Jingoji -
Breath of Holiness

An important reason for relocating the capital from Nara to Kyoto in 794, was to get away from the Buddhist establishment in Nara that was meddling in politics. Kyoto was set up as a city without temples within its walls. The nearest temples, Toji and Saiji, stood to the west and east outside Rashomon, the main city gate. Other temples were set up even farther from worldly entanglements, in the hills encircling the city: Enryakuji on Mt. Hiei, Kuramadera on Mt. Kurama, Daigoji on Mt. Daigo and Jingoji on Mt. Takao. In those times it took at least half a day's travel to reach them.

Buddhism had also changed. The philosophic, but worldly six Nara schools had been superseded by a more contemplative, meditative form of Buddhism. This had already started in the Nara period itself, when individual priests had sought refuge in the solitude of Japan's numerous mountains. Often they also tapped into Shinto lore, mingling Buddhism with older, native beliefs. The new, early ninth century Buddhist schools of Shingon and Tendai both had their headquarters on mountains.

A strong statue
On a crisp February morning I take a bus out of Kyoto to Takao. The bus is deserted: Takao is a popular area for maple viewing in autumn or hiking in summer, but not many people take the road up the mountain in winter. Looking out of the windows of the bus, I lament the unchecked expansion of the city. Kyoto has spilled out of its original basin into the nearby valleys. Small farms have lost the battle with family homes and apartments, vegetable plots have been turned into parking lots. That makes the transition to Takao very sudden.

Takao is still unsullied. After driving over a pass, I leave the sprawling suburbs behind me and suddenly find myself in the mountains, in a world apart from Kyoto. Jingoji is even further away, sitting seemingly unapproachable on its hill. To reach it, I first have to descend a long staircase into the gorge of the Kiyotaki river. There is a scenic bridge here, but the valley is disfigured by a dilapidated, boarded-down youth hostel.

The entrance to the temple is on the other side of the bridge: a long staircase of jumbled and roughly hewn stones that leads gradually upward. After a few bends and turns I see the opening of the large gate looming above me. The invigorating air has made my climb light and fast, very different from a former visit when I came here in the greatest heat of summer.

The temple grounds come as a surprise. Although sitting on a mountain, they are wide and open. The main hall - a modern reconstruction - sits on top of another large staircase, and I proceed there to view the statue of the Yakushi, the Healing Buddha, the main image of Jingoji.

The Medicine Buddha of Jingoji is a standing statue sculpted from dark wood. The body is short, heavy and muscled, the face has great expressiveness. The statue also has a certain grotesqueness, for example in the exaggerated round and thick chin, that gives a very modern impression. It is a powerful sculpture, suitable for a temple that was built to afford divine protection to a whole city.

The entrance gate sitting at the top of the hill

Sacred Air
Jingoji (The Temple of Holy Protection) was founded by Wake no Kiyomaro, a Nara courtier who had been instrumental in foiling a plot by the priest Dokyo to usurp the throne. This was the event that shocked the Nara court into its resolution to move the capital. Looking for a true and unsullied Buddhism, Wake no Kiyomaro came to Takao and founded Jingoji in 781. He retired to this silent mountain, to this environment conducive to meditation. Later also Kukai and Saicho came here for peace and solitude, before they founded their own mountain temples.

Something of that pure resolution has taken root on the mountain. There is a particular reiki as the Japanese call it, a holy breath hovering here in Jingoji. It may be just the cold and fresh air of the February morning, but I believe there is more. There is a purity bordering on sacredness in the air. That is the gift of Jingoji to visitors from the busy world below.

I go around the grounds. Most buildings are recent restorations. Despite its isolated location, Jingoji was not spared repeated disaster. Behind the main hall stands a pagoda, unfortunately closed, for I would have liked to see the five Kokuzo Bosatsu, other National Treasures, it houses. Further down, there are older, wooden halls. There are also some patches of snow left here and an ancient lantern wears a white hat.

And then the plateau abruptly ends, I stand at the edge of a deep ravine. The temple has ended and the hills take over, layer upon layer of brown-green trees covering soft, round slopes. Below, far down, I see a glimmer of the Kiyotaki river. And above me arches the clear winter sky, the source of that pure, almost sacred air, that for me forms the essence of Jingoji.