Dancing with the gods

Barajima Hachiman o-mikoshi with offerings
(photo taken at the invitation of the Kannushi)

I love summer here.

The heat and humidity I could do without, but I can’t help but love summer – because summer is the season of gods.

There are festivals all year round of course, and some of the most important are in the depths of winter, but in July and August every year is a concentration of Shinto religious celebrations like nothing else.

This past weekend, I was privileged to participate in my first of the season as a celebrant, and actually my first as a celebrant in a Shinto rite since 2011.  It was wonderful, as expected, and moreso because of the opportunity it offered to deepen my relationship with the people around me.

Shino festivals are enormous fun for even the most secular Japanese of course, and since these events are very much part of the cultural fabric they link to all parts of society – there are games and novelties for children, street vendors are out in force to sell their wares (sometimes to the unwary!), local (and sometimes not so local) businesses and organizations donate for the privilege of having their names displayed as sponsors.  Everything you might expect of a mainly secular celebration.  But make no mistake: there is a definite and powerful sacred dimension to these events, even if it’s not immediately visible to a casual observer.

The centerpiece of every festival is the o-mikoshi, a “portable shrine” that serves as a palanquin by which the celebrants parade the god through the streets.  This is where the experience started.

Outside the Barajima Hachiman shrine near my home, there is a park – most Shinto shrines have a park associated with them, except the very smallest. 

The elders worked to prepare things over the week, partly because they know what to do, partly because the younger celebrants needed to work and the elders have the spare time during the day.  Either way, we were thankful for it because matters started early on Saturday morning.

In the grey light just before dawn, we met at the shrine itself.  With the Kannushi in attendance, each of us went through the process of ritually washing our hands and mouths before approaching the shrine for prayers.  One by one, we approached the steps, rang the bell, and bowed our heads, offering silent invocations to not only Hachiman (the god to whom the shrine is dedicated) but to the powerful spirits of place who serve him through the shrine.

This done, the Kannushi opened the doors to reveal the cramped space of the shrine within.  There are parts of the shrine that only the initiated may see, so I have only rarely seen even a glimpse of anything beyond the small public space visible in any shrine, but even that is impressive – even in small shrines there is rich decoration in finely carved sandalwood and gold leaf, bright red and green and yellow paint, highlighted with white and black.  We filed in, took places on the tatami mats and waited for the Kannushi to begin.

Standing in the space before the altar, with its mirror as I have discussed before, he performed a series of salutations and invocations, inviting Hachiman, the spirits of place, and a variety of lesser spirits to attend. He prayed and chanted in the eerie sing-song style favoured by Shinto, and by application of the Ohnusa with its tail of “lightning bolt” paper streamers he “cut” away any evil influences, driving into all four corners of the room and over our heads to purify the space.

This is the stage at which, in an ordinary ceremony, offerings would be made and the usual rituals performed, but not for a festival: at the matsuri the god goes out into the world.

 I won’t describe the ceremonies here, but all of us had a part – with the Kannushi leading of course – in guiding the god out of the shrine to where the o-mikoshi was waiting.  Installed in his palanquin, we raised him on our shoulders and began.

 Every Shinto shrine of any size is associated with a park.  The largest have significant grounds – the land and growing things are important to Shinto in nearly every phase, after all.  Barajima Hachiman is no different, and a sizeable park, essentially a circle of trees – a few of which are reputedly nearly as old as the 350 years this shrine has been a center of worship in this area – was where the festival would begin.

 Gently, reverently, we carried the o-mikoshi to its place in the park, waited while the Kannushi ensured the portable altars were set up correctly.  Then we truly began.

Once again, the area was purified – this time with water from a sacred spring, with salt, with rice, with wine.  Once again, the Kannushi raised his voice to call spirits close, then used the Ohnusa to cut away the harmful influences.  Together, we used sakaki branches to complete the communion with Hachiman and sanctify the offerings of fruit and vegetables – an offering for rich harvest and health.

This done, we really and truly began: with fireworks!

Simple fireworks were set off, BANG! BANG! BANG! – three loud reports to signal the beginning, and so the drums began. 

A throbbing rhythm that I just love, it courses through me and I can feel the deep power of it.  My favourite thing about matsuri festivals is the way the drums just thrum through me.  But the flutes!

There is a simple, wailing pattern that is often played along with the drums as the gods go on promenade, it skirls up and down, it sends shivers down my spine and makes my hair stand, and between the two of them – the drums and the flutes – I just want to move!

We took that o-mikoshi on our shoulders and we nearly danced through the streets.  We heaved the o-mikoshi up like school children celebrating the winner of a sports match.  We turned and shouted “Washoi! Washoi!”  One by one we swapped places, taking our turns at the drums and at the o-mikoshi (the flute players kept their places) and did a circuit of the community to mark the beginning of the festival – but this was something we repeated time and time again during the day, and into the night.

As the day heated up, vendors came out to set up their stalls – food, games, the usual efforts to turn a profit on religion.  For the celebrants, there was a tent set up in front of the shrine and around the o-mikoshi.  There was food set up in potluck fashion, cold beer and sake wine.  There was conversation and grunting labour as we heaved that o-mikoshi around at several times during the day.  Perhaps there was a plan – if so, I wasn’t told – but at several points during the day the drumming started again and we just played.  At other times, we took the god for another promenade.  Maybe twice during the day?

But then dusk.

As it grew darker, the paper lanterns were lit, oil lamps inside the shrine (which had no electricity) gave a more mysterious light still.  We went on promenade again – Washoi! Washoi! But this time we made our way down along the river – Hachiman was going visiting.

Coming back the other way was another group, another set of celebrants with another o-mikoshi.  We heaved and shouted, shuffled side to side in a ritual that maybe no-one even remembers the meaning of, competing to see who could throw the o-mikoshi higher.

And then we turned and made our way back to our respective shrines, where the o-mikoshi was set up again in the position of honour, in the middle of the festival ground.

It was full dark, the drums were pounding, pounding and weaving in and out of the flutes. 

Then all of a sudden, silence.

In the far distance, I could swear I heard the drums and flutes of that other shrine – though perhaps it was just an echo in my ears – but in a moment it too stopped.

And the fireworks.

A huge display over the river, like chrysanthemums of fire. 

Sweaty, exhausted, we leaned back to watch.  Someone came with ice cold beer and other drinks.  Someone else came along with some food.  If there’s one thing that always amazes westerners, it’s how seriously the Japanese take fireworks – even small towns will invest in hour long displays during festival season.  Ours was just a little festival, and early in the season, and more importantly just paid for by a few donors and collections from the neighbourhood – so it was only 20 minutes, but it was still wonderful.

It was like drums in the sky.

And then it was over.

As always, there was the slow draining away of visitors – the stalls began to come down and garbage cleared away.

And in the end it was just the last handful of celebrants and the Kannushi.

More prayers, more offerings with sakaki and all the purifying salt and water and rice and wine.

And then the god was put to bed in his shrine, the o-mikoshi packed away.

And it was over.

***

Sometimes, people ask me why this sort of thing is so important to me.  “You’re not Shinto” they say.  Or they criticize me for gravitating to a warrior god – Hachiman – accuse me of just wanting to be cool.

Part of this is because I don’t talk much about my own faith, and most people don’t know I have gods of my own.  But anyway, how could I not be Shinto with something like this to look forward to?

I’m lucky, I live in the country where they’re always looking for people to help out – even so, I’ve been a full celebrant only 3 or 4 times in all the years I’ve been in Japan.  But even as just a visitor to a festival, it’s moving – this is how I wish celebrations for my own gods could be. 

Not exactly this way, but filled with such enthusiasm and such deep, solemn tradition that sometimes you do things just because they feel right, not because they’re written on some script.

And why Hachiman?

Because Hachiman was the first of the gods of Japan to welcome me. 

I’ve brought my own gods with me – and I’ve felt them here, just as I’ve felt them elsewhere.  I revere them and do them honour when I can.  There are also the gods who dwell in powerful places – those gods we find everywhere, of course.

But Hachiman?

I came to Japan many years ago.  I came unsure of myself, thrusting myself into a completely new society and culture.  I came knowing that my own beliefs and ideas were only tentatively accepted at home – who knew how they would be received here?

But within just a few days of arriving, I found myself taking a walk, learning my new community by getting lost in it.  That town is long behind me, but I remember the roads well – the moreso because that day it seemed as though nearly every road ended up with me at the entrance to a shrine to Hachiman.

“You’re just honouring him because he’s a warrior god” they say – well, I had no idea when it was obvious he was calling me.  Standing at the gate to that shrine, completely ignorant of how to approach it I just stood there staring.  All I could see was the red torii at the gate, the closed doors of the shrine itself, the out-buildings.  I could see the statue of an ox off to one side, a horse on another.  In the back, a smaller shrine dedicated to O-inarisama with his foxes.  What I could see told me this was a god of the land, an agricultural god.  I’d just come from the prairies – how could I do otherwise than honour the gods who would be feeding me for the next however many years?

So I first encountered Hachiman in his guise as a farmer, the leader of oxen and the plougher of fields.

He fed me, not just my belly but my heart in those first days, weeks and months.

And he’s feeding me still.