茶道論 1On the Way of Tea, Part 1
When one delves deeply into the inquiry of Japanese culture, one is often startled to discover that the distinct characteristics of a certain ideological system extend in all directions, permeating the very strata of what we call "Japan." This is particularly conspicuous in the realm known as traditional culture. That system is Confucianism. However, one must note that this is not the Confucianism indigenous to China, but a uniquely Japanese Confucianism. Indeed, when we apply the element of Confucianism to various Japanese traditional cultures, it appears not merely as a transplant of foreign knowledge derived from China, but as a foundational root that can no longer be ignored in any insight into Japan.
In other words, whether one finds the cultural dimension in which Confucian teachings intervene to be comfortable or constricting—this bifurcation is already prepared within our consciousness. Yet, if we unravel history, it appears that the internal conflict and struggle at this very fork in the road is the ground upon which Japanese culture has managed to survive in various forms to this day. Therefore, gaining insight into this unknown territory is an extremely arduous task, but let us begin by re-examining the fundamentals.
As a major premise, the concept of “道 (Michi, Do)” (the Way) appears frequently in Japanese culture. While this has occupied the core of what is called traditional culture, if we categorize it from a modern perspective, it is broadly divided into the Budo (武道, Martial Ways) of the martial arts, and the Geido (芸道, Artistic Ways) of the arts. While this classification is certainly easy to grasp, I view this very structural categorization as the principal cause of the dilution of Japanese culture. To understand this, let us proceed from a holistic understanding. By treading through the insights that follow, the actual image of the alienated Japanese culture will be visualized, and one can grasp where the essential cultural constellation once lay. I dare to use the past tense, for I believe it is lost in the present.
First, Budo refers to the techniques that warriors had long honed for combat, which were transformed into a "Way" for the spiritual cultivation of soldiers and military men. This shift occurred through the history following the dawn of the new era of the Edo period in the early 17th century—when battles suddenly ceased—and into the Meiji era (starting in 1868), the beginning of modern Japan, which entered an era of international warfare. Representative examples include Kendo (剣道), Judo (柔道), Kyudo (弓道), Aikido (合氣道), Karatedo (空手道), and Iaido (居合道).
On the other hand, Geido refers to the "Way" of mastering spiritual silence and aesthetic consciousness through art and living culture. Initially, this developed under the strong influence of Chinese-style Zen, but it was gradually Japanized, eventually represented by Sado (茶道, tea ceremony), Kado (華道, flower arrangement), Shodo (書道, calligraphy), and Kodo (香道, incense appreciation).
At first glance, this classification seems valid and gives the impression of quintessential Japanese traditional culture. But is it really so? If I were to say that these are not the essence of Japanese culture, how would you feel? It implies that the vantage point is misplaced.
What must be observed here is not the culture as "that which is signified," but the "Way" itself. Indeed, as the Edo period began, ending an era where fighting was a matter of course, society turned completely toward a peace without war. However, the reality of the Tokugawa Shogunate that built this era was a bureaucratic warrior regime; thus, the treatment of the countless warriors existing across the regions was crucial for maintaining order. Within the Shogunate’s system, warriors became bureaucrats and officials. In this process, the various techniques they had sharpened as combat abilities were gradually systematized into moral norms. This was collectively called Bushido in a much later era, but even before that, there was a spiritual pillar that crowned this “Michi/Do” (Way). That is Shinto, which lies at the base of Japanese faith.
Seeing that "Shinto" is written with the Kanji for " 神道, The Way of the Gods," one understands that concept formation began in a considerably ancient era, regardless of when the word itself spread. The essential point is that in what is generally called Japanese traditional culture, this concept of "Way" manifests in every locus.
Pinpointing the origin of this concept of "Way" is difficult, but one source is undoubtedly linked to Taoism—the “Tao, Dao (道)” itself in China—or the concept of the "Way of the Sages (聖人の道)” in Confucianism. However, I believe that prior to such external influences, there was fundamentally "Something" in the land of Japan that was close to, or had an affinity with, this concept. Since this "Something" belongs to a pre-literate era, strict identification is impossible, but the soil was there.
Rather, I believe the Japanese characteristic lies in the very substrate that softly accepts the "Other," regardless of the historical stage. When viewed from this perspective, it becomes visible that a state akin to a biological metabolism was occurring in the cultural dimension—softly taking in every element, including foreign decorations, digesting them within itself, and expelling them. In this metabolism, we should perceive that the Japanese existence possesses characteristic metabolic pathways and mutations as a kind of ethnic gene. In short, I believe that by understanding the Japanese genes and their metabolic habits, we can disclose a specific cultural primordiality. This inquiry and attempt is my greatest theme beginning in 2026.
From this perspective, let us focus on the Sado as one example. As you may vaguely sense, the Sado is designed as a single "Way," systematized with a tremendous number of rigorous strictures incorporated from beginning to end. I dare to use a negative phrasing because I view this as differing from its true form. Yet, stating that it differs is one thing; discussing what and how it differs is a difficulty. I will indicate the circuit to excise this core.
The Japanese Sado is generally spoken of as having been brought to perfection in his later years by Sen no Rikyu (1522–1591), a merchant of Sakai, Osaka, and a master of tea. Judging from the historical background, the origin of the Sado stems from a time when diverse and disparate people—warriors, merchants, and Portuguese missionaries who also held aspects of arms dealers—gathered in one hall to debate various matters. Certainly, political strategies were discussed there, but that would merely be a tea party, not a "Way."
Rather, the source from which tea later becomes a "Way" begins in a beautiful locus where it was considered a virtue to quiet one's heart and confront one's own self and existence, even amidst a world in turmoil. Here lies the original relationship between host and guest in the Sado; it is a confrontation in a world stripped of social ornamentation. In fact, one enters the tea room by opening a small sliding door called the Nijiriguchi and crawling through, bowing one’s body. It was Sen no Rikyu who devised this Nijiriguchi.
It is commonly argued that the Nijiriguchi was devised so that warriors were forced to leave their swords behind due to the narrow entrance, and that by lowering their heads to enter, distinctions of rank and position vanished within the tea room. But such arguments have existed for ages and see only the "signified" meaning. The moment one adopts this view, one is no longer seeing Rikyu.
We must not overlook the aspect that the warriors of that time favored tea to thoroughly quiet their own hearts, to perform introspection, and to forge a spirit that would not waver even in crisis, all for the sake of seizing hegemony. Because they did not know when they would die, they had to possess that resolve constantly. They did not achieve unification merely because they excelled in combat techniques. The warriors of that time thoroughly understood that the battle was not against an external enemy, but against oneself.
In this source, there is certainly the philosophy of Zen. This is understandable considering that the prototype existed in the figure of the Zen monk Eisai (1141–1215), who brought to Japan the Chinese atmosphere of discussing Zen while drinking tea. Thus, the Zen teaching of quieting the heart lies at the root. However, this Zen was formed by a complex cultural mix in China; it is the result of a fusion in China—including Confucian and other religious elements lurking in the roots of Chinese spirituality—entering Japan, where it was further metabolized and nurtured within the Japanese soil. Therefore, even looking at the Sado alone, it is possible to see every influence. In fact, a stakeholder I spoke with previously taught me various things regarding the influence of Christianity on the Sado. By looking at the Sado, one can see the variegation of Japanese culture.
Thus, the structure of the Sado is extremely complex and cannot be completely penetrated. However, in the process of that cultural metabolism, the non-essential was progressively pared away. In a sense, at the moment when various superfluities were pared away to the limit, the source of the Sado was perfected by Sen no Rikyu. Cultural emanation is not found in addition, but in subtraction. In other words, the source of the Sado established by Rikyu should be considered a pure state from which the extraneous had been removed to the utmost limit; there were not 100 rules from the beginning. Many people misunderstand this. The result of this misunderstanding is the enumeration of incomprehensible rules seen in the Sado of today.
Here lies the essence of culture. Put simply, it is "not form." Although this point may be vaguely understood in words, it has become extremely difficult for modern people to grasp. In fact, almost everyone errs in this recognition, but it is impossible to gain insight into culture unless one first places the spirit at the base of the problem. When discerned from such a perspective, one understands that Rikyu did not create culture through form. That is, the true meaning of Rikyu perfecting the Sado does not lie in his creation of merely complicated and complex forms. That is decidedly a false understanding.
The "Senke" (House of Sen) which transmits the Sado beginning from the lineage of Sen no Rikyu has historically divided into various schools. Interestingly, the perspective on the Sado held by Sen Soshu, the 14th generation Grand Master of the Mushakouji Senke, one of those schools, is instructive. He has remarked, "If Rikyu saw today's Chanoyu (Sado), I think he would be surprised," stating that this is because all participants sit properly in seiza, and the process has become formalized and well-behaved. In short, in Rikyu's time, things like the enforcement of such subdivided etiquette and manners—the shape of the modern era—were not the Sado. One must gain deep insight here (though this does not mean it was licentious). There is a fatal misalignment of concepts here. It is, in other words, a philosophical problem.
The key, I believe, lies in the fact that "Chanoyu" was the designation before the Edo period, and "Sado" is a term born from the Edo period. That is, Chanoyu and Sado occupy different conceptual domains. In fact, during the time Rikyu was alive, the word Sado did not exist; it was called "Chanoyu" or "Suki (数奇).” However, when the Tokugawa Shogunate system was established, influenced by Zhu Xi’s Neo-Confucianism—the mainstream movement of Song Dynasty Confucianism—the spirit of Chanoyu metamorphosed. It transferred into a “Michi/Do" (Way) as "Sado," strengthening its Confucian elements. I view this metamorphosis as the prototype where Sado was alienated from Chanoyu and lost its essence. However, during the Edo period, this alienation—or separation—did not present the disastrous state in people's hearts that it does now.
From a different angle, it is the Neo-Confucian interpretation of Chanoyu that lurks at the essence of the misalignment in modern Sado. To put it more simply, Chanoyu is practice, while Sado is praxis. It is easier to understand if we grasp Chanoyu as referring to the act and enjoyment itself, versus Sado, which possesses the characteristics of relatively strict purposefulness, asceticism, and spiritual cultivation. While the movement of Zen appears in both, the problem lies in the fact that a misalignment has occurred, rather than one being good and the other bad.
Why, then, has Sado become so hollowed out, even as the Grand Masters of the schools themselves are aware of it? Yet, on the other hand, it is hard to say that Sado itself has declined in Japan; it continues as a lesson for a certain number of people. This is the problem. Sado was incorporated into social status particularly after the Meiji era, but Rikyu would likely be furious to hear this. The greatest problem is that only the forms of Sado were subdivided into schools, and in the historical relationship between master and disciple in various schools, forms were transmitted earnestly, but the spirit was diluted, leading to the suspicion that it may no longer remain.
Inherently, when speaking of cultural succession, what must be done is the exact opposite. That is, rather than placing weight on transmitting forms and styles, when the master functions as a locus to transmit the spirit and the movement of the heart to the disciple, Sado can transmit that spirit to future generations. People involved in Japanese culture seem not to understand this either: "Spirit does not exist because there is Form" rather, "Form is born because there is Spirit." More strictly speaking, the "Heart" creates the spirit and the form.
To speak of this from the perspective of Japanese culture, it is that "The Heart creates the Kata." The concept of "Kata (型)” occupies the foundation of Japanese culture, and religious sects in Japan also tend to place great importance on such Kata. The crucial thing is that this is never the reverse. If one thinks "The Kata creates the Heart," Japanese culture is already extinguished. Furthermore, although everyone errs here, "Kata" is not equal to "Form" rather, the very mode of the "non-separation of spirit and form" is Kata. This may be difficult. I will proceed with this as a focal point in the future, so please sense that such an understanding is the premise. In fact, while we write "Form (形式)” in Japanese, this represents the "Expression of the Kata (型の式),” or "The Kata being systematized."
If we problematize this "Heart" and "Kata," movement is born in the heart, and certain regulations born historically within habit become the Kata. In other words, the heart is the origin, so its movement cannot be fixed initially, but it becomes Kata while being repeated over years. And Kata is the mode itself where "Spirit" and "Form" are not separated. This is my way of thinking, and I position this as the essence of Japanese cultural theory in my insights. It may feel quite labyrinthine, but herein lies the truth.
For instance, the reason modern people are not satisfied with Sado is that they grasp this "Form" and "Spirit"—that is, the Kata itself which regulated the movement of the heart—as content separated from the origin, and then arbitrarily position the pressure of Sado as traditional culture to forcibly glue them together. In other words, since they are forcibly integrating it by applying pressure from above, it is inevitable that the participants of Sado feel suffocated. This is because the division between the two is not considered at all by either the master or the disciple.
Originally, a relationship of non-separation between master and disciple is born in the locus, and there, the non-separation of spirit and form emanates as culture. But this has been lost somewhere. The root cause likely lies in the oblivion of the origin of the heart, and the exclusion of the heart’s movement as something illogical, resulting in the fall of Kata into mere form. The influence of Zhu Xi's Neo-Confucianism, the greatest characteristic of the Edo period, is seen initially here. But as mentioned, they did not completely separate in the Edo period; the separation occurred after Meiji, after the beginning of modern Japan. That is why Sado has become a shell, leaning toward formalism, ending up in a state where even Japanese people have no interest in it today. However, what they have no interest in is this Sado in the modern sense; in truth, the Japanese are seeking Sado. If this can be earnestly corrected, Sado can be restored, but the key lies in Chanoyu rather than Sado.
That is, in the relationship of non-separation between master and disciple enacted in the locus, the Kata of the heart's movement, and the agreement or resonance of that Kata, manifest as an invisible force that keeps spirit and form from separating. Culture exists there. The Japanese have lost sight of this movement at the origin of culture somewhere; the result manifests in the compulsion of manners that enumerate only the signified things.
When this foundation is lost, the separation becomes severe. Here, the separation between master and disciple becomes a complete rupture, and the tendency of absolute obedience of the disciple to the master—the negative aspect of Confucianism—is exposed. Then, in such a separated subject-object relationship, it becomes impossible to let the power of the locus flow through Sado, so the spirit vanishes, transforming into a monolithic structure where the master unilaterally teaches only the form to the disciple. When this happens, the master is forced to become a hollow shell, and simultaneously the disciple transmits only the hollowed form. Consequently, they lean toward using their heads to further subdivide the signified things called forms and manners. Thus, they arbitrarily conclude that "Kata = Form" and run toward self-preservation, heading toward the vulgar movement of assembling manuals subdivided so finely that ordinary people cannot possibly understand them, simply to acquire and maintain the position of a school's master. This is not culture.
The schools of Sado speak of differences in thinking, but in Rikyu's spirit, there is no such thing as a difference in thinking. That is, the thoroughness that there is no separated thing is the figure of the essential Chanoyu that Rikyu saw. Naturally, in Rikyu's era, the very concept of a Sado possessing such separation tendencies did not exist. If I dare say, Chanoyu is non-separation. Rikyu merely did what he did in his actual life. It is simply that this was spoken of by later generations as the perfection of Sado.
On the other hand, what lurks here is Confucianism. As stated thus far, originating from the separation of spirit and form, all "Ways" in Japanese culture—not just Sado—begin to separate. Whether in Budo or Geido, anyone who has touched even one of them should be able to sense physically that the separation of these two is already not the essence of Japanese culture. Speaking in terms of Budo, there is the crucial phrase "Shin-Gi-Tai (心技体)” (Mind-Technique-Body). This, too, means that “技: Waza/Gi/Technique“ is born precisely because “心: Kokoro/Shin/Mind" and “体: Karada/Tai/Body" are non-separate. It is not that "Mind," "Technique," and "Body" are distinct, separated things. "Technique" is the highest technology born in the non-separation of mind and body.
This area is likely quite difficult, but using this as a foundation, tomorrow I will step a little further into this perspective of Confucianism and observe what is revealed as the essence of Japanese culture from there.