As I have written about Jews and Christianity in China (I hesitate to write about Islam in China. Maybe one day.) I thought some few of you might be interested in the ancient religions of China, so here goes.
In the heart of a mist-draped Chinese valley, a temple bell tolls, low and sonorous. A Taoist monk tends a flame at the altar, his movements unhurried, as if in harmony with the rustling bamboo. A few miles away incense coils curl in a Buddhist monastery, where saffron-robed monks chant sutras, their voices rising and falling like waves on a far-off beach. Not far from there, a family bows before wooden tablets in a modest ancestral hall, reciting lines passed down from the Analects of Confucius.
Three different scenes. Three paths through life. Yet in China these are not rival faiths but parts of a shared spiritual language—Taoism, Buddhism, and Confucianism, collectively known as San Jiao (The Three Teachings).
These ancient traditions have shaped the soul of China for over two thousand years. More than just religions, they are blueprints for life: offering wisdom on how to live in harmony, find peace, and relate to others and the cosmos. For curious outsiders they offer an alternative way of seeing the world—less dogmatic, more holistic, and deeply poetic.
So let’s journey briefly through China’s spiritual landscape, where mystics, philosophers, and sages still whisper through time.
Picture an old man riding a water buffalo into the mountains, vanishing from civilisation with nothing but a scroll in his hand. That man, legend says, was Laozi, the founder of Taoism, leaving behind the Tao Te Ching—a slim volume of cryptic, poetic wisdom that would change Chinese thought forever.
Taoism doesn’t preach. It observes. It invites.
At its heart is the Tao—“the Way”—the unspoken, ungraspable flow of the universe. Don’t fight it, the Taoists say. Let it carry you. Trees bend with the wind and survive the storm. Rivers carve valleys by yielding to gravity. Humans, too, should move with the current, not against it.
The concept of wu wei—"non-doing" or effortless action—is at its heart. It doesn’t mean being passive. It means acting naturally, fluidly, without forcing. Like a dancer improvising or a calligrapher whose brush glides instinctively.
Taoism is China’s mystic voice, its love letter to nature. Over centuries, it became more than a philosophy. Priests, rituals, alchemy, and even dreams of immortality emerged. But at its core, Taoism always returns to silence, to breath, to the rhythms of earth and sky.
In modern China, where skyscrapers rise and life races forward, Taoism offers a breath of calm—a reminder to slow down, to listen.
Unlike Taoism and Confucianism, Buddhism came into China by wandering monks from India, across deserts and mountains. At first, it was exotic, even strange. But something in its message resonated: life is suffering, desire is its root, and liberation lies in inner awakening.
By the Tang dynasty Buddhist temples dotted the empire, from mountaintop retreats to urban centres. Art flourished—serene stone Buddhas carved into cliffs, vibrant murals of heaven and hell. Monks translated vast scriptures, creating libraries of wisdom. Chinese Buddhism wasn’t just adopted—it evolved and gave rise to Chan Buddhism, better known in in the West by the Japanese term Zen. Chan is a stripped-down form of Bhuddism that prizes direct experience over doctrine. One story tells of a monk asking his master, “What is enlightenment?” The master simply said, “Have you finished your breakfast?” It’s a tradition that finds the profound in the everyday.
Other schools flourished too, such as Pure Land Buddhism, which offered a more devotional path: trust in Amitabha Buddha and be reborn in a paradise where enlightenment is easier.
Buddhism answered questions that Confucianism didn’t—about suffering, death, the afterlife. Yet it didn’t replace native beliefs. Instead, it wove itself into Chinese culture like a golden thread in silk.
Today, temples ring with chanting once again, and Chinese Buddhists, young and old, seek clarity in meditation, compassion in action, and meaning beyond materialism.
If Taoism whispers and Buddhism reflects, then Confucianism teaches. Its voice is calm, reasoned, and deeply moral.
Founded by Kong Fuzi (Confucius), a man of modest means but towering intellect, in the 6th century BC, Confucianism is not a religion in the Western sense. There are no gods to worship, no heavens to reach. It is a system of ethics, a guide for being human.
At its centre is Ren—benevolence, the empathy that should bind all human relationships. Then there is Li—ritual propriety, not just in ceremonies, but in everyday conduct. Confucianism is a philosophy of roles: parent and child, ruler and subject, elder and youth. In these relationships lies harmony, Confucius taught.
He wasn’t interested in cosmic mysteries. “If you do not understand life,” he said, “how can you understand death?” Instead, he focused on education, virtue, and leading by example.
For centuries, Confucian thought shaped not only Chinese families, but the very structure of government. The imperial bureaucracy was built on it—entry was granted through rigorous exams based on Confucian texts. Scholar-officials became moral beacons (at least in theory), expected to rule with righteousness and wisdom.
Even during upheaval and revolution, Confucian ideas endured—in family rituals, classroom manners, even the moral vocabulary of Chinese politics.
Now, Confucius is making a comeback. Statues of him stand in schools. His sayings are quoted by presidents. In a rapidly changing society, many Chinese are turning back to Confucianism for a sense of rootedness, of continuity.
Westerners often view religions as separate camps, you’re either this or that. But in China, spiritual traditions are less like rival gangs and more like flowing rivers that meet and mingle. A Chinese person might follow Confucian ethics at work, seek Taoist balance in health, and pray to a Buddhist deity for a loved one’s well-being. No contradiction. The Three Teachings are seen as complementary, not competitive.
It’s not unusual for temples to house images of Laozi, the Buddha, and Confucius side by side. During festivals, Taoist rituals, Buddhist chants, and Confucian memorials might blend into a single ceremony. This spiritual pluralism reflects a uniquely Chinese worldview: life is complex, so why not draw wisdom from multiple sources?
The 20th century was harsh on China’s religions. Wars, revolutions, and Maoist campaigns like the Cultural Revolution saw temples torn down and monks ‘re-educated’. Confucius was branded a feudal relic. The old paths seemed lost. At school, I was taught that religion was designed to divert the revolutionary consciousness of the masses and allow the capitalist class to control people.
But in recent decades, something surprising has happened: a quiet revival. Taoist temples are being restored. Buddhist monasteries hum with visitors. Confucian academies train new generations in classical ethics. Even young urban professionals are rediscovering these ancient teachings, looking for inner balance and meaning.
This isn’t nostalgia. In my opinion it is resilience. The Three Teachings never vanished. They simply waited.
For British readers used to clear religious categories, the Chinese approach may seem murky—where belief is fluid, where the sacred hides in the ordinary, and where silence often speaks louder than sermons. But perhaps that’s the point. China’s ancient religions aren’t asking us to convert. They’re offering something gentler: a way of seeing.
To walk the Tao is to embrace simplicity. To sit with the Buddha is to touch stillness. To live like Confucius is to honour our human bonds. And to hold all three together is to glimpse a civilisation that has been thinking deeply, for thousands of years, about what it means to be alive.
Zhang Yingyue