'Love' Substituted by 'Morality': On the Confucianization Dilemma of Overseas Chinese Christianity and a Way Forward in Faith
Introduction: The Root of the Problem Lies in the Pursuit of Morality and the Question of Life and Death
In contemporary Chinese society, whether at home or abroad, a profound contradiction is becoming increasingly apparent: on one hand, there is immense material abundance; on the other, a pervasive spiritual emptiness. As traditional value systems have loosened or even disintegrated under the tide of modernization, many find themselves like solitary boats adrift on a vast ocean, having lost the spiritual anchor that could ground their lives. This deep-seated "moral anxiety" compels them to seek a new, powerful "moral binding force" from without, in hopes of establishing inner order and finding meaning in life.
This spiritual quest, which begins with a "search for morality," is no accident but is deeply embedded in the collective subconscious of Chinese culture. As the thinker Yin Hai-kwang pointed out in his profound analysis of Chinese culture, the mainstream of traditional Chinese thought, over its long evolution, formed a pragmatic and rational system with Confucianism as its backbone, integrated with elements of Buddhist and Taoist thought. The core function of this system was not directed toward metaphysical ultimate concerns or the exploration of a transcendent world, but primarily to establish a stable and harmonious ethical order in the present world. Therefore, when Chinese people encounter a new system of belief, their cultural instinct drives them to ask a primary question: Can this faith provide a set of moral norms superior to and more effective than our existing ones?
For the Chinese cultural sphere, its intellectual roots are undoubtedly deeply influenced by Confucianism. Setting aside political factors, a core question has always haunted the Chinese mind: life and death. However, Confucius's teachings did not construct a transcendent figure like "God." His theories focused on solving real-world problems. This pragmatic tendency also partly explains why ancient Chinese thought gave birth to technology but failed to develop natural science.
What is the significance of this insistence on "solving practical problems"? As Confucianism sought to manage the present world with a worldly attitude, the moral task concerning ultimate concerns was partly delegated to Buddhism, while the calculation and prediction of destiny fell to Taoism. Consequently, a phenomenon arose: when knowledge could not explain an event, "Heaven's Mandate" (天命, Tiānmìng) became the most convenient reason. Since "Heaven's Mandate" exists, "masters" who can "calculate" it naturally emerged, and practices like Feng Shui and fortune-telling, which claim to "change fate," flourished.
You could challenge a fortune teller: "I want to get rich. Please guide me. What should I do? What should I learn?" Or ask him: "Can you predict next week's lottery numbers?" All they can offer are ambiguous statements, ultimately retreating behind the excuse that "heavenly secrets cannot be revealed." But what is a "heavenly secret"? If he truly knew, why not use it for himself? Could it be that he fears punishment from some supernatural power and thus chooses to "change your fate" for you?
This leads to an absurd analogy: A thief goes to a bank to steal. He asks the lobby manager for a depositor's account number and password. The manager replies, "Heavenly secrets cannot be revealed! But I can help you apply for a credit card. That way, you'll get money, and your fate will be changed!" The thief is overjoyed, thinking he can instantly possess wealth, delighting in the belief he has stolen someone else's money, unaware that disaster is imminent.
This is, in fact, a tragedy. Confucianism, Buddhism, and Taoism, in their pure forms, are each independent systems of thought. But when the three are muddled together into a so-called "wisdom," the result is logical chaos and internal contradiction. It is this vague fusion of the three schools of thought that constitutes what is now called "metaphysics" or "mysterious Eastern studies," which not only has a market in the Chinese world but has also attracted some Western followers in recent years. Ultimately, these concepts coexist with various worship rituals, allowing them to become deeply entrenched and persist to this day.
Most people are unaware of the Gospel. They will indiscriminately believe in various "deities," even mixing them together in confusion. This scene is not unique to our time. It reminds me of a sermon by Pastor Tong one day. I still remember the passage of scripture, as follows:
Acts 17:16 NIV
16 While Paul was waiting for them in Athens, he was greatly distressed to see that the city was full of idols.
Acts 17:22-31
Paul then stood up in the meeting of the Areopagus and said: "People of Athens! I see that in every way you are very religious.
For as I walked around and looked carefully at your objects of worship, I even found an altar with this inscription: TO AN UNKNOWN GOD. So you are ignorant of the very thing you worship—and this is what I am going to proclaim to you.
The God who made the world and everything in it is the Lord of heaven and earth and does not live in temples built by human hands.
And he is not served by human hands, as if he needed anything. Rather, he himself gives everyone life and breath and everything else.
From one man he made all the nations, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he marked out their appointed times in history and the boundaries of their lands.
God did this so that they would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from any one of us.
'For in him we live and move and have our being.' As some of your own poets have said, 'We are his offspring.'
Therefore since we are God's offspring, we should not think that the divine being is like gold or silver or stone—an image made by human design and skill.
In the past God overlooked such ignorance, but now he commands all people everywhere to repent.
For he has set a day when he will judge the world with justice by the man he has appointed. He has given proof of this to everyone by raising him from the dead."
So, what exactly shook this seemingly solid ethical system?
Since the late Qing Dynasty, with the eastward spread of Western learning, the Confucian order and its value system, once revered as the ultimate standard, began to comprehensively loosen. When new concepts like individualism, freedom, and equality flooded into the country, they violently clashed with the original "differential mode of association" (差序格局, chāxù géjú) based on ruler-subject, father-son, and elder-younger relationships (see quote below). For people steeped in this cultural framework for generations, this was nothing short of a spiritual catastrophe—the old traditions they had believed in suddenly lost their authority, and value judgments fell into unprecedented chaos.
a. Confucius said: "To govern with virtue is to be like the North Star; it remains in its place while all the other stars revolve around it." — The Analects
b. Our social structure is different from the Western pattern. Our pattern is not like clearly tied bundles of firewood, but rather like the ripples that spread when a stone is thrown on the water's surface. Each person is the center of the circles of social influence they cast. A connection is formed with whomever these ripples reach. The most important kinship relations in our society have this quality of concentric circles formed by a thrown stone. — Fei Xiaotong, "From the Soil"
(An explanation of the "differential mode of association")
We will temporarily set aside the religious environment within mainland China, as it is too complex. Let's focus on those Chinese who have traveled overseas to study, work, or immigrate. For them, the impact is particularly fierce. They are uprooted and thrown into a completely alien cultural ocean, personally experiencing severe culture shock. This process is precisely what the thinker Yin Hai-kwang defined as "Acculturation." In his book "A Look at Chinese Culture," he wrote: "When two communities with different cultures have continuous, first-hand contact, the result is a change in the original cultural patterns of one or both parties. This process is acculturation." This forced adaptation and reorganization between two cultures is painful. It compels individuals to constantly struggle, choose, and adjust between their old beliefs and the value judgments of the new environment, thereby giving rise to a strong need for spiritual and moral reconstruction.
It is with this "moral filter" that many Chinese people begin their encounter with Christianity. However, it is precisely at this intersection that a profound "Great Substitution" quiet-ly takes place. The core of this substitution is this: the cornerstone of the Christian faith—the unconditional "Love" (Agape) that originates from God and transcends human ethics—is, in the process of being understood, absorbed, and practiced, largely substituted by the "Morality" system familiar to Chinese culture, which is centered on human responsibilities, duties, and roles.
These two spiritual cores are fundamentally different. "Morality," in the Confucian cultural context, is humanistic and bottom-up. It is a process of self-cultivation where a gentleman seeks to "achieve benevolence" (仁, rén) by "overcoming the self and returning to propriety" (克己复礼, kèjǐ fùlǐ). Its value is measured by the harmony of social relationships and is inherently conditional and hierarchical. The most typical example is the "Five Cardinal Relationships" (五伦, wǔlún)—ruler and subject, father and son, husband and wife, elder and younger brother, and friends. This system clearly defines each person's role and obligations within the social network. "Filial piety" (孝, xiào) is the responsibility to parents; "loyalty" (忠, zhōng) is the duty to the sovereign. This love and responsibility are not universal but have clear gradations based on the closeness of the relationship. A person's responsibility to their family is obviously greater than their responsibility to a stranger; this is a self-centered ethic of concentric circles expanding outward. A look at the original text makes it clear:
"To overcome oneself and return to ritual propriety is benevolence. If for a single day one can overcome oneself and return to ritual propriety, the world will return to benevolence." — The Analects, "Yan Yuan"
Here, "benevolence" (仁, rén) is the highest moral realm, and the path to achieving it lies in "overcoming oneself"—relying on one's own discipline and effort. The most concrete practice of this system is the "Five Cardinal Relationships," where ethical responsibilities are not universal but have clear gradations based on the closeness of the relationship.
"Filial piety is the root of all virtue, and the wellspring from which all teachings arise." — The Classic of Filial Piety
Placing "filial piety" at the root of all morality, this family-centered ethical view naturally places obligations to parents above those to others.
To defeat Confucius, one doesn't even need the Bible; it would be making a mountain out of a molehill. Let's look at the following passage:
Excerpt from Hu Shih's "My Reply to Mr. Wang's Letter"
Mr. Wang Changlu wrote a letter to Hu Shih, in which he mentioned:
"You, sir, have banished the word 'filial piety' (孝) and left only 'parental love' (慈)... Do you not hold the word 'filial piety' in too low regard? And your thinking, sir, has a tendency to overcorrect."In his reply, Hu Shih provided a detailed response to this criticism. The following is an excerpt from Hu Shih's response, which directly addresses the issue of the word "filial piety":
Mr. Wang says I have "banished" the word "filial piety."Frankly, what meaning do the words "filial son" even have today? A few years ago, my friend Yang Dake's mother passed away. This Mr. Yang is a man who specializes in cursing people and certainly never spoke of filial piety towards his mother in daily life. But after his mother's death, he actually put on sackcloth, held a mourning staff, and "kowtowed" before the coffin. The "biography" written for him by his friends also called him a "filial son." When Mr. Kong Er's mother died, we friends sent a funeral couplet with the line "Her longevity could not match that of Mother Guo." The words "could not match" made Mr. Kong Er very unhappy. Why? Because Guo Ziyi's mother lived past ninety, while his old mother only lived to her seventies, so he was very sad. Let's be honest, when was Mr. Kong Er ever "filial"? Why did he suddenly want to be a "filial son" at that moment?
I do not want my son to be this kind of dishonest "filial son."
I want my son to be an upstanding person; I do not want him to be my filial son.
My intention is to "humanize" my son—to treat him as a person. I want him to learn some fortitude, some competence, some insight. I will gradually guide him, assist him, but never force him or command him. I hope he can become "himself," not my "filial son."
Mr. Wang said, "Since you, sir, have banished the word 'filial piety,' do you not hold it in too low regard?"
I truly do hold the word "filial piety" in somewhat "low regard." All this talk of "no parents are ever in the wrong," "a son is filial if for three years he does not alter from the way of his father," and "while your parents are alive, you should not travel far"—it's all utter nonsense under the banner of "filial piety"!
My position—and my own practice—is:
(1) Parents, regarding their children, should only acknowledge a "humanitarian duty" and should not expect their children to repay their "parental grace."
(2) Children, regarding their parents, should also only fulfill a "humanitarian duty" and should not elevate their parents to the level of "heaven."
I believe my poem "My Son" is not "overcorrecting" in any way. I did not have my son for him to "carry on the family line," nor for him to "provide for my old age."
I had him simply because I "could not not have him"—it is a small link in the chain of "biological evolution." Having had him, my responsibility to him is only a "humanitarian" one—to raise him to be a "person," to do my best as a human being to help him become "independent."
As for his future "filial piety" towards me, that is his own affair; I will never expect it. If he is "filial" to me, I will of course be happy. If he is "unfilial" to me, I will never resent him. Because I have been "humanized," and I have "humanized" my son as well. We have changed the creditor-debtor relationship of "bestowing grace" and "repaying grace" into a "humanitarian," "equal," and "friendly" relationship.
I would rather my son be an "unfilial" "human being" than a "filial" "non-human."
(Originally published in "Weekly Review," No. 36, August 24, 1919)
Now collected in "The Hu Shih Archives" at the Institute of Modern History, Academia Sinica, Hu Shih Memorial Hall.
I could laugh my head off. The very way the character "孝" (xiào) is written implies that the parents have passed away (entered the earth, 土), and the eldest son (the character 子, zǐ, below) wears sackcloth (the top-left stroke on 土) in mourning (the second son and daughters wouldn't do, in the old feudal society). This was called "孝"! But ever since Confucius "entered the scene," the meaning of filial piety changed (if one insists that Confucius represents traditional Chinese culture, I'd rather call him a "disruptive element," but his cultural status in ancient China is an undeniable fact). It purely became a concept of unconditional obedience, which, of course, included obedience to the sovereign (perhaps that was the real reason).
Let's look at Buddhism, which has also profoundly influenced the Chinese spiritual world. Its philosophical system is undoubtedly vast and profound. It takes the "Four Noble Truths" as its framework, directly confronting the reality that "life is suffering," and points out a path of liberation for all beings to end "reincarnation" and achieve "Nirvana" through their own practice.
However, the core that drives this entire complex system is still the effort of the "self" for the salvation of the "self." Its fundamental law is the impartial moral law of cause and effect—"Karma." The Dhammapada offers a crystal-clear verdict on the operation of this law:
"By oneself is evil done; by oneself is one defiled. By oneself is evil left undone; by oneself is one purified. Purity and impurity depend on oneself; no one can purify another."
The phrase "no one can purify another" precisely captures the core of its "self-salvation" doctrine. While this is theoretically inspiring towards goodness and diligence, in practice, it inevitably evolves into a sophisticated "transaction of merit." Because the abstract "Nirvana" is too distant, while the suffering of reality is immediate. Thus, the original "self-power" practice, relying on difficult methods like the "Eightfold Path," was gradually diluted and replaced in the soil of popular Chinese culture by a more operable worship of "other-power."
Let me tell a joke. This is just like a guy named Wang Laosan.
Wang Laosan was drowning in a huge, unpayable high-interest debt, chased by creditors every day, living a miserable life. Then, someone gave him a manual called "The Guide to Financial Freedom," telling him that if he strictly followed its methods—diligently studying finance, analyzing the market, and scrimping to invest—he would have a chance to pay off his debt in a few decades and live a prosperous life. This is the so-called "liberation by self-power."
Wang Laosan flipped through a few pages and his head swam. He thought, "By the time I master this, my bones will have turned to dust!"
Then, he heard about a "trust fund" in the east of the city. The fund manager was supposedly named "Amitabha," a figure of immense power. All you had to do was sit at home and shout, "Amitabha, please help me pay my debt!" If you shouted with enough sincerity and volume, one day, when you couldn't go on any longer, he would take you to a luxurious community called the "Pure Land." There were no high-interest loans there, the environment was beautiful, and they even offered a free "Advanced Course on Financial Freedom" for you to learn at your own pace.
When Wang Laosan heard this, he thought it was brilliant! He tossed the manual aside and started shouting at the top of his lungs at home every day. When he got hungry, he'd go to the temple and donate a couple of coins for incense, as a little tip for the fund manager, thinking to himself, "I'm investing in my 'next life'!"
As for the high-interest debt he currently owed? Not a single cent was paid off. That loan shark's name is "Karma," and it doesn't care whose name you shout; its ledger is crystal clear. What Wang Laosan was doing was simply trying to escape his present responsibility through a kind of spiritual "bankruptcy reorganization," pinning his hopes on a distant future that required no real sacrifice on his part. This "faith" transaction was a very clever calculation, but where is the future? Yes, the Buddha says the future is in your heart—in other words, the debt is also in your heart. It just depends on whether you're willing to admit it.
As for Taoism, its philosophical core should be transcendent of worldly utility. In the "Tao Te Ching," the highest state described by Laozi is "the Tao models itself on nature" (道法自然, dào fǎ zìrán) and "the highest good is like water" (上善若水, shàng shàn ruò shuǐ), a state of "acting without action, yet leaving nothing undone" (无为而无不为, wú wéi ér wú bù wéi). The ideal sage "handles affairs without action and spreads teachings without words," meaning they teach through non-interference and non-speech. This was originally a profound reaction against artificial, contrived moral norms, pursuing absolute spiritual freedom and a return to the natural state of life. However, as this thought was transmitted and evolved, especially after merging with folk beliefs and occult practices to form "religious Taoism," its core of "non-action" was completely hollowed out and replaced with a highly "proactive" utilitarian system. Its goal was no longer spiritual freedom but became the very specific pursuit of gain and avoidance of harm—prolonging life, warding off disasters, and even achieving physical immortality.
To achieve this goal, a sophisticated system of "ledgers of merit and demerit" emerged, epitomized by the "Tàishàng Gǎnyìng Piān" (Tractate of the Most High on Action and Response). This booklet completely debased Laozi's profound "Tao" into a celestial bureaucrat who constantly monitors, rewards good, and punishes evil. Look at its original text:
"Therefore, in heaven and earth there are spirits who record transgressions. Depending on the severity of a person's offense, they deduct from their lifespan. When one's lifespan is reduced, they become poor and depleted, encounter many sorrows and anxieties, are detested by all, followed by punishments and calamities, avoided by good fortune, and afflicted by evil stars. When their lifespan is exhausted, they die.""There are also the spirit-lords of the Three Terraces and the Northern Dipper above people's heads, who record their sins and deduct from their lifespan counts."
— "Tàishàng Gǎnyìng Piān," author unknown, a Taoist morality book, attributed to Lord Laozi.
The irony here is almost beyond measure. Taoism, which originally taught people to break free from all man-made shackles, ended up constructing the most rigid, quantified, and bureaucratic theological prison. "Spirit-lords" are constantly recording one's words and deeds, as if under the watch of sleepless surveillance cameras. Good and evil are no longer matters of the heart but have become chips that can be directly traded for lifespan ("算," suàn; "纪," jì). Doing good is no longer a process of self-effacement "for the sake of the Tao" but has become an accumulation of merits, like "studying to increase knowledge daily." Behind it all lies a bottomless fear—the fear of poverty, anxiety, punishment, and even death.
This reminds me of the village "diviner." When he helps an old lady cross the street today, he's not murmuring "a good deed a day," but calculating how many days this "merit" will add to his "longevity account." Tomorrow, he sees neighbors arguing and wants to curse them, but he holds it back—not because his temper has improved, but because he's afraid the "celestial accountant" will record a "bad debt" for him and dock his "annual bonus." His life, once a pursuit of "following the natural way of the Tao," has become a "gambling agreement" with the gods. He thinks he's cultivating immortality, but he's actually living as a spiritual accountant obsessed with his "credit score," terrified of death. He hasn't attained the Tao; instead, he's developed a severe "performance anxiety disorder."
Therefore, whether it's Confucian ethical performance, Buddhist merit investment, or Taoist performance anxiety, they all, despite their different forms, converge on the same path, jointly forging the deep-rooted, human-centered logic of self-salvation in Chinese culture. In this logic, the divine (be it "Heaven," the Buddha, or the "Most High") is more like a referee, a creditor, or a trading partner, while man is always the subject who needs to earn salvation, settle debts, and win rewards through his own efforts (whether moral, spiritual, or meritorious). This is a road from earth to heaven, a road paved and climbed by man himself.
In stark contrast to this closed system, which starts and ends with "man," the "Love" revealed in the Bible is God-centered, top-down—a gift of grace bestowed by God when man was unworthy and incapable. This road is paved from heaven to earth. The ultimate expression of this love is Christ, the "Word made flesh," and His sacrifice on the cross. The Apostle Paul provides a brilliant exposition of this, which can almost be seen as a preemptive warning against the entire phenomenon of "moral substitution":
"I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me. I do not set aside the grace of God, for if righteousness could be gained through the law, Christ died for nothing!" (Galatians 2:20-21 NIV)
Paul here explicitly contrasts two principles of life: one is "gaining righteousness through the law," which perfectly corresponds to the cultural psychology that attempts to prove one's own worth by adhering to moral codes; the other is "living by faith in the Son of God," which is rooted in receiving the fact that "He loved me and gave himself for me." If one could become "righteous" through one's own moral efforts (obeying the law), then Christ's death would be meaningless, and God's sacrificial "love" (grace) would be superfluous. This passage is a sharp sword piercing all tendencies to "moralize" faith, and it marks a formal end to the entanglement with morality and death.
It must be clarified here that in listing and analyzing certain aspects of Confucian, Buddhist, and Taoist thought, we have no intention of satirizing or attacking any other religion or philosophy. Our purpose is to clarify a fundamental fact: for the vast majority of Chinese people, regardless of where they are, the background of their thinking, their value presuppositions, and even their emotional response patterns have already been deeply shaped by this syncretic culture of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Taoism. Whether an individual "truly believes" in any one of these schools is a personal matter that cannot and need not be externally verified. However, it is undeniable that this mixed cultural heritage has become their "default program" for understanding the world and situating themselves within it.
Therefore, the purpose of this article is to deeply analyze this "substitution" phenomenon prevalent in Chinese Christian communities. We will focus on how the concept of "filial piety," the cornerstone of Confucian ethics, is used to understand, and even usurp, the biblical commandment of "love." Furthermore, we will critique the bondage this substitution brings to individual lives and the rigidity it imposes on the church's ecosystem. Finally, we will attempt to explore a future path that returns to the biblical source, breaks free from cultural shackles, and rebuilds faith in the grace of Christ.