The Rising Problem of Dangerous Cults in Japan
When it comes to religious beliefs in Japan, you might be surprised to learn that it’s often seen as quite a secular place. A survey conducted by Asahi Shinbun really puts this into perspective. Their findings show that a solid 55% of respondents claimed they had no religious affiliation whatsoever, and another 29% were sitting on the fence, unsure of any religious ties. Moreover, while 52% said they don’t align with any religious group, there was still a significant number who did—36% identified with Buddhism, 11% with Shinto, and another 11% with Christianity. It’s worth noting that the survey allowed for multiple responses, which suggests that some individuals might be dipping their toes into more than one religious pool.
From what I’ve observed firsthand in Japan, a lot of people who say they're affiliated with Buddhism or Shinto aren't exactly devout followers. It seems more about sticking to cultural norms and traditions, like doing specific rituals when the New Year rolls around or when they're building a new house. Oh, and speaking of which, I once forked over 30,000 yen to a Buddhist priest for a house blessing ceremony—talk about money down the drain, huh? Overall, religion doesn’t really seem to weave itself into the fabric of daily life for most folks here. However, there’s this nagging feeling I have about a shift in this trend, and let’s just say it doesn’t look too promising. And here’s where things get a bit more interesting—I had a rather bizarre run-in with a group known as Kenshoukai (Kenshōkai).
As any foreigner in Japan will tell you, breaking into local social circles isn’t exactly a walk in the park. So, imagine my delight when two young women struck up a conversation with me at a crosswalk and invited me out to lunch. I thought, “Great! What a fantastic way to make new friends and get better at Japanese.” But, as you might suspect from where this is heading, it wasn’t just friendly chatter. These women were from Kenshoukai, and they weren’t just after my friendship—they were on a mission to recruit me into their cult. At the restaurant, while I reached for a beer to keep things casual, they started pushing me to ditch the drink and whipped out a pamphlet. Their spiel? Worship of Mount Fuji and their leader—yeah, you heard that right.
This encounter wasn’t my first brush with them. If you ever wander through downtown on the weekends, you’ll likely see Kenshoukai members out in full force, trying to snag the attention of anyone who’ll listen. They often start with what seems like an innocent invitation to “just come and see,” which is a pretty clear sign and, frankly, an obvious trap. Despite knowing better, curiosity won this round, and I found myself tagging along, ready to “see” whatever it was they were so eager to show.
Kenshoukai’s pamphlets featuring Mt. Fuji.
The girls explained that their daily ritual involved praying twice: once at dawn and again just before they hit the sack. This wasn't your garden-variety prayer that could be done just about anywhere; oh no, it had to be in special "rooms" designated and set up by higher-ranking members, often found in temples or the homes of more entrenched cult members. We set a time for them to scoop me up so I could take a closer look at this peculiar practice.
Punctually at 8:00 PM, they arrived to pick me up, impeccably polite and strikingly prompt. As we drove, I bombarded them with questions, uncovering that they weren’t locals but had traveled here with the sole mission of roping in new recruits. The drive was shrouded in mystery; we were enveloped by residential areas, and as we neared our destination, they kept consulting Google Maps, whispering about how we were almost there, until they finally pointed out an aged house as our stop.
We were met at the door by an elderly woman, likely in her 70s or 80s, who welcomed us with a wide grin. Wordlessly, she led us upstairs to a stark room, its only furnishing a Butsudan—a sort of cabinet-like structure that I later found out is used for prayer. It displayed a mandala scroll filled with indecipherable kanji. As soon as we entered, the atmosphere with the girls turned serious, the air thick with ritualistic vibes. They handed me a book and we read it from front to back, a process that dragged on for a torturous thirty minutes—imagine enduring that twice a day!
Once we finished, they started probing for my personal details: full name, birthdate, even my work and home addresses—they wanted it all. Playing it safe, I fed them fabricated details, keeping only my first name real, which they already knew. It hit me then that this was more than just a friendly visit; it was an initiation. In their minds, I was now part of their fold. What a surreal ordeal.
Japanese Butsudan, used in many rituals for those who follow Buddhist religions in Japan.
After our initial meeting, they dropped me back at the same spot where they had picked me up. As we parted ways, they threw out a cheery “またやろうね!” (Let’s do it again, okay!), which I laughed off, not really expecting them to take it literally. However, to my bemusement, just as I was wrapping up work the following day, I received a text from them claiming they were parked outside my (fictitious) office, ready for another prayer session. I declined as politely as possible and then went ahead and blocked them across all my social channels, hoping that would nip any future plans in the bud. Unfortunately, that turned out to be wishful thinking—it was far from the last I would hear from them. These cult members, typically young women in their early twenties, are seemingly omnipresent, which is rather stark considering the upper echelons are mostly filled by older men, mirroring—and maybe even perpetuating—Japan’s often-criticized gender hierarchy.
It wasn’t long before I encountered another group of girls who invited me to lunch under strikingly familiar circumstances. Forewarned by my previous experience, I joined them, well aware of their underlying intentions. Then there was the young man who struck up a chat about my Nintendo Switch and casually asked if I’d like to join him for a meal at McDonald's. Even an elderly woman once chastised me for passing through the myriad of religious gates common across Japan, until a group of high school boys thankfully stepped in to help me escape the interaction.
These cults, such as Kenshoukai, have long roots in Japanese history. Kenshoukai itself was once a part of a larger religious body that split in the early 20th century, a schism that tragically resulted in several deaths. Though they’ve managed to keep a low profile for decades, recent years have seen them become much more bold in their recruitment drives. This resurgence is likely fueled by the desperation and vulnerability that have pervaded society since the onset of the coronavirus pandemic, making people more susceptible to their manipulative tactics.
The tactics employed by these cult members sharply contrast with the demeanor of the typical Japanese citizen; they are notably aggressive in their recruitment strategies and have been known to resort to criminal activities, including kidnapping during their drives. In places like Nagaoka City, it appears that foreigners are particularly targeted, more so than Japanese nationals. For anyone planning a visit or a longer stay in Japan, my advice is clear: steer well clear of any religious groups that approach you. It’s wiser to decline invitations from strangers, especially those that suggest going somewhere obscure for a religious meet. Normally, if someone wants to hang out, they’d suggest a bar or maybe a karaoke session—not a secretive religious ritual.
