道元論 3On Dogen, Part 3
It is a formidable task to truly perceive the thought of Dogen, a figure of singular importance whose presence remains indispensable to the history of Japanese Zen. While his philosophy itself possesses a luminous simplicity, my fascination lies in a deeper mystery: why did a philosophy capable of piercing the very essence of existence emerge specifically in the early thirteenth century? Dogen lived through one of the most tumultuous eras in Japanese history, a period where myriad intentions and shadows layered upon one another to form a complex tapestry. To see through this density is no easy feat. Yet, I believe the true value of Zen resides precisely within Dogen’s way of being amidst the wreckage of such an age.
When we contemplate the history that shaped his time, we must ask: how did Dogen nurture his faith and navigate his life within such upheaval? His life moves me, perhaps because it holds many hidden clues for those of us living in the modern world. In particular, the most significant crisis facing the Buddhist world during his era was a profound schism: the divide between the Tendai sect of Mount Hiei—which had become the embodiment of a massive, monolithic power structure in the capital of Kyoto—and the nascent Pure Land teachings (Jodo-kyo [浄土教]) advocated by Honen (1133–1212) and Shinran (1173–1263), who rose in defiance of that established order.
Why did the emerging Pure Land faith spread so rapidly among the common people, eclipsing the established sects? It was because the populace, in the dimension of their daily lives, were forced to live through a hellish state that was, in every sense, the real. Even today, there is a tendency to willfully beautify the Heian period of aristocratic rule, emphasizing the glamour of the nobility and the refinement of Kyoto culture. However, such a perspective merely treats a minuscule enclave within the city as a safe zone, choosing to speak of a hollow world constructed from an estranged reality rather than confronting the gruesome truth. The indomitable image that still clings to Kyoto today is, from my vantage point, a victim of extreme exaggeration.
Rather, as one might understand by considering the rise of the Onmyoji (diviners), who wove protective barriers around the four directions when the capital was first constructed in 794, this aestheticized view is nothing more than a pretense of tranquility—a desperate attempt to maintain an estranged reality. But a pretense, by its very nature, is destined to be unmasked. This unmasking was the true portrait of Kyoto in that era; it was the soil from which not only Dogen, but also Honen and Shinran, emerged. The question is not the merit of their respective faiths, but rather to grasp the nature of their internal struggle. By seizing upon that struggle, we can perceive the very origins of faith.
While an aristocrat might remain sequestered within a vast estate during a time of crisis, the common people possess no such luxury. Conversely, it was precisely because the nobility intensified their flight from the real through isolation that the real itself began to manifest, allowing for the rise of the warrior class who lived within that crucible. In other words, while the World of the Heian Capital and the World of Japan once existed only within a single district of modern Kyoto, the moment the aristocratic and imperial administrators began to shut themselves away, the intensity—or rather, the falsehood—of the estranged reality manifested in that small enclave began to weaken. This opened the gate for the real to burst forth all at once. The warriors, who had always lived outside this system, dismantled the falsehood of Kyoto’s reality by their very existence. They were the most radical of entities, dissolving the perceived reality of the capital to expose the real. It is vital to recognize this perspective: the new rulers of the age possessed the power to discard the old alienation itself.
With the ascent of the warrior, the real—which had been concealed by the machinery of the system—was laid bare. This long-suppressed force fell upon the small world of Kyoto like a flood from all directions. Naturally, the aristocratic class, who had feigned peace within a lie for centuries, were helpless. So too were the monks of the Tendai sect on Mount Hiei. Though they had initially risen to protect the demon gate of the capital, they had, over time, shifted their focus to the pursuit of power, becoming a mere pillar of the Kyoto System.
In essence, the Japanese system of that time referred only to a limited area of the capital. This structure was supported by a narrow world of administrators: the Aristocracy, the Imperial Family, and Enryakuji Temple. To put it differently, this was the true nature of the Heian capital, and modern Kyoto still drags this zombified ghost behind it.
The warriors, whose history began outside the interests of this existing system, naturally lived within the real itself, far more than the administrators who veiled everything in reality. They understood better than anyone that the traditional rulers were incapable of addressing the countless problems arising from the real. Thus, sensing the opportune moment, they steadily began the process of eliminating the old guard to seize actual power. This was, in a sense, the vengeance of the real against reality—a moment of transition from one reality to a new one. Therefore, the shift from the aristocratic system to the warrior system was not merely a product of barbaric armed conflict. It was rooted in the tension between the real and reality, and this shift in momentum fundamentally transformed the form of faith itself. By discerning this invisible movement, we find the emergence of true faith.
When an era of upheaval begins, it is always the people, not the rulers, who first face the threat of the real. In a world where famine, plague, disaster, and war became the norm, the common people lived a cruel existence, forced to kill their own kin or eat anything they could find just to survive. In such times, the faith of the established Buddhist sects was utterly useless to them. In times of peace, these sects served as a pastime, a means of community (that is, a way to hide loneliness), or a flight from the real, but they offered no practical utility when faced with crisis.
To those living in the real, the aristocrats in their palatial estates and the Tendai monks secluded on Mount Hiei—ignorant of the city's truth—were cut from the same cloth. They appeared as part of a cowardly ruling class that took refuge in the mysteries of Esoteric Buddhism to beautify their flight from the real, refusing to confront the world as it was. At this moment, the people’s trust in established religion collapsed entirely.
However, witnessing the wretched scenes of the capital, new monks appeared who did not seek salvation in the old Buddhism but offered answers from a different angle. The pioneers were Honen and Shinran. At the time, Mount Hiei was the pinnacle of academic learning, prized by the nobility and the court, but this was a mere facade. In truth, Mount Hiei was positioned as the shortest path to a successful career for the aristocracy. There was a fundamental collusion between the nobility and the Tendai monks. Because the aristocrats were the masters of the system, the monks of Enryakuji exploited this and began to spiral out of control. Monks took up arms to become warrior-monks, rampaging through the streets of Kyoto and satisfying their every desire. They were nothing more than predatory beasts of self-interest, wearing faith as a mask.
In this era, Honen was regarded as one of the most brilliant intellects within the corrupt Mount Hiei. Yet, no matter how much he practiced or how many scriptures he read, he was in despair over the fact that his worldly passions (Kleshas) [煩悩] would not vanish. At the end of this suffering, he began to doubt: could a common man like himself ever be saved through self-power [自力本願]—the bedrock of traditional Buddhism? This doubt would eventually evolve into Honen’s great movement to save the people and a fierce critique of the Buddhist establishment, spearheaded by Enryakuji, which was obsessed with power and collusion. Simply put, it was an anti-Enryakuji stance.
Yet, Honen did not initially see a path forward and thus remained at Enryakuji. His life was decided in 1175, at the age of forty-three, when he happened upon a single sentence in the writings of Shan-tao (613–681), an ancient Chinese master of the Pure Land tradition. It stated: Simply chant the name of the Buddha, and you shall be saved by the vow of Amida Buddha.
Generally, in Buddhism, the memorization and recitation of vast scriptures was seen as the mark of the elite. However, as early as the seventh century, Shan-tao had concluded that such accumulation of knowledge was utterly meaningless. He asserted that the attitude of monks seeking answers externally held no truth. In its place, he proposed the revolutionary perspective that one could find salvation through the Nenbutsu alone. Finding his own salvation in these words, Honen immediately abandoned his elite status and resolved to descend from Mount Hiei. He began his own proselytizing at Yoshimizu in the eastern hills of Kyoto. This was the beginning of the Japanese Jodo (Pure Land) sect. The powerful message—that salvation was independent of status or ability if one only chanted the name—became the sole light for those forced to live through the coming Age of Dharma Decline (Mappo [末法]).
Since approximately 1052, there had been a growing belief in Japan that the world had entered the age of Mappo, leading to extreme social instability. Mappo describes a desperate world-view where the Buddha’s teachings have become a hollow shell and no one can reach enlightenment. In essence, it represented a turning point where people began to feel that while the established sects were fervent in their political activities, faith in the Buddha had vanished. Though the arrival of Mappo was treated as a prophecy, after its start was strongly recognized around 1052, the era saw an intensified obsession among the nobility with rebirth in the Pure Land. One can better understand Honen by seeing him as a powerful reaction against the Tendai sect of Enryakuji, which remained conceited in its self-interest, offering no remedy for the age of Mappo even a century later.
Immediately after Honen began his mission, Kyoto entered an era of literal ruin. Reading the Hojoki (An Account of My Hut) by Kamo no Chomei (1155–1216), which vividly records this sequence of events, one is left speechless by the sheer misery. Indeed, no one today could imagine that the scenes described in that work once defined Kyoto.
According to the Hojoki, a great fire broke out in 1177, destroying one-third of the city. As flames leaped through the raging winds, aristocratic estates and treasures were reduced to ash in an instant. This served as a stark demonstration that the knowledge and external answers one had accumulated were meaningless; they could be swept away in a moment when the world of Mappo arrived. Simultaneously, the people of Kyoto witnessed even the ruling nobility losing everything in a heartbeat, and their suspicion toward those in power began to mount.
As if to strike a final blow, a massive tornado struck Kyoto three years later in 1180. Homes were shattered instantly, boards and skins flew through the sky, and an ominous rumbling of the earth thundered day and night. People fell into despair, believing that humanity, having lost the Buddha in the age of Mappo, had reached its end. In that same year, Taira no Kiyomori (1118–1181), the leader of the Taira clan who had risen from the warrior class, viewed these successive disasters as a sign that the aristocratic system of Kyoto had ended. He unilaterally declared the mandatory relocation of the capital from Kyoto to what is now Kobe. This turmoil caused people to flee Kyoto in droves, leaving it a city of empty houses. The spirit of those who remained was utterly desolated, falling into a state that deterioration of public order cannot begin to describe.
This relocation was a measure to expand Taira power and suppress the anti-Taira elements—the Imperial family and Enryakuji—lurking in Kyoto. However, due to a lack of preparation, the capital returned to Kyoto within six months. Nevertheless, it served as a major turning point, where the warriors demonstrated that the era of the Aristocracy, the Imperial Family, and Enryakuji was over. Around 1180, a large-scale war broke out, symbolizing the shift from the aristocratic system to the warrior system. While the intentions of various rulers overlapped in this conflict, it is best viewed as a struggle for hegemony between warrior houses for the next generation. The two great opposing forces were the Taira clan led by Taira no Kiyomori and the Minamoto clan led by Minamoto no Yoritomo. This greatest civil war in Japanese history is known as the Genpei War.
Why did the warrior class rise to such heights? The clues can be visualized by looking at the flow of events between 1156 and 1160, just prior to the Genpei War. This was the final era in which the system of the Heian period, which began in 794, was collapsing. Interestingly, these wars were triggered by power struggles within the Imperial family over succession and the seat of actual authority. In 1156, a dispute over the succession to the throne caused an internal schism, leading to a civil war that divided the court into two factions.
The background of this conflict lies in the sudden death of the 76th Emperor, Konoe (reigned 1142–1155), at the age of sixteen. A certain prince, who was never intended to be Emperor, was hastily enthroned. Because he had never been a candidate for succession, he was known more as a profligate prince steeped in pleasure—a man of self-interest with no political aptitude. This individual was enthroned as the 77th Emperor, Go-Shirakawa. Consequently, by 1156, a violent confrontation and war erupted between him and the Retired Emperor Sutoku, who had reigned as the 75th Emperor (1123–1142) and was operating from the shadows. A civil war between the Emperor and the Retired Emperor over actual power had begun.
However, neither the Imperial family nor the aristocrats possessed the strength to wage war themselves. Thus, they sought the cooperation of a force they had previously looked down upon as mere watchdogs: the warriors. By each faction requesting aid from the warriors, the warrior forces near Kyoto were also divided. The proxy war of the Imperial family began, but it was Go-Shirakawa—raised in a life of pleasure—who found it easier to tame those who wielded military might. It was inevitable that people living in the age of Mappo would gravitate toward Go-Shirakawa, who could provide gold, sake, and women to the warriors.
However, this request for aid from the Imperial family to the warriors became the catalyst that made it impossible for the court to ignore their existence and influence. In this war, it was the Taira clan under Taira no Kiyomori that achieved the greatest merit by supporting Go-Shirakawa and crushing the opposition. Through this, the Taira clan gained the direct trust of the Emperor and acquired interests both on the surface and in the shadows.
Having secured victory, Go-Shirakawa entrusted the practicalities of post-war governance to a specific individual in order to rebuild the unstable regime and realize his own autocracy. After all, Go-Shirakawa himself possessed no political ability. He granted all political authority to one of his favorite aristocrats: Shinzei (1106–1160). Said to possess a genius for scholarship and being the closest confidant to the Emperor, Shinzei began to establish a solo dictatorship under the Emperor’s aegis. His forceful methods earned the intense resentment of other aristocrats, creating the spark for the next war.
In 1158, Shinzei perceived that the self-interested Go-Shirakawa desired to enjoy an era where he held absolute hegemony. He made a proposal: if one remained as Emperor, life was consumed by rituals rather than politics or pleasure, leaving no freedom. However, if he abdicated to become a Retired Emperor (Joko), he could wield all power from behind the scenes while indulging in his pleasures. This is known in Japan as Insei [院政] (cloistered rule), so named because the Retired Emperor resided in a palace called the In [院]. In essence, it was an autocratic system where the Emperor was the public face, while the cloistered power held all actual authority.
Go-Shirakawa joyfully accepted Shinzei’s proposal. In 1158, he enthroned his son as Emperor Nijo and feigned abdication, beginning to grasp actual power from the shadows. This was a classic privatization of the system that occurs in the final stages of total corruption. The structure was no longer the traditional triangle of Aristocracy, Imperial Family, and Enryakuji, but a new one: Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa, Shinzei, and Taira no Kiyomori. It was a clear privatization of power—Go-Shirakawa held the hegemony, Shinzei the politics, and Taira no Kiyomori the military. Naturally, this provoked a massive backlash from the old guard, and the court was divided once again.
One faction followed Emperor Nijo, advocating for direct rule by the Emperor and seeking to establish a new system that rejected the interference of the Retired Emperor. The other faction aimed to advance the Insei of Go-Shirakawa, allowing a few new administrators to retain power. Both were driven by self-interest, but it was effectively a war between a father (the Retired Emperor) and his son (the Emperor)—a family feud. This struggle between parent and child, combined with the career rivalries of court nobles and the rising frustration of the Taira and Minamoto clans against the aristocracy, culminated in a large-scale war in 1159. In a sense, this war was the vulgar explosion of the rulers' collective intentions.
During this time, the forces supporting Emperor Nijo attacked the palace in Kyoto. In the wake of this assault, Shinzei, who held political power, fled the city into the mountains, but realizing he could not escape, he took his own life. His enemies discovered his body, decapitated him, and displayed his head in the streets of Kyoto. The sight of a man who had stood at the pinnacle of government only to have his head exposed the next morning sent a tremendous shock through the people of Kyoto. This attack was carried out while Taira no Kiyomori was away, but Kiyomori, fearing his access to political influence would be severed by Shinzei’s death, vowed revenge and surged forward.
With his extraordinary martial skill, the Taira leader crushed his enemies and secured victory for Go-Shirakawa’s faction. This military achievement made Taira influence absolute and positioned them to take over the political authority formerly held by Shinzei. Furthermore, Go-Shirakawa later took tonsure to become the Cloistered Emperor Go-Shirakawa, remaining at the top of the system for over thirty years until his death in 1192, even as he manipulated the warriors. The actions of Go-Shirakawa formed the very bedrock of the era in which new religious figures like Honen, Shinran, and Dogen appeared. Only by scrutinizing this landscape can the original forms of their creative faith be revealed.
How did the victors of an era tossed about by Go-Shirakawa’s privatization of the system go on to create the next age, and why did this become the catalyst for the spread of Zen in Japan? This connection is often overlooked, but the expansion of Zen is intimately linked to the movements of the warrior class. In particular, the shadow of Taira no Kiyomori—the head of the Taira clan who had begun to grasp absolute hegemony—looms large behind these historical shifts. Conversely, by considering the future that Taira no Kiyomori envisioned, we can find the keys to the explosive proliferation of Zen.
At the time, the power-hungry Go-Shirakawa feared two things: the movements of Enryakuji on Mount Hiei, and the movements of Taira no Kiyomori. Go-Shirakawa was irritated by the monks of Enryakuji, whom even he could not control. Yet, he knew that if he relied too heavily on the Taira clan, the day would come when he could no longer restrain the warriors. For Go-Shirakawa, the rise of a single warrior like Taira no Kiyomori brought both fortune and misfortune; as Kiyomori's power grew, so did the threat to Go-Shirakawa’s own hegemony.
Thus, the cunning politician Go-Shirakawa schemed to pit his two nuisances—Enryakuji and Taira no Kiyomori—against each other, hoping they would destroy one another. The selfish desire for power of this one imperial figure created a period of catastrophe for the people in the age of Mappo, ultimately leading to the complete rise of the warrior class.
At the same time, we must note that no one but the newly risen warriors could have destroyed the archaic protocols that defined Kyoto. Thus, Taira no Kiyomori finally moved to launch a large-scale war against Enryakuji on Mount Hiei—the strongest power of the age, which for centuries neither aristocrat nor imperial had dared touch under the pretext of protecting the capital.
To be continued.