Home » Opinion » Book review
Con artists fill spiritual void in money-driven society
By Ni Tao |
August 21, 2010, Saturday
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"THE master said we are obese and suggested we lose some weight. Yet he himself is a bit on the heavy side. Isn't that strange?"
"Um, well, maybe you're right. But the master is the master, his obesity is just different from ours, period."
This is a dialogue a Southern Weekend reporter overheard in an elevator between two fellow riders in Chongqing.
Clad in traditional Taoist robes, both are disciples of Li Yi, a celebrity Taoist monk whose fortunes have waxed and waned in a precipitous way that resembles a roller coaster ride.
Only two weeks ago, Li was still at the pinnacle of his power. As the deputy head of China's official Taoism association, he raked in money and fame through expensive longevity and diet therapy courses and religious teachings.
Li is the revered "master" of over 30,000 adherents; the two temples he rebuilt atop Jinyun Mountain in Chongqing have been turned into a mecca for Taoist pilgrims; he claimed his following includes eminent businessman Jack Ma Yun, CEO of online trade platform Alibaba.com, and pop singer Faye Wong.
Li is a darling of the media, but not vice versa -- he shunned reporters. That somehow added to his mystique as a hermit living beyond the razzle-dazzle of worldly affairs.
Yet his reputation took a drubbing this week as a barrage of accusations were leveled at him, including falsifications of religious credentials, promotional scams, business irregularities and the most damning of all, sexual wrongdoings committed against female students, although one rape charge was later dismissed as false.
In a profile by Southern Weekend published on August 5, the 41-year-old, bespectacled monk of medium build, is pictured standing on a fog-shrouded mountain trail with his hands behind his back.
Dressed in full Taoist regalia and brimming with pride, he radiates the aura of a celebrity introducing his audience to an arcadia. The story is headlined "Li Yi becomes a 'deity'."
This "deity" had immense appeal due in part to the stunts he and his disciples performed in public.
Behind the "wonders"
Li broke the Guinness World Record in 1997 by holding his breath for 144 minutes under water in a live TV program; he claimed to be able to withstand electricity shocks and diagnose diseases using electricity that he said his body can regulate.
It only took a few bold requests to expose the shenanigans behind these "wonders." In breath-holding case, Li actually sat in a sealed glass case -- with plenty of air -- submerged in water.
The show of controlling electricity is another hoax. When one of Li's acolytes was asked to repeat the feat of harnessing electricity passing through her body, only at a different spot, she refused outright, saying that "it's tiring to deliver a diagnosis this way. I need time to replenish my strength."
It was later revealed that she wore a concealed device to control the voltage and avoid electrocution.
These tricks were all meant to boost the credentials of Li, who only became a licensed Taoist priest four years ago.
His rise to prominence was as dramatic as his fall from grace. But his story is a mere continuation of the pattern in which con artists before him soared and then stumbled.
Zhang Wuben, a self-styled nutritionist with the Ministry of Health, made assertions that mung bean soup is a cure for cancer. His book "Cure the Diseases You Get from Eating by Eating" sold like hot cakes. However, the ministry denied affiliation with him in May and Zhang was exposed to have doctored his resume.
New Huadu Industrial Group's CEO Tang Jun, once dubbed "the emperor of wage-earners," was also found in early July to have lied to the public about his educational background. He was discredited in media reports but remained unapologetic over lapses of integrity.
Hu you, a colloquial phrase that caught on after a famous comedian popularized it, aptly describes these artists of deception. Though working in diverse fields, they share one thing in common: the power of persuasion.
Drawing on his youthful experience of being lured into a strict religious cult, author Dave Lakhani dissects in his book "Persuasion" the techniques commonly used by serial manipulators to convince their target audience.
They include vocal talent, storytelling skills, cultivation of well-connected friends, name-dropping, belief perseverance, among other things.
One fundamental reason people are often led astray is because "we all have a desire to believe in ideas and concepts bigger than ourselves that better us in some way," the author observes.
Spiritual void
As many a commentator have argued, as China wallows in newfound wealth, a huge spiritual void is to be filled.
The revival of religions like Taoism, which stresses balance between the humanity and nature, provides an outlet for stress. Naturally, it's hard to resist the soothing voice in the likes of Li Yi, worshipped almost as a living god.
"People are very limited on time and want to be led," Lakhani notes. Impatience for cool-headed thinking leads to blind beliefs, while the genuine credentials of those spreading the gospel do not necessarily matter.
Another story published alongside the profile of Li Yi in the Southern Weekend opines that "for con artists, they are lucky to live in a hectic, impatient society, where people are forgetful.
"People are in a craze to chase idols and success. So even if their frauds are exposed, con men still can opt for an ostrich policy as a last resort and hunker down amid an avalanche of criticism. After the storm dies down, they could stage their comeback."
Well said, and in this sense, the denouement of Li Yi's legend may not be the beginning of the end, but the end of the beginning.
"Um, well, maybe you're right. But the master is the master, his obesity is just different from ours, period."
This is a dialogue a Southern Weekend reporter overheard in an elevator between two fellow riders in Chongqing.
Clad in traditional Taoist robes, both are disciples of Li Yi, a celebrity Taoist monk whose fortunes have waxed and waned in a precipitous way that resembles a roller coaster ride.
Only two weeks ago, Li was still at the pinnacle of his power. As the deputy head of China's official Taoism association, he raked in money and fame through expensive longevity and diet therapy courses and religious teachings.
Li is the revered "master" of over 30,000 adherents; the two temples he rebuilt atop Jinyun Mountain in Chongqing have been turned into a mecca for Taoist pilgrims; he claimed his following includes eminent businessman Jack Ma Yun, CEO of online trade platform Alibaba.com, and pop singer Faye Wong.
Li is a darling of the media, but not vice versa -- he shunned reporters. That somehow added to his mystique as a hermit living beyond the razzle-dazzle of worldly affairs.
Yet his reputation took a drubbing this week as a barrage of accusations were leveled at him, including falsifications of religious credentials, promotional scams, business irregularities and the most damning of all, sexual wrongdoings committed against female students, although one rape charge was later dismissed as false.
In a profile by Southern Weekend published on August 5, the 41-year-old, bespectacled monk of medium build, is pictured standing on a fog-shrouded mountain trail with his hands behind his back.
Dressed in full Taoist regalia and brimming with pride, he radiates the aura of a celebrity introducing his audience to an arcadia. The story is headlined "Li Yi becomes a 'deity'."
This "deity" had immense appeal due in part to the stunts he and his disciples performed in public.
Behind the "wonders"
Li broke the Guinness World Record in 1997 by holding his breath for 144 minutes under water in a live TV program; he claimed to be able to withstand electricity shocks and diagnose diseases using electricity that he said his body can regulate.
It only took a few bold requests to expose the shenanigans behind these "wonders." In breath-holding case, Li actually sat in a sealed glass case -- with plenty of air -- submerged in water.
The show of controlling electricity is another hoax. When one of Li's acolytes was asked to repeat the feat of harnessing electricity passing through her body, only at a different spot, she refused outright, saying that "it's tiring to deliver a diagnosis this way. I need time to replenish my strength."
It was later revealed that she wore a concealed device to control the voltage and avoid electrocution.
These tricks were all meant to boost the credentials of Li, who only became a licensed Taoist priest four years ago.
His rise to prominence was as dramatic as his fall from grace. But his story is a mere continuation of the pattern in which con artists before him soared and then stumbled.
Zhang Wuben, a self-styled nutritionist with the Ministry of Health, made assertions that mung bean soup is a cure for cancer. His book "Cure the Diseases You Get from Eating by Eating" sold like hot cakes. However, the ministry denied affiliation with him in May and Zhang was exposed to have doctored his resume.
New Huadu Industrial Group's CEO Tang Jun, once dubbed "the emperor of wage-earners," was also found in early July to have lied to the public about his educational background. He was discredited in media reports but remained unapologetic over lapses of integrity.
Hu you, a colloquial phrase that caught on after a famous comedian popularized it, aptly describes these artists of deception. Though working in diverse fields, they share one thing in common: the power of persuasion.
Drawing on his youthful experience of being lured into a strict religious cult, author Dave Lakhani dissects in his book "Persuasion" the techniques commonly used by serial manipulators to convince their target audience.
They include vocal talent, storytelling skills, cultivation of well-connected friends, name-dropping, belief perseverance, among other things.
One fundamental reason people are often led astray is because "we all have a desire to believe in ideas and concepts bigger than ourselves that better us in some way," the author observes.
Spiritual void
As many a commentator have argued, as China wallows in newfound wealth, a huge spiritual void is to be filled.
The revival of religions like Taoism, which stresses balance between the humanity and nature, provides an outlet for stress. Naturally, it's hard to resist the soothing voice in the likes of Li Yi, worshipped almost as a living god.
"People are very limited on time and want to be led," Lakhani notes. Impatience for cool-headed thinking leads to blind beliefs, while the genuine credentials of those spreading the gospel do not necessarily matter.
Another story published alongside the profile of Li Yi in the Southern Weekend opines that "for con artists, they are lucky to live in a hectic, impatient society, where people are forgetful.
"People are in a craze to chase idols and success. So even if their frauds are exposed, con men still can opt for an ostrich policy as a last resort and hunker down amid an avalanche of criticism. After the storm dies down, they could stage their comeback."
Well said, and in this sense, the denouement of Li Yi's legend may not be the beginning of the end, but the end of the beginning.
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