Chapter 16
Martial, Gymnastic, and Healing Arts: T’ai-chi and Ch’i-kung
In This Chapter
Replicating the movement of the cosmos
Circulating the psychophysical stuff
Turning the internal wheel
Were it not for the tremendous popularity in North America of t’ai-chi, ch’i-kung, and various other martial and gymnastic practices, it would be hard to justify putting a chapter like this one in an introductory book on Taoism. This is because of two undeniable pieces of background:
The vast majority of Chinese martial arts and physical health exercises aren’t (and never were) Taoist. Even t’ai-chi and ch’i-kung aren’t necessarily Taoist — there are actually more forms of ch’i-kung that aren’t Taoist than are.
When such practices do occur (or have occurred) in a Taoist context, they tend to inhabit a relatively small piece of the overall landscape. If you look at the primary religious functions that practitioners from either major lineage perform today, you won’t see either t’ai-chi or ch’i-kung at the top of the list.
In short, when the Chinese think of martial and gymnastic techniques, they don’t particularly think of Taoism (except in some strains of popular fiction). And when they do think of Taoism, they don’t particularly think of martial and gymnastic techniques. In terms of actual Chinese Taoist history, these practices occupy a relatively small corner, and it’s important not to exaggerate their role.
But — and it’s a big but — if you were to ask your friends — at least the ones who know anything about Taoism — to name some Taoist practices, they would probably be hard-pressed to name anything other than either t’ai-chi or ch’i-kung. And that’s not including the ones who would insist that Taoism is all about wu-wei and that there’s actually no such thing as Taoist practice! Of course, a big piece of this is simply, to put it bluntly, the market. Many teachers, recognizing that the Taoist “brand” carries a bit of a mystique — especially for the kind of audience that would be interested in pursuing holistic, Eastern-based physical-spiritual practices — have learned to play up, amplify, or even make up the Taoist connections. As a result, t’ai-chi, ch’i-kung, and similar practices have largely become the face of North American Taoism, recast to suit the spiritual needs of the modern West.
Ironically, American Taoism is more closely connected to t’ai-chi and ch’i-kung than Chinese Taoism is. And the reverse is true, too — American t’ai-chi and ch’i-kung are probably more consciously Taoist than Chinese t’ai-chi and ch’i-kung are.
But what are these practices with Chinese roots that have made such a splash in the United States and Canada? And how did they transform after they were transplanted into a new context. In this chapter, I help you find your way around some of these practices, sorting out t’ai-chi, ch’i-kung, and one controversial contemporary offshoot of ch’i-kung, all of which have had a major impact on the West.
T’ai-chi Ch’üan: The Boxing of the Great Ultimate
As you’ve no doubt gathered, China has produced a great number of personal practices that employ complicated maps of the body, combine the pursuits of physical and spiritual health, and cut across different religious traditions. Of all these, the one that is probably the best known worldwide is officially called t’ai-chi ch’üan, though it’s often abbreviated in the West simply as t’ai-chi.
The often-ignored ch’üan part translates literally as “fist,” which is important because, by extension, “t’ai-chi fist” refers to a particular type of boxing (there are others, like “eight extremities boxing” or “chop-hanging boxing”). No matter how much people employ it for health, spiritual wholeness, or fun, the name certainly suggests that it’s a martial art.
So, what type of boxing is t’ai-chi ch’üan? It’s an “inner boxing” — that is, one that is driven more by the internal circulation of ch’i than brute strength where the practitioner tries to tap into, align oneself with, or replicate the movement of t’ai-chi, the “Great Ultimate.” And what’s the Great Ultimate? The concept appears in many Chinese traditions (though it possibly originated in Taoism), and it refers to a kind of metaphorical cosmic ridgepole that binds and orients the universe. So, to practice t’ai-chi is to perform the boxing of the Great Ultimate, to engage in the stylized physical movements that are characterized by fidelity to the cosmos itself.
In this section, I talk about the history and practice of t’ai-chi ch’üan. You find out about its Taoist (or not Taoist) roots, the basic components of the practice, the way “ordinary” people in China tend to employ it, and the way it has become mixed and matched with other martial arts in the West.
The roots of t’ai-chi
Many people in China who teach t’ai-chi understand themselves to be heirs to and transmitters of a distinct training lineage that goes back to a 14th- or 15th-century figure named Chang San-feng. Like many Taoist “founding fathers,” Chang may or may not have really existed, though he was actually already a legend in his own time, and more than one Chinese emperor unsuccessfully sent emissaries out to find him. Different popular accounts portray him as blind, funny looking, and adept at internal alchemy, Taoist sexual practices, and ordinary feats of magic. After these stories had circulated for some time, he achieved widespread recognition as a Taoist immortal, and you can find images of him at mainstream Taoist temples today.
The only problem with this version of the story is that there’s no historical evidence that t’ai-chi ch’üan actually goes back that far, and the welding of the practice to a Taoist lineage seems to be a somewhat later invention. The earliest credible evidence of an actual t’ai-chi practitioner was a 17th-century former military officer named Ch’en Wang-t’ing, who may have learned from a teacher but also may have synthesized the various gymnastic methods popular at the time with his own military sensibilities. Ch’en passed the teaching down in his own family for several generations, and to this day “Ch’en style” endures as a popular form of t’ai-chi.
Several other styles of t’ai-chi also flourish today, and they, too, can be traced either directly or indirectly to Ch’en Wang-t’ing. Here are the most common styles and their lineages:
Yang Style: This style descends from Yang Lu-ch’an, an employee of the Ch’en family who, depending on which version you believe, either learned or stole the practice from Ch’en’s great-great-great-grandson. The Yang Style is the most common style today.
Wu Style: As these things typically work, one of Yang’s sons transmitted the teachings to the Wu family, who within a couple generations had put their own mark on it. This is another very common style, though not as popular as Yang Style.
Li Style: One of the Wu family passed the teaching on to someone in the Li family, who established his own style, which is not particularly well known today. This is different from the Lee Style that you sometimes see, which claims a different, older ancestry but is hard to trace more than a few decades back.
Hao Style: Continuing the transmission, one of the Li family taught members of the Hao family, who put their own stamp on it. Probably the least widely circulated of the active styles, the Hao Style is often called the Wu-Hao Style, because the Wu name carries more cachet than either the Li or Hao name does.
Sun Style: Finally, the Hao family passed it on to Sun Lu-t’ang, who lived well into the 20th century. The Sun Style has noticeably slow and fluid movements, which makes it especially popular among older audiences.
The steps of t’ai-chi
Practitioners of t’ai-chi ch’üan learn several postures and movements called forms, each of which unfolds like a carefully choreographed cross between dance and gymnastics, which then combine into more complicated routines. Because there are so many different styles and sub-styles (which are still undergoing considerable change), there’s really no one fixed “master list” of all the t’ai-chi forms and routines, and most students learn only a handful, at least for starters. Some styles have supposedly boasted routines with well more than 200 forms, but as the practice has grown more popular and more mass marketed, it’s become pretty common for teachers to pare it down to a much smaller number. You can almost certainly buy videos online that will teach you a half-dozen or so forms, spelled out in easy steps.
Many of the forms vaguely resemble pantomime of particular actions, and their names describe them nicely: pounding the ground, needle at sea bottom, step up to seven stars, tornado kick, and playing the lute (sometimes called playing the guitar). Probably the best-known forms allude to animals in motion, or to the human interaction with animals, and their names conjure up some truly delightful images:
White crane spreads its wings
Step back and repulse the monkey
Parting the wild horse’s mane
Golden rooster stands on one leg
Tiger and leopard spring to the mountain
Snake creeps down
Green dragon shoots out pearl
Depending on who’s doing the talking, the goal of learning these t’ai-chi forms can range from achieving a sense of “oneness” with the universe, to cultivating the body’s ch’i, to obtaining a harmony of yin and yang, to improved balance, flexibility, and circulation. In the West, some people participate in t’ai-chi because they already engage in a range of holistic physical practices, like yoga and meditation. Others do so because they appreciate the resonances between the practices and Taoist philosophy. And I’m sure others pick it up simply because they have heard good things about it, have come across an inexpensive course at the local YMCA, and have a few hours a week to kill.
Sunrise in the park
You can practice t’ai-chi just about anywhere, indoors or outdoors, in front of the TV with one of the late David Carradine’s instructional videos, or in your backyard with your friends and the family dog at your side. But many visitors to China are quick to report that some of their most charming experiences there took place near daybreak in a public park, where groups of people gathered for their morning exercise regimen. From Beijing in the north to Guangdong in the south, wherever your studies, business, or leisure travel takes you, chances are good that you can find a similar scene in a park near where you’re staying.
These gatherings can be surprisingly diverse, including small practice groups, solo practitioners, and larger classes run by well-respected local teachers. You may find groups of all men, or all women, or both together, with some people wearing traditional martial arts outfits and others wearing ordinary street clothes. By and large, the practitioners tend to be a little older, though t’ai-chi has definitely begun appealing to increasingly younger audiences over the years. It’s especially cool how, as the folks go through their motions, activity in the park proceeds as usual. Some people stop to watch for a few minutes, and others walk by without a glance. Just another morning at Ditan or Zhongshan Park!
There was a time not too long ago when Chinese kids and teenagers pretty much associated t’ai-chi — with its sometimes excruciatingly slow movements — as something only “old people” did, and they couldn’t quite understand why so many younger Westerners gravitated to this “exotic” mystical practice. Back when t’ai-chi was still fairly new to America, many Chinese students studying here just kind of scratched their heads when their classmates got all excited about guests on campus conducting t’ai-chi workshops. It would probably be like an American teenager going to China for a student exchange program, and then learning that Chinese teenagers had all recently discovered water aerobics or bingo and thought it was the coolest thing!
The cement mixer of American Taoist martial arts
If you go shopping for a martial arts class for yourself or one of your kids, you may quickly find yourself overwhelmed by all the options. There are literally dozens of traditional Chinese styles, dozens more modern versions, dozens of Japanese styles, and, of course, styles from other countries as well. And although some martial arts centers and schools specialize in just a few types, it’s not unusual to find many styles from many different places side-by-side in the same establishment, or different styles cross-pollinating with one another to form a new, “genetically engineered” hybrid. Of course, some of these are described as Taoist, and some of them have more obvious Taoist historical roots than others.
T’ai-chi for becoming healthy, wealthy, and wise
Irrespective of the quasi-religious background of t’ai-chi, some American research studies have demonstrated that t’ai-chi and similar practices may, indeed, have beneficial effects, including increasing energy and agility, decreasing stress, allowing for more restful sleep, and perhaps even bolstering the immune system. In fact, the Mayo Clinic, which is hardly an outlier when it comes to matters of public health, actually recommends t’ai-chi practice on its website. Apart from listing the possible benefits, it also emphasizes that t’ai-chi is easy to try and carries minimal risk (though Mayo does advise you to consult a healthcare professional first if you’re pregnant or have certain medical problems). Here’s a quick summary of Mayo’s “soft sell”:
It has a low physical impact on your body.
It puts minimal stress on your joints and muscles.
It’s adaptable to most ages and fitness levels.
It’s inexpensive to practice.
It doesn’t require you to obtain special equipment.
It can be done in any location, alone or with others.
Actually, Mayo doesn’t really say much of anything about t’ai-chi making you wealthy or wise, but it does say that the gentle and fluid movements can help promote a feeling of serenity, a general sense of well-being, and maybe even an ability to stay calm during a traffic jam. Now, who couldn’t use a little of that?
One name that may bubble up to the top of the cement mixer of styles is Wu-tang ch’üan or simply Wu-tang (or Wudang) Style, which sometimes seems to be almost a synonym for t’ai-chi ch’üan but can also be identified more with straight-ahead, martially oriented kung-fu. Wu-tang is actually the name of a mountain in China, which, not so coincidentally, is one of the most important Taoist sacred sites. The mountain first came to fame nearly eight centuries ago as the seat of a deity associated with Taoist exorcism, and then a couple hundred years later as the home of the mysterious Chang San-feng, the same Chang San-feng who a few hundred years later still would take on the persona as the legendary founder of t’ai-chi. Since then, Mount Wu-tang has become the unofficial t’ai-chi capital of China, though Wudang Style martial arts can include many other even more marginally Taoist forms, like the “eight trigrams palm” or “Wu-tang sword.”
Ch’i-kung: The Efficiency of the Psychophysical Stuff
Although in America, ch’i-kung and t’ai-chi tend to appeal to much the same audience and tend to show up in many of the same Taoist and non-Taoist practice centers, websites, and mail-order marketplaces, the two actually have very different origins, histories, and applications. The ch’i of ch’i-kung is indeed the ch’i that keeps showing up in Taoist philosophy and practice, the psychophysical stuff of existence that cuts across the usual Western dichotomies of matter and energy, body and mind, and substance and spirit. The kung part usually means “skill” or “accomplishment” — it’s the same kung that shows up in kung-fu — though, in this case, it really translates better as either “exercise” or “efficiency.” So, the practice of ch’i-kung is the practice of the efficiency of the psychophysical stuff.
T’ai-chi, despite its many different styles, basically involves learning specific gymnastic routines for some combination of spiritual and physical benefit. Ch’i-kung, on the other hand, includes (or can include) a more complicated regimen of movements, breath control, meditation, dietary restrictions, and healing practices, all based in some way on the principle of circulating the ch’i through the body. In this section, I orient you to this fascinating set of practices, tracing their historical roots, explaining the rise and fall of ch’i-kung in contemporary China, and discussing some of the variations you may encounter if you ever consider picking up the tradition.
The roots of ch’i-kung
Various types of gymnastic and therapeutic movements called ch’i-kung go back in China more than a thousand years, but the coherent systems that exist today are barely a century old.
Interestingly, the earliest important figure in the development of modern ch’i-kung was neither a medical professional nor a religious figure, but an early 20th-century educator and politician who eventually turned to religious texts on physical cultivation in order to address his own recurring illnesses, including a nasty bout with tuberculosis and stomach ulcers. His name was Chiang Wei-ch’iao, and he apparently healed himself by following programs described in an internal alchemy text — it’s pretty much this connection that places at least some types of ch’i-kung into the Taoist family tree, even though Chiang eventually became a lay Buddhist and wrote or translated several books on Buddhism.
Chiang’s major contribution to ch’i-kung was a book he wrote or compiled around 1914 called Master Yin-shih’s Method of Quiet Sitting, in which he spelled out the details and background philosophy of a self-healing regimen, which combined inner alchemy with Western science and, possibly, Japanese interpretations of “quiet sitting,” which had at one time been a mainly Neo-Confucian practice. The gist of Chiang’s book was to advocate the cultivation of a breathing technique, which would retrain the body’s flow of ch’i so that it would continually dispel toxins and replenish itself with pristine, curative energies.
Chiang’s text didn’t exactly create an immediate rush of enthusiasm for this type of healing, but it did start the ball rolling. The first real breakthrough occurred in the 1950s, when a political activist and confidante of Mao Tse-tung named Liu Kuei-chen — who was trying to deal with his own health problems —received some private instruction from a Taoist teacher, noodled with Chiang’s writings, and became something of a public missionary for the practice. He eventually opened up a pair of institutes in northeastern China devoted to this therapeutic healing method, which was then for the first time being touted as a coherent system with the name ch’i-kung. This may have been the start of something big, had the Cultural Revolution not derailed it — and just about everything else remotely Taoist or religious in China — in the mid-1960s. For a while, anyway, ch’i-kung stopped dead in its tracks.
The term ch’i-kung circulated as a generic name for a wide variety of physical practices long before the system we now know as ch’i-kung came into existence. The ch’i-kung that’s so prevalent in North America today is largely a child of specific 20th-century developments.
The ch’i-kung explosion
After Mao’s death in 1976 and the subsequent easing of Cultural Revolution restrictions, ch’i-kung made a huge public comeback in China in the 1980s and early 1990s. This was triggered, in part, by a woman named Kuo Lin, a cancer survivor who claimed to have cured herself through a form of walking ch’i-kung that she developed and went on to teach in public parks. It would really be an understatement if you were to think of this surge in popularity as a “fad,” “boom,” “craze,” or even “mania” (a la Beatlemania), in that there wasn’t just a spike in sales of ch’i-kung literature or a sudden appearance of ch’i-kung T-shirts and posters. Instead, ch’i-kung reemerged in a somewhat more permissive China with the coordinated intensity of a religious revival or populist political movement, rapidly generating institutional support, charismatic public icons, and millions of enthusiastic followers. Suddenly, it seemed like ch’i-kung was just about everywhere, growing in ways that would’ve been unimaginable only a few years earlier.
Here’s a basic summary of what sorts of things were happening:
Government sponsorship: Many people in the Chinese government felt that the country had a lot to gain from the ch’i-kung explosion, whether for the prestige that it brought as a cultural heirloom or the financial benefits it brought by cutting down on healthcare costs. At one point, they were sponsoring research on it, having it taught in clinics and public schools, and touting it as a fundamental expression of Chinese identity.
Influential ch’i-kung teachers: Many people who had (or professed to have) expertise in ch’i-kung began to appear on the scene, some claiming descent from antiquated lineages and identifying themselves as “masters.” Although most ch’i-kung teachers attracted small groups of disciples whom they instructed in parks and similar places, some actively recruited followers for breakaway organizations or took on the public persona of self-help gurus, filling stadiums for massive group sessions. One such teacher, Yen Hsin (or Yan Xin, as he is better known), at one point became something of an international celebrity, and you can even see apparently authentic photos of him online with two different U.S. presidents. Though he has since all but disappeared from public view, his International Yan Xin Qigong Association is still going strong.
New techniques and applications: Responding to the burgeoning interest in ch’i-kung, teachers began both reinterpreting older practices and creating new ones. Some also began advertising more than just personal healing methods, claiming to be able to heal others with a touch of their own hands, or transmit magical powers like superhuman strength and the ability to read minds.
After a sustained period of growth, ch’i-kung in China did encounter some damaging public scandals over such things as recurring reports that certain physical patterns induced seizures, inconsistent scientific research on its value, and accusations that teachers may have physically abused their followers. The government gradually became more ambivalent about the practices, and some controversial teachers left China under a public cloud, like Chang Hung-pao, whose legacy is still vigorously debated. Although some describe him as criminal and leader of a “heretical teaching,” others see him as a visionary who was victimized by a government eager to silence him. Chang lived in the United States for several years, at one point dealing with charges of domestic violence, and then died (or was murdered, depending on whom you believe) in an auto accident in Arizona.
The popularity of ch’i-kung in America is an outgrowth of the Chinese ch’i-kung explosion of the 1980s and early 1990s. Although a similar development in China would’ve had little international impact two generations ago, Chinese immigration, European and North American tourism, and student exchange programs all facilitated the transformation of ch’i-kung from a uniquely Chinese popular vogue into a global quasi-religious practice.
Hard and soft ch’i-kung
As you’ve probably noticed by now, ch’i-kung, like t’ai-chi, doesn’t refer to just one thing and comes in many different flavors, including specifically Buddhist or Confucian ch’i-kung. But in general, the different types all fall under two main headings, neither of which comes off as inherently religious: soft (or flexible) ch’i-kung and hard (or strong) ch’i-kung. Technically, practitioners usually understand the latter as an advanced application of the former for those who’ve undergone years of training, but it doesn’t always work out that way.
The soft varieties, which are also sometimes called “medical ch’i-kung” or “healing ch’i-kung,” are what you’re most likely to find offered in holistic wellness centers, New Age or other “spiritual” outlets, and American Taoist temples and retreat centers. These usually include some combination of “quiet” practices, like meditation and breathing techniques, and “active” practices, like regulating posture and performing gymnastic routines.
The hard variety, which is also sometimes called “martial ch’i-kung” often seems less overtly Taoist, though it may be informed by some elements of Taoist physiology (like the three cinnabar fields, or the refinement of essence, ch’i, and spirit). For the most part, it involves developing the kinds of abilities that might serve you well in hand-to-hand combat, like superhuman strength, tolerance of physical pain, and resistance to injury. During the height of the ch’i-kung boom in China, practitioners of this style would sometimes perform extraordinary feats for paying audiences, supposedly manipulating ch’i in such a way that they could throw other people several feet by barely touching them, or by touching another person who was touching them! If this sounds to you like the stuff of kung-fu movies, you wouldn’t be too far off.
As you go searching the Internet for ch’i-kung, you may encounter websites that organize it into several other varieties, including “musical ch’i-kung,” “art ch’i-kung,” “dance ch’i-kung,” “business ch’i-kung,” or “spiritual ch’i-kung.” Though these varieties don’t reflect the traditional historical divisions, they may, in fact, be used by specific lineages.
Fa-lun Kung: The Skills of the Wheel of the Law
The ch’i-kung movement in China gave rise to numerous sub-groups that forged their own identities, maintained distinct practices, and enlisted followers who professed loyalties specifically to them. Many such sectarian groups owed their existence and continuation to the teachers who founded them, and often their fortunes rose and fell with the fortunes of their founders. One of the best known, most successful, and most hotly debated of these comparatively new ch’i-kung organizations is the Fa-lun Kung or Fa-lun Ta-fa (usually spelled Falun Gong or Falun Dafa), which currently has followers in dozens of countries all over the world.
The Fa-lun of Fa-lun Kung is a technical Buddhist term for “dharma wheel,” where dharma means the ultimate truth (or law) that the Buddha experienced and taught. The Kung of Fa-lun Kung is the same Kung from ch’i-kung (“exercise,” “skill,” or “efficiency”). So, Fa-lun Kung translates as the skills of the dharma wheel (or wheel of the law). The official name Fa-lun Ta-fa translates similarly, as the great methods of the dharma wheel. As you can tell from the translation, Fa-lun Kung is actually a Buddhist (rather than Taoist) lineage, but it’s such an important ch’i-kung offshoot that a chapter like this isn’t really complete without some discussion of it.
In this section, I introduce you to this emerging tradition, bringing you up to speed on its beginnings in China and basic teachings. I also flesh out the controversies that have soured relations between the movement and the Chinese government, which at the same time has made it something of a cause célèbre among human-rights organizations around the world.
Origins and practices of Fa-lun Kung
The Fa-lun Ta-fa was founded in 1992 by Li Hung-chih (Li Hongzhi), who claimed to have had extensive training in both Taoist and Buddhist teachings, while somehow managing to avoid the excesses of the Cultural Revolution. He grafted the ch’i-kung emphasis on healing and gymnastic practices onto Buddhist terminology and moral values and a somewhat vague interpretation of Buddhism’s ultimate goal (variously translated as “consummation” or “spiritual perfection”). Li taught his methods with a missionary fervor — spreading the dharma is a trademark of Buddhism — and he quickly attracted throngs of followers (thanks, in part, to relatively low costs), earned government praise, and went on numerous speaking tours.
Li has written extensively on the philosophy that informs his practice, and both locally and internationally sponsored Fa-lun Kung websites will link anyone interested to texts, lectures, instructional videos, and even therapeutic music. Here are some of their key teachings in a nutshell:
Moral goodness, degeneration, and recovery: Li teaches that human beings are morally good by nature, but that the dharma has been in a lengthy period of decline — a common tenet of some Buddhist denominations, which gives Fa-lun Kung a quasi-millenarian flavor. The human task is to put things back together morally, so to speak, by pursing a triad of virtues — truthfulness, compassion, and forbearance — qualities that are reflected in the very structure and flow of the cosmos.
Cultivation of the dharma-wheel: The process of recovering our nature comes not only from moral action (which is, indeed, necessary), but from engaging in physical cultivation exercises. The point of these is to set in motion a dharma-wheel (understood as a microcosm of cosmic forces) in a spot in your abdomen corresponding to the Taoist lower cinnabar field. This motion circulates your ch’i and, depending on the direction of that motion, either helps renew your physical body and moral-spiritual disposition or extends those healing energies for the benefit of others.
Attaining the dharma-wheel: The problem is that in order for this process to occur, you actually need to have this dharma-wheel implanted in your body, and the one who has the authority and capacity to do that is Li Hung-chih, the leader of Fa-lun Kung. But not everyone has easy access to Li, and official movement literature does note that those who are serious and sincere in their cultivation can attain the dharma-wheel through more indirect means, like reading Li’s books, watching his lecture videos, or studying with other members of the tradition.
Community relationships: Applying fairly conservative interpretations of Buddhist morality and the doctrine of karma, Li expects Fa-lun Kung practitioners to live as responsible householders, abstaining from things like alcohol, violence, and sexual misconduct. (The current doctrine is not particularly tolerant toward homosexuality.) And while explicit restrictions on social or political activism don’t seem to exist, the leaders tend to discourage such things.
Because of the centrality of Li Hung-chih, a set of unifying social values, the emphasis on group practice, and the place for mutual healing, Fa-lun Kung practitioners tend to form tightly knit pockets, something that doesn’t usually hold true for t’ai-chi and ch’i-kung groups. Overall, Fa-lun Kung really does start to look a lot like a religious denomination.
Controversies and persecution
Chances are pretty good that even if you don’t know much about Fa-lun Kung, you’ve heard something about it being caught up in public controversies of one kind or another. Things started getting hot around 1997, when the Chinese government began investigating the movement, initially trying to knock it out through propaganda alone. The watershed moment occurred in 1999, when the government officially labeled Fa-lun Kung a “heretical teaching,” a term historically reserved for a hodgepodge of religious outliers, political dissidents, and, sometimes, millenarian groups that may have their eyes on establishing a “new age” sooner rather than later. Since then, the denomination has been officially banned in China, and members have reported various methods of government harassment, ranging from social coercion to arrest and torture, many of which seem to have been corroborated by human-rights organizations.
On the surface, it’s difficult to see why the government would have such a difficult time with Fa-lun Kung, because the teachings don’t seem any more farfetched than the beliefs common to more mainstream traditions, and the practices don’t in any obvious way seem unhealthy, violent, or seditious (having to do with inciting resistance to authority). But despite the language of “heresy,” official Chinese antipathy toward specific religious denominations doesn’t usually come from any investment in religious orthodoxy or concerns about beliefs that members hold privately or practices they do in their own homes. Instead, it follows from perceiving certain organized groups as threats to political or social stability, as either subverting national loyalties or breaking down traditional relationships and community responsibilities. So, certain things that may have easily passed as the simple exercise of religious freedom elsewhere presented serious “red flags” to the Chinese government. Here are a couple of them:
Tensions over government oversight: Having never developed an idea of a “wall of separation” between church and state (while technically permitting religious freedom), the Chinese government has insisted on exercising oversight on the practice of religion, determining which traditions deserve official recognition, monitoring the bureaucratic structures of those traditions, and having a say over matters of leadership and personnel. The 1996 withdrawal of Fa-lun Kung from a state-sanctioned ch’i-kung association may have indicated a desire for more autonomy over internal matters.
An emerging personality cult: Although it may be an exaggeration to say that followers of Fa-lun Kung “worship” Li Hung-chih, it is fair to say that Li commands fierce loyalty from his followers, and you could make an argument that the necessity for Li either directly or indirectly to install your dharma-wheel personally creates a situation where followers feel dependent on him. When Fa-lun Kung practitioners started (apparently with Li’s encouragement) pushing back against the initial signs of government hostility — writing letters en masse to state-run media and organizing well-attended demonstrations — that revealed exactly how much sway Li had in the lives of his followers.
In the years since these opening salvos, China and Fa-lun Kung have been waging war in the media, with each side telling vastly different versions of the story. The Chinese government paints a picture of Li (now living in the United States) as a huckster who has deceived or brainwashed the ignorant masses (a portrayal sometimes reinforced by conservative Christians and Western “anti-cult” organizations). At the same time, representatives of Fa-lun Kung insist their teachings are peaceful and publicize testimonies of people who have allegedly been unfairly persecuted, imprisoned, or tortured because of their commitments.