principle leaning] of Zhu Xi (1130–1200), a grand synthesis of Confucian, Daoist, and Buddhist ideas — which had so entrenched itself as the orthodox Chinese belief that it was the basis of civil service entrance exams for nearly 700 years.
On the other hand, there was the idealism of Wang Yangming (1472–1529), which was also known as Xīnxué [Heart-mind learning] for the way it emphasized subjective moral development over the more rational, objective investigation extolled by Zhu Xi.
Additionally, various sects of Daoism and Buddhism still maintained a significant niche within 16th century Chinese thought. Given the unifying attitude in the Chinese intellectual tradition, it’s not surprising that Western missionaries would find the Chinese people, amidst such a smorgasbord of ideas, receptive to proselytizing.
Of the five essential Confucian virtues: (rén, yì, xiào, lĭ, and zhì) the most important at the time the Jesuits arrived was ritual [lĭ 禮], which we’ve already seen had been an important aspect of Chinese culture for millennia. But, Zhu Xi took seriously passages from the Liji like this one:
先王之立禮也，有本有文。忠信，禮之本也；義理，禮之文也。無本不立，無文不行。
Those rites of the former kings, had their roots and their developments. Loyalty and truthfulness are the root of ritual, righteousness and principle are their developments. Without the roots they could not have been established, without their developments they could not have been put into practice. [Liji 10:2]
In his Treatise on Humanity, Zhu Xi associated benevolence (rén) with the creative impulse of the cosmos, which:
- produces the seasons and fecundity of nature,
- sets the conditions for human flourishing, and
- appears in every living thing.
This is why his philosophy is called “Principle Learning” (Lĭxue), because he made explicit the connection between ritual propriety [禮] and cosmic principle [理] — which have been homophones in Mandarin [lĭ] since the Yaun dynasty. As he put it:
In the teachings (of Confucius, it is said), “Master oneself and return to propriety.” This means that if we can overcome and eliminate selfishness and return to the Principle of Nature, (Tiānlǐ), then the substance of this mind (that is, rén) will be present everywhere and its function will always be operative. [Treatise on Humanity]
At first glance this may seem to be very similar to what Confucius said himself, but if one follows Zhu Xi’s account of principle as that which “endows both man and things with their nature”, then we might say ritual propriety not only honors one’s fellow human-beings but sustains the cosmos, as well.
We don’t have to look very far to see the Buddhist and Daoist influences here. A passage in the Daoist classic known as the Zhuangzi reads:
The genuine person’s mind is like a mirror: it doesn’t strain for things, it doesn’t grasp things tight, it responds and stores nothing. Therefore, she prevails over all things and suffers no harm. [Ch. 7]
Likewise, the Huayan sect of Buddhism taught that each individual mind was itself complete and capable of reaching enlightenment by mirroring the one all-encompassing mind of Buddha. A recurring metaphor found in Buddhist writings is that of Indra’s net, which consisted of jewels at each of the net’s intersections. It was said that each jewel reflected the net in its entirety. As the Huayan patriarch Fazang explained, “the progression of interpenetration is infinite, like the jewels of Indra’s Net: a realm-embracing-realm ad infinitum is thus established and is called the realm of Indra’s Net.”
In a similar vein, Zhu Xi wrote, “Considering that all things come from one source, we see that their principle is the same but their material force different. Looking at their various substances, we see that their material force is similar but their principle utterly different.” [Treatise on Humanity]
This seems to suggest that when we look at things on the level of mundane substances it appears to be only one principle and that the material forces of these objects are different, but when we reflect upon things on the level of principle (i.e. spontaneous action) we see the view that each substance contains its own principle and material force is but an illusion. Of course, this is not to say that Zhu Xi’s principle is divisible. As he put it,
Fundamentally there is only one Great Ultimate [Taiji], yet each of the myriad things has been endowed with it and each in itself possesses the Great Ultimate in its entirety. This is similar to the fact that there is only one moon in the sky but when its light is scattered upon rivers and lakes, it can be seen everywhere. It cannot be said that the moon has been split.
Thus, for Zhu Xi, the universe consists of individuated loci of action, each of which reflects the qualities of every other. These seemingly interacting substances are organized by a perfectly ordered and spontaneous principle of which each substance manifests a complete reflection in itself. But, this principle is not just another word for Greek archē, as if its just some kind of order behind the chaos. Instead, it seems to be a principle of motion and source of inner vitality, or, in the Chinese: dè [德]
The motion that’s inherent within Zhu Xi’s principle jibes with some of the ideas we’ve already seen in this series, like yinyang and the 5 movements, or wuxing. But, it turns out that those ideas had been handed down to Zhu Xi by some previous thinkers with a very particular political agenda — one that happened to be incredibly patriarchal.
Ritual, Gender Roles, & Soft Power
If you’ve been following this series, you’re already acquainted with the core of the Confucian philosophy aimed at training youth to be jūnzi, or “noble sons.”
But what about daughters?
Did Confucius only care about the moral cultivation of half the population? Did he believe virtue could NOT be manifested by a woman? There are only a handful of passages in his Analects which touch upon the subject of women, and most of these leave a great deal to be desired. For instance, in Analects 8:20, he seems to preclude women from statecraft:
King Wu (of Zhou) said, ‘I have ten capable officials.’ Confucius commented, ‘How true it is that talent is difficult to find! Only the period when Tang and Yu cooperated was richer in talent than Zhou. Yet, with a woman amongst them, there are, in fact, only nine.’
Likewise, in 17:25, he appears to preclude them from virtue:
The Master said, ‘In one’s household, it is the daughters and the petty men [which in other passages is depicted as the moral opposite of the jūnzi] that are difficult to deal with. If you let them get too close, they become insolent. If you keep them at a distance, they complain.’
So, it appears as if Confucius may have been just another sexist a**hole.
But…as usual in the history of ideas, things are a little more complex than that…
If one digs a little deeper, there are plenty of accounts of Confucius praising women for their virtue, wisdom, and effectiveness to be found in the classic texts — especially in a Han dynasty volume known as the Biographies of Exemplary Women [Liènǚ Zhuàn].
It turns out that the patriarchal elements of Confucianism were exacerbated by later Confucian thinkers — like Dong Zhongshu (c. 179–104 BCE)— who elaborated on the five essential Confucian relationships established by Mencius, and placed wives in a subordinate position akin to servants or children. Part of the reason for this was that Dong was desperate to show how different his bosses (the Han rulers) were from their Qin predecessors, who claimed to embrace the “yin” approach to governance. He began a propaganda campaign in praise of all things “yang.” The result was that yin and yang — which had previously been more or less on equal footing — were recast in a hierarchical relationship. Dong’s Confucianism continued to have a significant following in subsequent centuries (and likely led to Daoism’s increased emphasis on yin approaches as a counterbalance).
Nonetheless, a more progressive view regarding the education of women still persisted. As early as the 1st century CE, Confucian-inspired texts aimed at educating women began to appear. The four most famous are:
1) Lessons for Women [Nüjie] (1st c.) — which expounds on general principles and philosophical points
2) Analects for Women [Nǚ lúnyǔ] (8th c.) — which offers practical advice relevant to everyday life.
3) Domestic Lessons [Nèixùn] (14th c.) — which edits the works of former writers on women’s education.
4) Sketch of a Model for Women [Nüfan jielu] (17th c.) — which focuses on formal education for girls.
Eventually, these became known as the Four Books for Women, or Nü sìshū, and were seen as the counterpart to Zhu Xi’s canonical “Four Books.” Although the education of women remained a pretty progressive notion throughout most of Chinese history, and was only afforded to the daughters of the elite classes, these texts were all written by female scholars.
As books by women, for women, their objective was to describe the proper behavior for the female sex, the “three submissions” (to parents, husband, sons) promoted by Dong’s Confucian school — yet, they also advise their readers to use attraction and persuasion to co-opt the desires of the men in the household, i.e. using what might today be called “soft power.”
As one passage from the Analects for Women reads:
If he [your husband] does something wrong, gently correct him. Don’t be like those women who not only do not correct their husbands, but actually lead them into indecent ways. … Don’t imitate those shrewish wives who love to clash heads with their husbands all the time.
In the Four Books for Women, ritual is still considered paramount to enacting the virtues.
Viewing Chinese philosophy through a feminist lens is a relatively new, but welcomed, development in comparative studies. For those interested in a fuller feminist critique of Confucian philosophy, the book pictured here could be a start. It’s the first complete English translation of the Nü sìshū — translated by U. of Scranton philosophy professor Ann A. Pang-White.
In it, she shows how the modern condemnation of Confucianism along feminist lines is not as one-dimensional as scholars may have thought. Professor Pang-White writes:
Culturally and philosophically, we must consider whether the term “feminism” (which is of Western origin) needs to be broadened and redefined if we are to treat non-Western cultures as true equals, true conversation partners, on this important subject… Recent scholarship has been careful in separating original Confucianism from politicized Confucianism. Thus, if one is willing to reimagine the functions that Confucian norms play through the eyes of Chinese women when they are exercised authentically rather than abusively, the feminist potential of a depoliticized Confucianism is not out of bounds. [p. 2]
The discussion of Confucian gender norms is a nice springboard for thinking about normativity and ritual propriety more generally. When ethicists talk about normativity, they mean to reference the practical rules, social expectations, and moral prescriptions that surround particular behaviors. So, one question we could ask is: What were the prudential, social, and moral objectives of Confucian ritual propriety?
This is a complex question, one which can’t be answered fully here. Suffice it to say, the actual outcomes of social norms are not always aligned with (and sometimes are antithetical to) their intended objectives.
Ritual, Normativity, and the Practice of Foot-binding
It seems that whenever I introduce the Nü sìshū and Confucian gender norms in one of my classes, someone asks about the practice of foot-binding. So, it’s probably a good idea to offer some context here. For those who’ve never heard of foot-binding, it was a dreadful practice of binding young girls’ feet in such a way that their toes would be forced under the midfoot, slowly reshaping the foot until it was about half its natural length. It was incredibly painful and resulted in women not being able to walk normally as adults.
For good reason, foot-binding is considered horrifically cruel by today’s standards. But, what many folks don’t realize is that the practice developed pretty late in Chinese history, not becoming widespread until the end of the Yuan dynasty (1271–1368). The trend likely started after the voluntary self-binding of a famous dancer, Yao Niang, and it gradually became associated with feminine refinement and, later, with Han ethnic pride under the Manchu-led Qing dynasty. Early on, neo-Confucian scholars spoke out against it as ‘frivolous.’ And, later, Qing dynasty rulers tried to ban it — seeing it as politically subversive.
Sadly, for all its emphasis on promoting cosmic beauty and decorum, Zhu Xi’s lĭxué likely propagated this cruel fashion trend. And, as Amanda Foreman has written for Smithsonian Magazine:
The truth, no matter how unpalatable, is that foot-binding was experienced, perpetuated and administered by women. Though utterly rejected in China now — the last shoe factory making lotus shoes closed in 1999 — it survived for a thousand years in part because of women’s emotional investment in the practice. The lotus shoe is a reminder that the history of women did not follow a straight line from misery to progress, nor is it merely a scroll of patriarchy writ large.
We often mistakenly think of social and moral progress as moving in straight lines toward justice, equality, and compassion, but when we consider that some of China’s greatest female figures: the politician Shangguan Wan’er (664–710), the poet Li Qing-zhao (1084-c.1151) the warrior Liang Hongyu (c.1100–1135), and the inventor Huang Daopo (1240–1330) all lived BEFORE foot-binding was widely normalized, we see that the moral arc of the cosmos can have both upswings and downswings.
This should serve as a sober reminder that no matter how noble the intentions and origins of a moral philosophy may be, we must remain ever-vigilant of harmful consequences.
In Part 10 we’ll turn our attention toward another core Confucian principle — filial piety — as it was expressed in the Xiaojing and the philosophies of Mencius and Xunzi.
Hope to see you there!
