In the manic rush of everyday life in modern Seoul--narrowly avoiding being mowed down by a sidewalk scooter, barely squeezing into a car on the subway--it can be easy to forget that Korea is a country that has been in existence for thousands of years, with traditions that date back further than the Ptolemaic universe and Leif Ericson's "discovery" of North America.
Coming from a country where church and state are allegedly separated, it can be bewildering to live in a nation where religious values hold together the very fabric of society, if in subtle, unnamed ways.
Korea is considered by many to be the strongest bastion of Confucianism in Asia, though it is more a part of the psyche of the Korean people than it is a dinner-table topic. You'll never hear a Korean walking around spouting fortune-cookie language ("Confucius says . . . "), but Confucianism nonetheless determines all relationships in the Hermit Kingdom.
More a set of ethical guidelines than an actual religion, Confucianism lays out rules for the Five Relationships: between ruler and subject, father and son, husband and wife, old and young, and between friends. Every interaction is defined by where you stand in the hierarchy of society. Coming to an understanding of this has been my key to demystifying much of Korean life. Family comes before the individual, education defines status, and men and women have separate roles. While most Koreans don't meticulously follow these rules, it is easy to detect their influence in everything from a trip to the grocery store to how students react to the sight of a teacher (I am still startled every time one of my students bows to me in the hallway. BOWS!).
Alongside Confucianism, Buddhism, Taoism, and Shamanism remain formidable religious contenders in Korea, all peacefully coexisting within the nation. Christianity, however, has recently surpassed all of these as the most practiced religion in the country. Though most Korean Christians likely practice out of a true passion for the religion, I can't help but see this as a form of colonialism--the West's attempt to drown out the traditional practices of a people and replace it with their own. Still, having grown up in a Christian environment, I must say that even the Christianity here seems foreign to me: red neon crosses blaze across the landscape of Seoul, illuminating the faith in the way only Asia can.
Away from these glaring beacons of Westernization, I recently attempted to get in touch with the roots of Korean spirituality on Inwangsan Mountain, a spot teeming with Buddhist and Shamanist shrines at the northernmost edge of Seoul.
Klaus and I hiked up the mountain to be greeted by Bongwansa Temple, the doors at the entrance painted with the guardian kings of heaven who protect Buddhists from evil and harm.
A massive bell stands to the left of the temple, whose tolls marked the rest of our progress up Inwangsan.
We continued on to Guksadang, Seoul's most famous Shamanist shrine, just in time for a Shaman ceremony. Though I felt a bit like an intruder on an important, private moment, it was just as difficult to walk away as it was to slip off my shoes and enter the shrine while the ceremony took place. I waited and watched at the doorstep, surrounded by the abandoned shoes of those inside.
Shamanists were laying out offerings on the altar for the spirits--fruit, candy, and even soju (the standard Korean liquor). Small candles flickered by the walls, and the mudang (shaman) began to ring bells suspended from the ceiling. A cat slunk over to investigate, as if she understood what the bells signaled. The shaman let out a slow, low, inhuman wail, and began to convulse as though she were possessed. Soon, tears began to slide down her face, and she broke out into a feverish dance, moving about the room, grasping the faces of the other shamanists, and gazing at the altar. It was like witnessing the most sensational kind of theater. After several minutes, the wild energy of the ceremony passed, and we went on our way, though not without a few suspicious glances from the shamanists inside the shrine.
Next, we came across the "Zen rocks," which are said to resemble shrouded monks.
We marched farther up the hill, guided by undersized stone steps that appeared to have been fashioned by gnomes. "In the Hall of the Mountain King" played a continuous refrain in my head. The mountain feels ancient, despite the clear view of Seoul that spreads out below. Little temples filled with candles, lanterns, and statues crouch under the shade of the trees just off the path. Of course, as we entered one of these temples, a place so sacred that wearing shoes inside is considered irreverent, we were startled by the sudden jangle of a Korean cell phone and the familiar, "Yoboseyo?" Even a buddhist on the mountain won't go without a "hendepone" in Korea. The clash of the ancient and the modern.
The next day, in my continuing quest for understanding Korean spiritualism, I set off for Jogyesa, the largest Buddhist shrine in Seoul. In the center of Seoul, Jogyesa stands as the headquarters of the Jogye sect, which focuses on Zen-style meditation and the study of Buddhist scriptures.
Three massive, almost menacing, gold Buddhas sit in the center of the temple as worshippers perform a ceaseless dance of bowing and prostrating themselves on soft mats.
A small pool filled with candles stands to the left of the temple, where people light incense sticks and place them near an obelisk-like construction said to contain remains of the Buddha himself.
I left the temple without achieving enlightenment, but I felt a few steps closer to comprehending the labyrinth of Korean society.
