James Miller. Worldmark Encyclopedia of Religious Practices. Editor: Thomas Riggs, 2nd Edition, Volume 1, Gale, 2015.

Overview

Taoism (also spelled Daoism) is a Chinese religious tradition emphasizing personal transformation and integration with the unseen forces of the universe. The term Tao (sometimes spelled Dao), which literally means “the way” in Chinese, has been variously understood in Taoism, though it generally refers to the source of generative vitality for a world of constant transformation. Taoism is distinct from most major world religions in that there is no core set of beliefs or doctrines to which all Taoists are expected to subscribe and no single great leader whose teachings are seen as central. Instead, Taoists engage in spiritual self-cultivation, and Taoist writings provide a foundation for personal practice.

Taoism evolved not among superstitious peasants (as modern Confucians taught Westerners to imagine), but rather among China’s most powerful, cultured, and educated classes. Indeed, the Taoists’ name for their religion is Daojiao (“the teachings of the Tao”), a term that goes back to leaders such as Lu Xiujing (406-477) and other highly educated aristocrats who wove together many diverse traditions and practices to form an inclusive new cultural and religious framework. This framework was designed to preserve all that was good and worthwhile within the indigenous religious heritage of China so that it could survive the challenge of Buddhism, which became prominent in China beginning in the fourth century CE. Taoism quickly gained acceptance among men and women of all social levels in every region of China, and it was well respected by China’s rulers through the mid-18th century. The universal respect for Taoism that continues among the Chinese people is a result of the immense range of practices and beliefs for men and women of every taste, social stratum, and level of education.

In the early 21st century, an estimated 80 to 100 million people practice Taoism, with most of the religion’s followers living in China and Taiwan. Despite its large following, however, Taoism is probably the most poorly understood of the world’s major religions, both inside China and around the world. Centuries of Confucian dominance and decades of Communist rule left the people of China and the rest of the modern world with distorted ideas about the tradition. For instance, many practices rooted in Taoism, such as qigong, the skill of nourishing vital energy, are popular among people who are largely ignorant of their Taoist underpinnings, whereas the men and women who practice Taoism in temples throughout China often keep quiet about the vitality of their religion, fearing persecution by Communist authorities. In spite of such challenges, however, men and women within China’s rapidly modernizing society preserve the living heritage of traditional Taoism, maintaining its temples, traditions, and rich assortment of ancient practices for self-cultivation.

History

It is difficult to pinpoint a definitive date for the foundation of Taoism because its origins are somewhat dependent upon exactly how “Taoism” is defined. Writings that have survived from “classical China” (before 221 BCE)—and archaeological finds of the 1990s—show that by the late fourth century BCE there were people who saw the world in holistic terms and sought the mystical experience of the integration of self and cosmos.

Eventually some of them wrote about practices of self-cultivation that could lead to such a spiritual harmony. The earliest such writing seems to have been the long-overlooked Neiye (“Inner Cultivation”), likely a prototype for the well-known Daode jing (previously spelled Tao Te Ching). The Neiye details how to quiet xin (heart/mind) by governing thought and emotion, thereby preserving jing (vital essence) and attracting and retaining the elusive forces of life: Tao, qi (life-energy), and shen (spirit, or spiritual consciousness). Related ideas found their way into the Daode jing (also known as the Laozi), which was probably completed circa 285 BCE by an editor at the Jixia Academy, an intellectual center of ancient China. The Daode jing seems to preserve oral traditions of the southern land of Chu, repackaging them as a sociopolitical program that could vie with Confucianism and other competing groups.

Yet in classical China we have no concrete evidence of “Taoists,” in the sense of a group of people who knew each other and agreed that they all shared ideas and practices that set them apart from other groups. Such a self-aware group did not become clearly defined until centuries later (about 500 CE). Near the end of the third century BCE, Legalists (philosophers who emphasized a strict adherence to the law) helped Qin Shi Huangdi (251-210 BCE) become the first emperor of a unified China, but his regime was soon overthrown, and the early rulers of the subsequent Han dynasty (206 BCE-221 CE) often looked to the Daode jing for guiding principles. According to legend, the Daode jing was written by “Laozi,” (or Laojun) a philosopher who was divinized by the Han imperial government. For centuries thereafter both emperors and religious leaders frequently claimed a spiritual legitimacy bestowed upon them by Lord Lao (Laozi). The Daode jing itself was often referred to as Laozi, an alternate title still in use today.

One movement that made just such a claim sprang from writings that emerged from the Han court at the end of the first century BCE. They culminated in a little-known text called the Taiping jing (“Scripture of Great Peace”). This work echoes the Daode jing by saying that ancient rulers had actualized Taiping (great peace) by practicing wuwei (nonaction)—a behavioral ideal of trusting to the world’s natural processes instead of to individual activity. “Great peace” was, however, disrupted when later rulers meddled with the world, and as a result, people needed practical advice for reintegrating themselves with the natural order. The Taiping jing‘s recipes included moral rectitude, meditation practices, medicine, acupuncture, yogic practices such as breath control, and even music therapy. Notably, some of its teachings are portrayed as instructions that a Tianshi (Celestial Master) gave to a group of disciples called zhen (perfected or realized ones).

In 142 CE an obscure healer named Zhang Daoling (34-156) claimed a revelation and mengwei (covenant) from Lord Lao, authorizing him to found a new social and religious order. Zhang’s followers, located in present-day Sichuan province, hailed him as the Celestial Master and built a religious organization whose men and women officiants (known as libationers) offered people of all social backgrounds absolution from inherited sins by means of confession and good works. The result was healing, not physical or spiritual immortality. The title of Celestial Master was handed down among Zhang’s descendants, one of whom presumably produced a text called the Xiang’er (“Just Thinking”). Couched as a commentary on the Laozi, it integrated the self-cultivation teachings of the Neiye with the Taiping jing‘s general worldview, even adding a set of moral precepts.

The Xiang’er was thus the first text to offer something for everyone. Taoists regard Zhang Daoling as the founder of one of the two main forms of Taoism that exist in the 21st century, and the founding of Taoism as an organized religious tradition can be tied to his endeavors. Zhang Daochun, the 64th Celestial Master, was ordained in 2009.

When northern China fell to non-Chinese invaders in the early fourth century, the Celestial Masters fled south. The rich indigenous culture of the south included ideas about waidan (alchemy)—a process of self-perfection involving the preparation of spiritualized substances called dan (elixirs). As explained in the scriptures of the Taiqing (“Great Clarity”) tradition—which apparently interested mostly aristocrats—the successful practitioner would be elevated to a heavenly sphere characterized by “great clarity.” As these various beliefs and practices became known to elements of society that had previously been quite distinct from each other—socially, culturally, and geographically—they stimulated even more religious ferment. They would eventually come together to form Taoism as it is generally understood and practiced in the early 21st century.

Two new developments were said to have begun as revelations from divine beings and held the interest of an indeterminable segment of the highly educated southern aristocracy. In the 360s, for instance, according to tradition, angelic beings called zhenren (perfected ones) channeled an array of sacred texts through a human medium, revealing how a practitioner could ascend to their heavenly realm, called Shangqing (“Highest Clarity”). A primary element of Shangqing practice was visualization meditation, such as visualizing marriage between the human practitioner and one of the beneficent female “perfected ones,” or visualizing gods dwelling in the organs of the body. The Shangqing revelations also promised that mortals who perfected themselves by these practices would survive the world’s imminent destruction. “The Sage of the Latter Days” (housheng, sometimes translated “the Sage Who Is to Come”) would soon appear, eliminate the negative forces that plagued the world, and establish a new world order for the “seed people” who had perfected themselves under the guidance of the “perfected ones.” The influence of these revelations on later centuries of Taoists was fairly limited, largely because the predicted date for the Sage’s arrival passed without the promised felicities.

Consequently, at the end of the fourth century another set of southern aristocrats produced a different set of revelations, called Lingbao (“Numinous Treasure”). The primary Lingbao scripture was the Duren jing (“Scripture for the Salvation of Humanity”). It teaches that at the beginning of the world the Tao became personified as a compassionate divine being who decided to save humanity by revealing the Duren jing—itself an emanation of the Tao. The practitioner who recites the Duren jing reactualizes the deity’s primordial recitation of its words and thus assimilates himself into the Tao itself. No one knows how many people actually engaged in this practice, but the universalistic values underlying the Lingbao message—borrowed in part from Mahayana Buddhist ideas—found a lasting place in Taoist tradition.

In the fifth century another southern aristocrat, a Lingbao master named Lu Xiujing, initiated the effort to consolidate all the unrelated traditions outlined above into an ecumenical religious tradition that could compete with Buddhism, which had gained great acceptance in China. Lu reformulated earlier ritual practices—some from popular sources, some from imperial ceremonies—into standard liturgical forms. The resulting jiao and zhai liturgies are practiced by 21st-century Taoists. Lu also shaped the entire later Taoist tradition by proposing a collection of texts that would define the contents and the boundaries of Daojiao (“the teachings of the Tao”)—the term that Taoists ever since have used for their own religious traditions. Originally called Sandong (“The Three Caverns”), this massive “Library of the Tao” grew century after century, culminating in the Daozang (“Library of Tao”) of the 21st century.

During the Tang period (618-907), illustrious emperors took Taoist holy orders from great masters such as Sima Chengzhen (647-735) and Li Hanguang (683-769), and imperial princesses entered the Taoist priesthood. Sima oversaw the growth of Taoism at the imperial court of Tang emperors Ruizong (662-716; reigned 684-690) and Xuanzong (685-762; reigned 712-56). He also authored or edited 15 Taoist books, the most influential of which was the Zuowang lun (Sitting in Oblivion), a work that set out his systematic view of progress toward spiritual perfection.

During the Song dynasty (960-1279) changes in Chinese society led to new challenges for Taoism. During the Northern Song period (960-1127) Taoism prospered and continued to enjoy respect throughout society, and Emperor Huizong (reigned 1100-25) supported Taoism as earlier rulers had done. Soon, however, northern China was conquered by various non-Chinese peoples, and by the late 13th century Taoism had lost much of its social, political, and cultural prominence. The institutions that had evolved among medieval Taoists survived, but Taoism itself was modified by new “vernacular” traditions: Non-Taoist religious movements, with their own social and cultural constituencies, came to be accepted as part of the Taoist heritage.

Quanzhen dao (“The Way of Complete Perfection”; also known as “Northern Taoism,”), the most influential form of Taoism in existence in mainland China and across the world, was also created during the Song period. Quanzhen sprang from the teachings of Wang Zhe, also known as Wang Chongyang (1113-1170), who collected seven disciples who were instrumental in spreading his teachings across northern China. This systematic form of self-cultivation, popular among women as well as men, seeks spiritual refinement through a form of qi cultivation known as jindan (“Golden Elixir”) or neidan (“Inner Alchemy”). Quanzhen continues in monasteries across China and, increasingly, throughout the world. Its headquarters are located in the White Cloud Monastery in Beijing, the seat of the Chinese Taoist Association.

In contrast, southern China is dominated by the successors to the Celestial Masters tradition that was originally founded by Zhang Daoling in 142. This tradition is known as Zhengyi dao (“The Way of Orthodox Unity”) and is one of the two main extant forms of Taoism. In contrast to the monastic, celibate practice of Quanzhen Daoists (who are both male and female), Zhengyi Taoists are generally male priests who marry, may have secular jobs, and perform ritual services for the community. The leaders of this movement claim to be descendants of Zhang Daoling, the original Celestial Master. Although their historical “lineage”—like that of the Chan (Zen) Buddhists—was largely fabricated, it remains an important factor in their religious authority.

The turning point for Taoism was the period from 1279 to 1368, when China was ruled by the Mongols. The conqueror Genghis Khan (1167-1227) continued to support the newly established Quanzhen tradition, as his predecessors in northern China—a Manchurian people called the Jurchen—had done. Genghis even summoned its founder’s most prominent disciple to explain Taoist principles at his court. Genghis’s successor, Kublai Khan (1215-1294), however, decided that his effort to consolidate Mongol control over the Chinese populace would be enhanced by establishing a “religious monopoly.” Kublai gave the Zhengyi leadership exclusive authority over Taoists throughout the south, and he denied the validity of any ordination given by other Taoist leaders.

The rulers of the ensuing Ming dynasty (1368-1644) were native Chinese, but they continued the Mongol’s recognition of the Zhengyi priesthood and even intermarried with Zhengyi priests. In 1374 the Ming founder praised Zhengyi Taoists while denigrating Quanzhen Taoists and Chan (Zen) Buddhists for “devoting themselves to the cultivation of the person and the improvement of the individual endowment”—activities that did nothing to help the government control people’s lives.

The Manchus—a people descended from the Jurchen—maintained the Ming ruler’s domination of Taoism during their Qing dynasty (1644-1911). Manchu rulers continued official recognition of Zhengyi Taoist leaders, sometimes even summoning them to perform rites at the imperial court. One emperor named a Zhengyi priest “grand minister” of the nation, as Tang emperors had done in the past. However, the harsh emperor known as Qianlong (1711-1799; reigned 1736-96) banished all Taoists from his court, and soon they lost virtually all their political influence. Despite their loss of imperial sanctions, Zhengyi priests continued to perform their liturgies. The literati traditions of Taoist self-cultivation evolved into the Longmen (“Dragon Gate”) tradition, which is the most common Taoist lineage shared by Quanzhen monastics to this day. Longmen Taoism was carefully crafted by Wang Changyue (d. 1680), abbot of the White Cloud Monastery in Beijing, to pass government muster while preserving the self-cultivation practices that were claimed to date back to Qiu Chuji (1148-1227, also known as Qiu Changchun), one of Wang Zhe’s seven disciples.

Following the downfall of Imperial China in 1911, Taoism has undergone a period of crisis, reform, and transformation. Key factors include the political control of religion by the Chinese state and the globalization of Chinese culture and religion across the world. For Taoists, political control of religion reached its nadir during the Cultural Revolution (1966-76), when overt functioning of religion was forbidden in China and religious leaders were subject to torture, imprisonment, and even death. Since the period of reform and opening (gaige kaifang) initiated by Deng Xiaoping (1904-1997) in 1978, however, Taoism has once again begun to flourish in China, though under the oversight of the State Administration for Religious Affairs.

China’s Taoists have preserved their living traditions and practices at temples across China, despite brutal attacks on religious centers of all faiths during the Cultural Revolution. In the early 21st century, a period of globalization led to the establishment of Taoist temples and monasteries across the world, especially in countries with significant Chinese diasporas. These include Malaysia, Indonesia, and the Philippines, not to mention Australia, Canada, the United States, and Brazil.

Central Doctrines

There have never been any doctrines to which all Taoists were expected to subscribe. Unlike founded religions such as Buddhism, Christianity, or Islam, Taoism has not looked back to one great person and keyed its beliefs to his or her life or teachings. Unlike Christians or Muslims, Taoists have not engaged in military conflicts with proponents of other faiths to gain or retain social or political supremacy. Hence, they never felt pressed to reduce their faith to a set of core teachings that could determine whose side a person was truly supporting. Nor has Taoism ever had a priesthood that tried to enforce conformity to certain creedal formulations in order to maintain the faith’s “purity” or to ensure its authority over practitioners. Taoist priests are, at most, ritual intermediaries between humans and the higher powers, and they do not labor to shape practitioners’ beliefs into an established creed.

Taoism is not based upon a premise that its followers consist of those who assent to certain propositions about life. The idea that religious faith or practice must logically proceed from a proposition or belief—for instance, that religion begins inside a person’s head and is then expressed through his or her “external” life—is alien to Taoism, as indeed it is to the traditions of many indigenous peoples. For those reasons Taoists never engaged in disputation regarding the relative validity of different beliefs or worried that someone’s faith might not be sound. Taoists do not fear that their faith will be threatened by leaving matters of “belief” up to practitioners themselves.

Yet it would be a mistake to conclude that any and all beliefs could equally qualify as “Taoist.” An analysis of the teachings and practices of Taoists throughout history reveals that certain themes and principles have been shared by most adherents over the centuries. Taoism has always emphasized practice rather than belief, and it encourages spiritual self-cultivation, which is at the core of what it means to practice Taoism. Modern audiences must be careful to understand such matters on Taoist terms. For example, the very term “self-cultivation” misleads contemporary audiences to imagine Taoists as romantic individualists who treasure their sovereign “selves.” However, the Taoist term xiulian (literally, “cultivation and refinement”) actually makes no reference to any “self.”

Modern people who sanctify their own “self”—imagining it to be threatened by “outside forces” such as society or a Supreme Being—are not embracing Taoist premises. In fact, there is no word in Chinese that even remotely corresponds to a term like “the self.” In Taoism beliefs and practices are not premised upon dualistic assumptions—for example, that the individual is at odds with society; good is in a struggle against evil; spirit is intrinsically alien to nature or matter; or humans are ontologically different from, and inferior to, the divine. In the holistic worldview of Taoism, gods, humans, animals, and plants are all processes of life empowered by the generative vitality of the Tao.

Even traditional Chinese ideas of yin and yang—often mistakenly imagined to be characteristic elements of Taoist belief—assumed those basic realities to be complementary, not antagonistic. Only in modern times did some Chinese writers, Taoist and non-Taoist, begin attributing a positive value to yang and a negative valuation to yin. Some late-imperial intellectuals conceived Taoist practice as leading to an integration of “the two,” as seen in Inner Alchemy texts such as the Xingming guizhi (“Principles of Balanced Cultivation of Inner Nature and Vital Force”) of 1615. All such ideas, however, evolved in multiple (even, to non-Taoist eyes, discordant) ways, as different minds reformulated various inherited ideas.

If it is a mistake to project onto Taoism the dualistic assumptions that underlie some other culture’s ideas, it would also be wrong to think that Taoism is strictly monistic. The notion that “all things are one” is found nowhere in Taoism. Taoist practice is rarely explainable in such terms as “becoming one with Tao” (understood as some static transcendent absolute) or in such terms as transcending “time” or “the material world” to enter “eternity” or “heaven” (understood as a state ontologically different from our current life). Most certainly, Taoist practice does not include such concepts as penetrating the “illusion” of the world of multiplicity and perceiving some underlying “unity.”

Indeed, Taoist scholars frequently struggle with matching their inherited conceptual terminology with what Taoists seem to be saying and doing. The interpretive categories derived from studying Christianity, Hinduism, Platonism, or Sufism simply do not fit Taoism. Looking back at the ways in which many centuries of Taoists, and their classical predecessors, have explained their understanding of how people should live, it is fair to say that Taoism rests upon a holistic worldview and a transformational ethos.

In the Zhuangzi it is hard to see Tao as much more than a rhetorical element used to suggest the condition experienced when one leaps beyond human valuation and cultural constructs. In the Neiye, on the other hand, Tao suggests “realities that one ought to cultivate” and is used interchangeably with terms such as qi (life-energy) and shen (spirit)—transient spiritual forces that the successful practitioner learns to attract by proper management of body, mind, heart, and spirit. Those ideas endure among Taoists down to the present day and are found in many different Taoist models of practice. By contrast, the specific associations of Tao found in the Daode jing and the Zhuangzi were mostly ignored by later Taoists or preserved as rhetorical flourishes. In short, what matters more is the cultivation of life forces within the body; less important are the metaphysical realities that may be imagined to support such practice.

In most Taoist formulations, as in most other East Asian usages, the term Tao was not a philosophical concept but rather a term for “personal practices that follow wise and ancient principles.” In classical China, even in the teachings of Confucius himself, Tao was a term of common discourse meaning something like “our teachings about how we should live our lives” or “what we do in order to live most meaningfully.” Such associations endure in certain Japanese terms that contain the character do (the Japanese pronunciation of dao), such as aikido (the “way” of harmonious qi), a form of martial art, and chado (the “way” of tea), the traditions associated with the tea ceremony. By Tang times (618-907)—when Japan adopted many elements of Chinese culture, though not Taoism itself—the term Tao suggested something like “an admirable complex of traditional practices.” In all those contexts, as in Taoist tradition, the practices are not just activities related to certain ideas but rather means by which people embed themselves in, and manifest anew, cherished principles.

In Taoism those principles pertain to subtle realities that link the living practitioner to other practitioners of past and present, to other living things (human and nonhuman), and to the interconnected matrix of time, space, consciousness, life, spirit, and society within which all life’s activities take place. From the Zhuangzi through the Shangqing revelations and Tang Taoism into the present, Taoists frequently refer to religious practice as xiuzhen (cultivating reality) and to a person whose practice has reached its culmination as a zhenren (perfected person). Nearly synonymous is the term xiudao (cultivating Tao), which became a standard summation of the practice of Quanzhen Taoism and which endures in the “Northern Taoism” of the early 21st century.

In sum, Taoists have always understood themselves as people who learn, and engage in, practices of spiritual transformation within a holistically interlinked universe. Taoists, however, have never devoted time or effort to pinning down the precise terms in which one should conceptualize such matters.

Moral Code of Conduct

Most 20th-century writers mistakenly insisted that China’s Taoists, unlike Confucians, ignored moral issues and formulated no moral teachings. In reality, Taoists always agreed with Confucians about the need to live a moral life and about the importance of moral conduct in society. Whereas Confucians grounded their moral principles in the traditional Chinese social order, however, Taoists grounded theirs in holistic realities. That is, Taoists sought to integrate themselves not just with other humans but also with life’s deeper realities.

In general, the principle of Taoist morality is that practicing self-restraint while working to cultivate and refine the individual self brings benefits to others as well as to oneself. The Daode jing called this principle shan (goodness) and argued that it corresponds to wholesome natural principles seen in the environment (for example, in water) and the characteristics of the imperceptible force Tao.

In the Daode jing that 21st-century readers know, there is no suggestion that the practitioner should follow any specific code of behavior, though political corruption and the use of violence are roundly censured. In fact, many later Taoists continued to understand “goodness” as a general element of personal self-cultivation. By about the third century, however, Taoists had begun reading the Daode jing as an expression of the wisdom of Lord Lao (Laojun), a divine being venerated by the emperors of the Han dynasty. Taoists thus began interpreting the Daode jing as an explanation of Lord Lao’s expectations regarding moral conduct.

A fragmentary commentary from that period, the Xiang’er, advocates biospiritual cultivation, yet it once also included 36 moral precepts. Nine of them promoted virtues tagged to the Daode jing (for example, stillness and clarity); the others proscribed negative behaviors that had been obliquely criticized in the Daode jing and the Taiping jing.

By the fourth century Taoists had become familiar with the monastic precepts of Chinese Buddhists, which inspired them to particularize their own moral ordinances further in order to be more competitive with the Buddhist model. The eventual result was The 180 Precepts of Lord Lao, which scholars wholly ignored until the closing years of the 20th century. Scholars are uncertain as to the exact date of the Precepts, though the scholar-aristocrat Ge Hong (283-343) seems to have been familiar with some such precepts, and it is likely that they were put together in their present form sometime around the fifth century, when Taoism was undergoing a process of standardization and synthesis. The Daozang contains several versions of the Precepts, showing that they had remained important to centuries of Taoists.

Overall, the Precepts require that a person govern his behavior and restrain all thoughtless and self-indulgent impulses. In this way, the person ensures that he does no harm to others or to the world in which we live. In format, the Precepts list follows the Xiang’er‘s briefer list: The precepts first explain what “you should not” do (140 precepts) and then outline what “you ought to” do (the remaining 40). The dicta gave specific standards concerning what is right and wrong regarding common aspects of everyday life. For instance, they require proper restraint in eating and drinking and respectful behavior toward women, servants, family members, teachers, disciples, and the general public. The Precepts also forbid abuse of animals, both wild and domestic; one should not even frighten birds or beasts, much less cage them. Proper respect for nature is also required by prohibitions against improperly felling trees, draining rivers and marshes, or even picking flowers. Generally, a person should avoid activities that might harm anyone or anything and should assuredly take no part in the killing of anyone, even the unborn.

The audience of Lord Lao’s Precepts apparently consisted of men. (Precepts intended specifically for women appeared in a now-lost text called the “Pure Precepts of Grand Yin.”) Research has shown that the people expected to follow the Precepts were laymen, not clerics. Nevertheless, it is hard to say how fully Taoists of any era may have believed in such itemized codes of morality. By medieval times Taoist writers seldom mentioned Lord Lao’s Precepts. In monastic institutions, however, detailed codes of behavior endured into the 21st century.

It is tempting to construe the Precepts as “the Taoist Ten Commandments,” but their role was different from that of the Decalogue in Jewish or Christian tradition. Lord Lao was never viewed as “the One True God” by Taoists of any stripe, nor was “obeying the will of Lord Lao” ever part of any “Taoist catechism.”

Some scholars believe that the Celestial Master community of late antiquity paralleled that of the Hebrews in the so-called wilderness period—a closed community that conceived its distinctive identity in terms of a covenant handed down by a deity who simply “chose” them. Surviving texts show that the early Celestial Masters expressly distinguished themselves from followers of other “cults” in the surrounding society. After the sixth century, however, most Taoist leaders were highly cultured aristocrats who had no worries about differentiating their religion from “superstitious cults” (as the earlier Celestial Masters had struggled to do).

Thus, Lord Lao’s Precepts faded into the background, and their underlying principles simply became taken for granted as general moral expectations. Without a theology of sin or a worldview assuming a fight between good and evil, Taoists were usually confident that any serious practitioner of their faith would seldom need more than occasional reminders that the spiritual life must rest upon a solid foundation of good character and moral conduct. Such reminders restated the common Taoist virtues—such as stillness, purity, and self-restraint—and trusted the practitioner to cultivate them as he or she worked toward spiritual perfection.

Sacred Books

Unlike Christians, Jews, and Muslims, Taoists have never understood their religion as the faithful practice of teachings found in a clearly defined set of writings. Certain “Taoist ideas” did originate in classical texts such as the Neiye and the Daode jing, but research has not conclusively established that there was any organized religious community devoted to following their teachings. In that sense, the first “Taoist scripture” may have been the Taiping jing—a massive work of late antiquity. In another sense, the Duren jing (late fourth century) could be considered the first “scripture.” It presents itself as a verbalization of Tao itself.

Some Taoist writings that had been influential in early periods eventually lost their impact. For instance, neither Northern Taoists nor Southern Taoists in the early 21st century make much use of ancient texts such as the Taiping jing or Duren jing. Likewise, the writings of subtraditions such as Taiqing and Shangqing are read only by scattered practitioners at Taoist temples and by a few dozen scholars around the world. On the other hand, the beliefs and practices presented in ancient texts on self-cultivation—particularly the Neiye—were preserved over the centuries, because they were continually repackaged in new writings that appealed to ever-changing audiences. For instance, the Neiye‘s promotion of “biospiritual cultivation” reappeared in works as disparate as the “philosophical” Huainanzi (second century BCE); the early Celestial Master Daode jing commentary called the Xiang’er (second century CE); a still-used guide to Taoist practice called the Tianyinzi (c. 700 CE); and even a late-imperial novel, Qizhen zhuan (“Seven Taoist Masters”). So a true understanding of Taoist practice requires not just the study of one basic “scripture” but rather careful study of centuries of such largely unknown texts, which were produced by men and women of different social classes and spiritual aspirations and which were honored and read but never “canonized” in quite the sense that the Bible was.

In the fifth century Lu Xiujing hoped to create a sense of Taoist identity, so he compiled a list of writings that expressed ideas that would appeal to other like-minded aristocrats. The resulting collection (sixth century), Sandong (“The Three Caverns”), stressed texts of the Lingbao and Shangqing subtraditions. Soon fu (supplements) were added, including such writings as the Daode jing and Taiping jing, writings on ritual alchemy, and texts from the Celestial Master movement.

The Three Caverns continued to grow, incorporating writings by and about Taoists of every description, partly because centuries of emperors wished to honor the Taoist community. For instance, the Tang Emperor Xuanzong (reigned 712-56) commissioned the first systematic assemblage of Taoist writings. Such imperial sponsorship was vital before printing was invented (in the 10th century), because Taoist manuscripts—theretofore copied by hand—otherwise easily perished.

In the 12th century the Song Emperor Huizong ordered the engraving of a new and larger “Library of Tao,” and the subsequent Jurchen rulers did likewise. The result was the most massive collection of Taoist writings in history, completed in 1244 under the auspices of the new Quanzhen movement. Later Mongol rulers, however, were less tolerant, and in 1258 Kublai Khan ordered all Taoist writings except the Daode jing to be burned. Many survived, but the 21st-century library of Taoist literature, called the Daozang, is far smaller than that of Jurchen times, despite its inclusion of materials composed in the intervening years.

The Daozang comprises more than 1,400 separate works totaling 5,305 volumes. They include all of the Taoist writings that could be found in the year 1445, from the Daode jing and Zhuangzi to the texts of all later segments of Taoism. Late-imperial Confucians despised Taoism, however, so the “Library of Tao” was ignored both by centuries of Chinese scholars and by their Western counterparts. Nonetheless, it was preserved by Taoists at such centers as the White Cloud Abbey in Beijing. A lithographic edition (1926) gradually found its way into some major libraries, and a new 49-volume edition with a punctuated text was published in China in 2003.

Yet few of its contents have been studied by scholars, and fewer still have been translated into any modern language—not even modern Chinese. Hence, most Taoist texts remain inaccessible to all but the most expertly trained scholars, and even they must travel to a major library to find it. Though many persist in calling the Daozang the “Taoist canon,” it should be thought of not as a sacred “canon” but rather as an ever-expanding library of materials in which Taoists have found value. There has never actually been a definitive collection of “canonical” scriptures that Taoists—of any period—have honored to the exclusion of “noncanonical” works, nor has there been any boundary between “sacred scripture” and other cherished texts.

Sacred Symbols

Taoists, given the nature of their values, have never had a central symbol that visually represents a transcendent truth. The well-known yin-yang symbol is actually a common element of Chinese culture, not a symbol specific to Taoism, and it has held little importance for most Taoists throughout history. Instead, Taoist “symbolism” consists of an array of varied images that obliquely suggest the effectiveness of spiritual practice. An example is the crane, whose red crown is understood as representing cinnabar, a symbol of spiritual perfection.

Early and Modern Leaders

For two generations scholars associated the beginnings of Taoism with a shadowy figure of Han times named Zhang Daoling. Hitherto unstudied texts, mostly from the Daozang, led those scholars to believe that Zhang was a major historical figure. Those writings suggested that he had founded the Celestial Master (Tianshi) organization, which the modern Zhengyi priests of Taiwan (the only region of China accessible to foreigners from the 1950s to the 1980s) claimed to have maintained. Scholars eager to redeem the reputation of living Taoist traditions—dismissed by earlier audiences as popular superstition—were excited by the apparent discovery that Zhengyi liturgists in the early 21st century maintained practices that went back nearly two millennia to a figure who could even be likened to Moses. Texts of uncertain date report that in 142 CE Zhang received a revelation from Lord Lao, who recognized him as the Celestial Master promised in the Taiping jing and established a mengwei (covenant) with Zhang to take over from the failing Han emperors. Scholars are unsure whether Zhang was even a historical person, and they debate the historical impact of the traditions associated with his name.

Despite the early-fourth-century migration of the Celestial Master leadership to the south, Taoists in the north did not abandon their religion. Taoism flourished at the Louguan Abbey, which had been established near the spot where people of that era said that Laozi had “departed to the west.” Many Louguan texts feature teachings of Lord Lao, a divine being who periodically descends to earth to impart his wisdom. The Xisheng jing (“Scripture of Western Ascension”) is a major Louguan text that highlights practices of self-cultivation from classical times, updated for contemporary tastes.

According to scholars, the most influential figure of this era was an aristocrat named Kou Qianzhi (365-448). Kou tried to restore the Celestial Master community in the north. He reported that he had received a revelation from Lord Lao in 415, primarily in the form of the “Precepts of the New Code” for the Taoist community. It is unclear whether anyone at the time accepted Kou’s claims, but by 424 he had befriended a Confucian official at the court of the Wei dynasty (386-534/35), founded by a people called the Toba who were influenced by Chinese culture. Together Kou and his ally made themselves important by granting the Wei emperor the title of “Perfected Ruler of Great Peace,” and later Wei emperors were ceremonially inducted into Taoist holy orders. The Toba rulers ordered that Kou’s “Precepts of the New Code” be put into effect throughout the countryside. Some have therefore said that the Toba adopted Taoism as a state religion, but it is unclear whether their decrees really affected many people’s lives. After Kou died, state patronage ceased, and other Taoist (and Buddhist) traditions gained more impetus. Kou is thus a notable figure, though he was not really an heir to Zhang Daoling’s Celestial Master organization, and his historical effect may have been less important than was once thought.

For centuries Taoist leaders allied themselves with the rulers who were then in power. Such was true of the pivotal master Lu Xiujing. Until the 1980s few had ever heard of Lu. At that time scholars began realizing that he had played a crucial role in stimulating a sense of common identity, and even common institutions, among people who had previously followed quite distinct traditions. Lu is best remembered for having conceptualized the first great Taoist “canon”—a forerunner of the Daozang. Lu also helped codify and spread new models for Taoist liturgies, such as the jiao, and he instituted a religious establishment that once again legitimized the rulers of his day (the Liu-Song dynasty, 420-79). Taoist leaders such as Lu and his eventual successor, Tao Hongjing (456-536), recognized those emperors (and their successors) both as fulfillers of earlier messianic prophesies and as the legitimate successors of the powerful rulers of Han times. Leaders such as Lu and Tao established a model that would help centuries of later Taoist aristocrats secure government blessings and spread Taoist teachings and practices more fully throughout society.

The Tang period (618-907) was when China was at its most powerful; its civilization overflowed into neighboring lands, from Tibet to Japan. It was also the time when Taoism was at its height. The many great leaders of Tang Taoism belonged not to the tradition of the Celestial Masters (then all but extinct) but rather to the aristocratic traditions that such figures as Lu Xiujing and Tao Hongjing had built up during the fifth and sixth centuries. A representative Tang leader was Li Hanguang, disciple and successor to the great Sima Chengzhen. Like Sima, Li was a skilled calligrapher and accomplished scholar; he compiled a pharmacological guide as well as writings about the Laozi and Zhuangzi. Li was also responsible for preserving the texts of the Highest Clarity revelations and for rebuilding the religious center at Mount Mao, a Taoist center that was still active in the early 21st century. Because of Li’s aristocratic lineage, scholarly attainments, and position as Sima’s spiritual heir, the great Emperor Xuanzong summoned him to the court and even accepted formal religious orders in a ceremonial transmission from Li.

The living Quanzhen tradition, or “Northern Taoism,” arose from the life of Wang Zhe. Wang was a scholar and poet from a well-to-do family and the presumed author of a clear guide to living the Taoist life, known as “The Fifteen Articles.” The guide teaches that an individual can achieve “spiritual immortality” within this life by cultivating internal spiritual realities (xing) and harmonizing them with the realities of external life (ming). Wang’s seven renowned disciples included a woman, Sun Buer (1119-1182), who couched some of her teachings in the form of poetry and presumably helped stir great interest in Quanzhen Taoism among Chinese women. Qiu Chuji was another of Wang’s disciples and taught Taoism to several rulers, even the Mongol general Genghis Khan.

By Ming times (1368-1644) the leading form of Taoism among scholars was called Jingming (“Pure Illumination”). Like most other Taoist traditions of that day, it traced its origins back to a legendary figure of early medieval times. By the 12th century Jingming Taoism had combined self-cultivation with talismanic rituals and ethical teachings. Soon after the Mongol conquest a man named Liu Yu (1257-1308) reformulated the movement, teaching that ritual activity helped stimulate the virtues of loyalty and filial devotion, which in turn facilitated the stilling of the heart/mind.

Over the next few centuries Confucian scholars were drawn into the practice of Jingming Taoism, which was finally absorbed into the Dragon Gate (Longmen) tradition of Northern Taoism. Like Jingming Taoism, the Longmen tradition was designed to preserve Taoist institutions within society so that Taoist self-cultivation practices could survive the oppressive social and political environment of late-imperial times.

Dragon Gate Taoism originated among disciples of Wu Shouyang (1552-1641), who reputedly had received divine certification linking him and his teachings back to Qiu Chuji, an early Quanzhen leader. Eventually his Dragon Gate credentials were passed to a young man named Wang Changyue, who brought the Dragon Gate tradition to the White Cloud Abbey in Beijing in 1656. Wang thus established the form in which Northern Taoism would endure. Dragon Gate Taoism integrated ethical teachings that would suit all social classes with both the meditative tradition of Inner Alchemy and the priestly institutions that went back to Lu Xiujing. By modern times its practitioners increasingly identified their tradition as a continuation of the Quanzhen movement. Consequently, the achievements of Dragon Gate leaders such as Wang Changyue are generally overlooked, though Northern Taoism owes much to them.

In 21st-century China it is difficult to identify any great Taoist leaders. That is not because of a shortage of conscientious men and women practicing Taoism at China’s temples but rather because it is difficult for religious leaders in China to attain positions of national prominence. At the same time, Taoist values do not generally favor self-promotion or publicity-seeking behavior. As a result, Taoist leaders—whether from the White Cloud Abbey, Maoshan, or any of Taoism’s other living centers—are not in a position to achieve widespread acclaim among the populace of China or a conspicuous position in government, academia, or the media. The president of the Chinese Taoist Association (founded in 1957 and headquartered at White Cloud Monastery) is Ren Farong (1937- ) a former abbot of Louguantai.

Major Theologians and Authors

Taoism has had few “theologians”—people concerned with intellectual analysis or articulation of doctrinal principles. For more than 2,000 years writers have explained their own views and values regarding Taoism but have frequently done so anonymously. Moreover, many of these writings have long been lost, and few of the surviving documents have received much attention from scholars or the public. A few Taoist writers whose works are known to early- 21st-century scholars illustrate the range of Taoist ideas and activities, however.

The most renowned and well-studied Taoist thinker is Zhuang Zhou, the presumed author of the “inner chapters” of the classical text known as the Zhuangzi. The Zhuangzi is one of the most colorful and compelling works of world literature, and the writers who took part in compiling it—from perhaps 430 to 130 BCE—were as witty as they were profound. The actual text that has been handed down, however, is really the work of Guo Xiang (d. 312), a “commentator” of the third century CE. Guo inherited 52 chapters of material bearing Zhuang’s name, threw away the parts that he confessed himself too dense to understand, and left 33 chapters that “made some sense” to him.

Virtually nothing is known of the historical life of Zhuang himself, except that he lived in the second half of the fourth century BCE. At the end of the 20th century many scholars believed that internal references to Zhuang Zhou within the text itself can be accepted as autobiographical confessions. In reality, the Zhuangzi consists of tales and parables with characters that include not just Zhuang himself but Confucius, unknown beings, and even birds and insects—all of whom simply appear to express and debate ideas from the minds of the Zhuangzi‘s contributors.

For the most part, those contributors urge readers to question the utility of rational thought as a reliable guide to life, to see “common-sense” ideas as cultural constructs bearing no clear relationship to truth, and to “leap into the boundless” instead of trying to figure out life and make it work as we wish it to. Yet, as fascinating as those ideas may be, nothing in the text tells the reader how to do those things or what to do about real-life problems. Though Chinese and Western writers often tried to explain the Zhuangzi and the Daode jing together—as the “primary texts” of “classical Taoism”—the two works have little in common and were clearly not composed by people whose ideas about life were the same.

Until the 1970s it was widely, though inaccurately, believed that a primary “theoretical” work of “religious Taoism” was the Baopuzi (“[The Writings of] the Master Who Embraces Simplicity”). The Baopuzi was written by Ge Hong (283-343), an aristocrat of the early fourth century to whom various other Taoist writings are attributed, including the Shenxian zhuan (“Traditions of Divine Transcendents”). In some senses Ge was indeed a key figure, though less for his thought, or for his effect on people of his day, as for the fact that he collected (or at least reported) all manner of data that were later accepted as “Taoist.” For contemporary scholars the writings attributed to Ge are thus a treasury of early medieval “Taoism,” particularly in regard to the tradition of ritual alchemy called Taiqing. However, in Ge’s day Taoism had not yet coalesced, and if 20th-century scholars were correct in thinking of the Celestial Masters as Taoism’s main tradition, Ge clearly lived and worked on its fringes. Nor did Ge think that classical texts such as the Zhuangzi or Laozi held the answers to life.

Far from having been an “alchemist,” as most once believed, Ge was a Confucian official who held minor military and clerical posts before retiring to Mount Luofu near the southern coast. The so-called “Outer Chapters” of his Baopuzi express the interests and values of the Confucians of his day so thoroughly that the only scholar ever to translate them calls Ge “a conservative defender of common sense.” Ge was also proud to own various writings on alchemy and ritual, some of which had been bequeathed to him by his own ancestors.

The “inner chapters” of his Baopuzi maintain that the ritual methods described in those writings could elevate a person to a deathless state. Such an outspoken advocate of “immortality” struck later generations of Confucians—and the Western scholars whom they mentored—as so bizarrely “un-Chinese” (and contrary to modern beliefs) that caricatures of Ge’s ideas were long cited to show how stupid the Taoists of imperial times supposedly were. In reality, Ge was simply an eclectic aristocrat who might best be described as a maverick Confucian. By maintaining that a pursuit of immortality—a goal to which both the Laozi and Zhuangzi, unlike Celestial Master texts, often allude—was a fitting goal for upstanding “gentlemen” like himself, Ge attempted to integrate the divergent beliefs and traditions that gave his own life meaning and value.

Arguably the single most influential Taoist of all time, Sima Chengzhen (646-735) was a great Taoist leader in an age when Taoism was a major force among the Chinese elite. He was descended from relatives of the rulers of the Jin dynasty (266-420), and his father and grandfather had both held government posts. An associate of renowned poets such as Li Bai (701-762), Sima was not only an accomplished poet but also a musical composer and a distinguished painter and calligrapher. For centuries, China’s greatest artists celebrated him. It is thus no surprise that when Sima died, his life was commemorated in eulogies by government officials and even by Emperor Xuanzong himself. Sima had been a frequent guest at the court of several emperors, and he was remembered as a sage counselor who helped give their reign legitimacy. His disciples include Li Hanguang and Jiao Jingshen, a lianshi (refined mistress) who was also acclaimed by the land’s most eminent poets.

Of more lasting importance was Sima’s work copying, collating, and composing Taoist texts. His expertise on the Daode jing, for instance, was so great that the emperor commissioned him to write it out in three styles of script so that “the correct text” could be engraved in stone. Sima also edited Tao Hongjing’s “Secret Instructions for Ascending to Perfection” and himself wrote the now-lost “Esoteric Instructions for Cultivating Perfection.” Some writings attributed to Sima are probably not actually his work, but scholars acknowledge him as the author of such important works as the Fuqi jingyi lun (“On the Essential Meaning of the Absorption of Life-Energy [Qi]”) and the Zuowang lun (“On Sitting in Forgetfulness”)—a meditation text known in the West as “Seven Steps to the Tao.” The teachings in that work were influenced by those of the Taoist physician Sun Simiao (581-682) in his Cunshen lianqi ming (“Visualization of Spirit and Refinement of Qi”). Sima also edited the introduction to an eight-section treatise on Taoist life, the Tianyinzi (“Master of Heavenly Seclusion”), written by an anonymous author.

Sima taught that the path to spiritual transcendence (shenxian) requires a lifestyle of moderate self-discipline and practices designed to “cultivate and refine” both one’s body and one’s spiritual energies. Like other Taoist aristocrats of his day, he offered a model of Taoist practice intended to appeal to scholars and officials who had limited knowledge of earlier Taoism and who thus might appreciate clear, simple guidelines. Those models reappeared in the lives and teachings of centuries of “literati Taoists,” including Wang Chongyang, Liu Yu, and Wang Changyue.

From an early-21st century perspective, the most important Taoist of Tang times may have been Du Guangting (850-933). Besides writing poetry and short stories that people continue to read, Du, who was a court official, also composed numerous little-known religious works of great historical importance. He wrote commentaries on Taoist scriptures and classical texts, instructions for performing liturgies, and a number of historical and biographical collections that tell us much about the Taoists of medieval times. One, called the Lidai chongdao ji (“Records of Reverence for Taoism over the Ages”), tells how centuries of rulers sponsored Taoists and their institutions. Another, the Yongcheng jixian lu (“Records of the Assembled Transcendents of the Walled City”), assembled biographies of great Taoist women and female “transcendents.” Few of Du’s writings, however, have yet been studied or fully translated.

Around Du Guangting’s time, some Taoist writers began using the terminology of earlier alchemical traditions to express—and sometimes camouflage—their ideas about spiritual refinement through meditation. Those ideas—known among Taoists as jindan—have become more generally known as neidan. This ongoing tradition of meditative practices remains poorly understood in the West, though it has been the central tradition of Taoist self-cultivation practices for the last thousand years.

Inner Alchemy actually refers to “purifying the heart/mind” in order to achieve tranquility and to harmonize oneself with the primordial Tao. In the Wuzhen pian (“Folios on Awakening to Reality”) of Zhang Boduan (c. 983-c. 1081) in the 11th century and in Zhonghe ji (“On Centered Harmony”) by Li Daoqun (13th century), Inner Alchemy practices are couched in such cryptic symbols as “uniting the dragon and the tiger.” As literacy increased among the expanding gentry class, writers of Ming (1368-1644) and Qing (1644-1911) times increasingly recast Inner Alchemy in clearer, more accessible terms. One good example is the anonymous Xingming guizhi (“Principles of Balanced Cultivation of Inner Nature and Vital Force”), published in 1615.

Though these facts are still largely unknown to modern audiences, scholars of the Qing period continued to write about “mind-cultivation,” drawing upon those older traditions. Such scholars included Min Yide (1758-1836), who was regarded as a leader of the Dragon Gate tradition, and Liu Yiming (1734-1821), who wrote Wudao lu (“Record of Awakening to Tao”). The title of this piece recalls the Wuzhen ge (“Song of Awakening to Tao”) by Wang Chongyang, the founder of the Way of Complete Perfection. Liu’s numerous writings on self-perfection have survived, but they have seldom been studied or properly translated. When future scholars bring such writings to the attention of readers around the world, the enduring Taoist tradition of selfcultivation will become better appreciated.

Organizational Structure

Most people who learned about Taoism from 20th-century representations would assume that Taoism could, by its nature, have no organization at all. Of course, Taoism has never had a hierarchy like that which Emperor Constantine imposed upon Roman Christians in the early fourth century. For many centuries there have been Taoist priests, male and female alike, but they do not supervise the religious lives of all believers in a parish, nor have they reported to a bishop who reports to a pope. For that reason, scholars of Taoism are often reluctant to use any terminology drawn from Christian traditions when trying to explain Taoist institutions. The truth is that centuries of Taoists did attempt to organize their practitioners to some degree, sometimes following successful Buddhist models. Because their historical challenges, however, were different from those that Christians or Buddhists faced, Taoists could usually flourish with only a limited organizational structure, and they have never attempted any actual unification.

It is worth noting, too, that before the second or third century CE, there was no “Taoist community” to be organized. Although classical texts such as the Zhuangzi bear witness to lineages of teachers who transmitted wisdom about the Tao from generation to generation, it is by no means clear that such teachers possessed communities of followers or were organized into anything like a formal structure. It seems that the earliest traditions of the Tao were orally transmitted cultivation practices that did not attract a popular following.

This situation clearly changed with the advent of Zhang Daoling’s Celestial Master teachings, which attracted a wide popular following in what is now Sichuan province. This teaching assigned specific roles to its local leaders, known as jijiu (libationers), and instituted rituals of ordination to mark out the various ranks within the community. Those forerunners of the later Taoist clergy could be male or female, Chinese or “barbarian,” and they were ranked according to their level of religious attainment. The organization’s headman claimed descent from Zhang himself.

The group died out in medieval times, but in the early modern era a band of Taoists surnamed Zhang, based at Dragon-and-Tiger Mountain (Longhu shan), claimed to continue the old Celestial Master lineage under the banner of Zhengyi dao (the Way of Orthodox Unity). Until the mid-19th century the Zhengyi leaders were nominally recognized by emperors, but Western reports that they were Taoist “popes” are generally regarded as inaccurate comparisons. Moreover, early-21st-century scholars recognize that, although contemporary Zhengyi liturgists of Southern Taoism claim to continue the traditions of Zhang Daoling, such claims have little basis in historical fact.

Originally the term Tianshi simply meant an especially insightful teacher. Such Celestial Masters appear as characters in both the Zhuangzi and the Taiping jing but clearly not as historical figures related to Zhang Daoling. In early medieval times the title Celestial Master was claimed by, or applied to, a wide variety of historical individuals—all apparently male—in various contexts. Few of them were named Zhang, and none had any clear connection to the earlier followers of Zhang Daoling. Zhang’s descendants appear in early-medieval sources, but there is no evidence that any of them claimed the title Tianshi, much less that anyone in that day regarded them as “apostolic” leaders.

Tang sources do call quite a few historical Taoists “Celestial Masters” but in ways that show that in those days Tianshi was a general honorific term that could casually be applied to any memorable Taoist. The Celestial Masters of Tang times thus included Sima Chengzhen and his successor, Li Hanguang; the aforementioned historian Du Guangting; a famous poet named Wu Yun; and even the wonder-worker Ye Fashan (who was thought to have miraculous powers). Clearly none of those men were “popes” in the sense of occupying the highest position in a clearly structured ecclesiastical hierarchy.

In Tang times, in fact, the highest Taoist title may have been lianshi (refined master/mistress), a title sometimes applied to venerable women as well as men. Lianshi was apparently also an honorific term, not an ecclesiastical office that gave one person authority over other’s religious lives. However, the fact that the term “Celestial Master” was applied variously in different historical eras does not mean the lineage of the Celestial Masters was unimportant. Rather, the system of ordinations established in the original Celestials Masters community became the general foundation for ordination as a Taoist priest, and the ethical precepts that governed the lives of the Celestial Masters became widespread throughout the Taoist tradition.

In 1279 the Yuan Emperor Kublai Khan defeated the Southern Song empire and subsequently recognized the claim of Zhang Yucai (d. 1316) to be the 36th Celestial Master, appointing him the sole authority over Taoism in southern China. Since then the Zhang clan, based at Dragon-and-Tiger Mountain, has sought to maintain its authority over Taoist ordinations but has ultimately depended upon the assent of the court to do so. For instance, the Ming Emperor Longqing (1537-1572; reigned 1567-72) blocked the appointment of Zhang Guoxiang as the 50th Celestial Master, and it was not until 1577 that Zhang was finally able to take up his role, under the patronage of the subsequent Ming Emperor Wanli (1563-1620; reigned 1573-1620).

The 20th century has similarly held great turmoil for the Celestial Masters tradition. In 1911 the Qing dynasty collapsed, and China was ruled by various warlords under the nominal authority of the Republic of China, which was formally founded in 1912. At this time, the Chief Military Commission of Jiangxi province confiscated the estate of the Zhang family and revoked Zhang Yuanxu’s title. Two years later, President Yuan Shikai (1859-1916) restored Zhang’s title and lands. Upon Zhang Yuanxu’s death in 1924, his son Zhang Enpu (1904-1969) became the 63rd Celestial Master but was forced to flee to Taiwan in 1949 during the Communist revolution in China. When he died, a son declared himself 64th Celestial Master, but after the son died, his reign was held to be invalid and a “new” 64th Celestial Master, Zhang Daochun, was ordained on Longhu Mountain on June 10, 2009, by agreement between Chinese and Taiwanese Taoists.

By the early 21st century the two main surviving traditions of Taoism eclipsed and incorporated several important subtraditions that were no longer extant. The history of these traditions indicates the importance that religious people attached to lineages of authority. Such claims to the authority of lineage are by no means confined to Taoism. By the 12th century, for instance, followers of Chan (Zen) Buddhism had concocted a story designed to legitimize one particular set of teachers as heirs to an apostolic lineage that was traceable back to the historical Buddha (15 centuries earlier). That lineage was entirely fabricated, as is clear from the fact that no such beliefs can be found among the earliest Chan Buddhists—not even in writings by or about their earliest Chinese “patriarchs.” Yet the story proved effective in stimulating interest in Buddhism, and two contemporary groups of Taoists fabricated analogous stories of an “apostolic succession.” One group was based at a mountain called Maoshan, where certain historical Taoists, such as Li Hanguang, had earlier practiced. That group wrote up “historical records” designed to show that the recipients of the Shangqing revelations in the fourth century had founded a lineage of zongshi (“Grand Masters”), which had run through such historical figures as Sima Chengzhen before culminating in the leaders of Maoshan in that day. The competing group was composed of the Taoists of Mount Longhu, who purported to be descendants of Chang Tao-ling.

The reason that scholars of Taoism have often talked about the Celestial Masters of Mount Longhu but never about the Grand Masters of Mount Mao (Maoshan) is simply that centuries of emperors gave political precedence to the Taoists of Longhu, thereby disempowering the Taoist leaders of Maoshan and other centers. Imperial recognition of the Zhengyi lineage ended only in the mid-19th century, at precisely the time that Western powers wrested real control of China away from the Manchus. Nevertheless, even that recognition never gave Zhengyi leaders any actual power; they could never do anything more than control the distribution of ordination certificates. So it would be a serious mistake to imagine them ever to have been “Taoist popes.”

Likewise, the roles of Taoist “priests” must not be misconstrued. Scholarly explanations of the Taoist priesthood have often been confused and misleading. One problem is that few such scholars have ever had extensive personal contacts with living Taoist priests. Because of historical and political factors, Taoist priests have been displaced for generations from China’s government, academic institutions, and public media. Even in early-21st-century China, most Taoist priests have little contact with the educated public or the outside world. People trying to understand the roles and functions of Christian or Buddhist priests have generally been able to meet, observe, and learn from priests. Students of Taoism have had few such opportunities and were further misled by 20th-century scholars who frequently confused literary images with historical data and who even anachronistically conflated social data from contemporary Taiwan with data from ancient and medieval texts. Moreover, some such scholars used terms such as “Taoist priest” or “Taoist master” as an indiscriminate translation for a range of unrelated Chinese terms, making it difficult for readers to get an accurate idea of Taoist priests through the ages.

In ancient times daoshi (priest) was a vague literary term for idealized characters or a reference to people with unusual abilities. The actual institutions of the early Celestial Master organization remain poorly known, but they called their officiants jijiu (libationers), not daoshi. Some scholars now argue that libationers were never really clergy, just leading lay participants.

The term daoshi originated among the aristocratic religion of early medieval times, when Taoist leaders such as Kou Qianzhi and Lu Xiujing began trying to organize Taoist traditions to seem more competitive with Buddhist institutions. For a century or two, writers produced texts intended to particularize the ranks and duties of Taoist clerics. Those texts never agreed with each other, but they generally distinguished the daoshi from lower-order functionaries such as fashi (ritual masters). Notably, however, such texts never designated separate orders for women priests.

From Tang times forward, Taoists used the word daoshi as the standard designation for any person recognized by the Taoist community as having mastered a specific body of sacred knowledge and the ritual skills necessary to put that knowledge into effect for the sake of the community. The title also distinguished Taoist religious specialists from those of Buddhism as well as from those of nonrecognized traditions.

Throughout history the social status of daoshi has generally remained high. In medieval times male daoshi were often highly educated scholars, physicians, poets, and government officials. Leaders such as Sima Chengzhen were members of China’s high aristocracy, with social standing to match their ancient bloodlines and scholarly attainments. Modern misconceptions (which remain common both in China and in the West) that Taoist practitioners in imperial times were mostly ignorant peasants—and thus do not deserve respect—are an item of propaganda from a narrow circle of Confucian elitists who became Western scholars’ “native guides” to Chinese civilization.

The medieval texts purporting to standardize the Taoist priesthood seem to have carried no weight in real life. Taoists remained so disinterested in formalizing their clerical institutions that Tang emperors even tried to set clerical standards for them. Government supervision of the Taoist clergy has lingered to the present day, though no secular or religious authority ever had either the power or the will to impose a regulated ecclesiastical hierarchy upon Taoist practitioners. Consequently, later Taoists were free to reorganize as they saw fit, and occasional 20th-century scholars likened early modern movements such as Quanzhen to those of the Protestant reformers in Christianity. But such analogies are misleading, for those Taoists were not rebelling against any powerful hierarchy, and they were not united by common scriptures or creeds.

After losing imperial recognition in the 19th century, Zhengyi priests maintained their institutions and practices until the Communist revolution in the 20th century drove their leaders to Taiwan. In mainland China in the early 21st century, virtually all Taoist abbeys or temples (guan) are recognized as preserving Quanzhen traditions. Beijing’s White Cloud Abbey (Baiyun guan) has received official recognition as the country’s principal Taoist center, and the Chinese Taoist Association is headquartered there. With government blessings and modest funding, the association publishes Taoist books and magazines and holds classes for youths who aspire to the priesthood. Under the auspices of the Taoist Association, representatives from China’s other temples sometimes gather to converse and provide each other with moral support. Traditionally, the authority of each temple remains autonomous, but with state support there is increasing evidence of attempts to standardize Taoist training to provide a national curriculum for ordination. Despite these centrally organized efforts, Taoism in practice remains a fairly loose tradition with powerful regional groups headquartered at the major centers of Taoist practice such as Mount Wudang, Mount Hua, Mount Qingcheng, Mount Mao, and Mount Lao.

Taoist traditions are also maintained among the various branches of the Chinese diaspora in other nations. In each such settings, local autonomy remains the rule. National Taoist associations, paralleling the one based in Beijing, have been formed in such lands. For instance, the Hong Kong Taoist Association sponsors a Taoist college in addition to hosting scholarly conferences and publishing Taoist books and periodicals. By the 1990s national associations outside China began trying to establish greater communication and cooperation, though those efforts remained hampered by distance, a lack of financial resources, and lingering political tensions. An umbrella group called the International Taoist Association has been formed to combat those problems and to promote the ongoing vitality of Taoist traditions throughout the world.

Houses of Worship and Holy Places

Taoism has never had houses of worship comparable to Christian churches or Muslim mosques. For 2,000 years, however, Taoists have set up special places for their spiritual practices. In medieval times they began establishing guan, where male and female practitioners could go to immerse themselves in Taoist practice. Over time Taoists borrowed ideas from Buddhist institutions and added temple activities such as preserving old writings, housing traveling dignitaries, and providing a supplemental site for imperial ceremonies. Yongle Gong (Palace of Eternal Joy), located in Ruicheng in the Shanxi province of China, is one of the most impressive of these temples. Built in the 13th century, it serves as a shrine to the Taoist immortal Lu Dongbin. Its many halls and pavilions occupy an area of 28,215 square feet (8,600 square meters) and are richly decorated with murals depicting stories from the lives of Taoist saints.

Guan across China are generally identified with the Quanzhen tradition. During the Cultural Revolution (1966-76), most Chinese temples of all religions were forced to close, and their clerics and other practitioners were harshly persecuted. However, by the 1990s many guan had not only been reopened but were also partially restored, especially near tourist sites. Sites such as Mount Wudang, home of the most well-known style of Taoist martial arts, serve as impressive tourist centers as well as places of religious pilgrimage. Temples in such places of outstanding natural beauty have received considerable financial support from local governments eager to boost tourism revenue and to capitalize on Taoist traditions as sources of Chinese heritage and national culture.

What is Sacred

Because of the diversity of Taoist traditions, understandings of what is sacred vary. Given the holistic perspective common to most of Taoism, a conceptual dichotomy of sacred and profane is hard to uphold. In fact, the classical text Zhuangzi—identified by later Taoists as a “scripture”—includes an episode in which Zhuang Zhou intentionally shocks a philosopher-friend: Zhuang answers the question “Where is Tao?” by declaring that it is even in bodily waste. His intention was to ridicule the very question and to demonstrate the foolishness of imagining “Tao” as somehow apart from elements of our everyday world.

From other perspectives it is clear that all models of Taoist practice are based on an assumption that spiritual practice elevates a person’s personal reality, lifting him or her out of a mundane state into a more fully zhen (real) state. In that sense, one could say that Taoists believe in turning away from a “profane” life (understood as confusion and futility) and ascending to a “sacred” state (understood as reassimilation to the subtle realities of life). In addition, Taoists have sometimes identified certain natural substances as somehow pointing to, or even leading to, such states of spiritual realization. For instance, ingesting a certain plant called lingzhi (efficacious fungus) has long been thought to help facilitate individual efforts at spiritual refinement. Individuals, however, are always free either to accept or to ignore such ideas, so in Taoism nothing is “sacred” in the sense of being a normative part of all Taoist religious practice.

Holidays and Festivals

The Taoist life has seldom been anchored to segments of the temporal year. Taoism has never had a “Sabbath,” a common liturgical calendar, or holy seasons comparable to Easter and Christmas among Christians or Ramadan among Muslims. Generally, Taoists have celebrated the holidays and festivals common in the surrounding society, sometimes adding specifically Taoist ceremonies to the observance of such occasions. In early medieval times some Taoists suggested the observance of new holy days, but these never became standard. In general, laity continue to observe most of the holidays common to Chinese society and may also take part in additional activities at Taoist temples. Hence, specifically Taoist days of religious observance are generally limited to clerics who live and work full time at Taoist temples.

Mode of Dress

Lay Taoists have no distinctive items of apparel. The clerics of Northern Taoism favor simple cotton apparel in solid, muted colors, with formal robes for ceremonial occasions. Daily wear typically consists of an undecorated blue robe, black pants, white socks, and simple black cloth shoes with rubber soles. Men and women usually wear their hair long, gathered in a top-knot fastened with a wooden hairpin. In the heat of summer, the formal robe may be replaced with a simpler white garment. The priests of Southern Taoism attract attention to their liturgical rites by wearing highly ornate silk robes, richly embroidered with images of heavenly bodies and animals such as fish and dragons, signifying the priest’s role as unifier of all spheres of existence. Sleeves are wide and typically extend beyond the hand.

Dietary Practices

No uniform dietary practices are expected of all Taoists. Historically, most Taoists accepted the general ideal that one should avoid foods that hinder self-refinement and should favor foods more conducive to spiritual practice. In medieval literature beneficial foods were so idealized that the perfect diet consisted solely of intangible life-essences, such as qi or even the emanations from stars. Few, however, have ever taken such idealizations literally. Under Buddhist influence some Taoists began avoiding meat and other “stimulating” foods such as onions; earlier, the prime food to avoid was any kind of grain. Generally, Taoists have tended to regard rice and vegetables as wholesome, but there have never been dietary requirements for laypeople.

Rituals

Evidence suggests that Taoists have never engaged in worship services comparable to those of Christians or Muslims. The idea that the believers in a local community should gather on a regular basis to pray, sing, hear a sermon, and forge or renew a relationship to a higher being is generally alien to Taoism. There is no Taoist “Sabbath” or standard liturgical year.

Analogies for Taoist rites may be sought among the varied ritual traditions found in Hinduism, Shinto, and Native American cultures. Comparable social ceremonies, such as liturgical rites, are designed to integrate the community; rites of passage mark an individual’s move from one stage of life to another.

There have never been Taoist weddings per se. Many Taoists have considered celibacy to be fundamental. Those who embrace marriage usually follow the wedding procedures common to Chinese social tradition, as they do with regard to funeral rites. Taoists have developed various liturgies called chai, some of which seek to establish beatitude for deceased ancestors. These rites are performed long after the demise of the ancestors in question, and they constitute a recommendation to the higher powers that the deceased should be accorded due recognition upon his or her arrival on the higher plane of existence.

Other chai liturgies have different purposes. One aims to forestall natural disasters and to reintegrate the sociopolitical order with the cosmos; another attempts to avert disease by expiating moral transgressions through communal confession. A more extended liturgy is the jiao, a sequence of events over several days that renews the local community by reintegrating it with the heavenly order. Under Lu Xiujing these liturgies combined ritual frameworks from the imperial court with those of the local village and unified them through the actions of tao-shih (Taoist priests). Both Northern Taoism and Southern Taoism continue such liturgical traditions.

Rites of Passage

Taoists do not have standard rites of passage that are keyed to a person’s natural growth and maturation. Rather, Taoists tend to integrate their own rites—generally intended to signify an individual’s spiritual development—with the generic rites of passage common throughout Chinese society.

Taoism is not a religion into which a person is born, nor is it one into which a child’s parents ritually induct him or her. There is thus no rite intended to confirm an infant as a member of the religion. Nor are there puberty rites that are specifically linked to Taoist religious identity. Rather, Chinese social traditions—disrupted by modernity—preserved ancient rites of ascendance (called “capping”), which have generally been regarded as Confucian, though they were never really tied to any doctrinal or scriptural authority. Boys and girls alike had the choice, from puberty onward, to move beyond such rites—which simply confirmed a person in standard social roles—and to enter a specifically Buddhist or Taoist community. In early medieval times it was not uncommon for boys or girls to take that step in early adolescence. There has never been any regulation in this area, and entry into the religious community remains elective for any person at any age.

Membership

There has seldom been any formal membership in Taoism. The texts of “classical Taoism” were generally produced by isolated individuals or anonymous groups, and in neither case is there evidence of a community with a defined membership.

From the late second century the Celestial Master organization seems to have had a fluid membership, open to people of all origins, including non-Chinese peoples from neighboring regions, whom the Chinese commonly regarded as “barbarians.” Participants understood themselves to be followers of a mengwei, a special covenant between Chang Tao-ling and Lord Lao, and they renounced participation in the “cults” practiced among the surrounding populace. Those who accepted the authority of the Celestial Masters could thus be called members of a distinct religious organization, though it did not survive beyond the seventh century.

The more aristocratic traditions of that period (including Taiqing, Shangqing, and Lingbao) had no comparable organization, though they did share a sense that their practices were superior to those of other traditions. It was only after the fifth century that a common Taoist tradition came into being; its followers’ sense of identity rested mainly in being different from Buddhists. Other than among the Celestial Masters, there is little evidence that Taoists who had children raised them as Taoists. Instead, boys and girls would choose to become Taoists during adolescence or adulthood. This was still the case in the early 21st century.

Taoism has never been evangelical. Taoists have always accepted any who wish to practice their tradition, but they have never attempted to convert followers of other traditions. Participation in Taoism has remained primarily a matter of personal interest within a society that has never assumed that individuals must have a single, exclusive religious affiliation.

In the early 21st century, the Taoists of China lived in a highly regulated society. The government tolerated traditional religious institutions, but with no true freedom of religion. China’s Taoists have little presence in the public media. Taoists have made little outreach to foreigners, and other than a few Western scholars who have been ordained as Zhengyi priests in Taiwan, only native Chinese practice Taoism at China’s temples. Even Chinese emigrants to the West have generally not solicited the participation of non-Chinese, though in the late 20th century a few emigrant Taoists began to accept Western participants into their small religious communities. Most of these communities are dedicated to spreading cultivation practices such as Tai Chi, with perhaps the most well-known example being the Taoist Tai Chi Society, based in Toronto, Canada. There also exist small numbers of temples devoted to ritual practice, such as the Taoist Society of Brazil (Sociedade Taoista do Brasil).

Religious Tolerance

In premodern China intolerance was rarely a feature of any religious tradition. In the 20th century there was a common misconception that Taoism arose as a reaction against Confucianism. There is no validity whatsoever to such ideas. Confucians and Taoists generally lived in harmony, sharing many common beliefs and values and deeply respecting one another’s traditions and practices. Such was demonstrably the case up to the 12th century, when rulers began turning the teachings of “Cheng/Zhu” Confucians—widely called Neo-Confucianism—into a sociopolitical orthodoxy. Early-21st century scholarship makes clear that Neo-Confucianism never really became the monolithic, all-powerful cultural force that 20th-century audiences believed. Taoism flourished, even among so-called Confucian literati, well into modern times.

It is true that early-medieval Taoists first conceived their tradition in contradistinction to Buddhism, but they never understood the two traditions as standing in contradiction. Taoists were seldom hostile toward Buddhists or contemptuous of their teachings and practices. Rather, Taoists simply felt that Buddhism was not “who we are.” During two brief periods emperors forced Buddhist and Taoist leaders to stage public debates. Though records show contempt for Taoism among some Buddhists, Taoists typically expressed respect and understanding for Buddhists and their beliefs. There were a few anomalous political acts by emperors who tried to curtail Buddhist’s or Taoist’s social, economic, and political power. But even those acts—often exaggerated in modern accounts—were seldom motivated by religious factors. Despite modern claims that there were persecutions here and there, there were no incidents comparable to what occasionally happened during the European religious wars. There were never, for example, Chinese people—Buddhist, Taoist, or Confucian—burned at the stake, nor were there interred bodies exhumed and defiled. China has never had a religious war.

Modern accounts seldom acknowledge that centuries of Chinese rulers, intellectuals, and ordinary men and women happily endorsed the mutual validity of “the Three Teachings” (sanjiao): Buddhism, Taoism, and Confucianism. To them that term suggested a pleasant diversity, never conflict or contradiction. The modern misconception that Neo-Confucians ran late-imperial society conceals the reality that even Confucian intellectuals, and most emperors, usually agreed that “the Three Teachings are one” (sanjiao weiyi).

Taoism has been a kaleidoscope of ever-changing traditions and movements, and at no time did any of them denounce the other. During the mid-20th century some scholars called elements of post-Han Taoism “sects” and even tried to distinguish “sectarian Taoism” from a supposed “philosophical school.” It is now known that those depictions have no validity. Taoism is distinctive precisely for its persistently nonsectarian heritage.

In the early 21st century there have been few instances of interreligious discord involving Taoists. In mainland China, Taoism is seen as a national religion, closely allied to Chinese culture, and operating in accordance with dominant social norms rather than against them. In multireligious countries with a significant proportion of Taoists, such as Indonesia, Singapore, and Malaysia, there have been instances of rivalry between Taoist and other religious groups, but these are often related to broader cultural and ethnic issues regarding relations between Chinese and non-Chinese peoples.

Social Justice

Most people believe that Taoists have never cared about issues of social justice. Indeed, few Taoist traditions have ever been organized in ways that produce conspicuous examples of social advocacy, and it is hard to find any in Southern Taoism at all. Meanwhile, in mainland China, Taoists remain guarded about taking social positions that might provoke political authorities.

Unlike religions that feel a sense of mission to convert their religious ideals into social action, Taoists have generally been skeptical of activism, preferring subtle—indeed, often secret—modes of benefiting others. Taoists believe that their liturgical rites, and even their self-cultivation, can and do indirectly transform the conditions under which all people live. That belief is grounded firmly upon the ancient Daode jing: it cautions us to be like Tao itself, which “never presumes to act” (bu gan wei). Rather than presuming that we must go out and act to “make the world right,” the Taoist faith—holistic, not humanistic—maintains that the world will naturally become and remain perfect but only if humans refrain from interventional activity.

A concept such as “rights” is hard to find in Taoism, for such concepts presume a world in which good must struggle lest evil prevail—presumptions no Taoist would accept. Nonetheless, some of the largely unexplored texts in the Daozang show that, throughout history, Taoists were a leading voice against social abuses such as female infanticide. The ancient Taiping jing makes clear that such injustices violate the integrity of life.

Because Chinese religions have usually been restricted by governments that fear social activism, modern Taoists have generally avoided taking positions that might provoke greater government oppression. Yet in Taoist terms, such restraint illustrates neither callousness nor cowardice but rather an abiding faith in the power of Tao to right life’s wrongs by itself, with no need for premeditated human action.

Social Life

According to 20th-century misconceptions, it was China’s Confucians—never Taoists—who valued the family. In reality, Taoists accepted the value of all existing social and political institutions, though many chose to live as exceptions to the prevailing rules.

Prior to the third century CE, writers of “Taoist” texts seldom said anything about marriage or the family. From the third century to early modern times, Taoist movements fully recognized men and women of every station, regardless of marital status. The history of Taoism is replete with figures who married and had children—or who entered the religious life after having raised a family—and few Taoists felt pressed to develop any doctrinal guidelines regarding such matters.

Under Buddhist influence early modern Taoists evolved away from medieval Taoists’ acceptance of marriage. Northern Taoism has historically intimated that spiritual practice is best undertaken by celibates. In Southern Taoism, meanwhile, marriage has always been expected of clerics, and the Zhengyi “lineage” has traditionally been represented as an actual biological succession within the Chang clan. Northern Taoists, however, such as Chan (Zen) Buddhists, have always claimed a lineage that was spiritual, never biological.

For the laity, decisions about marriage and family matters have always been left up to individuals. Such decisions have seldom been mentioned in connection with Taoist doctrine or moral teachings. Though celibacy became a common ideal for most Taoists, other lifestyle decisions were not criticized or deprecated, and Taoists seldom posed as arbiters of family values for people outside of their tradition.

Controversial Issues

The social, political, and historical influences on Taoism are such that Taoists have seldom taken a public stance on issues that are commonly considered controversial. Statements about divorce, abortion, or birth control are practically unknown among Taoists in the early 21st century. However, the early Celestial Master movement articulated principled positions on many social issues. The Taiping jing, for instance, denounced the common practice of female infanticide—a position articulated virtually nowhere else in Chinese civilization until the 20th century. The 180 Precepts of Lord Lao explicitly commands respect for all life; the precepts within this text forbid not only slavery but also “the use of herbal medicine to perform abortions.”

The role of women, an often controversial issue in Western religions, has never been controversial in Taoism. In traditional Chinese society, the roles and expectations for women were, in general, highly limiting. In the context of religion, however, Chinese society was not governed by those expectations, for women’s secular roles as wives and mothers did not carry over into religious settings. Whereas Confucians took pride in maintaining social tradition, Taoists took pride in rising above the ordinary. Consequently, Taoists of most traditions welcomed women and men on comparable terms.

The primary office in the early Celestial Master organization—the libationer—was reportedly open to women and men alike, and some women libationers, such as Wei Huacun (251-344), remained well known for centuries. Ritual functions could be performed by women as well as men, and ranks and titles were parallel. Beginners were daonan or daonü (Taoist men or Taoist women); intermediate-level practitioners were nanguan or nüguan (capped men or capped women); and advanced participants were daofu or daomu (Taoist father or Taoist mother).

After Lu Xiujing began consolidating Taoism, women clerics held the same title as men, daoshi (priest or priestess), though female daoshi, such as Huang Lingwei (c. 640-721), were fewer in number. In 739 there were 550 abbeys for women compared with 1137 for men. Priests of each gender were frequently ordained during puberty, and the procedures for women’s ordination differed only in that certain ritual actions proceeded from right to left instead of left to right. In the eighth and ninth centuries at least a dozen imperial princesses underwent such ordination. The performance of the great liturgies—jiao and zhai—were sometimes reserved for male officiants, however.

Prominent women abounded in later Taoism. One early-modern movement, Qingwei (“Clarified Tenuity”), was reportedly founded by a young woman, Zu Shu (flourished c. 900). Tradition says that her teachings were transmitted through a line of female leaders until the 12th century, when men began to be included. By then lay practitioners of Taoism had become more common among the gentry, as illustrated by Cao Wenyi (flourished c. 1119-1125), a woman poet who wrote commentaries on earlier Taoist texts and who was honored at the Song court. Meanwhile, the early Quanzhen movement was so popular among women that 20 to 40 percent of its clergy were female.

After Mongol times, Chinese society became increasingly oppressive, and women Taoists became less prominent. Women never had any meaningful role in the liturgical Zhengyi tradition, and in Southern Taoism women are effectively marginalized. In mainland early- 21st-century China, however, women priests participate in Northern Taoist temples alongside men, and some hold local leadership positions.

In the early 21st century the most controversial issue among Chinese Taoists has involved engagement with the secular Chinese state. Since the period of opening and reform began in 1979, state and local governments have funded the restoration of many Taoist temples and monasteries, especially in sites of outstanding natural beauty. The aim of the government agencies has largely been to develop these sites as cultural heritage locations for the purpose of increasing tourism revenue and fostering local economies, especially in rural areas. This development makes Taoism more prominent within Chinese society, but at the same time Taoists risk being subsumed by the secular goals and values promoted by the Chinese Communist Party. The challenge for Taoists is to maintain their religious integrity and also thrive within an environment of state policies and priorities that is largely beyond their control.

Cultural Impact

Of all the aspects of Taoism, the ones that remain least appreciated are those in which Taoists have expressed themselves in media other than the written word. Twentieth-century Sinologists—like the Confucian scholars who mentored them—relied almost exclusively upon written texts when collecting and assessing data. Few scholars of Chinese religion have tried to integrate the study of concrete, visible artifacts—much less musical traditions—into their understanding of Taoism. At the end of the 20th century, art historians such as Stephen Little began finding unrecognized works of Taoist art buried away in the archives of great museums. In China, meanwhile, the delicate position of Taoism has inhibited active exploration of Taoist art, architecture, and music.

Taoist religious music—vocal and instrumental—goes back at least to Kou Qianzhi in the fifth century. On imperial order, Tang Taoists such as Sima Chengzhen and He Zhizhang composed now-lost musical works, and the Ming Emperor Yongle (1360-1424; reigned 1402-24) himself composed pieces of Taoist music and had them assembled into an anthology. The influence of Taoist music on the broader musical heritage of China remains unstudied, however. In Northern Taoism most music is vocal and conforms to historical patterns linked to the zhai rituals that go back to medieval times. In Southern Taoism music is mostly instrumental and is more flavored by local styles and folk elements.

Because scholars are generally consumed with reading texts, it is surprising that little attention has focused on the extensive Taoist influence on Chinese literature. All surveys of Chinese literature hail the elegant prose of the Zhuangzi. Taoism, however, also played an influential role in the development of later Chinese prose and verse alike. Renowned poets such as Li Bai were deeply steeped in medieval Taoist ideas and practices, and priests such as Sima Chengzhen and Wu Yun were among the most accomplished poets of their times.

Another Tang Taoist, the chronicler Du Guangting, was a pioneer of the Chinese short story. Literary tales called chuanqi often reflect themes from Zhuangzi, such as the idea that our usual frames of reference are really just conventions and that the world in which we truly live is much more wondrous than we imagine. Imperial collections such as the Taiping guangji (“Expansive Records of the Reign of Great Peace”), completed in 978 by order of a founder of the Song dynasty, preserve hundreds of stories. These, like the Zhuangzi, were intended to expand people’s perceptions of reality by opening their eyes to wonders and marvels that show that the cosmos consists of multiple interlinked dimensions. Many collections of chuanqi, the most well-known of which is Pu Songling’s Liaozhai zhiyi (1679, known in English as “Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio”), kept Taoist ideas and images in the minds of later Chinese readers.

The extensive Taoist influence on the traditional Chinese novel remains only partly appreciated. The 16th-century novel Xiyou ji (“The Journey to the West,” also known as “Monkey”) is partly an extended Taoist allegory. Other late-imperial novels, such as the Fengshen yanyi (“The Creation of the Gods”) and Dongyou ji (“Journey to the East”), introduced self-cultivation traditions of Inner Alchemy to thousands of readers who would never have direct involvement with Taoist teachers or practitioners. Also well-known is the late-Ming Qizhen zhuan (“Accounts of the Seven Perfected Ones,” otherwise called “Seven Taoist Masters”). It turns the historical lives of Wang Chongyang (founder of Quanzhen Taoism) and his primary disciples into a primer of Quanzhen self-cultivation practices, and it is an illustration of the results of Taoist practice: Through dedication, sacrifice, and meditative discipline, the novel’s characters overcome their personal failings and demonstrate the process of moral and spiritual maturation that constitutes the Taoist life.

Since the late 20th century many Taoist elements have also been transformed into components of Chinese movies, particularly in Taiwan. By the turn of the millennium, movies from mainland China also began to expand into exploring Taoist ideas, and among the most notable examples of this trend was the critically acclaimed film Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000), which tantalized Western audiences with a martial-arts adventure influenced by Taoist values and practices.