Clack-clack. Undisturbed by nearby voices or heavy traffic made remote by temple walls, an aged lady with gnarled fingers grasping cloud-producing sticks of incense drops the two crescent-shaped pieces of wood again.
No luck. The oracle bei used for determining agreement or disagreement by the gods to a specific question have both landed flat side down. Their convex surfaces seem to mock the woman as she looks with resigned disappointment at their worn surfaces.
Again she bows to the temple gods, the incense is repeatedly raised and lowered in respect and supplication. Then, another try. While firmly holding on to the long, black sticks of smoking incense, she grasps the two pieces again. They drop. Flat side up. No, the gods do not agree.
Determination seems to animate the frail body as she bows deeper; the incense pumps faster in its vertical plane; the increased speed and distance of the imploring movement creates an aromatic cloud surrounding the heads of two adjacent youth also at prayer.
Clack-clack. The gods have changed their minds. Enough incense? A different form of prayer? Enough sincerity of heart? The observer cannot know, but there on the well-worn stone lie the bei, one flat side up, the other down.
The woman pauses—surprised or relieved, or maybe both. Now quick bowing, deeper this time with hands and forehead touching the cool flagstone. Again and again. Then, with an almost audible arthritic creak, she rises and moves quietly away from the immense red-framed doorway to her front.
The visitor takes her place, and immediately views the scene so familiar to Taiwan residents and visitors alike. Beyond elaborate banners, beyond intricately carved tables stacked with food between candles and burning incense, beyond protective glass facing an altar made resplendent by acrylic paint—here is the focus of attention. The serene face of one of Lungshan Temple's gods, flanked by attendants, regards the viewer with half-closed, peaceful, yet critical eyes.
The god and his subordinates wear the clothing of ancient times: brightly embroidered robes with symbols of powers temporal and mystical, official caps specifying precise rank in either civil or military hierarchies, and flowing beards and bushy eyebrows suggesting exceptional capabilities in both scholarly concentration and practical activity.
The aged, polished wood of the judgmental face is darkened slightly by age and, most likely, by constant exposure to the scented smoke that fills the high-ceilinged room that is both residence and palace. Inanimate? The head does not move, there is no curl of lip nor twitch of eyebrow. Yet there is movement here. The swirls of omnipresent color mediated by the rising clouds of smoke from dark bronze censers bring a dynamic tension to the atmosphere between seated god and standing visitor.
Communication with the gods in Lungshan Temple is a private affair for most people, despite the crowds. Day and night, for there are no formal services except during festivals, people come to worship, to ask questions, to make offerings, and of course to rest, eat, talk with friends, and watch other people.
There are couples, too, perhaps thinking of children to come or those recently arrived, or worried about illness, or thankful for success. Hand in hand two older teenagers pass from portal to portal, from the chambers of the different gods in residence at Lungshan Temple. Though the two hold hands, they are almost businesslike in their movements; yet the eyes reveal deeper thoughts.
The temple speaks other languages than the quiet converse between worshipper and supplicant, however, for the stone, wood, and tiles have their own aesthetic vocabulary. Carved and painted on walls, on columns, and on rooftops is the cultural lore of centuries. Calligraphic scripts rigidly formal and freely cursive tell of ancient heroes and recent benefactors. They exhort one to ethical heights, and they warn of unacceptable conduct. From soaring dragons and phoenix on the rooftops, to the historical battles carved on pillars, to the symbolic birds and flowers that grace the base of the walls—here is the story not only of the Chinese religious pantheon, but the panorama of Chinese cultural experience.
Heroes of literature, history, philosophy, and myth have a home together. There is no exclusion here; hierarchy, of course, but no intolerance. Lungshan is an open place: to its visitors, be they the faithful or the curious, and to its gods, be they Buddhist, Taoist, or figures from Confucianism and folk religion. The courtyards open to the sky, and the religion is open to the people.
The spirit of religion in Taiwan is best seen and felt in action. It is here at Lungshan, and the thousands of other temples and places of worship that dot city and countryside where people find solace, encouragement, and fulfillment in the practical daily dimensions of life.
Whether the worshippers direct their attention to gods, ghosts, or ancestors—as one of the better scholarly texts on local folk religion is entitled—or a combination of all these, there is an overarching clarity here. And it is as clear and pure as the sound of bei hitting stone: religion is uninhibited, free of the fears of limitation or reprisal found so few miles away across the Straits. There is more.
When a visitor enters Lungshan Temple, there is an incongruous sight at a main door; two soft drink machines flank the towering wood-framed entrance. What is this metal and plastic humming reminder of unaesthetic modernity doing in a centuries-old architectural masterpiece? When leaving by the same door, the answer is no longer opaque: as religion in Taiwan is tolerant of old and new gods, it as well adapts to the times. Supplicants require both spiritual and temporal refreshment. Lungshan provides both. And this adaptability may be one of the keys to the continuing success of religions in Taiwan as they remain relevant and necessary in these times of rapid change.