CONFUCIUS SAYS… Welcome!

If you want to understand China， you must understand confucius. To be more specific， you must study his thought.

Like Jesus， the man himself never wrote anything down. But Confucius’s ideas regarding the role of individuals and communities form one of the lynchpins of Chinese and East Asian society. Confucius， the Latinization of Kong Fuzi， or “Master Kong，” formulated a code of governance and daily life built on rites and relationships with benevolence at its core. A ruler must be kind to loyal subjects， just as a father must provide for a filial son. His theories on governance and power relations came to be the foundation stone of China as ‘Confucianism’ became the official state doctrine.

After the re-dedication of the National Museum of China at Tian’anmen Square， a museum dedicated to showcasing a State-approved version of the history and culture of China just a stone’s throw from Mao’s famous portrait， a massive statue of Confucius stood for a brief time in front of the entrance， before vanishing seemingly overnight. It seemed those in power had second thoughts about a staring contest between the inspiration behind imperial Chinese governance and the Great Helmsman.

Indeed， modern China has had a rough relationship with the ideas of its most prominent thinker. But Confucian ideas still endure you need only visit Qufu， the hometown of Confucius， to see people paying their respects. As the cult of the sage grew over the centuries， what had been a little walled town grew a little bit grander with the passing of each emperor， as every new leader tried to outdo his predecessor in obeisance to the Way of the Confucian Gentleman.

At Home

Now that the high-speed rail link from Beijing makes a stop in Qufu on the way to Shanghai， it’s easier than ever to stop by the Sage’s old stomping ground. Not far from here is Mount Ni， where he was allegedly born. An hour’s train ride away is precipitous Mount Tai， from whose summit he gazed out upon the ancient kingdom of Lu and would later go into exile after irritating its ruler. Qufu itself is a series of gray streets and tourist shacks， barely enlivened by a sprinkling of five-star hotels. Happily， the treatment of Qufu as a site of pilgrimage rather than a tourist resort has kept much of its architectural history intact， including the magnificently arched gates and precipitous city walls.

I walked into Confucius’ family mansion expecting a humble cottage befitting a frugal man of letters. Granted， the thinker was a loose contemporary of Socrates， but， if this sprawling mansion was anything to go by， he， or at least his descendents， had little taste for motheaten robes and drafty chambers.

Confucius’ countless descendants（local taxi drivers often claim kinship） went on to rule the village from their vast estate， acting as feudal lords until the Sage’s 77th descendant in the line fled the anti-Confucian campaigns of Mao Zedong. What he left behind is probably among the best-preserved family piles in China， a complex of over 450 buildings that served as the epicenter of one of China’s most impressive familial landholdings.

The mansion has been beautifully restored， right down to the canopied rosewood beds and lushly landscaped grounds. It is hard not to feel reverence for the great thinker as one wanders the halls， while at the same time it is difficult not to express a great deal of frustration with the roving megaphone-laden tour groups an inescapable fea-ture of any pilgrimage in modern China， where any association with a dead celebrity means big bucks. Stick to the rear quarters， too far for most bus-loving tourists to roam， and the gorgeous gardens， which are worth an afternoon’s visit in their own right.

Offerings

The walk to the Confucius Temple is lined with souvenir stalls offering all manner of Confucius-related junk imaginable： Not only printed copies of the Analects in multiple languages， but also traditional wood block print versions. There is Confucian cuisine in restaurants， whatever that is. If you’re feeling thirsty， you can order a bottle of Confucius liquor.

And at the same time， the attitude of visitors within the temple is still one of awed devotion. Where the master’s former house once stood， a vast complex expanded and patronized by an unbroken line of royalty now stretches as far as the eye can see. For a pittance， visitors can buy bundles of incense to light at the feet of the Sage himself， his bearded face is barely visible beneath the imposing eaves of the Hall of Great Achievement. Beside him stand meditative effigies of his disciples， wringing their hands in devotion and mental effort.

The three main halls are built on a symmetrical axis that forms a spine for the nine courtyards. Three ancestral temples and nine courtyards are roofed with golden tiles （usually only reserved for the emperor but Confucius was posthumously granted the title of King）. Spaces exist not only to sacrifice to show devotion for him， his family and ancestors， but also to other scholars and sages.

Confucius’s teachings were a key component of the examinations used for centuries for entry into the civil service. Walking out， I gazed at the Apricot Pavilion， where lectures were given up until the fall of the Qing dynasty. Perhaps if I also hit the books more I could un- derstand the records detailed on the thousands of stone steles dotted throughout the compound， each a cultural relic for the exquisite calligraphy alone.

A walk in the woods

Respecting one’s ancestors is critical to Confucians， and the most obvious place to show reverence is at their gravesides. The Confucius Temple’s attached cemetery is a twenty-minute walk from the other tourist sites， past yet another string of hawkers.

Once you’re in silence. Many thousands of descendants are buried here in tombs lined by cypress and pine， which feels like a vast forest. Scattered throughout the cemetery are many pavilions and temples calm and peaceful below the verdant canopy. The tombs， some little more than a mound marked by a worn hunk of rock， are scattered throughout the complex. I deviated from the set path into the overgrown paths， pushing aside thorny vines and weeds to glance at the graves of stately descendants from countless years ago.

I move towards the center of the park to get a glance at the crypt of Confucius himself， now restored after its desecration by Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution. Two stone guardians stand watch over his tomb at the end of a lengthy spirit way. It is remarkably airy， a clearing in the midst of a dense forest. The burial itself is nothing more than a modest grassy pile， marked only by a Ming dynasty stele. The graves of his son and grandson lie behind him in yet another gesture of filial respect， which accords the most reverence to the earliest ancestor.

Some visitors seemed confused as to the appropriate rites one man wavered over his incense， choosing to snap a grinning photograph in front of a mound of earth before making his formal offering. I simply tried to pay my respects internally， thinking on how one man could mean so much.