Coming Age of Dharma Decline
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, 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.