作者：程筱筱 编辑：冯仍 校对：林小龙 翻译：戈冰

摘要

本文指出，中国社会并非“无信仰”，而是长期形成了不允许任何超越性权威高于世俗秩序的结构。信仰被功能化、工具化，使其难以约束权力。现代政权并非消灭宗教，而是接管终极忠诚。当神必须服从权力，真正不受裁决的信仰便被视为风险。

在英文世界里，一个问题长期被反复提出：为什么大多数中国人看起来是无神论者？许多西方观察者给出的答案简单而直接——共产党、马克思主义、唯物主义教育。仿佛只要按下“意识形态”这个按钮，中国社会的信仰问题就自动获得了解释。但这个解释太省事了，也把因果顺序讲反了。如果把中国社会的信仰经验向历史深处回溯，就会发现一个令人不安、却更关键的事实：现代政治并不是让中国人变得“无信仰”，而是让人变得“不敢信神”。中国文明很早就形成了一种结构性共识——任何超越性的权威，都不能高于人间秩序，哪怕其对象是神。

比较中西文化差异时，“洪水叙事”常被提及，这个对比并不肤浅，反而极其精准。在《圣经》中，大洪水的起点是上帝的审判。人类因堕落而被惩罚，诺亚因顺服而被拯救，洪水何时降临、何时退去，完全取决于上帝的旨意，人类所能做的只是忏悔、服从并等待赦免，终极裁决权明确属于神。而中国人更熟悉的版本，是“大禹治水”。洪水同样是灾难，但解决方案不在天上，而在人间。禹不是通过祈祷换取宽恕，而是通过疏通河道、日夜劳作，把问题“解决掉”。这并非叙事风格的差异，而是信仰结构的根本分野：一个文明承认终极判断来自超越权威，另一个文明则默认人必须、也应该，自己承担最后责任。这也解释了一个常被误读的现象：西方人看到中国社会“拜很多神”，却很少看到那种唯一、绝对、不可动摇的信仰忠诚，于是得出“中国人没有信仰”的结论。更准确的说法是，中国社会并不习惯向任何超越权威的对象无限下跪，哪怕对象是神。

这种结构在现实生活中体现得更加直白。在许多中国人的经验中，拜神更像是在“办事”。愿望实现了，就去还愿；没实现，人们很少反思自身是否偏离信仰，更常见的反应是“这家不灵，换一家”。久旱不雨，就把龙王像抬出来晒太阳，让它“看看人间疾苦”；你若无效，就失去被尊敬的资格。这并非对神的亵渎，而是一种深层心理共识：神可以被尊敬，但必须“有用”；信仰可以存在，但不能凌驾于现实秩序之上。当信仰长期被塑造成一种功能型工具，它便独立、稳定、能够对世俗权力产生约束的宗教共同体。

理解了这一点，再回头看当代中国对宗教的系统性打压，就不再显得突兀。现代政权并非只是“消灭信仰”，而是试图接管信仰：你可以信，但信什么、怎么信、信到哪一步，必须由世俗权力批准；你可以敬神，但神不能拥有高于国家的权威；你可以祷告，但忠诚对象必须是政权。讲道要备案，聚会要审批，信仰内容要“符合方向”。真正被视为威胁的，从来不是某一条具体教义，而是任何不受完全控制的终极忠诚。家庭教会之所以始终成为重点打击对象，并非因为规模或组织形式，而在于它所承认的，是一个高于国家权力、不可由任何政权裁决的最终判断与良知标准。这种不受政治控制的信仰，在高度集权的体制中天然构成威胁。

真正的宗教信仰一旦存在，就不可能永远沦为工具。当它触及良知、审判与永恒真理之时，便必然与世俗权力发生张力。历史反复证明，试图将信仰完全收编为政治附属品的政权，最终面对的不是信仰消失，而是信仰被掏空，或转入地下，以更顽强的方式保存其独立性。中国宗教问题的核心，从来不是“信什么”，而是谁拥有作出最后裁决的权力。

中国现代社会的困境，也并不在于有没有信仰，而在于是否允许一个不受权力裁决的信仰存在。当连神都必须服从权力，权力一旦失去约束，剩下的就只能是强制。在这样的结构中，问题不在于宗教是否激进，而在于它是否承认官方体系拥有最终裁决权。一旦信仰坚持“神在掌权”，而非“权力在掌权”，它就必然被纳入风险管控的对象之中——在中国，连神也被要求“听话”。

When Even Gods Must “Obey”—The Dilemma of Faith Under China’s Power Structure

Author: Cheng Xiaoxiao Editor: Feng Reng

Proofreader: Lin Xiaolong Translator: Ge Bing

Abstract

This article argues that Chinese society is not “faithless,” but has long developed a structure that prohibits any transcendent authority from superseding the secular order. Faith has been functionalized and instrumentalized, rendering it incapable of constraining power. Modern regimes do not eliminate religion but seize ultimate allegiance. When gods must obey power, genuinely ungoverned faith is deemed a risk.

In the English-speaking world, a question has long been repeated: Why do most Chinese appear atheistic? Many Western observers offer a simple, direct answer—Communist Party, Marxism, materialist education. As if pressing the “ideology” button automatically explains China’s faith dynamics. Yet this explanation is too convenient, reversing the causal sequence. Tracing China’s faith experience back through history reveals a disturbing yet crucial truth: modern politics did not make Chinese people “faithless,” but rather made them “afraid to believe in gods.” Chinese civilization formed a structural consensus early on: no transcendent authority could supersede earthly order, even if that authority was divine.

When comparing cultural differences between East and West, the “flood narrative” is often cited. This contrast is not superficial but remarkably precise. In the Bible, the Great Flood began as God’s judgment. Humanity was punished for its corruption, while Noah was saved through obedience. The timing of the flood’s onset and retreat depended entirely on God’s will. All humans could do was repent, submit, and await forgiveness—the ultimate authority clearly resided with the divine. The version more familiar to Chinese people is “Yu the Great Taming the Floods.” Floods were equally catastrophic, but solutions lay not in heaven but on earth. Yu did not seek forgiveness through prayer; instead, he “solved” the problem by dredging rivers and laboring day and night. This is not merely a difference in narrative style but a fundamental divide in belief structures: one civilization acknowledges ultimate judgment as originating from a transcendent authority, while the other assumes that humans must and should bear final responsibility themselves. This also explains a frequently misinterpreted phenomenon: Western observers note that Chinese society “worships many gods” yet rarely observes the kind of singular, absolute, unshakable devotion to faith, leading them to conclude that “the Chinese lack faith.” A more accurate description is that Chinese society is not accustomed to bowing down infinitely to any transcendent authority, even if that authority is divine.

This structure manifests more plainly in daily life. For many Chinese, worshiping deities resembles “getting things done.” If a wish is granted, they fulfill their vow; if not, they seldom reflect on whether their faith has faltered. The more common reaction is, “This shrine doesn’t work—let’s try another.” During prolonged droughts, they carry the Dragon King’s statue out to bask in the sun, so he can “witness the suffering of humanity”; If you prove ineffective, you forfeit your right to reverence. This isn’t blasphemy, but a deep-seated psychological consensus: deities may be honored, but only if they are “useful”; faith may exist, but it cannot supersede the order of reality. When faith is consistently molded into a functional tool, it loses its capacity to form independent, stable religious communities capable of constraining secular power.

Understanding this context, contemporary China’s systematic suppression of religion no longer appears abrupt. The modern regime does not merely seek to “eradicate faith,” but to appropriate it: you may believe, but what you believe, how you believe, and to what extent—all must be sanctioned by secular authority; you may worship deities, but no deity may hold authority above the state; you may pray, but your allegiance must remain with the regime. Sermons require filing, gatherings demand approval, and the content of faith must “align with the direction.” What is truly perceived as a threat has never been any specific doctrine, but rather any ultimate allegiance that cannot be fully controlled. The reason house churches remain a primary target of suppression is not their size or organizational structure, but their acknowledgment of a final judgment and moral standard that transcends state power and cannot be adjudicated by any regime. Such faith, free from political control, inherently poses a threat within a highly centralized system.

Once genuine religious faith exists, it cannot forever be reduced to a tool. When it touches upon conscience, judgment, and eternal truth, it inevitably creates tension with secular power. History repeatedly demonstrates that regimes attempting to fully subjugate faith as a political appendage ultimately confront not the disappearance of belief, but its hollowing out or retreat into the underground, where it preserves its independence with even greater tenacity. The core issue of religion in China has never been “what to believe,” but who possesses the authority to make the final judgment.

The predicament of modern Chinese society also lies not in the presence or absence of faith, but in whether a faith free from the dictates of power is permitted to exist. When even the divine must submit to authority, and that authority remains unchecked, coercion becomes the only remaining option. Within such a structure, the issue is not whether religion is radical, but whether it acknowledges the official system’s ultimate authority. Once faith insists that “God reigns” rather than “power reigns,” it inevitably becomes subject to risk management—in China, even the divine is required to “obey.”