Performance and Prayer in the Noh Tradition

Introduction

At the origin of this study lies the need to interrogate prayer as an act of requiem, understood not as a simple liturgical formula but as a verbal device capable of transforming the relationship between the living and the dead. In Japanese performative traditions, prayer — Nenbutsu, Ekō, invocations — constitutes the means through which warrior spirits are heard, recognised, and symbolically pacified. Following Tambiah’s intuition that word and action are inseparable within ritual, prayer appears as a performative gesture endowed with transformative power, a linguistic technology that shapes the condition of the deceased.

The deification of the local hero, a phenomenon widely attested in Japanese performative traditions, can only be understood within a broader ritual horizon that unites memory, trauma, community, and performative action. Figures such as Kagekiyo, Kon’nōmaru, or Atsumori do not emerge as mere literary characters, but as symbolic presences through which communities rework the presence of the dead, transforming the restless deceased into a protective spirit. This process, which manifests itself in the popular forms of bun’yabushi, in the narratives of the Biwa hōshi, in the rites of the Jishin mōsō, and in the Kuzure ballads (Furnari R. I., 2025), finds an aristocratic formalisation in Nō, where the stage becomes a space of intercession and pacification.

Anthropological research has shown that the construction of the deified hero is by no means a phenomenon exclusive to Japan. Ridgeway (1915), studying Greek city‑states, observed that every ancient community safeguarded the bones of a founding hero, buried at the centre of the settlement so that his spirit might protect the living. Ernesto De Martino (1958), analysing Mediterranean ritual laments, highlighted how the community processes mourning through vocal and bodily practices that symbolically reintegrate the deceased into the cultural order. In both cases, the figure of the hero is not a simple memory but a ritual device that enables the community to overcome the crisis produced by death (Furnari R. I., 2025).

The divination of the local hero takes place through the prayer of requiem.

Nō inherits and sublimates this logic. The shura‑nō 修羅能, in particular, represent the point of convergence between popular rituality and theatrical formalisation: the spirits of warriors appear on stage not to be remembered, but to be saved. The request for Ekō 回向, the recitation of the Nenbutsu 念仏, and the presence of the intercessory monk reproduce, in an aestheticised form, the same ritual dynamic that in rural areas was entrusted to itinerant blind performers. The Nō stage thus becomes a place of Chinkon 鎮魂, where the sung word enacts a symbolic transformation: the tormented dead finds peace, the trauma of war is reworked, and the community recognises and overcomes its own wound.

In Buddhism, merit (puñña) is conceived as a form of positive karmic energy generated by virtuous actions, and it can be shared with other beings through specific ritual practices. As Damien Keown observes, ”merit may be transferred to others, including the dead, by dedicating the wholesome karma generated by good actions” (Damien Keown, A Dictionary of Buddhism, Oxford University Press, entry ”Merit transfer”, www.oxfordreference.com). This practice is often referred to by the term ekōdana 回向檀 (Japn. Ekō 回向), which means ”to dedicate” or ”to transfer” merit. Ekō is defined as ”the act of turning over or transferring the merit of one’s practice to others” (Digital Dictionary of Buddhism, entry 回向, www.buddhism-dict.net/ddb).

In this sense, the divination of the local hero and the pacification of the dead in the Shura‑nō 修羅能 are not separate phenomena, but two manifestations of the same anthropological principle: performance as an effective rite, capable of transforming the restless spirit into a benevolent presence, and the pain of loss into shared memory. In the case of the local hero, the process begins with the prayer of requie. This is the first step toward his future divination, because only a pacified dead person can become a protective presence.

From this perspective, Tambiah’s contribution (1968) is decisive: ritual does not operate through a separation between word and gesture, but through their interpenetration, since ritual language possesses its own operative force. Nō does not actually pacify the dead, but represents the process of pacification.

Entrusting the prayer of requiem to the theatre, as happens in Nō, means recognising that the pacification of the dead is not only a liturgical act but a communal process that requires word, gesture, and shared presence. Nō offers precisely this intermediate space, where voice, rhythm, dance, and narrative recreate the ritual conditions of requiem.

The theatre is chosen because it is the only device capable of transforming memory into shared experience: it makes the invisible visible, gives voice to those who can no longer speak, and allows the community to work through grief by means of an aesthetic form that is, at the same time, a rite.

Within this same logic of ritual transformation, an illuminating comparison emerges from Dante’s Purgatorio, where the relationship between the living and the dead takes on an equally dynamic and communal form.

In the poem, the souls of Purgatory are neither damned nor pacified: they inhabit an intermediate space in which their condition depends on the support of the living. Dante formulates this with precision through the words of Manfredi—“ché qui per quei di là molto s’avanza” (Purg. III, 145)—indicating that suffrage is not a symbolic gesture but an act endowed with real efficacy. Prayer alters the state of the soul, accelerates purification, and repairs a fracture that is still open. Purgatory thus becomes a ritual dramaturgy: each terrace is a rite, each encounter an act of recognition, each canto a form of intercession. The souls ask to be remembered and named because ritualised memory—as in the shura‑nō—produces concrete effects.

In this sense, nō theatre and the Purgatorio share the same anthropological intuition: the dead are not silent entities but presences that demand relation. Prayer—Nenbutsu, Ekō, suffrage—is the device that transforms unrest into peace and memory into care. Just as warrior spirits find repose through the monk’s voice and the rituality of the stage, the souls in Purgatory find relief through the voices of the living. In both cases, ritual speech does not represent salvation; it produces it.

From this comparative perspective, Dante’s Purgatorio and the shura‑nō reveal the same ritual logic: the salvation of the dead as a communal process. And it is precisely within this anthropological continuity that Saeki Junko’s contribution is situated.

It is precisely here that the contribution of Saeki Junko (2024) becomes decisive. In her study on war and the pacification of the dead in Nō, Saeki shows that the theatre does not merely represent the suffering of the fallen, but takes charge of it. For Saeki, Nō is not a simple aesthetic device: it is a ritual mechanism that perpetuates the practices of consoling the dead that were widespread in medieval Japan. The warrior spirits who return to the stage are not symbolic figures, but presences that ask for listening, recognition, and liberation. Their appearance is not a narrative artifice, but an act of communication between the living and the dead, a moment in which the theatre assumes responsibility for what society may forget.

Saeki Junko insists that the very structure of the Shura‑nō 修羅能—the arrival of the monk, the recounting of the battle, the re‑evocation of trauma, the final prayer—reproduces a ritual model of progressive pacification. Nō, in other words, does not represent war but care. The stage becomes a place where the dead can finally say what they could not say in life, and where the community can acknowledge the moral complexity of the conflict, moving beyond the victor–vanquished dichotomy.

Rite and Representation

This series of cases allows us to see concretely what authors such as Marcel Mauss, Richard Schechner, and Stanley Tambiah have highlighted from different perspectives: prayer and ritual are not simple words, but effective actions, performative gestures that produce transformation.

Richard Schechner analyses the deep relationship between ritual and performance, showing that the two dimensions are not opposed but part of a continuum. According to Schechner, rituals are performative actions, acts carried out to obtain a real effect—healing, initiation, burying the dead, propitiating the gods, maintaining cosmic order—whereas theatrical performances are ritualized actions, that is, codified and repeatable behaviours.

Phenomena that rightly ought to be called 'theatre' or 'dance' occur among all the world's peoples and date back at least to Palaeolithic times. Dancing, singing, wearing masks and costumes; impersonating other people, animals, gods, and demons (and being possessed by these others); acting out narratives; rehearsing or in other ways preparing actions; and making ready places where people can gather to perform and witness performances, are all integral to being human. Theatre and ritual are as night and day, chicken and egg neither has priority over the other (Schechner 2007, 614).

Schechner emphasises that the difference between ritual and theatre does not lie in structure, but in emphasis:

1. ritual privileges efficacy;
2. theatre privileges entertainment.

The difference lies in context and emphasis. Rituals emphasise efficacy: healing the sick, initiating neophytes, burying the dead, teaching the ignorant, forming and cementing social relations, maintaining (or overthrowing) the status quo, remembering the past, propitiating the gods, exorcising the demonic, maintaining cosmic order. Theatre emphasises entertainment; it is opportunistic, occurring wherever and whenever a crowd can be gathered and money collected, or goods or services bartered. Rituals are performed on schedule, at specific locations, regardless of weather or attendance (Schechner 2007, 614).

Thus Schechner contrasts ritual and theatre by arguing that ritual is tied to a calendar, to specific places, to seasonal and social cycles, whereas theatre is ”opportunistic,” meaning that it can take place anywhere and at any time, provided there is an audience.

Theatre as Seasonal Practice: Horikoshi’s Contribution

This distinction works only for modern Western theatre, but it does not hold when we look at Japanese performative traditions—and probably those of many cultures around the world.

Professor J. Ndukaku Amankulor (”The Condition of Ritual in Theatre: An Intercultural Perspective,” 1991) argues that in many African cultures (and not only there) no clear separation exists between ritual and theatre, unlike what happens in modern Western theatre. African theatre is ritual, seasonal, tied to the agricultural and cosmological calendar, communal, and functional (healing, cohesion, status transitions, propitiation). This perspective directly contradicts Schechner’s distinction: ritual = efficacy / theatre = entertainment.

In many societies the cultural form known as theatre goes together with religious and cultural practices. Theatre, as performance intended for the education, enlightenment, and entertainment of the public, functions as an extension of the mythology and cultural conventions associated with a particular group or community as well as an artistic activity which other people outside the group derive pleasure from seeing. More often than not, the performance takes place within the context and environment of festivity, fixed at such periods in the year when the performers and spectators would have ample leisure time to prepare for and participate in the performance. Theatre cultures of this kind are still very much in vogue in Africa, Asia, the Americas, and Oceania (Amankulor 1991, 45).

Amankulor insists that no distinction exists between performer and spectator: the community participates actively, and performance is an act of social regeneration.

The author critiques the Western idea of theatre as an aesthetic event, separated from daily life and oriented toward entertainment. He shows that this model is not universal but historically situated.

In the Nō repertoire, the relationship between drama and season is not a marginal detail but a structural element of the performative tradition. As Horikoshi Zentarō (堀越善太郎) observes, seasonal sensitivity is an integral part of Japanese culture and of the reception of Nō:

”明治以来、我々の日常生活における季節感は、ますます希薄なものとなりつつある”

(”since the Meiji period, the sense of the seasons in our daily life has become increasingly faint”)

(Horikoshi 1978, 1).

For this reason, he insists that understanding Nō requires the ability to recognise the seasonal signals embedded in the texts and in the scenic conventions.

Horikoshi analyses the indications contained in the Yōkyoku Taikan 謡曲大観, a major modern collection of Nō texts (an online 1982 version exists; the first edition dates to 1930, author: Sanari Kentarō 佐成謙太郎), used by scholars as a philological and performative reference.

In this work, many plays are accompanied by a notation specifying the period of the year in which tradition situates the story or its performance. These indications are editorial annotations that record theatrical practice.

For example, the notation:

（一）〔時〕五月（『隅田川』）

（二）〔時〕（無季）（『飛鳥川』）

（三）〔時〕（九月）（『安達原』）

The first annotation indicates: May 〔時〕五月 for Sumidagawa 『隅田川』, meaning that the play Sumidagawa is performed in May, that is, in spring. Sumidagawa is a fifteenth‑century Nō drama attributed to Kanze Nobumitsu 観世信光 (1435–1516).

The second annotation means that the play Asukagawa 飛鳥川 is muki 無季, ”without season.”

The third annotation 九月（『安達原』） indicates that Adachigahara 『安達原』—a play of uncertain authorship, probably from the fourteenth century—belongs to the ninth month, and therefore to autumn (Horikoshi 1978,p. 2).

These indications function as ”seasonal labels” that guide the selection of plays at different moments of the year.

Other plays are classified as muki (without season), but this does not imply the absence of seasonal atmosphere: it simply means that neither the text nor the performative tradition has fixed a precise period. According to Horikoshi, about 47% (四七パーセント) of the plays present some form of seasonal indication, explicit or implicit (Horikoshi 1978, 2). This datum shows that seasonality constitutes a significant criterion in the transmission of Nō, capable of modulating the emotional and ritual reception of the works and of situating them within the Japanese cultural calendar.

Chinkon and Goryō: the pacification of restless spirits

At the center of this dynamic lies the prayer of requie (鎮魂の祈り). The recitation of the Nenbutsu, the reading of sutras, or the simple invocation of mercy transform the theatrical stage into a ritual space, where repeated words of compassion acquire salvific force (Saeki J. 2024, 23–47).

This ritual structure is not isolated within the global theatrical landscape: in other dramatic traditions as well, the appearance of the dead is never a mere narrative device, but a decisive moment that allows the community to confront what it cannot process on its own. In Greek tragedy, for example, the ghost of Darius in Aeschylus’ Persians returns from the world of the dead not to frighten, but to explain the Persian defeat and restore a disturbed order; in the Eumenides, the ghost of Clytemnestra appears to demand justice and vengeance; while in Euripides’ Hecuba, the shade of Polydorus opens the tragedy by asking that his body be found and buried.

As Sarah Iles Johnston has shown, epiphanies of the dead in ancient Greece are activated when something in the relationship between the living and the dead has been left unfinished; and when the deceased continues to exert influence because he has not yet been integrated into the world of the living. Johnston emphasises that the return of the dead is a ritual signal: a call to complete an owed act, to repair a wrong, to restore a broken equilibrium (Iles Johnston, 1999, p. 6–7).

In this sense, as in the Shura‑nō, the dead appear because something remains suspended: a rite not performed, a pain not pacified, a memory awaiting reconciliation.

Saeki Junko analyses how prayer operates within the Shura‑nō, observing how the spirits of warriors—from Tomonaga to Atsumori, from Kiyotsune to Tsunemori—ask for Ekō, that is, the transfer of merit, and how this request constitutes the decisive moment in their path toward tranquility. Through the examination of several emblematic plays, it becomes clear that Nō does not simply represent war, but transcends it through ritual gestures of compassion: the prayer that soothes, purifies, and reconciles.

It is precisely within this logic that the historical framework reconstructed by Kuroda Toshio (1996) takes shape. In his study ”The World of Spirit Pacification” Kuroda shows that the category of Goryō—spirits of those who died unjustly, restless and potentially dangerous — emerges in the Nihon sandai jitsuroku entry for the year 863, where an epidemic is attributed to the action of unpacified spirits. The Goryō‑e 御霊会 (the ceremony for purifying restless spirits), instituted by the imperial government of the Nara period, thus becomes the first model of Chinkon, a rite aimed at placating wandering spirits unable to find rest. In other words, Chinkon is not an abstract gesture but a ritual technology that intervenes when the dead have not yet been pacified and integrated into the social order of the living—to borrow De Martino’s formulation.

Mauss, Tambiah, and the Ritual Nature of Prayer

To understand more deeply the ritual nature of the prayers that appear in the shura‑nō 修羅能, it is useful to recall the anthropological reflection developed by Marcel Mauss in his essay “La Prière” (1909), which shows that prayer is a social and ritual act, not a simple discourse: a vocal and bodily gesture endowed with efficacy, a codified, repeated, and shared behaviour that produces real effects in the invisible world and in the community that practices it. However, in calling upon this celebrated essay — one of the most important in historical sociological analysis — we must keep in mind Mauss’s fundamentally Christian‑Catholic perspective.

Mauss affirms that prayer is a collective phenomenon. That prayer is essentially a social phenomenon is demonstrated by the fact that there are religions in which it is recited only by the group or by priestly authority (Mauss 1909, p. 15).

Its nature becomes clear when we observe other social formulas that resemble it: oaths, legal formulas, solemn contracts, ritual expressions of etiquette. All these practices function like prayer because, through the word, they invoke a higher authority and confer solemnity upon the act.

For this reason, Mauss draws a parallel between religious and civil formulas: just as Catholic prayers begin with In Nomine Patris, French legal sentences open with “In the name of the French people.” Both make present a collective entity that protects and legitimises the action.

Prayer is therefore the place where the creative force of the social form is most clearly visible: it acts only through the word, and the word is the purest and most powerful form of formalism (Mauss 1909, p. 17).

According to Mauss, prayer consists of a series of ritualized acts—and for this very reason, we may add, it can be considered the oldest human performance—yet at the same time it expresses religious ideas and sentiments, thus configuring itself also as belief (Mauss 1909, p. 4).

A second reason for its centrality is its function as an indicator of the historical development of religions. Unlike many rites that tend to regress (such as sacrifices or food taboos), prayer not only persists but expands until it comes to dominate the entire ritual system.

“The evolution of prayer is in part the evolution of religion itself; the progress of prayer is in part the progress of religion” (Mauss 1909, p. 5)

For Mauss, the elementary forms of prayer are not “primitive” in a pejorative sense, but represent logical structures useful for understanding the nature of the phenomenon.

In the pages devoted to the rites of the Arunta, a large population of Central Australia much studied by anthropologists in the early 1900s, Mauss insists that the ritual formula cannot be separated from the gesture. The chants are “rhythmic, monotonous songs associated with manual rites” (Mauss 1909, 73), and their efficacy depends on the fact that they are uttered in the sacred place, during ritual action. For this reason he can state that “the formula is part of a magical process. It is itself magic” (Mauss 1909, p., 75): it is not a text, but an act that unites word, gesture, and myth.

Tambiah develops the same intuition: “in most cases ritual words are at least as important as other kinds of ritual act” (Tambiah 1968, p. 176). Ritual words do not function on their own, but only within a context of action, and rituals ”exploit a number of verbal forms… prayers, songs, spells, blessings” (Tambiah 1968, p. 176).

Starting from Mauss’s assertion that “prayer for the dead is one of the rarest, most refined, and most recent forms of oral rite” (Mauss 1909, p. 46), it becomes clear why he excludes the possibility that so‑called primitive societies such as the Australian Aboriginal groups could have developed a true funerary prayer.

Mauss argues that the cult of the dead consists of gestures, chants, evocations, names, but not of prayers in the sense of a supplication addressed to a transcendent power for the salvation of the soul.

He refers to a rite—certainly very Australian—during which a funerary chant is sung over the grave, invoking all the names of the deceased, his totems and sub‑totems (Mauss 1909, p., 47).

Indeed, in criticising Langloh Parker, Mauss argues that attributing to the Aboriginal peoples a funerary prayer similar to the Christian one is an interpretive error and an effect of missionary influence (Mauss 1909, p., 46–50).

In a significant way, it is above all the rites of sorcerers that prefigure the future form of prayer: as a ritual elite, they introduce innovations and maintain relations with great divinities, formulating requests that anticipate what, in other civilisations, will become true prayer.

Sorcerers maintain regular relations with individual sacred beings, especially the dead, from whom they derive part of their powers. In many cases these are acts of evocation, because the sorcerer is considered superior to the spirits he manipulates. However, some traditional formulas have a meaning that is less clearly magical and can also be interpreted as supplications (Mauss 1909, p. 57–58).

Mauss reports examples from the State of Victoria, a region of southeastern Australia (capital: Melbourne). It is an area where, in the nineteenth century, ethnographers such as Dawson and Howitt documented numerous Aboriginal rites, particularly those connected with the spirits of the dead.

Among the groups living in this region were: The Jupagalk, an Aboriginal people of western Victoria. According to the testimonies collected, when they found themselves in danger or under magical threat, the Jupagalk turned to a deceased friend, asking him to appear in a dream.

The purpose was very precise: the dead person had to reveal protective formulas or indicate how to neutralise a harmful spell (Mauss 1909, p. 57–58).

This is therefore a form of invocation of the dead that is no longer mere technical magic, but a gesture resembling prayer: one asks for help from an invisible being endowed with power.

The Bunurong, an Aboriginal group from the Melbourne area. Among the Bunurong, in cases of illness, a particular rite was practiced: the spirits of the dead (called Len‑ba moor) were implored to enter the body of the sick person and tear away the spell believed to be the cause of the illness. Here the dead are not invoked to appear in a dream, but to intervene directly in the body of the living as therapeutic agents. It is a gesture that combines magic and supplication: one asks a personal entity to act for the good of the patient (Mauss 1909, p. 57–58).

These facts show that even in Australia there exist relatively evolved forms of prayer, although still far from the prayers of historical religions. The simplest oral rites coexist with more complex ones, and one can see how the former may have developed into the latter. The prayers of totemic cults and those of initiatory cults belong to the same evolutionary process, although it is likely that Mauss had in mind above all forms of prayer fixed in writing; we know, thanks to analyses such as “Orality and Literacy” (Ong 1982), that the introduction of writing radically transformed the very formulation of human thought.

Here De Martino enters the picture, representing the other great anthropological tradition.

For De Martino, the relationship with the dead is primordial; funerary practices are the first great testing ground of cultural presence. The funeral lament, the invocation, the ritual cry are archaic forms of ritual speech and, we would add, constitute the original nucleus from which prayers will later develop. De Martino never explicitly speaks of “prayer” yet in works such as Morte e Pianto Rituale (1958) he shows that all societies possess forms of ritual speech addressed to the dead which are not yet “prayers” in the sense given by the great religions, but are already a speaking‑to‑the‑dead, an attempt to hold them, guide them, pacify them, accompany them. For De Martino, therefore, the ritual relationship with the dead is one of the most ancient phenomena of human religion.

To understand what Mauss means by the absence of prayers for the dead, we must keep in mind his radical Catholic background. He was probably referring to prayers such as: “Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May they rest in peace. Amen” recited after each decade of the rosary when it is said specifically for the deceased.

Prayer as Narrative Structure

Many forms of prayer are not only linguistic or ritual acts, but true narrative structures. The rosary, the Stations of the Cross, the recitation of psalms or mantras articulate sequences of events, characters, and transformations. In these cases, prayer does not merely invoke: it narrates. It is a narrative device that makes a story present and allows it to act within the ritual present.

1. In the Rosary, at the beginning, a significant episode from the life of Christ is narrated, followed by the prayer of one Our Father and ten Hail Mary, full of grace. At the end of each decade of Hail Marys, if it is an ordinary rosary, the prayer Glory be to the Father is recited; if it is for the dead, the prayer of Eternal Rest is said.
2. The Via Crucis, typical of the Catholic tradition, is a narrative sequence of 14 stations that retraces the Passion of Christ. It is celebrated especially during Lent: usually inside churches, while on Good Friday (the day Christians commemorate the death of Jesus) it takes place outdoors, in the form of a procession. In small towns, the community symbolically traverses the final stages of Christ’s life by moving through several churches or religious sites (such as squares or crossroads with a votive stele), or by involving entire neighborhoods in large cities.
3. In the Liturgy of the Hours, also called the Psalter, observant Catholics are supposed to pray five times a day. The liturgy is divided into:

Principal Offices:

Lauds (morning), Vespers (evening, just after sunset).

Minor Offices:

Terce (around 9:00), Sext (around 12:00), None (around 15:00).

Concluding Office:

Compline (before sleep).

The Psalter is divided into four weeks and into each day of the week. It is also divided into Ordinary Time and special liturgical seasons (Advent, Christmas, Lent, Easter). We also find the commemoration of the saint of the day (when present) and feasts and solemnities (which ”override” the weekday).

Psalms are recited, mixed with hymns and letters of the apostles, which often recount events, crises, salvations, collective memories. These are followed by invocations and supplications arranged according to the liturgical period.

The Psalter has a complex structure. Observant lay Catholics generally limit themselves to reciting Vespers. Priests recite, in addition to Vespers, Morning Lauds. Only cloistered nuns carry out its full observance.

However, some observant Catholics recite during the day the Office of the Dead, which is part of the Liturgy of the Hours, especially after a bereavement. It is composed of psalms, readings, and prayers offered for the repose of the dead. It is recited especially on November 2, but may also be used in funeral vigils or other moments of prayer for the dead, except during liturgical periods in which it is prohibited (solemnities, Sundays of Advent, Lent, and Easter).

It opens with the recitation of hymns containing phrases such as: “Receive, O Christ, your brothers into the kingdom of the blessed, for the glory of the Father, etc.” Three psalms or canticles follow: the first is a penitential psalm, Psalm 50 (according to Catholic numbering), followed by a descriptive hymn such as that of Isaiah.

10. I said: In the middle of my days, I will go to the gates of Hell. So I sought the remainder of my years.

11 I said: I will not see the Lord God in the land of the living. I will no longer behold man, nor the habitation of rest.

12 My longevity has been taken away; it has been folded up and taken from me, like the tent of a shepherd. My life has been cut off, as if by a weaver. While I was still beginning, he cut me off. From morning until evening, you have marked out my limits.

13 I hoped, even until morning. Like a lion, so has he crushed all my bones. From morning until evening, you have marked my limits. (…)”.Isaiah 38 Catholic Public Domain Version

This is followed by a psalm of praise such as Psalm 145. And it concludes with prayers such as: “Purify, O God, the faithful departed from their sins and free them from every punishment”; and again:

“Hear, O God, the prayer that the community of believers raises to you in the faith of the risen Lord, and strengthen in us the hope that together with our brother (name of the deceased) we shall rise in Christ to new life.”

(Liturgy of the Hours – Office of the Dead, 2017, Centro Editoriale Dehoniano, Bologna, p. 533 - 544)

In Catholic funerals, the final commendation is performed with the following exchange:

The priest says: “Come to his aid, saints of God; hasten to meet him, angels of the Lord.”

Those present at the funeral respond: “Receive his soul and present it before the throne of the Most High.”

Buddhist mantras often condense stories of the Buddha or of the bodhisattvas. The Lotus Sutra, as it also appears in the Italian edition published by Soka Gakkai, is a profoundly narrative text. Its structure is not that of a doctrinal treatise, but that of a sacred story that unfolds through images, characters, and dramatic turns.

The sutra employs parables that function as micro‑stories: the burning house, the poor son, the medicinal herbs. Each of these narratives presents a problem, an action, and a transformation, making complex concepts intelligible through concrete episodes.

Alongside the parables, the sutra constructs highly impactful theatrical scenes: the golden stupa rising from the ground, the bodhisattvas emerging from the earth, the simultaneous presence of two Buddhas. These are visual and performative moments that turn the teaching into a dramatic experience.

It is a narrative that unfolds over time and that, like every ritual narration, not only teaches but makes something happen in the present of the one who recites it. We could say that, at its deepest core, the mantra functions as a condensed story. It is as if it were saying: This is the story of compassion that saves, and by pronouncing it I make it present.

https://ilbuddismodinichiren.blogspot.com/2010/05/il-sutra-del-loto-versione-completa-di_27.html

Ritual Word and Performativity: Tambiah and Austin

At this point, after considering the Christian and Buddhist forms of prayer, it is useful to introduce the perspective of Stanley J. Tambiah, which makes it possible to understand prayer not only as doctrinal expression but as effective ritual action. In his essay “The Magical Power of Words” (1968), Tambiah observes that in ritual cultures words do not “describe” the world: they modify it. Their force does not lie in their semantic content, but in the fact of being uttered within an authorisd context and according to a codified form. For this reason, he states that “the uttering of the words itself is a ritual” (Tambiah, 1968, p. 175) and, even more radically, that “words are acts” (Tambiah, 1968, p. 176).

This insight derives from John Langshaw Austin’s theory of speech acts, according to which certain utterances do not inform but do what they say. His posthumous work How to Do Things with Words (1962) introduces the distinction between constative and performative utterances, showing that some linguistic acts “do” what they say at the very moment they are spoken. They do not describe the world: they transform it. Examples:

(E. a) ‘I do (sc. take this woman to be my lawful wedded wife)’—as uttered in the course of the marriage ceremony.

(E. 5) ‘I name this ship the Queen Elizabeth’—as uttered when smashing the bottle against the stem.

(E. c) ‘I give and bequeath my watch to my brother’ as occurring in a will.

(E. d) ‘I bet you sixpence it will rain tomorrow.’

These sentences do not describe; they accomplish an action. Austin calls them “performative utterances.” Austin says that in such cases it is evident that uttering a sentence, provided the appropriate circumstances are in place, does not amount to describing an action or reporting what one is doing. Rather, the utterance is the action. These expressions are not true or false; their force is not constative. For him, naming a ship consists precisely in saying the words “I name…” under the proper conditions, and saying “I do” before a registrar or at an altar is not a commentary on a marriage but the enactment of the marriage itself. Because of this, he proposes calling such sentences “performative utterances” since they bring about the very act they articulate (Austin, 1962, pp. 5-6).

The sequence of the Office of the Dead, as it appears in the Liturgy of the Hours, reveals with great clarity what Tambiah would describe as the performative dimension of ritual language. The opening hymns—“Receive, O Christ, your brothers…”—do not express a simple wish: they activate the relationship between the living, the dead, and the risen Christ.

The penitential psalms, such as Psalm 50, and the prophetic canticles (“In the middle of my life I go to the gates of the underworld”) do not merely describe the human condition; they stage it, transforming the believer’s vulnerability into an act of entrustment.

The psalm of praise (“Praise the Lord, my soul”) introduces a change of state: from the fear of death to the proclamation of divine faithfulness, and therefore to the certainty of being welcomed into paradise.

The final prayers—“purify the faithful departed” “receive his/her soul”, etc.—function as genuine illocutionary acts. To say “the purification” is to begin to bring it about. To say “the reception” is to insert it into the salvific framework.

In the final commendation, the dialogue “Come, saints of God / Receive his/her soul” performs the entry of the deceased into the Kingdom of God. At the very moment it is declared (if we were in a theatre) we would see the deceased ascending the stairway that leads to paradise. In Tambiah’s terms, the liturgy does not speak about salvation: it makes it operative through ritual speech.

The performativity of ritual speech in Shinto

Applied to medieval Japan, this perspective makes it possible to read the Nenbutsu, the Ekō, and the formulas of Chinkon not as devotional texts but as performative technologies that transform the condition of the deceased and that of the community. It is precisely this operative dimension of the word that will emerge forcefully in the Shura‑nō, where prayer itself enacts pacification.

While Japanese funerals may be either Buddhist or Shinto, Buddhist funerals are generally preferred for reasons of tradition, but at times a Shinto funeral is chosen, in which the Norito (祝詞) are recited. Norito are Shinto ritual prayers recited exclusively by priests (kannushi 神主) during official ceremonies. They are archaic, highly codified formulas, expressed in a solemn and often ancient register (the yamatokotoba language). They are used in many contexts: purifications (harai), inaugurations, seasonal blessings, weddings, and, more rarely, Shinto funerals.

Shinto traditionally avoids death—considered a source of impurity—so Shinto funerals are less common. When they do take place, the priest recites a funerary Norito often called 鎮魂詞—Chinkon no Kotoba (“Words to pacify the soul”).

Its function is to accompany the spirit of the deceased, purify those present, and restore harmony among the living, the ancestors, and the kami. However, there is no fixed formula recited by the lay participants.

According to Motegi Sadazumi, in “Shinsōsai (Shinto Funeral Rites)” the Shinto funeral (shinsōsai) preserves indigenous Japanese practices and differs from the Buddhist model. It consists of a sequence of ceremonies that accompany the deceased from the preparation of the body to burial, and finally to the family’s return home. The deceased is considered still close to the relatives, as shown by the Kuzen (the daily offering of food to the deceased, which expresses the continuity of their presence). The spirit is transferred into a Reiji (a ritual container in which the spirit rests during the mourning period) until its union with the ancestors, at which point it becomes a protective deity of the family.

According to the Shinsōsai no Shiori, the funeral service is articulated in a sequence of rituals that accompany the deceased from the moment immediately following death to the symbolic return of the family to everyday life. These rites structure the passage of the spirit, purify the spaces involved, and ensure proper communication with the tutelary deities. Taken together, the practices create an ordered path that moves from the preparation of the body, to the vigil, to the transfer to the place of burial or cremation, and finally to the reintegration of the family.

The rituals listed are:

1. makura-naoshi no gi (pillow-adjustment rite)
2. nōkan no gi (coffin rite)
3. kyūzen-nikku no gi (rite of providing daily food offerings to the deceased)
4. ubusuna-jinja ni kiyū-hōkoku (rite of reporting to the deities the return of the spirit to their natal shrine)
5. bosho-jichinsai or batsujo no gi (gravesite ground-breaking or purification rite)
6. tsūyasai no gi (a ritual wake)
7. senrei no gi (rite for transferring the deceased spirit)
8. hakkyūsai no gi (rite to send the coffin off from the room)
9. hakkyū-go-batsujo no gi (room purification rite after sending off the coffin)
10. sōjōsai no gi (grave-side rites)
11. maisōsai or kasōsai no gi (interment or crematory rite)
12. kikasai no gi (the rite of the family's return home). (Encyclopedia of Shinto. Kokugakuin University, 2025).

Donald L. Philippi describes the Norito as ancient Japanese ritual prayers, preserved above all in the Engi‑shiki (927 CE), which contains 27 official formulas of the Jingi‑kan (the ancient Ministry of Rites or Divine Affairs of the Nara period). Their nature is profoundly institutional: they are “official—one almost has to say bureaucratic—rituals” (Philippi, 1977, p. 1), characterised by an archaic, solemn, and highly repetitive language.

Philippi emphasises that the norito are composed in an “antique… long and loosely‑connected” language in which “semantic clarity is sacrificed to sonority” (Philippi, 1977, p. 1). This sonority—achieved through repetitions, parallelisms, lists of deities, and mythological references—gives the texts an almost incantatory force.

Some of the frequent techniques are: repetition, parallelism, long enumerations of names of deities and offerings, metaphors, the use of mythological accounts to explain the origin of certain forms of worship, and the all‑pervading sonority (Philippi, 1977, p. 2).

That they are sonorous, in a rather heavy‑handed sort of way, is unquestionable. The best of them—the Great Exorcism of the Last Day of the Sixth Month, the Divine Congratulatory Words of the Kuni‑no‑miyatuko of Idumo, and a few others—often attain a massive, surging power by means of this sonorous language (Philippi, 1977, p. 2).

On the historical‑religious level, the Norito are not merely prayers: many contain elements of verbal magic. Philippi notes that “a large number of the older norito contain elements more akin to incantation than prayer” (Philippi, 1977, p. 3), linking them to the belief in kotodama 言霊, the mystical power of words.

The very etymology of the term is debated: nori is related to “noru ‘to speak,’ inoru ‘to pray,’ and norofu ‘to curse’” (Philippi, 1977, p. 2), while they may mean “word” “place” or “magic.” For this reason, according to a scholar cited by Philippi, Norito originally referred to “magic by means of words” (Philippi, 1977, p. 2).

Philippi also distinguishes the Norito from related terms such as hogahi, ihahi‑goto, and yogoto, all of which refer to forms of blessing formulas (Philippi, 1977, p. 2). The difference between norito and semmyō is primarily functional: the semmyō “speak down” (p. 2) like imperial edicts, whereas the Norito are addressed to the deities, even though the two forms often overlap.

Finally, the Norito are a valuable source for understanding ancient Japanese religiosity: more than literary works, they are “a mirror of the religious concepts and the stately ritual language of the ancient Japanese” (Philippi, 1977, p. 2).

Rhythm, repetition, and performativity in Catholic prayer

Catholic liturgy preserves, like many religious traditions, forms of prayer characterised by repetition, parallelism, and rhythmic invocations. Litanies are the most evident example: ordered sequences of supplications that alternate a sacred title with a choral response. Their structure, as several liturgical scholars observe, creates a rhythm that sustains the participation of the assembly and intensifies the communal dimension of prayer.

The Litany of Loreto, associated with Marian devotion, illustrates this mechanism clearly. Each invocation attributes to Mary a theological or symbolic title, while the people respond with the repeated formula ora pro nobis. The force of the rite arises precisely from reiteration, which builds a sonorous and performative crescendo.

Typical examples include:

• Regina Angelorum, ora pro nobis
• Regina Sanctorum omnium, ora pro nobis
• Mater Ecclesiae, ora pro nobis
• Virgo Clemens, ora pro nobis
• Virgo Fidelis, ora pro nobis
• Regina Pacis, ora pro nobis

This repetition is not redundancy but ritual technique: as in the Japanese Norito analysed by Philippi, in Catholic litanies as well “sonority prevails over semantic clarity” generating a form of prayer‑incantation that supports collective concentration and memory.

The Easter Vigil, described by the Edizioni Dehoniane as “the mother of all vigils” (La Veglia di Pasqua, EDB), is the richest and most complex celebration of the Catholic liturgical year. Like the Japanese shinsōsai, it is articulated in an ordered sequence of rites that accompany the community through a passage: from night to light, from death to life, from silence to the proclamation of the Resurrection.

The celebration (usually beginning after 11 p.m. on the night between Saturday and Sunday) opens outside the church or at its entrance, where a brazier is prepared in which the blessed olive branches from the previous year’s Palm Sunday are burned. From this fire—sign of purification and liturgical continuity—the priest blesses the new fire, from which the Paschal candle is lit, symbol of the risen Christ.

The priest inscribes the candle with the cross, the alpha and the omega, inserts the five grains of incense, and solemnly proclaims: Lumen Christi — and the assembly responds Deo gratias.

From this candle, the faithful light their own candles in turn, and the light gradually spreads, illuminating the church—which has been left in darkness except for the candlelight.

A long sequence of readings follows, retracing the principal episodes of the Bible, accompanied by the chanted recitation of the psalms with a structural repetition: hymns, acclamations, and recurring formulas that mark the transition from one reading to the next.

After the homily, the celebration focuses on water, an element of life and rebirth. The priest blesses the water intended for baptisms and for solemn blessings.

Before the blessing of the font, the assembly sings the Litany of the Saints, one of the most solemn forms of litanic prayer. As in the Loreto Litany, the structure is repetitive:

• The priest says: Sancte Petre, and the assembly responds: ora pro nobis.

• Sancta Maria Magdalena, ora pro nobis
• Sancte Augustíne, ora pro nobis
• Sancta Terésia Iesu Infantis, ora pro nobis, etc.

In the Catholic tradition, as in many other religious cultures, there exist forms of prayer built on repetitions, parallel formulas, and cadenced invocations. Litanies represent the most recognisable form: an ordered series of sacred titles to which the assembly responds in unison. This modality, as several liturgists note, generates a rhythmic pattern that sustains the involvement of those present and reinforces the communal dimension of the ritual act.

Several liturgical studies have shown that the structure of Christian rites is based on a balance between repetition, choral response, and the alternation of words and gestures. Among these, Paul F. Bradshaw (2002) has emphasised that ritual rhythm—made of recurring formulas, acclamations, and moments of silence—is not an accessory element but an essential component of communal participation. It is precisely through this rhythmic dynamic that the assembly progressively enters sacred time and recognises itself as the celebrating subject.

Goryō, chinkon, and the politics of spirit pacification

Kuroda Toshio, in The world of spirit pacification (1996), shows that chinkon 鎮魂 is not a marginal rite but a foundational structure of Japanese religion, originally developed to pacify restless spirits and prevent calamities: “chinkon was always a notion quite basic to Shinto” (Kuroda, 1996, p. 323).

Vengeful spirits are called goryō 御霊, and Kuroda analyses the first documented appearance of the term goryō in the Nihon sandai jitsuroku (863). The context is a devastating epidemic: the court organises purification rituals, sutra recitations, offerings at shrines, and interventions by the Bureau of Yin and Yang. The goryō‑e 御霊会 (the ceremony for the pacification of spirits) emerges as a governmental response to a social and sanitary crisis.

“The government had taken repeated measures… mobilizing Buddhist institutions, kami cults, and the Bureau of Yin and Yang” (Kuroda, 1996, p. 324).

Kuroda shows that the goryō‑e were public ceremonies meant to appease these spirits and prevent disasters; they combined Buddhist rites with dances, songs, and popular performances (acrobatics, sumō, archery). These performances were not entertainment but thaumaturgic acts: like the dance of Ame no Uzume or the tamashizume rites, they served to pacify the spirits. The popular character of the goryō‑e is evident: they originated “from below” and were only later absorbed by the elite.

“These religious features… later played an important role in the chinkon pacification rites performed by the common people” (Kuroda, 1996, p. 327).

The goryō belong to the category of wandering spirits who cannot find peace and may bring either fortune or calamity.

Kuroda explains that the spirits of those who died unjustly became an indirect way of speaking about politics. The people could not openly criticise authority, but they could speak about angry spirits. “The wronged spirits… reminded the common folk of the oppositions and contradictions of the real political world” (Kuroda, 1996, p. 329).

The unjust deaths of political figures became symbols of the injustices of the time. The people interpreted epidemics and misfortunes as signs of political corruption. “These innocent spirits were transformed into vengeful ones that cause disease” (Kuroda, 1996, p. 325).

People feared the goryō because they believed them responsible for epidemics, famines, and disasters: “People believed these disasters to be caused by these goryō” (Kuroda T., 1996, p. 325). But this fear was not only religious: it was also a form of distrust toward governmental institutions. “The common people… perceived politics to be, so to speak, a calamity raining down from the clouds, something that intruded from outside” (Kuroda T., 1996, p. 327–328).

The cult of the goryō was later incorporated into the kenmitsu system (the medieval religious structure that combined public teachings and esoteric practices within large temple complexes). This assimilation was not planned, but the result of a long doctrinal and institutional maturation. As Kuroda Toshio observes: “the cult of the goryō… flows into what can be defined as the kenmitsu Taisei” (pp. 328–331).

The honji suijaku 本地垂迹 doctrine (which interprets kami as local manifestations of buddhas or bodhisattvas) made it possible to reinterpret the goryō as epiphanies of Buddhist salvific powers. This process “elevates” them, transforming them from dangerous spirits into protective deities. “The honji suijaku doctrine played a major role in the assimilation of non-Buddhist cults into the kenmitsu taisei” (Kuroda 1996, p. 331).

Even under the full dominance of esoteric Buddhism, to paraphrase Kuroda, restless spirits such as Sutoku‑in 崇徳院, Yorinaga 頼長, and the Taira 平氏 continued to threaten society. Many became tengu 天狗, embodiments of social disorder.

“Rebirth into the Pure Land was not that easy… many dead continued to transmigrate… becoming angry spirits or tengu 天狗” (Kuroda T., 1996, p. 336).

Kuroda cites the Gukanshō 愚管抄, composed around 1220 by the monk Jien 慈円, abbot of Enryaku‑ji 延暦寺, to illustrate the Hōgen rebellion (1156) and its consequences. Emperor Sutoku 崇徳天皇 and Fujiwara no Yorinaga 藤原頼長 die tragically. After their deaths, the people perceive them as vengeful spirits, that is, as goryō of immense power, capable of threatening the entire society with epidemics and disasters.

According to Jien’s analysis in the Gukanshō, ever since the establishment of the Kamakura bakufu the angry spirits of Taira warriors… had been throwing society into confusion in their search for revenge (Kuroda, 1996, p. 336).

Kuroda states clearly that kenmitsu Buddhism spread among laypeople not as doctrine, but as magical‑ritual means. Buddhist texts and images were perceived as apotropaic instruments, not as objects of study. Monks held esoteric knowledge, while laypeople participated through rituals, dances, offerings, and incantations; popular participation was grounded in ritual efficacy, not in an intellectual understanding of the Buddhist religious message.

The Buddhist rites, at least in the ordinary goryō ceremonies, were based more on a belief in the magical power of Buddhist images and scriptures than on the kind of scholarly, high-level doctrine that had marked Buddhism since the Nara period. It goes without saying that this was the way Buddhism reached the general populace, and that such practices formed the basis for the rapid expansion of kenmitsu Buddhism among the ordinary people. For the common people, Buddhist images and texts were simply magical means to worship the spirits, and esoteric Buddhism was of the same nature (Kuroda, 1996, p. 326 ).

Beyond the Prayer/Spell Dichotomy: Tambiah’s Ritual Theory

Stanley J. Tambiah’s essay The Magical Power of Words (1968) opens with a thesis that overturns earlier anthropological tradition: language is not an accessory to ritual, but one of its structural components. To ground this position, Tambiah recalls Edmund Leach’s well‑known statement: “Ritual as one observes it in primitive communities is a complex of words and actions… it is not the case that words are one thing and the rite another. The uttering of the words itself is a ritual” (Tambiah, 1968, p. 175).

This quotation allows him to introduce his theoretical program: to move beyond the dichotomy between word and action and to show that rituals are complex systems constructed through a plurality of verbal forms.

Tambiah notes that classical anthropology had privileged the material and gestural aspects of ritual, relegating language to a secondary role. Drawing on Leach, he overturns this perspective: ritual language is performative; it produces effects, establishes relationships, and articulates cosmologies. In other words, it does not merely accompany the rite: it constitutes it.

Tambiah directly confronts one of the most deeply rooted theoretical nodes of evolutionist anthropology: the distinction between prayer (religion) and spell (magic).

Some of us have operated with the concept of ‘magic’ as something different from ‘religion’; we have thought of ‘spell’ as acting mechanically and as being intrinsically associated with magic; we have opposed ‘spell’ to ‘prayer’ which was thought to connote a different kind of communication with the divine. Frazer carried this thinking to an extreme by asserting that magic was thoroughly opposed to religion and in the interest of preserving this distinction dismissed half the globe as victims of the ‘confusion of magic with religion (Tambiah, 1968, p. 177).

Tambiah uses this passage to show that the distinction between prayer and spell is a product of Western theory, not of ritual systems themselves.

The comparative analysis that follows (Sri Lanka, Thailand, the Trobriand Islands) demonstrates that ritual verbal forms are multiple and cannot be reduced to a dichotomy; prayer and spell coexist within the same rite; their efficacy depends on sequence, performative context, and the social relationship between officiants and participants.

In other words, Tambiah shows that the distinction between “prayer” and “spell” is a theoretical artifact, not an ethnographic datum.

Tambiah presents the case of Sinhalese healing rituals, which combine three verbal forms—mantra, kannalavva, kaviya—arranged in sequence. Each form has a specific function: the mantra are secret and “‘hitting with sound’”; the kannalavva are public and intelligible declarations; the kaviya are poetic verses that narrate myths and allow the patient to understand and objectify the illness. The ritual ends with a mantra of expulsion of the demon. (Tambiah, 1968, p. 177)

Tambiah clarifies that Sinhalese mantra are by no means “nonsensical”: they display a linguistic stratification (Sanskrit, Pali, classical Sinhala, demonic mixtures) that reflects the cosmic hierarchy. The “language of demons” is intentionally constructed as powerful and intelligible to spirits, even if not to humans. The ritual as a whole reveals a complex logic that unites theology, communication, and therapeutic transformation.

The ‘demon language’ is consciously constructed to connote power… based on the theory of language that the demons can understand.… Far from being nonsensical… the spells show a sophisticated logic (Tambiah, 1968, p. 178).

Tambiah introduces three different uses of ritual language in a village of northeastern Thailand:

1. Buddhist rituals recited in Pali, heard but not understood; “The sacred words are chanted aloud… but paradoxically they are not understood by the majority of the congregation.”
2. Sūkhwan rituals, heard and understood;
3. Exorcistic rituals, with secret spells that cannot be heard.

This tripartition allows him to show that ritual language can function even when it does not communicate semantically, because its efficacy depends on context, authority, and form. (Tambiah, 1968, pp. 179–181)

Ritual, therefore, is effective even without comprehension; knowledge is stratified and guarded by specialists; religion operates as a technology of the sacred, not as doctrine. (Tambiah 1968, pp. 179–181)

To this comparative framework Tambiah adds the theoretical discussion on pp. 185–187, in which he critically reconstructs the Malinowskian perspective on ritual language. He notes that, for Malinowski, “magical language is part of ritual action” and that meaning must be understood as the effect of words on mind, body, and cultural reality. He shows that magical language functions differently from ordinary language because the Trobrianders attribute to ritual formulae the capacity to produce supernatural effects, a belief grounded in the creative metaphor of magic, defined as “the belief that the repetitive statement of certain words is believed to produce the reality stated” (Tambiah 1968, p. 186).

The origin of this conception is traced by Malinowski to mythological associations and to a variant of Frazer’s principle of sympathy, with the implication that the associative laws of ordinary language do not apply to magical language. Tambiah also notes that Malinowski attempts a psychological explanation of the “false” use of ritual language: language would give humans a sense of power over the environment, since “to know the name of a thing is to get a hold on it” a belief rooted in childhood, when the child discovers that his vocalisations produce real effects, thus generating a “magical” attitude toward words. (Tambiah 1968, p. 187)

Taken together, these ethnographic materials, according to Tambiah, show that ritual verbal forms are not distributed according to a prayer/spell dichotomy, but coexist, intertwine, and assume different functions depending on performative sequence, context, and social relations.

Tambiah observes that many historical religions attribute sacred authority to a specific language, regardless of whether the faithful understand it.

For Judaism, “the word of God is in Hebrew”; for Islam, the Qur’an is effective only in Arabic; for Vedic Hinduism, ritual texts must be recited in Sanskrit; for Theravāda Buddhism, in Pāli. In the case of Catholicism, the situation is different: the Church has never claimed that the Bible was originally written in Latin. Nevertheless, the Vulgate was declared the official version in 1546 at the Council of Trent, and Latin gradually became the language of the liturgy and of ecclesiastical governance (Tambiah 1968, p. 181).

The central point of his argument is that, in all these traditions, the understanding of the faithful has never been considered essential. What matters is that ritual words are pronounced in the authorisd language, because their efficacy derives from the authority of tradition, not from semantic transparency. For this reason, Tambiah states that “the problem whether their congregations understood the words or not was not a major consideration affecting either the efficacy of the ritual or the change in the moral condition of the worshippers” (Tambiah 1968, p. 181).

A comparison between Kuroda Toshio’s reconstruction of medieval Japanese Buddhism and Stanley Tambiah’s analysis of Sinhalese and Thai therapeutic rituals reveals several similarities: in both contexts, the relationship between religious specialists and the population is grounded in a marked asymmetry of knowledge, which renders the understanding of meaning secondary to ritual performativity.

Performativity and Salvation: the Ritual Dynamics of the Shura‑nō

In light of Tambiah, prayer in the Shura‑nō cannot be interpreted as a merely narrative or aesthetic element. It is the core of the drama. The request for Ekō, the recitation of the Nenbutsu, the merciful invocation are not speeches addressed to the audience: they are ritual acts that operate upon the warrior’s spirit, modifying its ontological condition.

The spirit appears on stage because it is restless; it remains because it seeks to be heard; it is released because ritual language transforms it. The Nō stage thus becomes a place of Chinkon, an act of pacification and reintegration. The sung word does not represent salvation: it produces it.

Saeki Junko illustrates this dynamic through eight emblematic plays. In the first six cases, the tormented spirits openly invoke the prayer of the living—Ekō (which Catholics would translate as prayer for the dead), Nenbutsu, the recitation of Sutra—as the only way to escape the Shuradō.

(Shuradō 修羅道 literally means ”the path of the asura,” that is, the realm inhabited by the Asura 阿修羅, powerful and combative beings dominated by aggressiveness, jealousy, competitiveness, impulse to war, and wounded pride.) (Digital Dictionary of Buddhism, DDB: https://www.buddhism-dict.net/ddb/)

In the last two plays, by contrast, the absence of a request for suffrage leaves the soul in a state of unrest or suspension.

The first work cited by Saeki Junko is:

1. Tomonaga『朝長』, attributed to Zeami Motokiyo 世阿弥元清

The protagonist is Minamoto no Tomonaga 源朝長, son of Minamoto no Yoshitomo. Wounded in the battle of Fujikawa (1156), he dies during the retreat. In the nō drama he appears as a restless spirit seeking suffrage to alleviate the torments of the shurado. He explicitly asks for Ekō before disappearing.

2. Tomoe『巴』, attributed to Kanze Kojirō Nobumitsu 観世小次郎信光

The warrior Tomoe 巴, companion of Kiso Yoshinaka 木曽義仲, appears at the place where her lord died. She asks the monks to perform Ekō for Yoshinaka and to free herself from her own remorse, since she was unable to accompany him to the very end. The request for Ekō is thus directed both to her lord and to herself.

3. Atsumori 『敦盛』
   Author: Zeami Motokiyo 世阿弥元清

The spirit of Taira no Atsumori appears before Kumagai Naozane 熊谷直実, who has taken monastic vows under the name Rennō 蓮生. The drama stages the transformation of the enemy–friend relationship within the Buddhist Law. Taira no Atsumori requests Ekō with these words:

“For what reason, driven by the voice of the evening waves,
have I come here?
I beg you: grant me the Ten Nembutsu.”
何の故とか夕波の
声を力に来たりたり。
十念授けおはしませ

In this scene, spiritual reconciliation between former enemies takes place. The request for the ten Nembutsu introduces a moment of intense rituality, shaped by the iterative rhythm of repeated recitation.

This dynamic is not foreign to Western sensibilities. The repetition of sacred formulas performs a similar function: through rhythmic reiteration, the practitioner enters a state of concentration and inward gathering that enables a transformation of inner disposition. In the same way, in Nō the repetition of the Nenbutsu creates a liminal space in which conflict dissolves and the dead can finally be pacified.

4. Kiyotsune 『清経』 — Zeami Motokiyo 世阿弥元清
   The Heike commander Taira no Kiyotsune 平清経, who committed suicide after the defeat, appears as a tormented spirit. Thanks to the monks’ prayers, he attains jōbutsu 成仏 (that is, he reaches the state of Buddhahood).

5. Tsunemori 『通盛』 — attributed to Zeami or to an author of the Kanze school
   The spirit of Taira no Tsunemori 平通盛 appears together with his wife Kozaishō 小宰相, who took her own life in order to follow him. Both ask for prayers. The couple thus attains jōbutsu through the merits of the Hokekyō 法華経.

6. Tsunemasa 『経正』 — Zeami Motokiyo
   The spirit of Taira no Tsunemasa 平経正 appears to thank the princely monk Shukaku Hōshinnō 守覚法親王 for his prayers. However, he feels ashamed to show himself still tormented in the shurado and vanishes before jōbutsu is declared.

An example of chinkon without explicit salvation is:

7. Yashima 『八島』 — attributed to Zeami
   The spirit of Minamoto no Yoshitsune 源義経 recalls the battle of Dan no ura. The ending is ambiguous: what seemed to be a battle reveals itself as an illusion, and Yoshitsune vanishes at dawn. He does not request Ekō; his salvation remains uncertain.

8. Funa Benkei 『船弁慶』 — attributed to Kanze Kojirō Nobumitsu 観世小次郎信光
   The vengeful spirit (onryō 怨霊) of Taira no Tomomori 平知盛 appears to take revenge on Yoshitsune. Benkei attempts to drive him away through prayer. Tomomori does not request Ekō and does not attain jōbutsu; the ending leaves open the possibility of his return.
   (Reference: Noh Plays Data Basehttps://www.the-noh.com/en/plays/index.html)

A strikingly similar dynamic emerges in Dante’s Purgatorio, where numerous souls address Dante—and, through him, the living—explicitly asking for prayers to shorten their suffering. Here too, as in the shura‑nō, salvation is not an individual matter but a communal process that requires the participation of the living. Requests for suffrage punctuate the entire first part of the poem and define the very nature of Purgatory as a ritual space of intercession.

1. Manfredi of Swabia (Purg. III)

He is the first to explain the doctrine of suffrage: he states that the prayers of the living truly accelerate the purification of the soul and asks Dante to recount his story so that someone may pray for him.

2. Belacqua (Purg. IV)

He does not formulate a direct request, but he explains that his waiting can be shortened only through the intercession of the living: prayer is the only force capable of altering the time of his expiation.

3. The souls who died a violent death (Purg. V)

All the figures in Canto V ask for memory and suffrage:

– Jacopo del Cassero implores Dante to remind his loved ones of him;

– Pia de’ Tolomei explicitly asks to be remembered;

– Buonconte da Montefeltro, though he does not ask for prayers, shows that a single act of repentance has salvific value.

4. The souls of negligent rulers (Purg. VI–VIII)

They do not ask for individual prayers, but they participate in a collective prayer (“Salve Regina”), which shows that suffrage is a communal act.

5. The excommunicated souls (Purg. III and IX)

They explain that their long waiting can be shortened only by the prayers of the living.

In all these cases, prayer is not a symbolic gesture but an effective act that alters the condition of the dead. As in the shura‑nō, the relationship between the living and the dead is a ritual process that requires speech, memory, and intercession.

The dynamics of Ekō in the Shura‑nō reveal a fundamental feature of medieval Japanese religiosity: the conviction that the salvation of the soul is not an individual process, but a relational act that requires the participation of the living. The fallen warrior, tormented in the Shurado, cannot free himself alone: he needs someone—a monk, a pilgrim, at times even his former enemy—to direct toward him the merits of their own practices. The very structure of the Nō drama, with the presence of the itinerant monk who listens, intercedes, and recites the Nenbutsu, stages this theology of relation, in which salvation is a shared and performative process.

In this sense, Nō does not perform a rite: it evokes one. The stage becomes a liminal space in which the sacred word, repeated according to a codified rhythm, suggests the possibility of spiritual transformation without actually producing it. The request for Ekō, the recitation of the Nenbutsu, the presence of the intercessory monk, and the manifestation of the ghost are not liturgical acts, but performative figures that allude to a process of pacification.

Yet while religious liturgy claims real spiritual efficacy, Nō does not pretend to save the dead: it represents the possibility of their salvation. The stage is not a place of intercession, but a place of contemplation. Ritual repetition does not operate as an actual transformation of the soul, but as an aesthetic device that allows the spectator to perceive the logic of pacification.

Nō thus occupies a liminal position: it is not a rite, yet it preserves its structure; it is not liturgy, yet it evokes its rhythm; it is not prayer, yet it stages its symbolic power. The stage becomes a place where the community can contemplate—without enacting—the dynamics of reconciliation, memory, and transformation. Nō does not embody the rite: it represents it, making it perceptible as form, gesture, and possibility.

In this sense, Nō is not merely aesthetic representation, but represented prayer or the representation of prayer, an echo of an ancient function in which song, rite, and theatre were still one and the same.

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Article copyright Rosa Isabella Furnari.

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