Guan Yu: The Religious Afterlife of a Failed Hero by Barend J. ter Haar (review)

This book was long in the making, having its beginnings in archival research done by the author as a graduate student in Japan from 1982 to 1984. It had been quietly simmering on a back burner since then, being visited every now and then when the author came across new publications or had the opportunity to visit field sites. In Chinese mythology, long gestation periods typically herald the miraculous births of saintly or divine beings. So a certain sense of heightened expectation has been building over the years as Professor ter Haar’s colleagues waited for his study of Guan Yu 關羽 (d. 219 or 220) to finally see the light of day. They will not be disappointed by the result.

The figure of Guan Yu, or Lord Guan (Guan gong 關公) as his divine persona is more properly referred to, is the one deity in Chinese popular religion that the average person outside of China is by far the most likely to encounter in his or her daily life. In many Chinese (and Vietnamese) restaurants, Lord Guan’s characteristic red-faced figure is to be found in a little corner shrine—a deity worshipped to protect the business and promote its prosperity. As it turns out, this function of Lord Guan as a god of wealth is a very recent addition to his repertoire: the first mention of him in this function dates back only to the eighteenth century (p. 184). However, Ter Haar frankly admits that he is not able to trace or outline this development in any detail. In the end, he speculates that the unpredictable nature of earlier gods of wealth, such as the Wutong 五通, reflects the unstable nature of an early money economy (as shown by Richard von Glahn), while the adoption of more predictable deities, such as Lord Guan and Bi Gan 比干, reflects a more mature stage of economic development (p. 187).¹

Ultimately, this argument based on economic determinism is not really satisfactory. It jars with Ter Haar’s own approach elsewhere in the book that uses narratives as key evidence in the development of religious cults. Lord Guan’s role as god of wealth is very visible in modern practice, as well as in historical descriptions about some (especially northern) regions of China. But for some reason, this role does not seem to exist in the stories people tell about Lord Guan. Stories represent ideas held by people about gods and their connection with institutions, such as temples and shrines. When, for example, they are retold on stone stelae in commemoration of building or restoration projects, they show that these ideas were held by enough people in a location to initiate collective action requiring a significant outlay of capital. So, if we do not have stories about Lord Guan as god of wealth, Ter Haar’s methodology can gain no purchase on this aspect of his cult, and he is left to admit that it “is indeed difficult to come up with a satisfactory explanation” (p. 187). Thus, this issue remains a loose end, which the author takes no pain to hide. I start with this loose end not to pose a criticism but, quite to the contrary, to show that Ter Haar is admirably transparent about his methods and his aims, and he is not afraid to acknowledge their limits when and where he meets them.

But now let us change perspective and address what the book does do (rather than what it does not). This book follows the development of Lord Guan’s cult up to, but not including, the post-1949 period, using as its primary evidence narratives that reflect beliefs held by local people. These narratives reflect local conceptions and initiatives, which Ter Haar regards as key elements in shaping and moving the cult’s development. This approach argues against earlier views that considered the popular cult...